“It wasn’t the Ramsey family,” Brooke snapped. “We’re not exactly swimming in money, in case you haven’t noticed. We left San Francisco because we couldn’t afford to stay here anymore after the incident. My father owns a fifteen-year-old car and a run-down house in San Diego.”
“Sometimes art freaks steal for the sake of owning what they can’t buy. And the thing about art freaks is, they constantly need to collect more and more. It’s a sickness, see. So why are you using the name Ramsey? Your father’s name is Andrews, isn’t it?”
She slumped. “He forced us to use my mother’s maiden name. Too many people hate us now.”
Victor felt his stomach shrink. Brooke Ramsey, formerly Brooke Andrews, daughter of Donald Andrews, the one man he abhorred more than any other person on the planet.
Tuney raised an eyebrow. “I understand your father is now in possession of a painting that might be a Tarkenton.”
Brooke gaped. “How did you know that?”
Tuney shrugged, his mouth drawn, eyes flashing. “Your father contacted Professor Colda at the university. Funny thing. Professor Colda went missing, shortly after. Found a note in his office. An address. Guess whose?”
Brooke shrugged in exasperation. “Ours, no doubt. That makes sense, since my father sent him the painting to appraise.”
“Yes, your father contacted Colda and then the guy disappeared. Could be your father and the good professor had a falling out? Maybe the learned professor started to ask questions about how your father acquired the Tarkenton? Reasonable, since Dad already has a black mark on his reputation. Maybe he had to make Colda disappear.”
Brooke lifted her chin and Victor thought he saw her lips tremble before she glared at Tuney. “In spite of the news reports, my father’s character is impeccable. Can you say the same for yours?”
Victor collected himself and corralled his shock. “Mr. Tuney, none of this gives you the right to break into her room.”
“I didn’t break in. Gave the maid a happy story that I was her father looking to surprise his daughter.” His lips quirked. “Besides, you didn’t mind my methods when I was working for you.”
Brooke stood. “You hired him?”
Victor shook his head. “Not this time. Four years ago, after the robbery.”
Brooke was pacing the floor now, strides long and graceful, her cheeks flushed. “Because of what happened at the museum? Why would you care about that? What’s your interest in the theft?”
“I have no interest whatsoever,” Victor said, voice low.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“One thing I’ve learned in this business. If something smells fishy, it usually is,” Tuney said. “I’ve got a personal reason to be involved.”
“Who are you working for now?” Victor said, turning back to Tuney.
Tuney shrugged. “That’s not your concern.”
Brooke crossed her arms. “Whatever you two think you know about my father is wrong. He’s a good man. He didn’t steal anything back then and he hasn’t stolen anything now.”
“So why are you here in San Francisco?” Tuney said, jerking a thumb at Victor. “Talking to him? Going to do a little treasure hunting?”
Victor held up a hand. “I don’t think that’s any of your business, Mr. Tuney. The lady can talk with whomever she wants.”
“Oh, I think it’s my business, all right.”
“How’s that?”
“One thing you should both know. I’m a busy man, so sometimes I hire people to do freelancing for me. In this case, I had someone keeping tabs on you in San Diego and on your trip up here.”
Victor felt a tingle of unease in his spine. “Who?”
“Gal by the name of Fran.” He looked at Brooke, a flash of emotion crossing his face. “I was scheduled to meet her but things didn’t work out. Maybe you saw her.”
“Saw her?” Brooke echoed.
“Yeah,” Tuney said, his eyes shifting from hers to Victor’s. His voice trembled slightly, and he cleared his throat. “She was shot in your lobby a few hours ago.”
* * *
The walls seemed to blur before Brooke’s eyes. She staggered back and felt Victor’s arm around her waist, steadying her, before she pulled away. “The black-haired woman worked for you?”
“Yes. Off the books, of course. She’s the one who found your father’s address in Colda’s office, so she started tailing you. Followed you to San Francisco, to Gage’s office building. I went to meet her. Got there just in time to join the crowd of bystanders who collected after the shooting.” He cleared his throat again. “It was clear she wasn’t going to make it, even with Dr. Gage’s help, so I decided to come to meet with you personally.”
“Did you tell all this to the police?” Victor asked.
Tuney’s eyes narrowed. “Not yet. I figured I would fill them in right after I talked to you.”
Words failed Brooke. All she could think about was the lady lying on the lobby floor with the life ebbing out of her.
“Brooke’s going back home soon, so there’s no reason for you to continue to pursue her.”
“I want the truth. That’s what I get paid to find out, and now, since Fran’s been killed, I have even more reason to stay on this. She was a good woman and whoever is responsible needs to be punished.” Tuney moved toward Brooke but Victor stepped in between them. Tuney continued, “Get me some time with your father, Brooke. He can come clean, admit to his part in the robbery and cop to whatever he did to Colda and had done to Fran. He’s a sick man, I understand. He’ll want to do the right thing before it’s too late.”
“Stop it,” Brooke screamed, tears pooling in her eyes. “My father is okay. He’s okay.”
“Leave her alone.” Victor drew himself up to his full six feet three. Tuney did not miss the gesture and eased back.
“Or your aunt Denise could talk to me,” Tuney said thoughtfully. “She might have some info that would put the incident to rest.”
Brooke didn’t even ask how Tuney managed to know all the intimate details of her family’s life. “You’re wrong about everything.”
He shrugged. “You should make it easy on your father. Get him to talk to me.”
“What if she doesn’t?” Victor said, voice low.
“Then I stick to Ms. Ramsey like the proverbial glue.”
“You’re no better than a stalker,” Victor snapped.
“I prefer to think of it as determination rather than stalking. Funny how you didn’t mind my tactics when you wanted answers of your own.”
Victor gestured to the door. “I think you’d better leave, Mr. Tuney.”
Tuney hesitated, and Brooke hated the scornful look on his face.
“I’ll go,” he said, “but you’ll be seeing me in your rearview mirror until this thing is solved and Fran’s murderer is caught.” He stopped as he got to the door. “One thing you might consider. Could be that shooting today was random, but it could also be that someone else is interested in your situation.”
“No,” Brooke mumbled, head whirling.
“Better to get it all out in the open before somebody else winds up dead.”
“Get out,” Victor snarled.
Tuney strode out the door, leaving them in silence.
Victor gestured for her to sit on the bed and he took the chair. “We need to contact the police and fill them in on everything Tuney said.”
She tried for a steady tone. “First you need to tell me what’s going on. You know about the robbery and you hired Tuney before. I’m not moving an inch until you tell me the truth.”
“The truth?” he said quietly. “That’s all I’ve been trying to find out for four years.”
Pain surged through her. All the shame, all the humiliation. Her father had never really been able to put it behind him, and now it was all going to be raked up again. Her mind was still spinning from Tuney’s intrusion. “What is happening? It was just supposed to be a meeting. Now there’s been a shooting and this detective shows up. How well do you know him?”
“I hired him to investigate the circumstances of my wife’s death. He wasn’t able to solve the case, so we parted ways.”
Brooke felt a tremor inside, a deep foreboding slithering through her body. “When…when was your wife killed?”
His eyes bored into hers. “September fifth, four years ago.”
“September fifth?” She gaped. “That’s the day my—”
“Father’s museum was robbed, I know.”
She did not understand the expression on his face, a mixture of anguish and burning intensity. “There was an accident,” she whispered. “A few blocks from the museum. I remember reading about it in the paper.”
His voice was feverish, brow furrowed, and she could hear a deep current of emotion behind the words. “At three forty-five, September fifth, a man fleeing the scene of the robbery plowed into our car and killed my wife. The driver was never caught. I hired Tuney to find out who was involved in the robbery so I could nail the guy.”
“You hired Tuney to investigate my father?”
“And anyone else who might have been involved.”
She felt sick. “You think…you believe my father is the one? That he robbed his own museum and hired the man who killed your wife?”
“Tuney didn’t find any proof.”
“But that’s what you believe…deep down…isn’t it?”
After a moment, he reached for his phone. “I’m going to call Dean Lock and arrange a meeting for us, tomorrow, if possible.”
“Us?” She looked at him, openmouthed. “You’re taking my case?”
“No,” he said as he dialed. “But I’m going to go with you to meet the dean.”
“Why would you do that?”
He stared at her. “Do you believe in God, Brooke?”
She started at the abruptness of the question, his eyes burning into hers. “Without a doubt.”
“Well, I don’t. My wife did, but I always told her I would never let anyone or anything take charge of my destiny but me. I don’t believe there’s a God that guides us through our daily lives. I don’t believe it for one moment, but there’s something going on here that I can’t explain. The day your life fell apart, mine did, too, and now, all these years later, you walk into my office.”
“Coincidence. It’s got to be. How could the robbery be connected to what’s happening now?”
“I don’t know, but here you are claiming another painting has been stolen from your father.”
“It’s not just a claim. It’s the truth,” she snapped.
“Maybe it has nothing to do with what happened four years ago, but I’m not going to let it go until I know for sure.”
She stared at the granite expression on his face, feeling a wave of anguish wash over her. “I had no idea. I remember hearing that a woman was killed, but I was too wrapped up in what was happening to my father to pay much attention. I never would have come to you if I had… It has to be a crazy coincidence.”
She saw something glittering in his eyes, something hard and unforgiving. A bank of fog rolled across the sun, sending dark shadows skittering across the room. “I don’t believe in coincidences either,” he said. “But I do believe that someone is going to pay for killing my wife.”
“My father wasn’t responsible,” she whispered.
“Then the truth will set us all free, won’t it?” he said.
FOUR
“A
bsolutely not,” Dean Lock said, lacing his fingers together. One hand was stiff, swollen at the joints, like a withered tree branch. Behind him a set of windows looked out on a courtyard thick with shrubs and a series of wooden benches. The office they now sat in was tucked behind the outer reception area, painted a soothing ivory color, the desk a rich, dark wood. Victor’s feet sank into the plush carpet.
He had the same trim, polished look that Victor remembered from seeing the man two years before. Victor’s father had bestowed a generous endowment to the university at that time. Polished but tired, as if he’d traveled many miles since their last meeting. His brows were drawn together and the furrows on his forehead were pronounced. Victor felt rather than saw Brooke’s body tense in the chair next to him.
“We just need to take a look, to satisfy Ms. Ramsey’s curiosity,” Victor said, keeping his voice light. “There was a police report of a student who witnessed Colda exiting the tunnels just before he disappeared.”
“I’m well aware of that.” Lock’s expression was amused. “Colda was my employee. Based on that one report, you believe Colda stashed a supposedly invaluable painting down there for safekeeping? A Tarkenton?” His words dripped with incredulity.
Victor chuckled. “Stranger things have happened.”
Lock nodded. “True, but a whim isn’t a good enough reason to take on the liability. I’m sorry. The tunnels are in a state of disrepair. Dangerous, to say the least.”
“The university won’t be held liable,” Victor said. “Ms. Ramsey and I will act at our own risk.”
She nodded, the overhead light sparkling in her hair. He could see it was killing her to keep silent during the exchange.
Lock shook his head. “Your reason is too far-fetched to merit the risk. There have never been any undiscovered Tarkentons and there are certainly not any underneath this university.”
Victor shrugged. “Far-fetched, but not impossible. Brooke says Donald Ramsey sent the painting here to Colda. Now both the painting and the professor are missing.”
“The police have searched the tunnels. They found nothing out of place and no sign of any painting.”
Brooke broke in, “Then it won’t do any harm to check again.”
Victor sighed inwardly, wishing she had stayed quiet. As he suspected, Lock took offense.
The dean’s gray eyes narrowed. “Harm? I believe your father has caused enough harm to me to last a lifetime.”
He heard Brooke exhale slowly. “Dean Lock, my father did not engineer that theft at the museum. I am sorry that you lost your position as head curator there but—”
“But heads had to roll and mine was the one that did.” His eyes narrowed. “Someone knew the delivery schedule for those paintings. It was clearly an inside job.”
“So it could have been you,” she answered quietly.
Victor was surprised at her courage to speak even though her lips were trembling.
Lock leaned back as if she’d struck him before he swiveled his eyes to Victor. “I’m disappointed to see you’re throwing in with her. Four years ago you hired an investigator to find evidence that her father was guilty.”