Nerves tingled along her spine. “What was the destination?”
“San Diego.”
She swallowed hard. “He was coming to see my father?”
He nodded grimly. “But he never made it on that plane.”
SIX
H
e saw her clutch at the little gold cross around her neck, smoothing it in her fingers.
“Do you…” She cleared her throat. “Do you think Professor Colda is dead?”
He wanted to tell her that in his mind there was no doubt about it, but oddly he could not bring himself to say it. “We’ll have to see. No sign of foul play. The cops floated the idea that he left for the break. His classes don’t start up for another two weeks at the satellite location, so they think he could have gone on a vacation.”
“But you don’t think so?”
Victor tried for a gentle tone. “It’s strange that he would have paid for a plane ticket and not shown.”
Her eyes closed and he saw her mouth move, and he wondered if she was praying.
Your God won’t hear you,
he thought. He hadn’t heard Jennifer, and there was no one more deserving of answered prayer than her.
Brooke sighed, a soft, gentle sound that took him instantly back to the memory of where he’d first seen her. Several months before the crash, Jennifer was meeting with then-curator Lock at the museum to arrange to take her middle schoolers on a trip. Victor went along, left to wander through paintings he had no interest in, when he came upon Brooke. He hadn’t known her name. Her hair was different, face fuller then.
She stared with rapt attention at a small Degas, a painting of a ballerina, ethereal and graceful. It was not the painting that captured Victor’s attention, but the look on Brooke’s face—sadness, longing, painful disappointment laid bare in that moment. She’d probably been dealing with the loss of her dancing career. Home for a quick visit to her father perhaps. He’d stood frozen, captivated by the sheer nakedness of the emotion, uncertain what, if anything, he should do about it, until another visitor came close and Brooke scurried away.
In the years after Jennifer’s death he’d thought about that face, pondered how she had shown on her face the worst emotions that crowded into his heart after the accident. It was all written there, naked, for anyone to see, except one emotion was missing. Rage.
Her father may very well be a thief, Victor reminded himself, rekindling the anger in his own heart. It didn’t matter what Brooke felt or did. He needed to find the truth.
But what if the truth about Donald changed Brooke Ramsey? Would it pain Victor to see her face hardened by the same anger that turned his own heart to stone? He tried to shake off the idiotic thoughts.
A movement in the rearview mirror caught his eye. He stiffened at the sight of the motorcycle a few car lengths behind, the driver’s face hidden behind the tinted faceplate of the helmet. “I saw the same guy on the motorcycle when I drove over to get you this morning.”
Brooke peeked into the side mirror instead of turning around.
Good girl,
he thought.
“So now there’s someone following us?”
“Maybe. Let’s find out.” Abruptly he changed lanes, eliciting a honk from the car behind him. He pushed his way over to the right-hand lane and turned down a narrow, one-way street. Victor’s heart was beating fast, eyes intent on the rearview mirror as he slowed the car.
He could be mistaken.
It could be a different motorcycle than the one he’d seen.
Or paranoia born of the shooting at his office.
It took a few moments before the motorcycle made the turn, also.
Victor’s blood pumped faster, as he strained in the rearview mirror to get a glimpse of the man’s face.
“Is it Tuney?” Brooke’s eyes were riveted to the side-view mirror.
“That was my first thought, but the driver’s too tall to be Tuney.”
“What now?” she said.
Victor’s stomach tightened in determination. “Now we find out how good the guy is. Buckle up.”
Brooke clutched the door with one hand and her seat belt with the other.
He waited until the motorcycle closed the gap to one car length, then he increased his speed, turning one left and then another until they were back on the main drag. San Francisco’s middle-of-the-day traffic was not terrible because most people who lived in the city didn’t bother to drive, as parking spaces were expensive and hard to come by.
He slowed just enough to let the motorcyclist ease closer.
Come on, buddy. You’ve almost got me, don’t you?
Victor began an intricate series of lane changes and moved in and out of side streets, doubling back and moving forward until Brooke gasped.
“I’m getting dizzy.”
He pulled into a one-way street, hemmed in by tall, old warehouses on either side. The car idled while they waited to see if Victor’s tricks had worked.
The motorcycle turned in behind them once more.
“Guy’s determined and not a bad driver. He must be somewhat familiar with the city. There’s a place just ahead, an old box factory. We’ll lose him there unless he knows this city better than I do.”
“What if he does know it better than you do?”
Victor shrugged. “Then we’ll have the chance to get to know each other pretty soon. Be ready to get a plate number if you can.”
Brooke clutched her seat belt with one hand. “How do you know this area so well?”
“We lived in San Francisco for decades. My brother never met an abandoned building he didn’t want to photograph.” He had to fight to keep himself from hitting the gas too hard.
Keep it cool.
Another block and he accelerated and flipped a quick left turn, moving quickly enough to ease into a narrow alley before the motorcycle. He pushed the car faster and jerked it into a space behind a crumbling brick facade, intended to artfully conceal trash dumpsters.
Victor held his breath, pulse pounding, and he could tell by Brooke’s rigid posture that she was doing the same.
One second.
Three.
Thirty seconds later and they heard it, the rumble of a motorcycle engine.
It grew louder and then roared past.
Brooke exhaled. “Sorry I didn’t get a plate number,” she said, voice high and tense.
“It’s all right. At least we lost him for the moment.”
She uncurled her fingers from the seat belt. “That was some driving.”
He felt unaccountably pleased at her comment until she added, “For a barracuda.”
* * *
The dean greeted Victor, Brooke and Stephanie with a weary smile when they arrived, and gestured to his ankle, encased in an elastic bandage. “Bad sprain,” he said. “I know what you’re thinking. I should have stayed put when the lights went out down there.”
Victor shrugged and smiled politely, but Brooke could tell that was exactly what he was thinking. She also had the feeling that Victor did not completely trust Dean Lock.
He took the keys to Colda’s place the dean offered and thanked him again.
Brooke added her thanks, also. She felt the tingle of excitement. Maybe Colda had left some sort of indication of where he’d stowed the painting. It was a long shot, extremely long. She wished she could search by herself, comb every square inch of the campus and restore her father’s good name without relying on Victor and Stephanie to help, but without them she wouldn’t have gotten anywhere.
God would help her see it through, in spite of Victor’s doubts. She felt certain about that.
Lock looked away for a moment, apparently studying the oil painting of a desert mesa on his wall. “Colda was living in the Professor House. That’s the hall where the staff who choose to reside on campus are housed. The House is undergoing only minor upgrades, since it’s a fairly new structure, but the resident professors have all been relocated for the time being.” He paused. “I’m going to send someone to accompany you.”
Brooke wasn’t surprised. The staff wouldn’t be happy to hear about strangers given carte blanche to enter their building. They heard a knock.
“Morning,” Tuney said, shuffling into the room. “Lovely day for a treasure hunt, isn’t it?”
Brooke gasped, her stomach instantly in knots. “What are you doing here?”
Tuney offered a smile. “Dean Lock invited me to be your escort.”
They all turned to look at the dean. “Mr. Tuney was hired by the University Board to locate Leo Colda.”
Victor’s eyes swiveled between Tuney and Lock and back to Tuney. “So you’re employed by Bayside? Why didn’t you tell us that before?”
Tuney shrugged. “I’m not in the business of handing out information, just acquiring it. I’ve already been through Colda’s office with a fine-tooth comb, talked to his students, including the one who saw him exiting the tunnels. You’re going to find zippo in his place, trust me.”
“Then why are you coming along?” Stephanie said, eyes flashing. Brooke heard the challenge in her voice and no trace of fear. Brooke wondered what it would feel like to be fearless.
Must run in the Gage family,
she thought as she watched brother and sister staring at Tuney with similar expressions of irritation.
Tuney fired back a sardonic smile.
“You know about the shooting at my office?” Victor said to Lock. “How Tuney hired someone to follow Brooke?”
“I understand Colda tried to make contact with the Ramsey family before he disappeared. It seems a natural step for someone investigating to follow the trail.” His glance flicked to Brooke and then back to Victor. “The university has heard from the police that there are no leads on the shooting of Tuney’s cohort.”
Brooke thought she heard the slightest note of disdain in Lock’s choice of the word
cohort.
Could it be that Tuney had been forced on Lock by the administration?
Lock cleared his throat. “My orders are to have Tuney accompany you in your investigations, so that’s what I’m going to do. He won’t get in your way, I’m sure.”
The smug look on Tuney’s face made Brooke quiver inside, but she knew there was no point in resisting.
“I trust you have no problem with Tuney’s assistance in this matter?” Lock said, directing his gaze at Brooke. “You have nothing to hide, do you?”
Do you?
She thought about her father’s secretive behavior. It grated on her that she hadn’t known he’d sent the painting to Colda. Why hadn’t he trusted her with the information? She swallowed the doubts and lifted her chin. “Of course not. The more eyes the better.”
“Great,” Tuney said, fishing a key from his pocket. “Then let’s go over to Colda’s place. It’s a dump, but it should be interesting to see if you can find something I didn’t.”
With a sinking feeling in her stomach, Brooke headed out into the chilly morning, following Stephanie and Victor.
Tuney lingered behind to exchange words with the dean.
Victor’s jaw was tight, strides quick and angry. Stephanie and Brooke had to jog to keep up. “I don’t like having someone looking over my shoulder, especially someone I don’t trust. I never should have…” He broke off.
What? Brooke wondered. Hired a man like Tuney all those years before? Did he feel like Brooke did, that putting Tuney on a case was like dripping blood into shark-infested waters? She wanted to be angry at him for hiring such a man, but she wasn’t sure she would have behaved differently if it was her loved one who died at the hands of someone who got away scot-free.
Her thoughts surprised her. Understanding for this man? A man who would be elated to pin a death on her innocent father? She quickened her pace, trying to leave the thoughts behind. They arrived on the front porch of a tidy two-story bungalow, brick sides edged in ivy. It was neat and well tended, charmingly old in appearance but newly renovated, as evidenced by the double-paned windows and smart trim.
Tuney finally joined them and unlocked the door, standing aside with a flourish. “Colda’s is upstairs, the suite at the end of the hallway.” They climbed the stairs, trailed down a darkened corridor, and he unlocked the interior door and stepped back, allowing the others to enter first.
Brooke gasped.
“Has it been tossed?” Stephanie said.
Tuney laughed. “No, the guy’s just a slob of epic proportions.”
Slob
was an understatement. Stacks of magazines and books dotted the wood floors. A tangle of ivy cascaded from a pot down the stuffed bookcase, both plant and books coated with a layer of dust. Piles of books filled every available corner, and the windows were plastered with sticky notes and tattered bits of paper taped here and there.
“Hard to believe Colda is a professor, isn’t it?” Tuney said, fingering a stack of comic books. “Lived more like a vagrant. Students said he was flighty. He had no sense of time. One time he was in the library and forgot what time it was. One of his teaching assistants had to go find him so he could teach class.”
Tuney went on, but Brooke wasn’t listening. Her gaze was drawn to the wall next to a battered dining table, covered with stacks of newspapers.
“That’s it,” she said.
Victor and Stephanie continued to prowl around the space and paid her no attention so she said it louder.
“There.” Something in her tone made them both stop.
She pointed to the small, framed picture above the dining-room table. “That’s
The Contemplative Lady,
” she said with a sigh. “Well, a reproduction anyway.” Even though it wasn’t the real thing, the genius of the work came through. The look on the lady’s face as she gazed wistfully out the window, the chessboard forgotten to the lure of the sunlight playing over the garden. Was she pining for her love? Chafing against the constraints of being a woman of the 1800s? Wishing for a life somewhere outside those walls?
Victor broke her reverie, taking out his iPhone to snap a picture. “Well, at least we’ve got a nice visual on what we’re looking for. Why would he hang a reproduction?”
Brooke took a picture with her phone, as well.
Stephanie scanned the walls. “It’s the only artwork he’s got in the place.”
“I wondered that, too,” Tuney said. “I’ll admit, I was taken in at first. I’m no art guy, so it took me a minute to realize it was a fake.”