Claws for Alarm Page 14

  I thrust out my jaw. “I can’t make that promise until I hear what you have to say.”

  He swore softly and let out a breath. “Okay. Fine. Julia Canton couldn’t have been involved in whatever’s going down at the gallery because . . . she was working with us.”

  FOURTEEN

  For a minute you could have heard a pin drop in the room. Finally, I managed to squeak out, “What do you mean, Julia was working with you? You mean like a CI—confidential informant?”

  He rose. “I think this is where our conversation ends. I said I’d reveal certain things to you and I did. I’ve explained why Julia Canton was never a suspect, and I’ve told you why. Now I expect you to keep your promise and back off.”

  “Hell no!” I shook my head. “I said I’d hear what you had to say before I promised, and I’m far from satisfied with your answer.”

  “I’m sure you’re not, not with that endless curiosity of yours. However, any more information I could possibly share is strictly on a need-to-know basis, and you don’t.”

  “I don’t what?”

  “Have a need to know.”

  “Oh-ho, that’s where you’re wrong. My sister’s in jail awaiting trial for a murder she did not commit. This business with the forgeries is somehow connected to it. Exposing the person behind them could also expose Pitt’s real murderer, so I’d say that qualifies as a very big need to know.” I held up my hand as he opened his mouth. “And please don’t say there’s no proof the forgeries are connected to Pitt’s death. You know damn well they are.”

  “I know no such thing, yet,” he barked. “What I do know right now is I’ve lost my inside track. I’m going to have to figure out another way to get the answers I need.”

  “Hello?” I turned my hand inward and pointed at myself.

  He shook his head. “Thanks, but no, thanks.”

  “Why?”

  “For one thing, you’re too close to the situation. It’s bound to color your work. For another you’re not a trained investigator.”

  “That’s true, I’m not. But neither was Julia, or was she?” I paused as the expression on his face changed from annoyance to consternation. “Wait a minute. She was more than a CI—Julia was a member of the force, wasn’t she? An undercover cop?”

  “Like I said,” he ground out. “Information’s on a need-to-know basis. You don’t need to know that. As a matter of fact, it would be great if this entire conversation could be forgotten, but it won’t be, will it?”

  “Heck no.”

  He sighed. “I didn’t think so. Let me just give you some friendly advice. Stop sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong. I realize that in your prior career that was a way of life for you, but, as you said, you’re on a different path now. I’d hate to see you get hurt, for old times’ sake.”

  I glanced up swiftly at him, but his face was impassive. Stony, even. He had, as we used to say in Chicago, his “cop face” on. I slumped back in my chair, sniffed, and said, “You don’t have to treat me like I’m some greenhorn, Samms. I’ve worked undercover with the police in Chicago, actually many times. I’m familiar with the protocol and procedure.”

  He rubbed at his temple. “You aren’t going to drop this, are you?”

  “No. So why don’t you save us both a lot of trouble and just tell me what Julia found out about the forgeries.” I paused. “She did find out something, right?”

  He sat for a minute, his eyes hooded, his expression guarded. Finally, he said, “Fine. In light of our . . . long association, I’ll tell you, but on the condition you promise to let up and not interfere?”

  Oh hell. No way was I making that promise. “Let me put it this way, you’ve got a better shot at me doing that if you share what you know. For instance, what made her the most qualified operative?”

  He exhaled a deep breath. “She has—had—a background in art history. Once she got into the gallery, she started to notice things. Odd things. Paintings would come in, and the customer would not immediately be called. Sometimes it would be a week, maybe more, before Julia was instructed to get in touch with the customer. She’d go into the storeroom and at times could not find a particular painting that had come in, and then magically it would reappear a few days later. She’d ask Wilson about it, and there always seemed to be a good reason, but she just had a bad feeling about it. About a month ago a Van Eyck came in. Julia thought she recognized it from photos she’d seen as a painting that had been lifted from the Bleekers Gallery a year ago. She was trying to ascertain if it was the same painting when it mysteriously disappeared from the back room. A few days later the painting reappeared, but she could swear there was something different about it.”

  “Different? In what respect?”

  “I’m no expert, mind you, but buying a piece of artwork is an investment. Of course, the purchaser wants to ensure the artwork they purchase is an original creation, but unfortunately, more sold pieces than you would think are forgeries, and they make their way into auction houses and galleries even with highly trained scholars on the lookout. It’s even worse when the gallery owner is in on it. Someone trained in art appreciation—like Julia and Pitt—is more attuned to the little nuances that can distinguish the genuine article from a knockoff; but some forgers are so damn good, it’s hard.

  “For example, Julia told me that the Van Eyck the Bleekers owned originated in the eighteenth century. Yet when the painting reappeared in the gallery, it was held in the frame by staples.”

  “Staples weren’t around in the eighteenth century,” I said. “So—wow! Does that mean Wilson engineered the theft and when he got a demand for that particular painting, had someone copy it and sell it as an original?”

  “That’s the way we were thinking,” Samms nodded. “She wanted to make a more thorough appraisal, but the painting didn’t hang around long enough.”

  “Giselle said Pitt called the gallery the day he died, and she thought he mentioned something about a flaw. Could he have been talking about one of his paintings?”

  “Maybe, but he spoke to Julia about it a few days before he died. Pitt was positive that the painting he’d originally seen had been switched. He hadn’t put it on display yet, and when he went to unwrap it to give it to his son, there were some things about it that gave him cause for concern.”

  I scooted to the edge of my seat, interested. “Things like what?”

  “He claimed the brushstrokes in the background were off. Also the lighting in several places where it had not been before. Most important, it had a faint oily smell.”

  “Why was that important?”

  “Oil paintings have an oily smell for many years until the oil fully dries. The Engeldrumm that Pitt purchased was more than a few years old, and it shouldn’t have smelled at all.

  “Needless to say, he told Julia he trusted her. He wanted her to get an authentication, and then he’d make contact with the person he believed responsible, and they had damn well better make restitution or else.”

  “And did she get the authentication?”

  Samms hesitated, then nodded. “It was a forgery, all right. She never got a chance to confirm it with Pitt, though.”

  “Pitt probably went ahead with his demand for restitution without her.” A mental picture of Wilson reared itself in my mind’s eye, and I suppressed a shudder. “Only met Wilson once, but he didn’t seem like the type that liked to be crossed or asked for refunds.”

  “It might not have been Wilson.”

  My eyebrows went up. “What? I thought Wilson owned . . .”

  “He does, along with someone else.”

  “Who?”

  He brushed a hand through his hair. “We don’t know. All we know is he’s got a silent partner.” He dropped his hand and looked at me. “Now Nora, I’ve told you all I can. Honest. If I were to say any more—well, to be perfectly blunt, I ca
n’t. Not without permission.”

  “Permission? From who? Your captain?”

  He held up his hand. “Sorry. That’s all I can tell you. Will you drop it now, and leave the rest to us?” His other hand shot across the desk and captured mine. His thumb rubbed against my knuckles. “I promise you,” he said softly, “I will do all I can to ensure your sister does not go to prison for Pitt’s murder.”

  It was hard to think as his finger caressed my skin, and I forced myself to focus. It wasn’t easy. “How can you possibly make a promise like that?”

  “I can. I just did.” He leaned even closer, so now his face—and his well-shaped lips—were just scant inches from mine. “Once upon a time we worked together pretty well. Do you trust me, Nora?”

  I breathed in his scent—soap and water, his clean male smell—and my head nodded of its own volition. “I guess so,” I said finally. “As much as I trust anyone.”

  He folded my hand into his and squeezed. “I guess that’s as close to a yes as I’m gonna get out of you,” he said. He released my hand and leaned back. “And who knows . . . once all this is said and done, and you see I’m right, maybe you’ll decide to start calling me Lee.”

  That remark made my lips twig upward in a half smile. “Never happen,” I said. “I’m afraid I’ll always think of you as Samms, the guy who made my last year reporting on the university paper hell.”

  His gaze met mine with an intensity that sent heat searing my cheeks once again. “Not all of that year was hell,” he said softly. “Was it?”

  I rose quickly, nearly toppling the chair over. “I don’t think we need to revisit memory lane,” I said roughly. “And while I can appreciate what you’re saying, I’m just not sure I can look the other way when so much is at stake.”

  He swore softly. “You are still the most stubborn female God ever created. Well, you’re forcing my hand. I didn’t want to play this card, but I guess I have to.” He chuckled for the first time since our conversation started. “There is, as I mentioned before, a little matter of you breaking the law.”

  I stared at him. “You can’t be serious.”

  He tossed me a look he probably meant to resemble innocence but that actually ended up looking smug. “Hey, trust me. I did what I could, but Giselle Pitt doesn’t need much provocation to press charges. And for the record, even just saying you’re associated with the police, specifically when you aren’t, could still be construed as impersonating an officer.”

  “Fine.” I let my lips part in a wide, obviously phony smile. “I guess I have no choice. If I don’t want to spend quality time behind bars, I’ll leave the investigating up to you.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Do you mean it, or are you just trying to humor me?”

  I raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. “No, no. I know when I’m beaten.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “No, seriously. I can’t take the chance of you making good on your threat. It won’t do Lacey any good for me to be behind bars, too.”

  He considered this a moment, then nodded. “Okay, good. I’m glad that’s settled. So, will you be going back to Cruz tonight?”

  I inclined my head pointedly at the clock on the wall. “It’s late, and I’m tired. I’ll crash overnight at my aunt’s and then head back in the morning for a day or two.” I offered him a thin smile. “In spite of Lacey’s problems, I still have a business to run, you know. I have a friend looking after it for me, but I can’t impose on her forever.”

  He gave me a long, searching look, then shrugged. “Good. Come on, I’ll take you to get your car.”

  Whether Samms would admit it to me or not, I was convinced Pitt’s murder and Julia’s were both related to whatever was going down at that gallery. And, in spite of what he thought, I knew damn well it was up to me to prove it.

  FIFTEEN

  An urgent phone call claimed Samms’s attention just as we were headed out the door—a call he couldn’t ignore, according to him—so instead one of the other officers (a baby-faced cop who looked like a dead ringer for Richie Cunningham, right down to the close-cropped red hair and freckles) ended up driving me back to the warehouse to pick up my SUV. The CSI truck was still parked there and I could see about half a dozen yellow jacketed team members still milling about. I glanced furtively toward the building, wondering if Nick were still inside. The question was answered as I saw a long black shadow stretch up, up, up and lengthen itself against one of the warehouse’s dirty second-floor windows. It was gone before I could blink, and I hoped none of the CSI team had happened to glance that way. I walked purposefully over to my SUV, unlocked the door, hopped in, and started the engine. I gave young Richie a casual wave as I sailed past him onto the deserted street. I made a sharp left at the corner, went down a block, then made a sharp right and then another sharp left into a cobblestone driveway. The drive was long and wide, and I drove all the way to the end and then pulled as close to a giant wall of shrubbery as I could and killed my lights. I sat in the darkness for a few minutes, then reached over and snapped open the glove compartment. I pulled out my mini flashlight and fished the latest issue of Mystery Scene magazine out of the side panel of the driver’s door. I leaned back against the headrest and read the magazine from cover to cover—twice—before checking my watch. Well over an hour had elapsed. I started the engine up again, hopeful the CSI team had completed their job and departed. When I turned back onto the block I breathed a sigh of relief—the truck was gone. I parked my SUV, pocketed the keys, and walked swiftly toward the warehouse.

  There was no long black shadow to be seen in the windows as I hurried down the walkway, my heels clicking against the concrete. I let myself in once again through the cargo door, peered into the semidarkness, and hissed, “Nick. Nick, where are you?”

  “Meower.”

  Moonlight slanted in through the slatted windows, reflecting off a diamond of pointy sharklike teeth. Furred sides scrubbed against my calves. I reached down and hefted Nick into my arms.

  “You rascal,” I whispered into his fur. “Sorry, Nick. I had to make sure no one would follow me back here. We can go now.”

  Nick squirmed in my arms. I set him down, and he immediately trotted off in the direction of the offices where Julia’s body had been found.

  “Hey!” I called after the black shadow. “Nick, come on. That’s a crime scene. Nothing more to be learned there.”

  He turned and paused to grace me with a look of catly disdain before disappearing around a corner. I sighed and followed, retracing the route we’d taken earlier. When I got to the offices I stopped and regarded the myriad of yellow crime scene tape that seemed to be everywhere. I placed my hands on my hips and looked at Nick, waiting expectantly by the door. As I watched him, he rose on his hind legs and pawed at the wood.

  “What, you want me to go back in there? Sorry, pal. No can doosey.” I pointed to the yellow tape. “That place is an official crime scene now, and all I have to do is get caught by my old pal Samms defacing it. He’s just looking for an excuse to slap me in a cell and throw away the key.”

  In answer, Nick wiggled under the yellow tape and disappeared inside. “Okay, fine,” I called after his retreating form. “I guess Samms can’t arrest you, although I wouldn’t put it past him to try.” Nick reappeared a few minutes later, a ratty-looking burlap sack clenched in his sharp teeth.

  I leaned over to relieve him of his burden. “What have you got there, buddy? Where did you find this?”

  He cocked his head at me and blinked.

  I eyed Nick’s find dubiously. It did resemble the one I’d seen Julia with at the Institute. Then again, most burlap sacks did look alike, and there were no distinguishing marks of ownership, at least none I could see. Common sense dictated that if it were evidence, it shouldn’t be removed from the scene of the crime. Of course, I hadn’t removed it. Nick had. And since I didn’t know
just where he’d gotten it, well, how could I know if it were evidence? I shook it, and something fell out, making a clinking sound on the linoleum floor. Looking down, I saw three pieces of plaster. I bent over and picked up the largest piece. There were four medium-sized grooves in it, almost as if someone had stuck the balls of their fingers, or knuckles, in it while wet. I frowned. “This is weird. If this is Julia’s sack, I wonder if this is what she wanted to show Samms? But if it is, why? She was supposedly investigating the forgery of paintings. What connection could there be among that, a bag of plaster, and two murders?”

  Nick began to purr, and I saw he had something else clenched between his paws. I bent over to inspect it. “Hm,” I said, extricating the cigarette butt from his talons. “Looks like a menthol brand. Yep, Newport. Of course, it doesn’t mean it belonged to the murderer. Anyone could have dropped this.”

  Anyone indeed, except for the fact I’d definitely smelled cigarette smoke when I’d entered the warehouse the first time. I turned the butt over in my palm. “Althea Pitt’s son smokes Newports. Giselle Pitt smokes, too, but I’m not sure of the brand.”

  I sighed. As much as I’d have loved to finger Giselle—that squealer—she’d never have made it to the warehouse before my arrival to kill Julia. Philip Pitt seemed a better bet, save for the fact I could picture him murdering Giselle, not Julia. Kurt Wilson? Maybe. If he figured out Julia were informing on him, it would make perfect sense, but I’d learned the hard way not all murders made perfect sense. In fact, most murders were pretty senseless, if you asked me. Chalk it up to the human condition.

  I tossed the cigarette butt into the sack with the bits of plaster and motioned to Nick. “Come on, Nick. It’s pretty evident I won’t be getting much sleep tonight, so we may as well put what remains of the night to good use.”

  Nick yawned, revealing rows of sharp white teeth.

  “Yeah, I’m tired, too, but there’s work to be done. I heard Samms ask Julia if she’d found the terma. That’s definitely a code for something, and it might be a valuable clue, if I knew what it meant, so . . . get your geek on, buddy. It’s Google time.”