Liar's Key (6 page)

“Nothing is ever simple and straightforward with you, Gordy,” she said, calmer now, her tone almost reflective. “It was stupid of me to call you. It was like lighting dry kindling. You were waiting for something to get you back in FBI mode. How long did it take you to book a flight to London?”

He grinned. “Two seconds.”

“See?
Stupid
of me to call. I tried to tell myself I was just an old friend from your FBI days, but I got you all fired up. You couldn't resist. You had to check to see if I was getting myself in trouble.”

Gordy stood over her. “Are you?”

“No.” Spots of bright color appeared high in her translucent cheeks. “I haven't had any trouble since you retired. That's cause and effect, don't you think?”

The sarcasm and heat were back, but Gordy didn't respond. He checked out three pottery bowls, each on its own shelf, as if they were too valuable, too precious, to brush against anything else. He was surprised by their reasonable price. They weren't much more expensive than what he'd pay for new ones at Pottery Barn or Crate & Barrel. He'd done well in art crimes in part because he could look at art and antiquities with a certain level of objectivity, without the subjective passions of a Claudia Deverell.

He leaned close to the handwritten description of one of the bowls but didn't read it. “Have you run into Scotland Yard, MI5, MI6 or any other real cloak-and-dagger types?”

He turned back to her in time to see her furrow her brow and cross her arms on her chest. She was studying him as if she just got it that he wasn't flailing—he wasn't here simply to harass her or rekindle their relationship. Finally she sighed, dropping her arms to her sides. “What on earth are you talking about, Gordy?” she asked. “What's going on?”

“Is this place bugged?”

“What?”
She seemed ready to bolt but got herself under control. “Don't tell me you've become paranoid. No, this place is not bugged. No, I haven't had anything to do with the FBI, the Sharpes or British law enforcement or intelligence agencies. I'm busy with my work, my family and my friends. Good friends,” she added pointedly, clearly excluding him.

“Who else did you talk to at the party on Sunday?”

“You mean after I ditched you? All sorts. Do you have anyone in particular in mind?”

Gordy decided not to mention Oliver York. “No one in particular.”

“You did ruin the party for me, if you must know, but I blame myself more than I do you.”

“I've never been good at small talk. I guess I got used to being the skunk at the picnic when I was an active agent.” He remembered touching the smooth skin of her cheek, her soft hair. Regrets, he thought. Oh, yes, he had them. “Everything's okay with you these days, Claudia? No problems, no enemies, no threats?”

“I learned the hard way always to be on the lookout for bastards and scoundrels. Even a perceived wrong move in my world and the FBI swoops in with threats to get you to do their bidding, and your life is never the same.” She held up a slender hand, the nails cut short and polished in a pale, neutral pink. “I don't want to dredge up the past. I've never done anything illegal and you know it.”

“I'm not here to dredge up the past, either.”

A touch of exasperation reached her eyes. “Then why are you here?”

Gordy could feel the cut behind his ear, the bruise above his hip. What did Claudia know about the attack and warning last night? But he stopped himself before he could go too far down the rabbit hole of speculation. He needed to be deliberate, contained. “I'm just killing time before I head to Maine.”

“Okay. I'll accept that. I was surprised when I received an invitation to the Sharpe open house. My father and brother were invited, too. I suspect it was Wendell's doing. He has a come-one-come-all mentality. Lucas must have wanted to kill him when he found out.”

“Will you attend?”

She shook her head. “I wouldn't put Lucas in that position. My father and brother will make an appearance, since there's no ill will there.”

“They're going to be in Heron's Cove, then?”

“They're arriving today. They might be there already.”

Gordy stepped back from her, overcome by a sudden attack of pure lust. So much for thinking he had things under control. One look from her, and he swore he'd carry her into the back room and make love to her on the spot. But it'd probably kill him, considering the rotten shape he was in, and it'd get him nowhere. And he had Joan, his life with her and the kids.

“Have you ever told anyone about us?” he asked, hearing how ragged he sounded.

Claudia scowled. “Give it up, Gordy. There was never an
us
. There was sex. But no, Special Agent Wheelock, I've never told anyone. I've been discreet for my sake but also for yours, and for the sake of your family. No one would believe you never told me any secrets about your work, but you didn't. I was the one who told you secrets.”

“Not any that I could use. If you're in over your head, tell me now, Claudia. I can help.”

“You've never helped me. You only used me. I lost Lucas because of you.”

“You lost Lucas because of your own actions. I didn't help.”

“I repeat, Gordy. I've done nothing illegal. I never have. I don't care if you believe me.”

“You've heard the term
blood antiquities
. That's when the money that allows an ancient artifact to go on display in an elite Boston gallery such as this one turns up in the hands of violent sons of bitches who will use it to plot attacks in airports and cafés, to buy weapons and pay bomb-makers and—”

“Stop, Gordy. Just stop. My family's collection is established. It has nothing to do with your so-called blood antiquities.”

“You're playing in a dangerous sandbox.” He heard the intensity in his voice. “Walk away. Let me help you.”

Claudia tossed her head back and gave him a condescending look. “I stay away from people who could hurt me—including you. I'm sorry I called you. I truly am.” She squared her shoulders, going patrician on him. “Is there anything else?”

Gordy glanced around the gallery. “I never got the fascination with owning antiquities. Take mosaics, for instance. They were some rich guy's floor.”

“Not always. You know that. And floor mosaics are often beautiful works of art depicting flora and fauna, mythological and allegorical tales, biblical stories—they provide fascinating insight into the lives of people from ancient Greece through the Middle Ages.”

“None of yours are missing?”

She looked genuinely confused. “My what—mosaics? What do you mean by missing?”

He shrugged. “Stolen.”

“Not that I'm aware of, no, but the collection is fairly scattered. Some pieces are on loan to various museums, others are in storage—there's a room full of uncataloged items at the house in Maine. I have to go through them.” She waved a hand, clearly exasperated. “Never mind. You look tired, Gordy. Jet lag can be a bitch. They say it's worse as you get older.”

“Thanks for that,” he said with a grin.

“We've never minced words with each other.” She smiled, relaxing visibly as she returned to her chair behind the desk. “I have a conference call in five minutes. I'm staying with the friends who own the gallery. Their apartment is a short walk from here. Why don't I meet you there in an hour? I'll give you the keys.”

“Your friends wouldn't mind?”

“They're out of town. You need a nap. They'd understand.” Claudia rummaged in her expensive tote bag on the desk and lifted out a set of keys. “I see you have your suitcase with you.”

“I checked out of my hotel. Haven't figured out what's next. Are you going to offer me a bed tonight?”

“It's a one-bedroom apartment.” She handed him the keys. “You can have the sofa for a nap and for tonight if you need a place to stay.”

“Not like the old days, huh, Claudia?”

She ignored him and jotted down the address on a notepad, tore off the sheet and handed it to him. “See you later.”

* * *

Gordy ate another handful of ibuprofen as he walked up Newbury Street, which was crowded with shoppers and diners on the beautiful May afternoon. He figured Claudia planned to blow him off but he needed a place to crash for a couple of hours. He was dead on his feet. He didn't have any water to go with the ibuprofen, but he didn't mind. He'd practically drowned himself sucking down two bottles of water after he'd gone back to his hotel to collect his suitcase. He was well hydrated. He had no interest in shopping and he was still full from lunch, which had been a bad idea, anyway, given his physical state. Hip or not, his burger had turned his stomach on top of the Kit Kat, coffee, water and being back in an FBI office. Matt Yankowski had his own little kingdom on the Boston waterfront. He needed to catch some serious bad guys or the new director would shut him down in a heartbeat.

But Gordy wasn't a part of all that any longer.

He turned down a side street, his stomach lurching, his head throbbing. He needed to give the ibuprofen a minute to start working. He wanted a cigarette. He'd quit smoking at forty and hadn't looked back, but he'd been tempted a couple of times since retiring. First time had been after his mother-in-law's funeral last summer. His wife had cried her heart out, and his brother-in-law had been a horse's ass, picking fights with everyone. Gordy had gone out for a pack of cigarettes. Emotions. He'd never been good at them. At least he wanted a cigarette now because he'd had his ass kicked.

He should be skipping the Sharpe open house and leaving Claudia to her own devices. At most, he could have shared his concerns with Emma over the phone. Claudia obviously had been taken aback when he'd turned up in London. She'd all but shut her door in his face. He'd checked into a hotel. He should have forgotten her and invited Joan to join him for a few days instead. They could have toured palaces and gardens, shopped at Harrods and dined at interesting restaurants. Been a normal couple in early retirement.

He walked down a residential stretch of Beacon Street, parallel to the Charles River. It was mostly apartments and condos but with a sprinkling of single-family mansions. He hadn't spent much time in Boston. It was an attractive city, good for walking and packed with history.

The friends' apartment was only another half a block. Thankfully. He needed to take a leak, puke and regroup, preferably in that order—although he hoped to skip puking.

The walk to the apartment didn't kill him, but he figured the hike up the two flights of stairs with his suitcase would. Only when he reached the landing, huffing and puffing, and got the key in the door did he notice the elevator tucked in the far corner of the hall.

He was rusty. No question.

By Boston standards, the apartment was a palace, located on the top floor of a former single-family mansion. The front windows were bowed, looking out on a shade tree with spring leaves fluttering in the sunlight. For what Claudia's friends likely paid, Gordy figured he could have a second home at the beach. Maybe two second homes plus tuition for the grandkids. He couldn't imagine how anyone could afford a condo much less a home in posh Back Bay.

The living room had high ceilings, original dark woodwork, a formal brick fireplace and traditional furnishings, including a bust of some Greek god that he assumed was a copy. He left his suitcase by the coffee table and located a half bath down the hall and made urgent use of the facilities. He checked his reflection as he washed his hands. Not great but not awful.

The urge to puke passed.

When he returned to the living room, he noticed shelves crammed with books and framed photographs of ancient sites and yellowed maps of long-gone empires. Gordy doubted Claudia's friends had a clue she had been a reluctant informant for the FBI.

For
him
.

He sank onto the leather sofa in the living room and took a few minutes to indulge his pain, self-disgust and self-hate. Then he sat up, leaned forward and dug out the envelope from the front pocket of his suitcase. He still didn't want to open it, but he knew he couldn't let fear and denial get the better of him. He'd already held back too much with Emma Sharpe.

With a heavy, resigned sigh, he ripped the top off the envelope and dumped the contents onto the coffee table.

Three four-by-six photographs landed faceup.

No note, no phone number to call, no commentary of any kind, but he wasn't surprised. Words weren't necessary. He got the message.
Back off or these go public.

Same message as from his attacker last night, except this time the threat wasn't limited to him.

Gordy blinked, his eyelids heavy with fatigue and pain. His head ached as he stared at the photographs. One mistake in his career—one mistake in his marriage—and someone had proof of his screwup and was using it as leverage. Had his visit to London and Claudia prompted the threats? Running into the MI5 agent and this Oliver York character? His call to Emma?

Questions were easy. Answers, not so much.

The woman's features weren't clear, but she was unquestionably not his wife. The long legs, the shape of her hips, the glimpse of her breast...

No, not middle-aged Joan Wheelock.

Pain shot through Gordy's eyes. He half hoped it was the start of a stroke, but if he died, there'd be a death investigation. The Boston police would find the photos. They'd call the FBI. Emma Sharpe would find out. Yank, that sanctimonious bastard.

“Save the stroke for after you figure out this mess,” Gordy muttered.

One memorable, mind-blowing, short-lived affair, never to be repeated—except in his mind. He loved his wife, but not a week had gone by since he'd ended things and retired that he didn't remember the long, insane, perfect nights he'd had sex with beautiful, brilliant, slightly shady Claudia Deverell, breaking every personal and professional rule that had guided his life for decades.