Lost Art Assignment (2 page)

In front of the model Cotton Club, J.J. Slash stood up, rubbing his jaw. Smiling, he surveyed his little Harlem. The curb side action had taken no more than eight seconds. In that time he beheaded three established criminal machines. He mentally totaled what it cost him. Twelve excellent lunches. A stage show. Two magazines of nine millimeter ammunition. A sore jaw. Cheap at twice the price.

“You okay, Ray?” Slash asked.

“Man, I could have took them all, J.J.,” Ray said, returning his Glock 17 automatics to their holsters. “Thought these guys'd be better.”

“Nobody's fast as you, Crazy Ray,” Slash said. “How about you, Ghost? Cool?”

“As Crazy Ray 9 said, I also could have handled them all alone. This was no challenge.”

“Right,” Slash said. “Go around back and get the four by four. Follow Daddy Boom as deep in the woods as he can go in the Rolls. Hide that car real good. Ray, get the other car and load these guys in it. When Ghost gets back, you'll head out the other way and hide it. And hurry it up. We got a great show at the Apollo tonight. We ought to celebrate, my brothers. We just made the big time.”

Morgan Stark looked up from sharpening his Randall Number 1 fighting knife when Felicity shoved the door open, or maybe a moment before. His brown fingers, long and quick, began wiping the oil away from its seven inches of razor sharp steel.

“You look happy. What's up?”

“At last, one of our trackers has run young Mister Cartellone to ground, he has,” Felicity said. “Under the circumstances, I think you and I ought to handle this personally.”

“If you say so, Red,” Morgan said. “I been sitting in this office too long. I'm ready for some trouble.” Morgan's blazer hung on the back of his chair, under his custom double shoulder holster. He shrugged into the holster rig now, heavily cabled forearms showing below the rolled up sleeves of his dress shirt. When he raised the knife by its micarta handle to slide it into its sheath under his right arm, Felicity said, “Wait. Can I see that?”

Puzzled, Morgan handed his knife to Felicity. Feeling a bit uneasy, he watched her examining it with uncharacteristic interest, turning it slowly in her pale hands. She'd seen this knife a hundred times before, but today it held her fascination.

“Tell you what, Red. I'll lock up if you'll drive.” Felicity nodded, and Morgan stepped down the short hall to Sandy Fox's desk. Fox had been their receptionist since they
established “Stark & O'Brien Security and Risk Management” as a legal partnership in this building on the edge of Los Angeles. Since promoted to “office manager”, her desk was vacant now, as was the rest of their suite of offices. The partners had stayed late, like good bosses, working on the part of the business he hated most, the paperwork. Some reports had to be updated by the person on scene. In many cases, it was one of them.

Now he picked up a pen, smoothed a finger and thumb along his almost pencil thin mustache, and jotted a note to Fox explaining where they were going and why, for billing purposes. She was meticulous in such matters, and had chastised him more than once for being more concerned with results than accounting. As he finished the note, Felicity came up behind him spinning her car keys on one finger.

“All set.” Morgan thought the long knife looked out of place in her hand. She looked quite businesslike otherwise, her tall form draped in a navy blue business suit complete with knee length skirt and heels. She handed over his blade, and as he slid it into its sheath she held out his blazer and said “You know, maybe if I'm going to stay in this business I ought to learn how to defend myself.”

“Maybe that's a good idea,” Morgan answered as they walked out their office door. “After training soldiers, bodyguards and our own security personnel, I guess I could show you anything you want to know.”

She was behind him as he locked the door and set their alarms. While he couldn't see her face, she said, “Actually, I was thinking it might be better if I learn from somebody else.” She said it so quietly that Morgan thought perhaps she was ashamed of the thought.

“Hey, I know a lot of dangerous people,” Morgan said,
forcing a smile into his voice. “I'll hook you up with somebody good.”

Morgan's mind wandered while they waited for the elevator. He knew Felicity better than anyone else on earth, and he knew something had happened on their last big case together. Something that changed her. She had been hesitant to share it with him, and that had damaged the vital closeness which made their partnership work. He had no trouble admitting the experience left him confused and worried. But he was also hurt, because she had not confided in him right away. Admitting that to himself was a good deal more difficult.

Even in the most luxurious hotels, room doors are usually plain and poorly secured. Morgan Stark considered this fact, leaning back against a wall beside just such a door in a corridor of The Beverly Wilshire Hotel. Inside was a man he and his employees had kept under surveillance for three weeks. Morgan wrapped a hand around the doorknob, turning it slowly. The door was locked, naturally, but in this case that was a minor detail.

His partner, Felicity O'Brien, held the plastic card pass key. She had acquired it in the simplest way just as she had done so many times in her previous life as a thief. She simply bumped into one of the maids in the hall, switching her card for a duplicate that was identical in every way except that it wouldn't open the hotel room doors. Brushing long red hair from her eyes with a thumb, she pushed the card into the lock, quickly withdrew it, and stood back out of the way.

Morgan flung the door open and stepped inside. He had mentally written a wish list of what would happen next. He would find his quarry locked in a passionate embrace with the girl, under the covers. They would react slowly, both startled and frightened.

He didn't get anything he wanted. Young Tommy sat on the sofa, fully dressed. The shapely blonde across the room was fishing cigarettes from her purse. They looked right at him. Panic flushed into the boy's face. Anger clouded the
girl's.

The man lunged at the newcomer in the doorway with all the power and speed he demonstrated last year as an all American halfback for Notre Dame. He was six foot two and two hundred forty pounds. Morgan's height, with an extra thirty pounds of muscle.

Morgan stepped forward, spun, and smoothly pulled his attacker into a hip throw. Tommy would have thumped the floor hard on his back, if that wall had not gotten in the way.

Tall and lithe, Felicity slid past Morgan at the door, zeroing in on the raven haired woman across the room.

“Halte, Nicole. Fermez votre valise,” Felicity said, but both women kept moving. Felicity hit the floor as Nicole, rather than closing her purse, pulled a small automatic pistol from it. She aimed at Morgan, who didn't react. Felicity rolled across the plush carpet, smacking into the other woman's shins. With a shriek, Nicole crashed onto the floor, face forward. When she looked up, Morgan's Browning Hi-power was pointed at her head. Behind him, Tommy lay face up, legs pointed up the wall toward the ceiling.

“It's over,” Morgan said quietly. “Don't be stupid.”

“O'Brien knows me,” Nicole said, rising. “I will not, as you say, be stupid.”

“Glad to hear it,” Felicity said, brushing herself off. She shook her head at the condition of her clothes, as if she wished she hadn't come to this job straight from her office.

“You are still the athlete, I see,” Nicole said, settling into an arm chair. “And your style has become more conservative since we met on the Continent, chère. Remember? You took the jewelry, I took the art. Are we in competition now?”

“Hardly,” Felicity replied. “Left that life, I did, although I still do the gymnastics to stay in shape. Instead of stealing, I run a security firm. This is me partner, Morgan Stark. Used to be a soldier for hire.”

Nicole appraised his dark rugged face, light brown eyes, and short, crinkly black hair.

“Exactly what I would always want at my side in case of trouble,” Nicole said. “A big, muscular black man no sane person would want to mess with.”

While she watched, Morgan turned and pulled Tommy to his feet with surprising ease.

“Aren't you ashamed of yourself, Tommy?” Morgan asked in a rough baritone. “Stealing from your daddy like that. After all he's given you.”

The younger man, all Izod and Lacoste, lurched to the sofa, holding the side of his head.

“Where is it, Nicole?” Felicity asked. Her emerald eyes locked onto Nicole's smile.

“What is the ‘it' in question, Felicity?” Nicole tugging at the hem of her too short leather skirt. Her smile didn't waver when Morgan walked over and took her wrist. He didn't twist or yank. He just squeezed. Nicole's brown eyes widened.

“Look it, lady,” Morgan began in a low voice, “I am not a patient man. We been following lover boy here for three weeks. I know he left his father's house with that Bechtle oil painting and I know he handed it over to you. Now we could tear the place up to find it, but that would seriously, seriously piss me off.”

“He can squeeze harder,” Felicity said. “Since when you collect the new realists, anyway? New buyer?”

“Oui,” Nicole said. “In the closet. Shopping bag. Please.” She stared up into Morgan's light brown eyes. He
eased the pressure a bit.

Felicity pulled a large shopping bag from the hall closet. A dozen rolled posters stood on edge in it, held closed with rubber bands. Smiling, Felicity ran a hand across each until she reached one that wasn't paper, but canvas. She pulled it out and unrolled it on a low table.

“Breathtaking,” Felicity said. It was a simple picture, a teenager leaning against a hot rod, but with astounding accuracy of detail. It was oil on canvas, but a casual viewer might mistake it for a photograph.

“Bechtle's work is beautiful, but like I said, it's not your usual market,” Felicity said, turning to Nicole. “No coincidence, we know, since you took two others earlier. Who's placing the orders?”

“How did you know?”

“Well, if you must know, we handle all of Mister Cartellone's security, his business and home,” Felicity answered. From the corner of her eye, she saw Tommy Cartellone reach quietly for a large, heavy ashtray. “During a conference recently, we were invited again to view his impressive collection of the new realists.” Tommy stepped behind Morgan, but Felicity gave no warning. “There probably aren't a dozen people outside of museums who'd have spotted the copies you replaced the real Bechtle work with. Too bad for you it was me.”

Morgan slipped his gun into its holster under his left arm, moved his shoulders as if stretching, and thrust a stamp kick out behind him. His heel sank into Tommy's solar plexus and the younger man crumpled to the floor. Felicity wasn't surprised. She knew Morgan received a danger warning almost mystically whenever something threatened him. Only one other person she knew of had such an instinct.

“You just shouldn't have been greedy,” Felicity continued, as if nothing had happened. “If you hadn't come for a third painting, we wouldn't have got you. But since I knew my intrusion alarms to be foolproof, it had to be someone inside. We put tails on all the suspects and little Tommy got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.”

Keeping her movements slow, Nicole retrieved her bag and pulled a cigarette from a flat silver case. “So what happens now? You're right, of course. I'm filling orders right now. Someone wants to fill holes in their collection, I guess. But I can't get the other two paintings back.”

“Well, we could just hand you over to the cops,” Morgan said, hauling Tommy back up onto the bed.

“What can I give you to avoid this unpleasant course of action?” Nicole asked. She lit her cigarette and crossed her legs loosely in Morgan's direction. “I am unwilling to go to prison for five percent of any painting's value.”

“Let's cut a deal,” Felicity said. “You give me your contact, your guess as to the buyer, and your word not to ever see Tommy again. We let you walk.”

Nicole smiled a sly, calculating smile. “I would not see that boor again in any case. I paid a high price in boredom for those paintings. My contact, I'm afraid I can't provide.”

“Can't, or won't?” Morgan asked.

“If you were a mercenary, Mister Stark, you know how it works,” Nicole said. “Contacts, cut-outs and couriers. I received telephone calls from a blocked number and those calls were pre-recorded to prevent conversation. I returned calls to a different number each time. Those calls were run through at least three switching stations, and they always went to voicemail. I submit merchandise to an overseas post box, but it never actually arrives there. My money is deposited in my Swiss account.”

“Very professional, very organized,” Felicity said. “Above all, it's got style. These people from the Continent?”

“Now you want my hunches. Are they worth the deal?”

Felicity glanced at Morgan. He returned a subtle nod. No one in the room really wanted Nicole in police custody. If the charming thief went to trial she would surely drag Tommy into court. Morgan and Felicity didn't want Tommy implicated because his father didn't want him charged. They would accept what they could get, but in any case, would let Nicole go.

“Give me what you've got,” Felicity said.

“Okay. I think they're American. From what they've asked for, their customers are, anyway. And the voice on the taped messages is not Californian. It is New York, I think, or in any case, East Coast American. And this. I think maybe he's black.”

“Not bad,” Felicity said. “Ever meet anybody in the group, face to face?”

“They're not that stupid.”

Felicity handed Nicole a sheet of hotel stationery. “Phone numbers and calling times. Then you leave for Europe within two hours. No contacts. Lay low for a month. And if you return to the States after that, check who's doing security on any target before you hit it. If it's us, move on.”