Heroes In Uniform (229 page)

“You’re going to eat on the move?” Disapproval in every word.

“Yep.” She wished she didn’t find him quite so attractive, wished she’d never discovered what she’d been missing as a twenty-seven year old virgin. Life had been fine before that.

“Let’s go somewhere decent—”

“This is decent.” She shook her head, blew the hair out of her eyes. He was such a snob.

One hand on her elbow he pointed to the flies hovering on the ketchup dispenser. “This is a health hazard,” he said.

Seriously
… She rolled her eyes at him.

The sun broke fully through dissolute clouds, glinting warmly off his tanned skin. He tugged her away from the succulent aroma and reluctantly she fell into step beside him.

“Well, it better be quick—”

“Why, Josephine?” He stopped and looked down at her, a hard light in his eyes. “I thought artists were Bohemian, free spirits? Why are you always in so much of a damn rush that you don’t look after yourself?”

“I’m hungry, you idiot.” Angry at being so unfairly judged lit a fuse within her. “And I know how to look after myself.” She planted her finger on his chest. “I’ve had plenty of practice looking after myself and aside from this stupid freaking serial killer on my tail, I do a pretty good job of it.”

People streamed around them in the street. Marsh swept a pitying glance over her frame, from her Doc Marten boots to her favorite army jacket. She glared back, wanting to cross her arms over her chest, but knowing that would put her on the defensive rather than the attack.

“You’re too damn thin. I could push you over with one finger.” He copied her move and stuck his index finger in her sternum, between her breasts.

The world stopped. Time hovered. The people rushing past them ceasing to exist. There was nothing but the heat in his eyes and the energy that sizzled and circled between the points of contact of each finger on each chest, round and round, firing sparks through her heart and breasts, making her breath squeeze tight into a tiny ball.

Suddenly it was the flat of her hand against his white cotton shirt as if holding him off—but she wasn’t and he knew it. He dropped his hand slowly away from her.

Speechless for once in her life, she finally let her hand drop away.

“Come on, woman.” He took her elbow gently and steered her down the sidewalk. “Let’s get some food.”

* * *

They settled on a small Irish pub. Marsh ordered a steak sandwich. Josephine ordered beef pie, French fries and orange juice.

Marsh sipped water as they sat in silence. That pulse of desire that had rushed them on the street rattled him. Six months ago, he’d let her get way too close and he wasn’t sure he’d ever get over it. Lust for her had clouded his judgment, affected his thinking and made him break the law. Not to mention nearly gotten his agent killed. Right now, he couldn’t afford distraction, because this time it would be Josephine who wound up dead.

A huge mountain of food arrived in front of them and they both dug in. No way was she going to be able to eat all that. First she smothered the fries in vinegar, then ketchup, and she started eating like she was ravenous. One French fry after another disappeared between those delicate lips. She licked salt off with a darting pink tongue.

She looked up. “What?”

Marsh shook his head and stared at the rapidly disappearing food. “I hope you’re not doing that to impress me.”

“I’m starving.” Wiping a napkin over her mouth, she paused. “And you know I rarely do anything to impress anyone.”

“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.”

Her Last Chance: Chapter Six

Marsh 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?”