Cleopatra's Necklace (Devlin Security Force Book 3) (6 page)

Thomas forced calm into his voice. “Right. Once I’ve arranged for her safety, I’ll make her available for questioning.”

“But you will not tell me her location.”

Thomas kept his expression neutral while he waited out the detective.

After a moment, Castelli spoke. “On her Facebook page, we found posts between her and Mimi Ingram, and her mobile showed recent calls to her. But whenever I ring the number, it is out of service.” He raised an eyebrow.

Not unlike Thomas’s attempts to reach his sister. But he was no longer worried. Much. Dr. Olsen had said she was working her regular shift, so she was just ignoring him. Sometimes space was good, the doc had suggested. Maybe.

He waited to respond to Castelli until they’d passed two men chatting at a gas station. Fumes feathered the salt air as a man filled the tank in his water taxi. Castelli had seen the necklace on the Facebook page. Every police officer in Europe knew about the theft.

Before Thomas could speak, the detective stepped in. “The necklace. Is it the one stolen in July, the ancient piece unearthed in Cleopatra’s tomb?”

“Or a copy made by René Moreau aka Farris Pandareos.” He doubted Cleo had any idea she might’ve worn the real deal. She might be a little wild but never dishonest. Always open. Sometimes too open. If she was still the Cleo he used to know.

“Your security company was in charge of the transfer from the U.S. to the museum in Paris,” Castelli said, sympathy, not accusation in his voice.

“To my great embarrassment. And the reason my company is cooperating with the Centaur Task Force. We believe Centaur is involved. You can understand the other reason I want this resolved.” He didn’t need to explain. Several thefts in Venice in the past few years had alerted Castelli’s office to Centaur’s dealings.

They reached the end of the
fondamenta
at a wide opening between the banks.

“This is
la Sacca della Misericordia
,” Castelli said, gesturing toward a line of moored boats. “It translates as ‘Bag of Mercy.’ Not a descriptive or elegant name, merely a small basin separating islands and used for major transportation and a marina.”

Dusk was falling in royal shades of purple and gold. The water flowed out toward Murano. In the distance along that cluster of isles housing Venice’s glass factories, lights blinked on and details blurred to silhouettes.

After a moment enjoying the view, the two men turned and retraced their steps.

“And Mimi Ingram?” the detective asked.

Castelli would learn the truth as soon as Mimi’s mother arrived for now Thomas intended to withhold a key fact. “Mimi Ingram is Cleo Chandler’s cousin. I learned from Cleo’s father that he has a brother he hasn’t seen for fifty years.”

“A very long time. A family argument?”

Thomas nodded, pondering the history of that turbulent time. “Over the war in Viet Nam. Cleo’s father Horace joined the navy. His brother Milton was a conscientious objector who left the U.S. for Canada. They haven’t spoken since, and Horace didn’t know where Milton lived.”

“But you do?”

“My personnel are top notch,
Commissario
. My researcher discovered him, now Milton Ingram, in Toronto. He was an attorney with Amnesty International.”

“Was?”

“Unfortunately he died a year ago in a helicopter crash. His wife and teenage sons still live in the family home.” As Thomas remembered telling the wife about Mimi being shot, his throat tightened. “This afternoon I spoke to his widow.”

“I don’t envy you that conversation. I dislike delivering bad news.”

“She’ll arrive here in a couple days. She needs time to make arrangements for the boys.”

“And did she know how Mimi Ingram came to be in Venice?”

“When her father died, Mimi found information about the Chandlers in her father’s papers. He’d kept track of them, although his brother didn’t. When she saw she had a cousin nearly the same age, she did her own search, found Cleo on Facebook. Mimi traveled to Venice so the cousins could meet. I have no idea how the shooting happened but I believe she was mistaken for Cleo.”

“Because the man or men who shot Moreau think
Signorina
Chandler knows where the necklace is. She may or may not know, but she left behind her purse and she may have taken her cousin’s, along with her identity.”

“I don’t want to endanger Mimi Ingram. Lucas Del Rio will remain here to guard her.” Thomas had a feeling the only way to remove Lucas from her side was to blast him loose with an RPG. “But I need a day, two at the most, to secure Cleo.”

Castelli’s gaze dropped to the paving stones. He ran a thumbnail across his teeth. “I can give you a day or until
Signora
Ingram arrives, whichever is sooner. That is all.”

Thomas could breathe again. “Thank you,
Commissario
. It should be enough time. After that it won’t matter whether Centaur knows where Cleo was hiding.”

“They may already know, my friend.”

The warning had his brows crunching. “What do you mean?”

“My crime scene people confiscated a laptop computer from the flat she and Moreau shared. The hard drive was missing.”

Shipboard

“THIS ROOM SAFE
totally baffled me.” Cleo batted her eyelashes, channeling the ditzy babe her dad thought she was. “Thank you so much, Erik.”

His cheeks flushed. He looked tough and his bulk filled the doorway but, jeez, he had to be barely out of his teens. And naïve, thank you very much.

“Anytime,
madame
. Just call the security office and I’ll be here.” His color went from pink to crimson and he actually winked.

Great, she’d accomplished too much. He was hitting on her. From now on she’d have to avoid the guy.

In a move she suspected was an attempt at swagger, he nearly dropped the digital gizmo that had opened her safe.
Mimi’s safe.

Twin waves of grief and guilt rolled through her, wobbling her pulse and her smile. “Sure. Cool.” For support, she yanked open the door, held onto the handle. “I think I have the hang of the thing now.”

Grinning, he backed into the corridor.

She managed a smile as she pushed the door shut. She slipped Mimi’s plastic ID from her pocket. Like the Canadian passport, the all-purpose shipboard card read Marie Ingram, not the nickname Mimi.

Marie.
Their mutual grandmother, a wispy but steadfast woman with a pouf of reddish-gray hair. Her hand clutched Grandma Marie’s locket before she realized it. She had died when Cleo was twelve, leaving her the locket, but Mimi had never met her or known she had a grandmother with the same name. Or maybe she had known.

She was Cleopatra Marie Chandler, and Mimi was Marie—What? The driver’s license in Mimi’s backpack listed her as
Marie L. Ingram
. Louise? Linda? Lydia? Tears burned Cleo’s eyes. She swallowed and leaned her forehead against the cool metal door and forced down the emotion.

She had to
be
Mimi, behave like Mimi—capable and organized, like Cleo should be. The dummy act had served its purpose with Security Eric, but she didn’t like how natural the charade felt. Or was she just feeling sorry for herself?

A snippet of one conversation with her cousin came back to her.

“Can you believe it?” Mimi had said as they chatted. “We both carry sketchpads in our bags. How many other aspects of our lives are similar?”

“Similar, yes. But not the same,” Cleo said. “Your sketches reflect your work as an interior designer. They’re real. Mine are only reflections of dreams unfulfilled.”

“What are those dreams, Cleo?” Mimi asked.

“Making it as an artist, but sometimes I’m not sure.” But her cousin’s question had forced her to think. For three years she’d been running from the restrictions and directions her father imposed. But what was she running
toward
? She’d gotten some of her tempera scenes into a small gallery, only baby steps. Was her dream only a mirage?

Arriving shipboard yesterday, she’d played the airhead, claiming to have forgotten the location and number of her stateroom. Like just now, Security helped her, and she’d hunkered down and used room service for what meals she could choke down. Solitary confinement. The decor’s bright colors mocked her. The mini-suite boasted a sitting area with a sofa and a balcony from where she sketched the coastline.

She picked up Mimi’s sketch pad from the counter. Everything reminded her of what happened to René and Mimi. And fearing what could happen to
her
seemed such a cowardly betrayal. What had René done? Why did he have that necklace? It couldn’t be the real one from Cleopatra’s tomb. She shook that thought out of her head. But somehow he’d gotten mixed up with criminals, and it had gotten him killed.

And Mimi. But that death was on Cleo. She’d pressured and wheedled until Mimi caved and left the ship to visit her all the way across Italy. And because Cleo ran like a coward, waiting too long to call the police, the killers…

On a sob, she sank onto the floor and hugged her knees. She could do nothing for René and Mimi now. All she could do was hide on this ship while she figured things out.

Dwelling on it all hurt like a noose squeezing her throat. Unbearable. She so needed freedom, fun, forgetting—if only for a while. Working on a new project always spirited her away. But she’d lost her easel and paints, left in the flat with an unfinished watercolor. The sketchpad and a few pencils didn’t cut it. Getting off the ship for a shore excursion would have to substitute.

When she hadn’t found tickets for the shore excursions the ship’s TV channel touted, she called Security about opening the safe.

Now she collected everything from the safe and spread them out on the queen bed. Tickets for guided tours at all the ports, including today’s, for Naples. Just as well she missed that one and the city’s major garbage problem. But she found tickets for the next ports, including tomorrow’s Palermo tour. Also in the pile were printouts for Air France between Barcelona and Toronto. Canadian money.

After locking up everything but the excursion tickets, she showered and blow-dried her hair. In the closet, she selected mint-green linen capris and tunic that smelled of her cousin’s lilac fragrance. More chic and expensive than the entire wardrobe she’d abandoned. Her vision shimmered.

Dammit, now she felt like a thief. She
was
a thief.

Oh, Mimi, I’m sorry, but you would want me to be safe. Wouldn’t you, sweetie?

As she stood at the closed door, she summoned her grandmother’s courage. Grandma Marie had defied her Quaker parents and married a soldier, Cleo and Mimi’s grandfather. Not the same thing as pretending to be someone else but it was all she had.

Trying not to jump at every voice, every sound, she found her way to the elevators and down three levels, where savory aromas guided her to one of the main dining rooms. She would remain anonymous—yes, really—but at least she’d be among other people. Life.

“This way,
madame
,” The young Asian hostess led her down a curving staircase.

Cleo had the impression of glittering chandeliers in arched ceilings, potted palms dividing the cavernous space, and story-high posters of ocean liners from glamorous by-gone days. Families and couples laughed and chatted and clinked wine goblets. Waiters whisked by with loaded trays.

As she followed the hostess toward the back of the room, the two women at the table directly ahead looked up from their menus with smiles of recognition on their faces.

The tall, slim blonde in the hot-pink sequined tank top shot to her feet. “Mimi! Stacy and I were just talking about you.”

Just her luck. Of course Mimi would’ve made friends on board. She stretched her lips into a smile and spoke to the short brunette in conservative black. “All good, I hope, eh?”

The hostess halted and spun on her heels, expectancy on her face.

Stacy’s eyes widened in mild alarm. “Oh, totally. We were wondering about your side trip to Venice.”

The blonde bobbed her head in agreement. “You can tell us all about it if you join us for dinner.”

Cleo had no excuse now that she’d left her locked cell. Carrying off her impersonation had easy parts. Like the hair, the makeup, the clothes. But she could do little about other, more subtle differences.

Like her voice, huskier than Mimi’s. And the accent. Though she’d lost her South Carolina honey-chile, the only Canadian she could manage was an occasional “eh.” Mimi was friendly but more reserved than Cleo. People tended to see what they expected to see, hear what they expected to hear.

The two women gazed at her with welcome and, yes, curiosity.

Cleopatra Marie, you can do this.

Definitely. Probably. Maybe.

“Fabulous!” She winced inwardly at her un-Mimi-like effusive tone. “I’d love to.”

***

Munich

At the trill of his mobile phone, Marco Zervas stopped beside a concourse window on the way to his flight gate. Ricci. He barked a greeting and listened intently to the report.

Nedik and Hawkins waited nearby. The bodyguard shifted from foot to foot, watchful but nervous without a weapon under his shoulder. Hawkins clutched his laptop case and chewed his bottom lip.

“You
failed
? Chandler still lives?” Zervas spat into the mobile.

“Yes, and no,
signore
. It is a long story,” Ricci said.

Another long story. He summoned patience. Ricci had failed twice, no three times. The forger died without revealing the necklaces’ hiding place, and Ricci’s trigger-happy flunky had shot the girlfriend before she could be questioned. The idiot possessed the smoothness of day-old scotch. And no initiative. Finally, he’d needed detailed instructions before he could proceed to ensure she never woke up and spewed all she knew about the necklaces to the police.

Incredible. He’d failed at that simple task too?

“Be clear.” He lowered his voice. “You were to take care of this matter Friday night. It is now twenty hours later. Did the cops detain you? Is Chandler dead or not?”

He heard Ricci drag in a deep breath. “The
polizia
did not find me. Chandler lives. But I did not fail. The woman in the hospital is
not
Cleo Chandler.”

Announcements about flights drowned out Ricci’s next words. He cupped a hand over the mobile. “Details. Did you go to the hospital?”

“
Si
, I wore the white jacket and trousers of the staff. Nobody suspected. I went at the late shift change. A man was inside her room. He talked to her but she did not answer. Still unconscious, I think. I stood there too long and the man heard me. He opened the door and I ran. Some nurses chased me but I escaped.”

Zervas pressed two fingers to his forehead to ease the headache taking root there. “But you say the woman in the hospital isn’t Chandler. A police decoy then?”

“No, but I did not know the truth until later. I did not want to ring you until I had more information. This afternoon when things seemed safe, I returned to the
piazza
bar. Everyone was talking about the intruder. The man in the hospital room saw my face but he was not in the bar. He looked tough, ugly. Like a boxer.”

“An inside guard? Venice police?” He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“No uniform. The nurses said he’s an American. Private security.”

Zervas gripped the mobile tightly. One of Devlin’s Special Forces team now connected to DSF fit that description. But so did lots of security types. “Name?”

“No name but there is now a second man. Also American.”

“Description.”

Ricci paused, as if checking his notes. “I did not see him. This is from the nurses. They fanned themselves when they talked about him. Tall, handsome, in command. They thought he was the other man’s employer or a family member.”

Zervas’s skin prickled with suspicion. Thomas Devlin.

“What about the woman?”

“A nurse heard the second American say he knows Chandler and that woman is not her.” Ricci’s laugh was shaky, his voice choked with relief. “Do you see, Signore Z, I could have shot her and we would not have known it was the wrong woman?”

If the idiot wanted praise, he was shit out of luck. The news would have gotten out, but too late to do Zervas any good. The police, Interpol, and DSF would’ve been days ahead of him. “Then who is she? And where is Cleo Chandler?”

“I have discovered both.” Excitement pumped Ricci’s voice like an over-inflated tire about to blow. “On the hard drive from her computer.”

***

Shipboard

“Nothing. Shit.” Thomas had only one more try before the light went permanently red, locking him out. Cleo would return anytime now from her shore excursion.

He had made it onto the
Emerald
easily enough. Mara had arranged for another passenger to receive word of an emergency at home. And like magic, a suite opened up for him, the only person on the cruise waiting list who could actually board in Palermo. Mara’s miracle was like sausage; better not to know the ingredients. When this was over, he’d have to give her a raise or a promotion. And confirm reimbursement for the booted passenger.

He glanced up and down the stateroom passageway while he reset the electronic lock decoder. A housekeeping cart sat at the stern end, but he saw no white-coated steward. An elderly couple shouting at each other in German came toward him.

He slipped the decoder in his pocket, and turning away, faked a sneeze. For good measure, he blew his nose on a handkerchief as they passed him.

When the couple turned into the central section housing the elevators, he checked again. Still no sign of the steward. Only the cart. All clear. A silent whistle escaped him. Running DSF from his office had made him soft, slow, too jumpy. Cleo needed him sharper.

She was probably safe in the shore-excursion group. Home of the Mafia, Sicilian towns were safe. As long as Centaur didn’t hire some mobster to snatch her from her tour. His pulse thumped. Nah, no reason for concern. They couldn’t have had the time to organize such a grab, even if they traced her to the ship.