Hide & Find (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 3) (12 page)

“So you were a courier for Skip? That’s how you met him?” I asked.

“He kept the transactions very clean, cash only, but he couldn’t control who made the smaller drops which I sometimes picked up. From the mannerisms of those men, it was easy to tell they were handing me drug profits.” Chet shook his head. “Guns. Bravado. Dumb. They didn’t know I’d grown up seeing the same on the street corners in my neighborhood in Vientiane. They couldn’t intimidate me.”

So much for protecting my husband’s reputation in the eyes of my neighbors. I glanced at Gus, but he seemed completely absorbed in Chet’s tale. I plunged ahead. “Why were you working for Skip? You said you had a visa.”

“For an internship with an architect firm in Palo Alto. Very posh. A huge opportunity, an international exchange program through my university. But it paid very little. The stipend sounded like an outrageous amount of money until I tried to find a place to rent. I needed several roommates to make it work, but none were forthcoming. So I answered an ad for a second job. Moonlighting, I think they call it here?” Chet shrugged. “I was always working several jobs even when in school at home, to help support my family. No big deal.”

“Except for the nature of the work. Guaranteed to land you in jail and then get you deported if you were caught. A disappointment to your family.” I pressed on that monumental cultural trigger, and it hit home.

Chet’s narrow shoulders sagged. “It doesn’t matter now. My sister’s actions, her ignorance, her bull-headedness. Our reputation is already destroyed. She didn’t realize the consequences, of course, but still—” His eyes filled with tears. “We’re desperate to find her.”

“And Skip offered to help?”

Chet nodded eagerly. “He said he knew of these — these dealings. Knew who controlled the business. He didn’t know of Kamala specifically, but maybe he could find where she was, who might be holding her. He said he would try. She’s seventeen, but she’s the baby. My mother is sick with worry.”

“And the others?” I gestured toward the sleeping forms of his family members. They’d quickly slipped from active participation in our conversation to gently snoring. I hoped it was because they felt completely safe, although they must have been utterly exhausted and finally had full bellies.

“My uncle’s family. He also paid a broker to come here, an exorbitant fee for his whole family and the children of my auntie’s sister. They thought they would be able to work off their debt together — the old ones and young ones side by side — the way we all work at home. Instead, the bosses only deemed my uncle fit to work, and he has to pay off for everyone else by himself. They were not given a place to live as they were promised, and they don’t know where he is now, either. They were unable to warn us before my sister got it in her head to also run away and sign with a broker. When the San Francisco internship opportunity arrived, it was like a godsend. I am the family’s emissary. I must find them.”

I sucked in a staggering deep breath. The weight of Chet’s story — and his responsibility — it was almost more than I could fathom. He was so young, a college student — more like a child himself.

Gus was still a rapt observer, his hands braced on his knees, leaning slightly forward on the edge of the bed next to me. The warmth from his large body seemed to envelop me in a sort of surreal cocoon, but I shivered anyway. Time to switch the subject.

“Tell me about the paintings,” I said.

“Skip said he could use them as leverage. He knew the firm I was interning for had developed the plans for the construction of this boss’s houses. Even the brand new houses he bought had to be remodeled before he would sleep there, some kind of rich man’s neurosis. The architect firm — it is a good one, for the wealthy people, fancy, expensive, prestigious. They only want the best, and they pay for it.”

Chet tucked up his legs, sitting cross-legged on the bed across from us, unknowingly turning himself into an even smaller figure, like a turtle pulling into his shell. “I examined all the plans, found the one place a man like that would hide his most prized valuables — in a vacation home in Tahoe. A small room with extra thick walls, extra wiring for sensors and electronic locks, a vault. Which happened to be positioned very near the kitchen.”

My breath caught in my throat, and I coughed. Gus whacked my back.

This crime boss’s house sounded a lot like mine with a beefed-up strong room located next to the most heavily-trafficked section of the residence. Who would have thought? I motioned for Chet to continue.

“Skip knew about a party to be held at the house, a skiing vacation the man was organizing for his friends, so he made some calls, found out the catering company this man had hired for the banquet dinner. I took a job as a waiter.”

Now I was leaning forward right alongside Gus. Chet’s narrative was heading into action flick territory. I knew he’d been successful because I’d seen the paintings myself.

“You just walked in?” I squeaked.

Chet shrugged. “I am small, dark, and I was wearing a black jacket. What’s to notice? He didn’t know me, and I suspect the only time he saw people like me was when we were serving at his parties. Nothing unusual.”

“But the vault,” Gus found his tongue. “It was open?”

A smile crept over Chet’s face. “Men like this, they must show off, brag to their friends. The weekend was unfruitful because the weather was too warm for good skiing, so he had to find other ways to exhibit. We were cleaning up after the meal, and three men came through the kitchen, with cigar smoke and loud voices. They went straight through, and I crept after them with a load of dirty tablecloths in my arms. They were in the vault only a few minutes — not to appreciate, just to boast. I caught the door before it closed and blocked the motion sensor with the tablecloths. Just a few more minutes to pull the paintings out of the frames and roll them into the cloths. The security was not good, or not hooked up yet, no triggers on the individual paintings. They went to the laundry.” He straightened with a satisfied nod. “But so did I.”

Chet said all this with such nonchalance, it took me a moment to realize I had forgotten to breathe. I wondered if he had any idea of the value of the four paintings he’d stolen.

Gus whistled softly.

“When was this?” I asked.

“The last Saturday in November. Just after your Thanksgiving holiday.”

And just days before my wedding. “The paintings are very dirty,” I said.

Chet winced. “It’s not easy. To carry such things carefully when—”

“It’s okay,” I rushed to interrupt him. “I’m not blaming you. I’m just surprised.”

“He’s not the type of man to care for them. They were also dirty from before,” Chet asserted. “When I saw the food box — the kind of person who would bundle our food like that and not throw it away — I hoped it was you, and that you had also found the paintings. I put them in the safest place I could think of.”

“That wasn’t your original plan, was it?” I asked.

“Skip said there should be a cooling off period.” A short vertical wrinkle appeared between Chet’s brows, marring his otherwise smooth face. “But then I didn’t hear from him in the specified time. I tried calling his office a few times, but I couldn’t leave messages. Nothing. The backup plan was to come here. But with my family, the children, it took longer than allotted. I didn’t know if you would still be here.” Then his face creased into a wide, bright-toothed grin, all worries gone. “But you are. Mission accomplished.”

I swallowed. It was my mission now. I’d just as soon toss it back. “This boss man — what’s his name?” I thought I knew, but I wanted the sickening confirmation.

“Viktor Lutsenko.”

Numero Dos. And I knew from Skip’s recording that he was into far more than the international trade in drugs and people.

CHAPTER 13

I suspected Skip’s plans had been bigger than rescuing one impetuous Laotian girl and her uncle, but I didn’t have the heart to dampen Chet’s enthusiasm and visible relief that I was now on the job.

Me.

Yeah.

You can’t to go school for this kind of stuff, can’t earn a certificate in the approved method for bringing down a crime syndicate. Skip’s entire — and now disrupted — plot seemed ambitiously and terrifyingly harebrained to me, a ginormous risk.

Gus and I left Chet to get some much-needed rest, and we slowly climbed the stairs up to the kitchen.

“Punkin,” Gus said, his words as measured as his footsteps, “I’m not going to ask questions. Although my brain is burning up with them. I know how to keep my mouth shut. But I want you to know that I’m here for you, if you ever need help or need to talk or run ideas by somebody or cry. Okay?”

I’d been too stunned by Chet’s tale to even think about crying until Gus mentioned it. I sniffed and reached back to place a hand on his chest. “Thank you.” My tears were threatening to spill over, so I turned and finished chugging up the stairs.

As we were bundling into our coats, Gus patted a pocket and frowned. “Forgot this earlier. A package arrived for you at general delivery.” He handed me a small, padded envelope.

I tucked the discreetly marked, mail order purchase into my tote bag. Now, more than ever, those little gadgets were going to come in handy.

I drove Gus out to the gate where his Harley was parked in the small indentation in the shrubbery that signaled our turnout. Lentil’s headlights swept over the damage Clarice had accomplished with her Subaru — snapped branches and flattened underbrush. I chuckled under my breath at the consternation she’d undoubtedly caused in Violet’s carefully controlled realm.

Snafus. Clarice and I were learning to master the fine art of snafu escalation. If for no other reason than self-preservation. Run around like a chicken with its head cut off, and you just might confuse the enemy for a few more precious minutes.

As if he could read my thoughts, Gus rumbled a deep chuckle too. “Clarice is a mighty fine, peppy lady. I’ve known that tow truck driver since he was in diapers, works at his daddy’s gas station in Woodland. He couldn’t skedaddle out of my shop fast enough once he’d unloaded both her and the station wagon.” Gus smoothed the prickly hair around his mouth as though he was trying to wipe off the smile underneath. “My offer stands for her too.”

“You’re a lifeline,” I murmured.

He patted my hand and pushed open the door, letting a whoosh of frozen fog droplets into the cab. “That’s what neighbors are for, punkin.” Then he was gone, sidling his bulk around the gate. The roar of his big bike firing up broke my reverie, and I backed over the jarring potholes until it was safe to turn around.

Once parked in my designated, and now lonely, spot outside the mansion, I fished through my tote for my assortment of phones. I’d forgotten to flip on the outside light over the kitchen door, but I identified each phone by touch and lined them up on the seat beside me. The message icon flashed on three of them. It’d been a busy day.

“Darling, everything’s fine here,” Loretta’s girlish voice claimed. I snorted softy and bit back a smile. I didn’t know how she managed living with a testy, cancer-ridden old attorney, but I wasn’t going to complain.

“I’ve been thinking,” she continued, “about what you said. About Skip and what’s going on in his mind and why he was in San Antonio. As his mother, with what little insight that might include, there is one thing I know for sure. He’s coming for you. That’s why he’s traveling north. You’re the one stable thing in his life, and he’s homing in on you. I know it.”

But Loretta didn’t know about the Polaroid taken in that town with the watermelon water tower. I’d have to look at a map to see if it was true north of San Antonio. But, according to Matt, she was right about Skip’s being on the move. Maybe, like me, he was scrambling, creating chaos as a survival tactic.

If, in his scramblings, he was trying to join up with me — well, I’d appreciate some answers. In person, where I could pin him down, sit on him if necessary, until he satisfied my curiosity. Yeah, that’d be good. And then I could strangle him. Or turn him over to Matt. Then cry my heart out on Gus’s shoulder.

I fumbled with the next phone, stabbing the buttons with frigid fingers. There hadn’t been time on the drive to the gate and back for Lentil’s rusty heater to fulfill its purpose.

This message had been recorded near noon. Arleta’s rich, balmy voice filled the speaker. She’s my favorite nurse in the Alzheimer’s unit at my dad’s care facility.

“Nora, I’ve tried to reach your mother, but her assistant said she’s on a Far East adventure cruise this month. We’ve received a few phone calls for your dad in the past week or so, from male callers who won’t identify themselves. This morning we turned away a man who was asking after your dad because he wasn’t on the list of approved visitors. He also refused to give his name, and he basically threatened the receptionist — Cindy, I think you know her? Scared her so bad I had to talk hard and fast to keep her from quitting.”

A spike of panicked fear shot through my chest. My dad. Utterly defenseless now that his mind was jumbled to the point of complete unreliability. He was locked inside the concrete bunker of a health care institution, but that didn’t give me any comfort. It’d be like shooting fish in a barrel for Skip’s unsavory cronies.

I jerked back to the mellow voice still talking in my ear. “I know your dad was a businessman, a labor union leader here in the Bay Area for years. Could it have something to do with that? Clearly, these people don’t realize the advanced stage of your dad’s disease.” Arleta paused, and I heard chimes over the intercom system in the background — the lunch bell reminder for people who had trouble putting their clothes on in the proper sequence let alone attending regularly scheduled mealtimes. “I’m worried. I’ll try calling you again tomorrow,” Arleta finished.

I’d known about my mother’s cruise, of course. I hadn’t really kept track of the dates since it wasn’t a perk I’d be enjoying. I guess I hadn’t thought she’d actually go, considering the upheaval in my own life. It appeared that maternal urges did not negate long-anticipated vacations. By all rights, I should have been in the first weeks of homemaking in my new marriage, and the last thing I would have wanted around was a nosy mother.

Which left absolutely no one in San Francisco to protect my dad. My mother was qualified. She’s not someone anyone would want to tangle with. She’d disable an adversary with commentary before he could get within arm’s reach for a physical confrontation. But she was out of the picture.

I hit the speed-dial button for Matt’s number. My words came out tight and raspy. “My phone — the one you have tapped. Listen to the message left at noon. I want agents swarming all over the Century Hills Memory Care campus within the hour.”

I tried to swallow, but my tongue was too thick. “If that’s a problem, then take all the agents currently in May County and stick them in that nursing home. I want FBI to outnumber old people ten to one.” I was way past the point of keeping my demands polite. “We both know my dad had ties to small-time mobsters in his longshore union organizing days. Sounds like someone’s called in a favor to put pressure on him. But they don’t know that he doesn’t know. He really doesn’t. Whatever he might have known, it’s gone now.” I gulped and tried to bring my voice back down from the screech it had ascended to. “He doesn’t even recognize me most of the time. I introduced Skip to him a few times, but he never could remember his name. Don’t let them touch him. Please.”

I rested my forehead against the steering wheel. How far away was I? Six hundred — seven hundred miles? I’d have to rely on Matt. I knew the FBI could react quickly if they wanted to. If they thought the threat was valid. Although my dad was in no condition to be valuable to them. He’d never be able to take the witness stand in a trial, not anymore.

Goodwill. I hadn’t done much to cultivate that with my FBI handlers in the past several weeks. Too late now.

So I did the only thing I could — checked the other message.

“Nora. New phone. You’ve got the number now. Listen, I’ve been thinking about that contact list you lifted from Lee Gomes. Can’t stop thinking about it, actually.” Josh Freeney’s tone was strict, matter-of-fact. “And then your message earlier today about the audio recording from Skip. I have a few hypotheses. None of them are terrific. Call me.”

Josh switched out his phones more often than I did. As a former FBI agent, he’d know just what their tracking capabilities were. I should probably take the hint.

I slouched on Lentil’s saggy bench seat and pressed my forearm tight against my stomach while punching his new callback number with my other hand. My body felt murky and sluggish, as though I was submerged in a swamp, and Josh’s message was a tiny oxygen bubble floating by. Flail too much and my only hope would burst.

Josh answered on the second ring. “Doing okay?”

“No. You?”

He sighed heavily. “Me neither.”

“I have even more tantalizing information now,” I replied. “You wouldn’t believe who’s in my basement and what he brought along with him.” I filled Josh in on the details — what I knew of them, at least.

At my mention of Viktor Lutsenko, Josh let out what sounded like a low growl. “Damn,” he muttered. “Your Numero Dos. I’m not surprised. But that’s bad news, Nora. You wanna talk about evil — it’s personified in Viktor Lutsenko.”

“I sure know how to pick ‘em,” I said. “What about the paintings?”

“You’ve seen them? In person?” Rapid clacketing sounded in the background as though Josh’s fingers were flying over a keyboard.

“Yep. They’re in my tenuous possession.”

More clacketing, pauses, clicks. “They’re here. On the Art Loss Register. My membership is still active — looks like I found something the agency forgot to shut down when they fired me.” A couple more bumps and a shuffle, then Josh was back on the line. “Two separate museum heists. One in 2008 in Paris with presumed insider connections — a security guard called in sick and disappeared afterward. The other in 2012 in Stockholm, probably committed by a Corsican gang which seems to be developing a specialty in this type of thing. Interpol would love to get their hands on those guys. So you either have the originals or decent forgeries or some combination thereof.” He blew out a big breath. “I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“What do you mean?” I blurted, then flinched as I thought I saw movement in the side mirror. I tilted forward and peered into the reflected darkness. The last thing I needed right now was Violet or one of her team lurking about, eavesdropping on my conversation about stolen, priceless paintings.

“It’s rare,” Josh said, “but law enforcement regularly speculates about it — the idea of commissioned art thefts. Where a wealthy criminal will offer a contract for the successful acquisition of specific works of art, a sort of custom-curated collection he can never show to anyone who has a functioning conscience. For bragging rights among his peers, if nothing else.”

I sucked air in between my teeth. Exactly what Chet had said. Lutsenko hadn’t appreciated the paintings for their artistic expression but for the prestige their ownership conveyed. So he could show off.

“It’s not unusual for these top bosses to have weird collections,” Josh continued. “Things or events or experiences that only a great deal of money and power can obtain. It’s a way of establishing their position in the pecking order, to throw their weight around. And the collections are never subtle — the more exotic or obscure the better. A sick sort of conspicuous consumption in their social circles. Lutsenko certainly has the ego and wealth to do this. He’ll be in a volcanic rage that someone had the balls to steal his stolen paintings.”

“Chet said that Skip thought he might be able to use the paintings as leverage,” I said.

“Makes sense.”

“Or a trade,” I murmured.

“For what? You could probably name your price, if you lived through the exchange,” Josh noted helpfully.

“A missing Laotian girl and her uncle,” I whispered.

“Damn,” Josh muttered.

We sat in silence, listening to each other breathe on opposite ends of the line. It was a weighty idea. Paralyzingly terrifying, actually.

I’d steamed up the windows. The fog outside was roiling around in pale, bulbous shapes. Or maybe that was — I swiped condensation off the glass with my sleeve and scowled again into the darkness — nothing. I was becoming paranoid. With good reason.

I returned to slumping against the seat and closed my eyes, but I waited for Josh to speak. I wanted his professional opinion.

“I’m in,” he finally said.

I bolted upright and clung to the steering wheel. “In what?”

“This. Whatever it is. For old times’ sake with Skip. And because it’s big. And stupid. And if we can pull it off without getting killed, then maybe I can get my job back.”