Suspicious (On the Run) Page 2

  “Wait until you see inside,” Jack said, nodding toward the Pantheon, which made up one side of the square. “The outside is deceptive.” Jack had visited Rome years ago when he worked for the American consulate in Naples.

  “Oh, it looks so complete.” Zoe grabbed his hand and threaded through the crowd, quickly moving across the cobblestones that sloped down to the Pantheon. The exterior was arranged in the classic Roman temple design with a triangular pediment and columned portico. “After the ruins of the Forum, I can’t wait to see a Roman building with walls.”

  “The dome is nothing to sneeze at either.”

  “Amazing that you can’t hardly see the dome from the outside,” Zoe said. The pediment and hefty columns dominated the entrance. She’d edited several guidebooks about Rome and knew that it was the only building continuously in use as a place of worship—first as a temple to all the gods then later as a church, which saved it from the fate of looting and scavenging that the Colosseum and the Forum had suffered.

  Zoe gently ran a hand along one of the massive 40-foot red granite columns—more plunder from Egypt—that supported the portico, evidence that the ancient Roman builders either went big or went home. Then they were through the enormous doors and inside the cool hush of the church with its immense, coffered dome. Sunlight poured through the oculus, beaming down in a shaft of light to the intricately patterned marble floor.

  “The size of it is overwhelming, even after the doors and the columns,” Zoe whispered.

  “I think it’s something about the dome not being a huge part of the exterior design. It kind of takes you by surprise. It’s one of my favorite places in Rome.”

  “Mine, too.”

  “You’ve said that about every place we’ve been.”

  “Can’t help it. It’s a fascinating city. I mean, where else in the world can you see a complete ancient temple, Egyptian obelisks, and have gelato, all in the space of a few steps?”

  Jack opened his mouth to reply, but caught sight of something over her shoulder. “There’s Harrington, by the tomb of Raphael.”

  Zoe spotted Harrington’s gray hair and immaculate cream suit.

  “Let’s go slow,” Jack said.

  “Right. He doesn’t exactly look like he’s anxious to see us.”

  They eased up to Harrington, his gaze focused on a statue of a Madonna and child in the niche above Raphael’s tomb.

  “Any trouble?” he asked quietly without moving.

  “No.”

  “Good. Take a few moments here then meet me at the first café on the Via della Minerva. I’ll be in the back.”

  Chapter Two

  Harrington meandered away. Zoe and Jack circled the church, but Zoe couldn’t concentrate on the amazing structure anymore. After a few minutes, they slipped back into the noise and sunlight of the piazza where the fountain burbled and the clip-clop of hooves rang out as a horse trotted away, pulling a carriage of sightseers. Zoe consulted the map she’d tucked into her messenger bag and guided them to the side street where they spotted the café.

  Inside, the waiter waved them to any table they wanted, and they made their way to the back of the room to join Harrington. From across the room, she thought he looked exactly the same as he had a year ago when he’d presented them with the paperwork for the finder’s fee, but now that she was closer, she could see dark circles under his eyes. Zoe supposed he was somewhere in his late fifties. He had a full head of gray hair, a kind face, and a thin mustache that made Zoe think of movie stars from the thirties and forties.

  “No, don’t kiss me,” she said as he took her hand and leaned in to kiss her cheek in the Continental manner. “I’m drenched. I love Rome, but wish it wasn’t so blazing hot.”

  “Unusual for this time of year,” Harrington said in his crisp accent as he patted her hand in lieu of the kiss.

  “I shouldn’t complain,” Zoe said as they sat down. “At least it’s not raining. That would make site-seeing truly miserable.”

  The waiter arrived, and Harrington ordered a cup of tea. His posture was casual as he leaned on the table, but he had an edge of alertness in his gaze as he kept an eye on the doorway and studied each new arrival at the café.

  “Tea is too hot for me,” Zoe said. “I’ll have a scoop of lemon gelato.” Jack ordered the same.

  Harrington ran his hand over his thin mustache and lowered his voice. “Sorry for the intrigue, but it was necessary. As I’m sure you’ve gathered, this is not a typical job. Tomorrow night at the opening, I will present you with an award, recognition of your role in the return of the art last year. As far as Millbank and Proust are concerned, that is the only reason you are here.”

  Their order arrived, and Harrington paused until the waiter left. Zoe focused on her tart gelato. Harrington was addressing most of his remarks to Jack. She got it. She was window dressing. Just along for the ride. But she understood. Jack was the expert, and she’d been able to climb the narrow steps of the Colosseum because of this job. Couldn’t complain about that.

  Harrington stirred his tea as he continued, “There have been several thefts from country homes in England over the last six weeks—all jewelry—all insured by Millbank and Proust.”

  “And you’re concerned about the opening,” Jack said.

  “Yes. The jewels on display are just too tempting.” He loosened his tie a bit and continued as if the words were difficult to get out. “Unfortunately, it appears that the thefts are connected with Millbank and Proust. Certain details that were only known within the company were exploited in the last few instances.”

  Zoe asked, “Have the thefts been in the news? I don’t remember hearing about anything like that lately. Well, except for the heist at the London movie premiere.”

  Harrington nodded. “Unfortunately, Millbank and Proust was also an insurer for some of those jewels as well. The police have not been able to recover any of the jewels. Except for the theft at the premiere, we have been able to keep the other incidents quiet, so there has been nothing else in the media. He cannot be allowed to strike again.”

  “He?” Jack asked.

  “Metaphorically speaking, of course. I have no idea of the thief’s gender.”

  “But couldn’t it be different individuals or even different groups?” Zoe asked.

  “Coincidence?” He waved his hand before sipping his tea. “An outside possibility, of course. But I’m afraid there is a small likelihood of it being the correct answer. No, the most likely explanation is, unfortunately for Millbank and Proust, that we have a thief in our employ. I have no definite proof or, of course, I would have already taken it to the authorities. All I have is a theory. That is why I need you. Your attendance will not raise any suspicions. In the past, we have recognized individuals who have contributed to the success of our company, so your attendance and the award will not raise any eyebrows among my colleagues. The pool of possible suspects is quite small—only two. First, there is Carlo Goccetto, director of our European region.”

  Jack paused, his spoonful of lemon gelato halfway to his mouth. “You suspect a director of your company?”

  Harrington looked pained. “Sadly, it gets worse. Our managing director, Melissa Davray, is also on the short list.”

  Jack stared at him. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “No. I wish I were. I started with all possibilities—everyone who had access to the information. It wasn’t a large list to begin with. First, I focused on lower ranking employees, but they all have alibis. Carlo and Melissa are the only two people who had the knowledge, the opportunity, and no alibi. As far-fetched as it sounds, that is where I am. I admit, it is hard even for me to picture either one of them actually committing the crimes themselves. I doubt they would do that, so they must have relayed the information to someone else, a partner, who actually carried out the robberies.” He ran his finger along his thin mustache again and shook his head. “Nevertheless, you can see why I need you,” he said with a sigh. “I w
ill introduce you to them tomorrow. I’ll need you to arrive an hour early.”

  Harrington set his teacup down with a click and removed a stack of photos from his jacket pocket. “This is what I’m most worried about.”

  The first one, a close-up photo, showed a necklace of diamonds with matching earrings and a bracelet. Even in the dim light and on paper, the gems were amazing. Zoe recognized them. The exhibit traced the history of jewelry from ancient Greek and Roman ornaments up to modern times. This set was one of the relatively modern pieces known as the Flawless Set because each stone was so exquisite. Once owned by a czarina, the set had a fascinating history that included a legendary deathly curse on the owner.

  Zoe reached for the stack and glanced through the other photos, which were more close-ups of each piece, front and back, and even a few shots of the hardware, the clasps. She studied the intricate engraving on the clasp on the necklace, an R inside an oval.

  Harrington noticed her interest. “Jeweler’s mark,” he explained. You could see the age of the piece in the clasp. Unlike the diamonds, which looked marvelous, the clasp was a bit beat-up with several scratches, including a long one that ran diagonally across one of the curlicues at the bottom of the R, but given that the piece was over one hundred years old, Zoe guessed that wasn’t too surprising. Something that old usually had some wear and tear, and she supposed it was another reason diamonds in general were so valuable. Not a speck of deterioration on them, at least that Zoe could see with her untrained eye. She handed the photos back.

  Harrington tucked them away. “I personally oversaw the installation earlier this week. I’d like you to stay in the gallery with the Flawless Set all evening tomorrow. It is only two hours and there are quite a few other displays in that room. It is critical I have someone there from the outside.”

  “You’re only worried about tomorrow night?” Jack asked. “If the jewels are there now…”

  “Certain factors increase the risk of theft tomorrow night. For the opening, the owner insists on displaying the pieces on a central display with no glass between the exhibit attendees and the jewels. It is one of the draws of opening night. Attendees will be able to see the jewels unimpeded. It is a situation I fought, but the ability to draw a crowd and generate the all-important ‘buzz’ has trumped my arguments about security. As a fundraiser, one lucky winner will be allowed to wear the Flawless for half an hour.”

  Jack wiped his hand across his mouth. “So it will be out of the case and transferred from person to person?”

  “Out of a case, but not without security. We’ll have the usual uniformed and plain-clothed security, video surveillance, and a few other measures that I can’t discuss.”

  “Sounds as if you’ve got it covered as well as you can.”

  He looked doubtful. “Yes, well. Needs must and all that,” he said with a faint smile. Zoe studied his worried face and wondered how close he was to retirement. If he were paying them out of his own pocket—and he had to be since the job was off the books—he had to be worried about not only the thefts, but his own job.

  The bill arrived and both Harrington and Jack reached for their wallets. “No, this one is on me,” Harrington said. A folded piece of paper fell out of Harrington’s pocket as he removed his wallet. Zoe picked it up and saw the glossy brochure advertised various walking tours.

  “Thank you.” Harrington took the paper as he left a ten-euro note for their bill. He tapped the brochure. “Excellent tours. I highly recommend the Obelisks of Rome Night Walk. Takes you to all the best bits. Nice overview of the city. Would you like to keep it?”

  “Sure. I’m always up for a good night walk,” Zoe said, tucking the flyer into her messenger bag.

  “Now, tell me what you’ve seen,” Harrington said.

  Zoe described their sightseeing as Harrington nodded his approval. “Don’t forget to go to the Trevi. Horribly overrun with tourists, but what can you do? You have to throw a coin in,” he said, referring to the legend that if you threw a coin in the Trevi Fountain, you’d return to Rome.

  Zoe looked at Jack. “Well, we have to do that.”

  “I do it every time I’m here. Insurance,” Harrington said with a wink.

  “Makes sense,” Jack said. “You are an insurance man.”

  “I wish I could be here more. I find the Roman sun a nice antidote to the rain of London. That’s where I’m based, you see.”

  “Are you able to visit Rome often?” Zoe asked.

  “Not as often as I’d like. I hope to retire here. Well, not Rome itself. Too expensive, but a place along the coast would be nice.” He leaned forward as if he had something to confide, but then he seemed to think better of it and checked himself. Instead, he glanced at his watch. “Must get back. I am at the Hotel Santa Maria, but it would be better…”

  “I’ll only get in touch if it’s an emergency,” Jack said. “You go first, we’ll follow later.”

  “Want an espresso?” Jack asked after Harrington left.

  “In this heat? No way. I’ll take a Sprite or ginger ale, if we’re burning time.”

  Jack ordered their drinks. “So not quite the routine job. I should have realized something was up when he offered to pay for our travel to Europe. And he called me, never emailed. His calls always came in the evening, his time. He wasn’t calling from the office.”

  “So? He takes work home, like lots of other people. Nothing unusual there. Has it been long enough? I want to see the Piazza Navona on the way back to the hotel.”

  “Yeah, I think it’s fine.” They paid for their drinks and hit the cobblestone streets again. As they strolled down a quiet street away from the Pantheon, Zoe stopped abruptly.

  Jack looked up from the map. “What is it?”

  “I thought I saw Harrington, up there ahead of us, going into that building.” She nodded at a salmon building with brown shutters and green double doors. “But it couldn’t have been him. Those are apartments, not a hotel.”

  “Maybe he’s visiting a friend,” Jack said, but Zoe saw him take an extra-long look as they walked by.

  Chapter Three

  Gemma Neeley, of Scotland Yard’s Art Squad, did not look up from the catalogue of Dutch paintings when she sensed that someone had stopped in front of her desk.

  “I’m not going to the pub with you, Davy,” she said in her American accent. “I already told you that. Doesn’t matter what you call it, that’s not football.” Gemma had strong feelings about football, having spent her childhood after her parents’ divorce shuttling back and forth across the Atlantic between her English mum and her American dad, who was a staunch Green Bay Packers fan. She had other reasons she wasn’t going to the pub with Davy, but she kept those to herself. Better to let him think it was the football thing.

  “Davy giving you problems, Gemma?”

  She looked up and saw the office’s fluorescent lights shining on the dome of Nigel Edwards, her boss and the head of the Art Squad. He’d taken the razor to his patchy hair growth last year, declaring that he’d rather resign than resort to a comb-over at the ripe old age of thirty-four.

  “Nothing I can’t handle,” Gemma said. At six-foot-two with golden blond hair, blue eyes, and a curvy figure that couldn’t be disguised, even swathed in a trench coat against London’s fickle weather, Gemma stood out in the mostly masculine police world. She had plenty of experience deflecting and diffusing passes. She rolled her chair back a few inches. “What’s up?” As much as she liked her easy-going boss, she knew he hadn’t dropped by her desk to chat.

  “Got word that there’s an informant who says he has information on the country house robberies.”

  Gemma frowned at the art catalogue on her desk. She was working on a cold case, a painting that had been stolen ten years earlier during a break-in at a pitifully ill-secured regional museum. The painting was beautiful—an exquisitely detailed still life of a table, post meal. Messy and realistic, it showed a ruched tablecloth littered with breadcrumbs, til
ted glasses, and a half-peeled lemon, its rind curling over the edge of the table. The artist was Willem Claesz. Not exactly a household name. Not like Vermeer or Rembrandt.

  Nigel lifted his chin toward the catalogue. “Anything on the Claesz?”

  “No,” Gemma said, reluctantly. “Just going over everything, looking for something that was missed the first time.”

  Nigel nodded, his dark brown gaze on the catalogue, too. “If we get a break on the country house thefts, it would be good for the department. Higher ups are rumbling about cutting our budget.”

  “Again?”

  “Some idiot has floated the idea of closing the department altogether. That way, they could shift all our funding to terrorism.”

  “Well, can’t blame them. Lot easier to justify funds to prevent terrorists from killing citizens than to find a dusty old painting,” she said with a downward quirk of her lips. The budget battle was a constant threat. The Art Squad was the easiest thing to cut.

  Her boss waited a beat. “But jewels make headlines.”

  “Unlike poor Claesz.” If they recovered the Claesz, it might get a mention or two, buried at the bottom of the day’s news. If they found a stash of missing jewels, it would be headline news.

  Gemma slapped a sticky note on the corner of the page then closed the catalogue. She took the paper Nigel held out. “Well, let’s see if we can find something and get a nice splashy headline to keep the bean counters at bay.”

  ***

  “That’s not the way the zipper goes.” Zoe looked over her shoulder at Jack.

  “I thought you wanted my help with it.”

  “Zipping it up, not down.”

  He reversed course with the zipper. “Pity,” he said as he fastened the tiny hook at the top of the zipper, his breath fanning over her bare shoulders, making her shiver. “Don’t tempt me.” Zoe shot him a look as she crossed the room, her dress swishing around her, and stepped into her shoes, stilettos that she’d borrowed from her friend Helen’s well-stocked closet. “You look tempting in that tux, but you’re the one who promised Harrington we’d be there an hour early.”