Authors: Toni Anderson
“Except Marion?” He watched her
reaction.
The fork paused in midair, and she
went completely still. “I’d have done anything for Marion” she admitted.
“What happened to your real mother,
Josephine?”
Pain was buried beneath the angry
look she threw him and he immediately regretted pushing her when she put down
the fork and stopped eating. The woman needed building up. She was thinner than
she had been in the spring. Couldn’t afford to drop another pound.
He didn’t understand why she
attracted him so much. She was too skinny and had issues the size of the Empire
State Building. The pulse above her collarbone fluttered delicately as she
shrugged and he wanted to kiss her there.
“She took off.” Her eyes flicked
right, which would have been great except Marsh knew she was left-handed and the
physical clues for lying usually got twisted around.
So why lie?
“How old were you when she left?”
He watched her lips pucker as she thought about his question.
“Nine.”
Same age as when she’d been knifed.
“So what? Your mother abandoned you
just after some psycho attacked you?”
What kind of woman did that?
Silver blonde hair fell around her
face as she shook her head. She picked up the fork again and stabbed a piece of
beef out of the rich fragrant gravy.
“She left before that.” She put the
meat in her mouth and chewed. “Ran off with some guy from our church.”
“Did you say
church
?” Marsh
raised a shocked brow.
Josephine gave him a bad-ass grin.
“Yeah. I was a devout little Catholic girl right up until the day I found out
it was all bullshit.”
“And you never heard from your
mother again?” He persisted, unsure why, except for the desire to find out what
made her tick. The blank expression on her face made him wish he could read
minds.
“Never saw her again.” She smiled
without humor. “Not that I blame her for getting out.” The blue of her eyes
deepened. “Well, you met my daddy, right?”
He nodded. He had indeed met her
father, a scumbag who’d been willing to sell his daughter’s life for the price
of a bottle of whisky. But what sort of mother abandoned her child into the
care of such a man?
Josephine polished off the last of
her fries and downed her juice while he toyed with his food. Walter Maxwell’s
tiny apartment had been cockroach ridden and filthy. His stomach rebelled at
the memory and he pushed away his sandwich. Josephine had gone through hell as
a kid. She didn’t deserve to die at the hands of a psychopath. Then again, who
did?
His phone rang. It was Dancer. “Do
you mind if I take this call?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“I got a name for the source of the
painting, but you’re not going to like it,” Dancer said.
What else is new
? “Go on.”
A giant walked through the
entranceway of the restaurant and searched the room until he spotted Marsh.
Marsh waved him over.
“The company that sold the
allegedly-stolen possible-Vermeer is one Blue Steel Trading Corporation. Owned
by the wife of Senator Brook Duvall. Prudence.”
“You have got to be kidding me.
Hold on a minute.” Marsh put his hand over the mouthpiece and stood. Looking up
at the ebony-skinned colossus who’d once served under him in the Navy, he
grinned as he shook Vince’s hand, grateful they were friends and not enemies.
“Good to see you, Vince. Vincent Brandt, meet Josephine Maxwell. Josephine,
meet Vince.”
They eyed each other like a snake
and a meerkat.
“I’ve got to go. Don’t let her out
of your sight until I get back tonight, Vince.” Marsh looked down at the
angelic countenance of the Blade Hunter’s first victim. “And don’t trust a word
she says. She’s a liar, and she’s damn good at it.”
Chapter
Six
_____________
M
arsh leaned over the
table where the accounting records were laid out. He was back at Federal Plaza
and beginning to wonder if he’d ever see his Boston office or home again,
although New York City was getting more attractive by the minute.
Dancer peered out the window
twenty-three flights down, where traffic resembled matchbox cars and people
were two-legged ants scurrying from point A to B. A sparrow hopped onto the
sill and Dancer tapped the glass and the bird flew away. Marsh ignored him,
knowing the guy was frustrated with the turn of events in the investigation.
They were about to wallow in a political quagmire and couldn’t afford to screw
up.
“Blue Steel Trading Corp sold the
painting for $100,000, six months ago?” he asked.
“Yes. Which doesn’t jive with the
assumed value of the painting either.” Aiden Fitzgerald, a renowned art expert
who was also an undercover FBI agent, stared at a photograph of the painting
blown up on a massive scale. “Even with the
De Hooch
signature, it’s
worth half a million, easy.”
“Maybe the seller needed fast
cash?”
“Or they knew it was stolen and
wanted to get rid of it,” Dancer added.
“At least someone went to the
trouble of having it professionally cleaned.” Aiden leaned back in his
chair—model perfect, impeccably dressed. He steepled his fingers together, put
the manicured tips to his lips. The New York art scene was his patch and he
wore it well. “The De Hooch signature looks like it has been there for years.
Assuming there is a Vermeer signature buried there—a big assumption at this
point—why did they cover it up?”
“Maybe because a Vermeer suddenly
coming to light would cause an international stir? Maybe they didn’t want that
sort of media spotlight.”
Aiden’s eyes cut to Marsh. Both
World Wars had been a time of great disruption when many valuables had changed
hands for many reasons. People had hidden their wealth and their spoils in a
variety of disguises.
“The last Vermeer find, which is
still doubted by many, sold for thirty-million in two thousand and four.” Aiden
placed his hands on the crisp white copy of the bill of sale. “Johannes Vermeer
is only known to have created three-dozen paintings in his life. Most are in
Museums, one, as you know, is listed stolen from the Gardner Museum.” He blew
out a big breath, tugged his lips as he examined the photograph one more
time—the painting itself was still being processed for evidence in a nearby lab
with more security than POTUS. “I still think, assuming it isn’t a damn good
forgery, this could be the real deal. The use of light…” His voice dropped away
in admiration. He looked up. “It could go for as much as fifty million at
auction today.”
“So what the hell is it doing at a
small gallery opening in New York City?” Marsh asked, rubbing his eyes. The
Faradays had to have known it was more valuable than what they’d paid…but that
was the point of being a dealer, right? To make a buck. “What was the price tag
on it at the gallery last night?” Marsh asked.
Dancer pushed away from the window
and crossed over to the desk. Pointed out a figure on a separate list. “Eight
hundred grand.” He whistled and flashed his boyish grin. “I’ll take two.”
Marsh drummed his fingers on the
desk.
Pru Duvall had stood next to him, directly
in front of that painting and hadn’t even glanced at it, hadn’t shown the
slightest interest in anything except his date. It was possible she didn’t have
anything to do with the day-to-day running of Blue Steel Trading Corp and had
never seen the painting before. But if she wasn’t interested in art, what the
hell was she doing at a NYC show? He didn’t trust Pru Duvall and her husband
was an asshole. But he was a well-connected asshole.
The Duvalls were staking out their
political patch and the art scene in NYC was brimming with affluent,
influential people—who else could afford to spend eight-hundred grand on a
painting?
“Set up an interview with the
Duvalls, Dancer, but keep it very low-key, very non-threatening. In their home
if possible.” Marsh checked his wristwatch, wondering how Josephine and Vincent
were getting along. He pulled out his phone and dialed Vince’s number. “What
did the admiral say when you told him we’d found the painting?”
A flush of color made Dancer’s
freckles disappear and he had the grace to look ashamed. “I, ah, didn’t reach
him.” He shuffled his legs as he leaned on the table. “The housekeeper said he
was on a fishing trip to Alaska.”
“Pretty sure they have phones in
Alaska, Steve.” Marsh ground his teeth at the sound of the dial tone. Dancer
was the best electronics experts he’d ever known, but the man didn’t deal well
with power brokers. He could charm women with nothing more than a dimpled
smile, but got tongue-tied with the brass. “Call the FBI office in Anchorage, have
them track him down.”
It was four o’clock in the
afternoon. Marsh rubbed his temple and wondered what Vince and Josephine were
up to.
And why weren’t they answering the telephone?
***
“It’s too big.”
“You’re holding it wrong.”
“How the hell do you walk around
with this thing?” Josie strained her neck to peer up at Vince. His laugh
started somewhere in his stomach and worked its way out of his lips—she felt
the vibration move up her back as he stood behind her. With one enormous hand
he took the gun out of her two-handed grip, replaced the magazine and slid it
effortlessly back into his shoulder holster.
The cannon looked tiny in his
hands.
“It’s a Desert Eagle pistol,
ma’am,” Vince’s eyes were darker than chocolate, with a hard polish of
military. “Weighs more than four-pounds with the magazine loaded.”
She shook her hands and rubbed her
aching wrists. “Well damn. That won’t work.”
He frowned down at her, a diamond
stud winking in one ear. “You looking for a self-defense weapon?”
“No, I’m thinking of invading
Washington.” She planted a hand on her hip and glared back at him. “Of course
I’m looking for a ‘self-defense weapon’.”
God, even the thought made her
cringe. She’d felt nothing but desperation when she’d looked through the sights
on that monster pistol. And desperation meant fear.
She hated fear. Hated guns. She
caught her bottom lip with her teeth.
Life sucked
. Get over it.
Elizabeth was on a delayed
honeymoon in the middle of the Outback or she’d have phoned her for advice. She
wasn’t due back till next week and Josie doubted Nat would appreciate her
interrupting their time together.
Her fingers ached from being so
tightly clenched, so she relaxed her hands. Wished she could concentrate enough
to do some painting, but even that was beyond her right now.
A flash of white teeth caught her
by surprise. Vince smiled.
“We can arrange that.”
“You’ll help me get a gun?”
Grinning from the relief of actually doing something proactive as opposed to
sitting on her ass waiting for this killer to turn up, she grabbed her bag and
raced up the steps to the door. “Where do we go? Do I need cash? How much?”
Vince stared at her narrowing his
eyes, assessing. “Well, we’ll need two recent photos—head and shoulder shots.”
He walked over to the big windows at the front of her apartment, examined the
blinds and then closed them. Shutting out the sunlight. “And you’ll need some
ID. Birth certificate, probably, and money orders for the fingerprint and
application fee—”
“Application?” Standing by her
front door, her shoulders sagged as her mood plummeted. She reached for the
doorknob.
“For a Special Carry License. Don’t
touch that door until I say so, young lady.”
Rolling her eyes, she asked, “And
how long will it take to get a Special Carry License?”
“Long enough to teach you how to
use a handgun.” Vince gave her one of those
God Almighty
stares that
Marsh had down pat. They must teach them at Navy boot camp.
Irritated beyond politeness, she
put an index finger to her lips and cocked her hip. “Hmmm, I wonder if that
murdering bastard remembered to pick up his
concealed-knife
carrying
permit before he started butchering women? I guess we should put out a news
alert, huh?”
“You think this is funny?” Vince’s
intensity made her uneasy and uneasy pissed her off.
She grabbed the doorknob.
“Don’t you—” Vince didn’t yell, but
his voice was like a sonic boom penetrating the brick and despite his bulk he
lunged toward her quick as a crocodile. But she was faster.
She yanked the door wide open then
fell back in shock when she realized a man stood there. Her heart scrambled
into her throat. Vince drew his weapon and leapt toward her.
“Get back!” He pushed her against
the wall as Special Agent Sam Walker drew a deadly looking pistol and pointed
it at Vince’s massive chest.
“No, no, no! FBI!” Josie struggled
to move, tried to put herself in front of Vince, but his hand was like a metal
brace across her chest. “He’s FBI! FBI!” she gasped. Josie watched their
expressions alter from warlike to wary.
“ID.” Vince’s voice brooked no
opposition.
Thankfully, Sam Walker didn’t
argue. He flipped his jacket to reveal that gold badge with the eagle on top
and Vince lowered his gun, but didn’t release her. In fact, the pressure of his
palm on her sternum increased and Josie found it difficult to suck in a breath.
Funny how there were no sexual fireworks, unlike when Marsh touched her.
Funny as a heart attack.
Slowly, with infinite care, Vince
put his gun away, pulled his wallet out of his pocket and dug out some ID. “I’m
this
lady’s
bodyguard. I apologize for pulling a gun on you, sir.”
Walker had the gall to look amused
as he returned the ID and Vince continued to pin her to the wall. Her cheeks
felt hot, and her lungs struggled to function with that much weight working
against them.
“I only opened the door,” Josie
panted.
“You disobeyed a direct order,
missy.”
“I’m not in the…” Her vision
started to gray. She wasn’t about to apologize. She hadn’t asked for this guy’s
help. “I’m not… in… the freaking Army…”
“Navy.” Vince turned his head to
trap her gaze. “If you want to get people like me and Special Agent Walker
killed, you just carry on acting like a spoiled brat.”
Josie ground her teeth, unable to
squeeze the words out of her burning lungs. She was the target and yet she was
the only one without a weapon. How the hell was that fair?
I didn’t ask for your help…
Dark eyes pinned her as the world
started to spin on the inside, but there was no way she was apologizing for
opening her own front door, dammit.
***
The door to
Josephine’s apartment stood wide open. Marsh looked up the stairwell and
started running, flicking the snap on his holster and putting his hand on the
SIG’s grip. He already had a round in the chamber.
Someone shouted out as he got to
the top of the staircase.
“Don’t get excited, Hayes.” Special
Agent Sam Walker came out the front door, fatigue digging trenches at the sides
of his eyes.
Marsh put his back weapon and redid
the snap. “Where’s Josephine?” Shouldering his way past the other fed, he
stopped abruptly as he caught sight of Vince leaning over a prostrate form.
“What the hell happened?”
Vince straightened and shook his
head. “My fault. I underestimated the amount of pure stubborn pigheadedness
running through her veins. She passed out rather than admit she might actually
be in the wrong.”
There was a snort from the couch.
She fought to sit up, but Vince placed his palm on her head. “Lie down for
another minute. Okay?”
To his surprise Josephine nodded
and lay down. The blinds were drawn, probably against snipers, though Marsh
doubted the Blade Hunter would get to her that way—not personal enough.
Something moved at the edge of his vision. Sam Walker strode past him and down
the steps into the sitting area.
“Can I have a drink of water,
please?” Josephine’s voice was sweet and seductive. Marsh felt a shot of heat.
The last time he’d heard that tone was when she’d asked him to make love to
her.
Would she use that tack on
anyone?
Sam Walker went into the kitchen and Marsh watched him go, anger
burning beneath the surface of his skin.
Shit
. He shook his head,
jealous as hell.
“Your bodyguard nearly killed me.”
She looked pathetic and frail lying there on the big scarlet couch, the giant
looming over her. The same woman who’d once nailed him in the balls so hard
he’d almost passed out.
“Yeah, I figured Vince was the type
to knock a woman around. That’s why I hired him.” He exchanged a knowing look
with the former SEAL. “Somehow I doubt this is Vince’s fault.”
Sam Walker came back into the room
carrying a glass of water.
“Special Agent Walker saw it—didn’t
you, Sam?” Josephine sent the sonofabitch a tremulous smile and he nodded, a
return smile on his face.
Dark emotions twisted through
Marsh’s gut.
Great
. Once again she’d reduced him to emotion rather than
logic.
He sighed, sank down on the couch
beside her. She curled up her legs to accommodate him. A pair of scruffy boots
lay an inch from his suit pants. He picked one up, undid the laces and slipped
the boot from her foot, dropped it onto the floor before laying her foot gently
back on the couch. Repeating the action with the other foot, he saw Agent
Walker watching him, a speculative gleam in his fatigue-rimmed eyes. Marsh
dropped her other foot, which bounced on the cushion, didn’t even have the
energy to smile when she curled her feet beneath her pert bottom as she sat
upright.