Love Unlocked (17 page)

Hudson stopped the car and killed the headlights. He popped the hood at Eve’s request and waited until she’d retrieved the painting from its secret location.

They were a mile from Kwan’s house and a few miles from their hotel. They’d driven around a little while, to make sure they weren’t being followed. Eve wouldn’t say what had made her so worried, even though they had come away from the scene of the crime without incident. As far as he was concerned, they’d won the battle.

She handed him the painting and then climbed back in the car. A flashlight beam cut across the canvas, illuminating its bold geometric lines and fierce colors. The picture was enclosed in a deceptively simple wooden frame. Hudson knew how much frames like that cost.

Eve handled the piece carefully, turning it over, using the flashlight to illuminate the edges of the canvas nestled next to the frame. She brought it close to her face, and then swore as vehemently as she could in a whisper.

“What’s wrong?” he finally asked.

She held up the back of the painting. “Smell that.”

He was confused, but he brought his nose close to the frame and took a deep sniff. Wood, and something else. Turpentine.

He said as much. “So what’s the big deal?”

“For one thing, the frame looks too new, and in everything I could find out about this painting, it was last reframed forty years ago. Second, that turpentine smell is all wrong. Why should a ninety-year-old painting smell of turpentine?”

“Maybe they were stored together and the painting picked up the fumes?”

“I’m afraid not. There are a few other little details, and I can’t be a hundred percent certain, but I think we stole a fake.”

“A fake? As in, not an original Mondrian?” He didn’t understand.

“Exactly. Not the original.”

“Why would a billionaire art collector donate a fake to his pet museum?”

“I don’t think he planned to donate a fake. I think he had a reproduction made, fairly recently, to serve as a double for the real painting.”

“Why would he do that?”

“It’s done often, to appease nervous insurance companies or to address security issues or concerns over the impact of hanging fragile pieces. Sometimes, they are used for special occasions; sometimes they’re what you see whenever you go to a world-class museum. You think you’re looking at the original.”

“No one can tell the difference?”

“Maybe one in ten thousand. What does it matter? No one is going to make a fuss if they think the Vermeer is a fake. It looks as good as the real thing. Some people say the Mona Lisa hanging in the Louvre is a reproduction and they have the real one safely under lock and key.”

He whistled. “So they had a reproduction made of this painting, in case someone decided to steal it?”

“That, and to make transporting the real one easier. Any number of reasons. That’s why there weren’t police crawling all over that mansion as soon as the painting was found missing. All they had lost was an excellent reproduction worth about twenty grand.”

“That’s how much a good reproduction sells for?”

“It depends on the painting, the skill level, the circumstances. On the open market, let’s say you wanted this painting for your living room. You could commission one for about that much.”

“Not a bad gig,” he mused.

“Of course, some paintings can take weeks or months to recreate, depending on the medium. This one was probably made in a week or so.”

He hadn’t been prepared for this turn of events. He supposed that was what she’d meant by unforeseen circumstances. “What does this mean?”

“It means we lost our leverage when dealing with Deacon. We didn’t steal the real Mondrian. He wants the real one.”

“Will he be able to tell that this isn’t it?”

Eve frowned. “I’m not sure. He talks a big game, but is he capable of in-depth authentication? If I could tell after a couple of minutes, then we have to assume that he will be able to, as well.”

“But he won’t necessarily know that there are two paintings, so it’s not like he’s going to be looking that hard.”

“It would be better if he had outside confirmation that we stole it. He’s probably monitoring the police bandwidth, but we can’t be sure what they’ve said on it.” She spent a minute thinking. “This is bad. With the painting in hand, we at least had a bargaining chip. Now he has no reason to keep John alive.”

“He still wants the Mondrian. You could get it for him.”

“There’s no time. Now that the fake’s been stolen, security on the real one will triple. We don’t even know where it is. It could be in a different city, a different state.” Eve tapped the screen of her cellphone. “We have ten hours to deliver the painting or come up with something else.”

“Something else?”

“Let me think,” she said.

They both fell silent. Hudson could hear little but the tick of the car’s engine behind their heads as it cooled off. A pair of headlights ahead of them cut through the blackness, and he moved quickly, catching Eve’s chin in his hand and her lips in an openmouthed kiss.

Though his eyes were closed, he could tell that the car had passed them. It hadn’t even slowed down, but he held the kiss. The tension from the evening and from not knowing exactly when he could be with Eve in all the ways he’d been fantasizing about had him craving the simple contact.

It felt so right to be with her, whatever they were doing, wherever they were. He’d come to expect Eve to introduce the unexpected into his life, and as much as he enjoyed the adrenaline of doing something crazy that he’d never done before, he loved knowing that she was with him while he was doing it. He loved knowing that she had his back and that she wanted to be with him. At least, he thought she did. She was a closed book sometimes, but he couldn’t misread the way she responded to his touch, his kiss, the way she looked at him like he was an éclair she looked forward to savoring.

This kiss, like all their kisses, ended too soon. Her body slackened under his hands. She must have been exhausted from the stress of the long day.

As they eased apart, he tried to lighten the mood. “I’ve always wanted to do that.”

“Do what?” she asked, her voice husky.

“Make out in a car to protect our cover.”

She let out a laugh. “We’re not on a stakeout or anything.”

“True. I guess I just can’t keep my hands off you, then.”

“Can’t you?”

“Not even a little bit,” he said, dead serious.

She smiled, then yawned.

“I either need sleep or an espresso,” she said. “I’m not sure which would help me better figure out this mess.”

“I think we could both use some sleep, and if that doesn’t work, there’s always caffeine.”

“I like the way you think,” she said. “Let me put this back.”

She hopped out of the car, and he popped the hood again.

As they drove off in the direction of their hotel, he spoke up. “You know, I’ve been thinking. We know the painting is a fake, but presumably Deacon doesn’t or he wouldn’t have sent you in there to steal it.”

“Right. He probably got some bad intelligence.”

“He needs the real painting to pay his debts or whatever.”

“John made it seem like if Deacon didn’t get the painting, he was as good as dead. Not that I know how he was going to get it out of the country. Maybe he already has a buyer in the States.”

“So we need to maintain the illusion that this is the real one until we have our hands on John.”

“Yes. If we have John, and Deacon thinks he has the real painting, then we should be okay. But only until he gets it authenticated or tries to sell it. Then he’s going to be back and after my head.”

“Not if the bad guys get to him first.”

“I don’t know if I can count on that happening.”

“Well, let’s deal with one problem at a time. First, we need to make him think we’ve got the real painting. So let’s leak the fact that the Mondrian has been stolen.”

“Leak?”

“You know, start a rumor. There are already rumors from the party ending strangely. We need to fan the fire.” His voice grew animated as he warmed up to his plan.

“I see...like, tip off a reporter or something.”

“Exactly. Or post something to some social media sites. If he’s watching TV or online at all, then he’ll see confirmation in the press.”

“If they interview someone from the museum and they deny it, we’re screwed.”

“It’s worth a shot.”

Eve nodded. “You’re right. It’s the best plan we have so far.”

“Let’s make some calls.”

Eve was running on three hours of sleep, two shots of espresso, and adrenaline. She’d ordered a full breakfast for the two of them, but most of the food on the room service cart sat cold and uneaten. She clicked off the mid-morning local news, which had run a two-minute story about the apparent theft of the Mondrian, though the police were staying close-lipped. The impression given by the perky redheaded reporter was that something had gone down during the swanky fundraiser at billionaire Jim Kwan’s Montecito mansion, but that fear of a scandal had everyone keeping mum. It would have to be enough to convince Deacon they’d stolen the real thing.

Eve prayed Deacon was keeping up with the day’s news, and that he was greedy enough to take the painting and run.

If he didn’t, her backup plan was the snub-nosed revolver she’d only ever shot at the firing range.

First, she had to persuade Hudson to stay behind while she made the trade.

She took a deep breath and called out, “Hudson, I’ve been thinking….”

“Wait, I can’t hear you,” he said, emerging from the bathroom with shaving cream on his face, wearing nothing but a thick white towel wrapped around his hips. He looked like sin incarnate and she momentarily lost her train of thought.

“Um, yeah, I’ve been thinking that it would be best if you stayed here while I go make the trade. I’ll call you the moment John and I are out of there and safe. I’ll go park the Lotus in a secure lot—I can pick it up later—and rent something roomier, then come pick you up and head up north.”

He stared at her. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said calmly. “I’m going with you.”

She kept her voice light. “I really think it would be better if I went alone.”

“There is no way in Hell I am going to let you meet that Eurotrash asshole by yourself.”

“Look, I appreciate all your help, but this is not your battle. The deal was you helped me get into the party. You did your part. I can’t ask you to stay involved.” She had trouble keeping her breathing even when she imagined Hudson being there if something terrible went down at the meet.

He apparently wasn’t buying her argument. “Tough luck, because I am involved. I’m going and that’s final.”

“I don’t want to have to watch out for my back and yours, too,” she said, biting the words out, hoping he’d understand what she really meant.

“You think I’m a liability?” He sounded incredulous. “After everything we’ve been through together, you don’t think I can handle myself?”

“Deacon could be armed, he could have backup, he could have laid a trap that we can’t even imagine.” Her voice was growing desperate.

“Those are all reasons why you need someone else with you. You need me with you.” He started to walk back into the bathroom as if the discussion was over.

“I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to you,” she cried out.

He turned to face her, the tautness gone from his face. He lifted the corner of his mouth in a gentle smile that made her heart ache.

“The feeling is mutual, sweetheart. Now, let me shave and we’ll go finish this.”

Eve nodded, unsmiling. She waited until she heard the water running, picked up her bag, and left the room, easing the door shut behind her.

***

Eve double-checked the address she’d programmed into her phone. She was at a lonely agricultural intersection outside the city. She appeared to be in the right place, but Deacon was running late. All she could see were orange trees, stretching out in uniform rows like glossy green soldiers lined up for inspection. She parked, cut the engine, and popped the hood. After drawing the painting from its hiding spot, she carefully propped it, wrapped in its protective fabric, against the bonnet of the car.

Her plan was simple. Give Deacon the painting, take John, get the hell out of there. If Deacon tried to back out or tried to eliminate the witnesses, she’d defend herself. At least, she told herself she would. If he bought it, and later found out the truth, she’d deal with that when the time came. Maybe she’d go underground. She could dye her hair. Move someplace warm and tropical. Lie on the beach.

The idea of going into hiding made her feel sick to her stomach. Leaving Hudson, never seeing him again, would be worse than whatever punishment Deacon would have in store for her.

A vehicle approached from the direction of the city, a large black SUV with tinted windows.
Typical
. She prayed John was safe inside.

The SUV parked with its nose against the grill of the Lotus, blocking her in, so she’d have to reverse before she’d be able to drive away. Deacon exited the vehicle from the passenger side, as the driver, a squat man wearing a black turtleneck even though it was another gorgeous June day, took up a menacing position on the other side of the car.

Deacon, in contrast, was dressed for a day at the beach. He wore a crisp pink polo shirt, designer white shorts that probably cost more than her espresso maker, and leather sandals. To top it all off, a pair of Ray Bans perched on his prominent nose.

“Evie, I knew I could count on you,” he said, in his lightly accented voice, sounding as if they were catching up at a garden party instead of transacting life or death business.

She shuddered at his use of John’s nickname for her.

“I have what you want,” she said.

“So I hear.” He smirked. “Your little exploit is all over the news. Quite a black eye for that prick Kwan.”

“You know him?” she asked, catching the note of derision in Deacon’s voice.

“We used to be in business together. He thinks I owe him a great deal of money. So I decided to steal his pet, so that I could get it back for him as a favor. When I return it to him, I’m sure he’ll consider the slate wiped clean.”