Marked Masters (28 page)

"More bodies?"

His face was grim as we walked to the door.
"No, just the one. Most of the others hold artwork. Ready for
shipping. Multiple copies of the same works. And that crate over
there"—he pointed—"guns. I don't know if they are for sale or for
security, but we can't waste time looking through the rest right
now. What I've seen is enough to keep me awake all night."

I turned off the lights, and he followed me
as we walked down the stairs to the third floor. "I'm not sure I
understand. A body and guns? What's going on?"

"Probably someone who crossed whomever is in
charge. Nico's right. This is big. Really big. C'mon, let's get
busy."

It became clear the second floor served as a
studio. Different rooms became galleries for different mediums, and
the entire space was wired with full-spectrum lights. Canvases of
all sizes and shapes, wood, clay, metal pieces and all the tools
associated with such things. Even jewelry and unfinished silver and
goldsmith work littered the various rooms. All in differing stages
of development. Several top-floor rooms contained labs where it
looked and smelled like chemical processes were taking place.
Varnishing? Aging? Murdering? Creating mediums to mimic old
art?

"But why do all of this in a historic
palazzo in the middle of the most historically artistic place on
the planet?" he asked. "Counterfeiting great works in the very
heart of the city defined by the Renaissance? Who would do
that?"

"Someone with the bravado to pull it off.
The ego to enjoy the juxtaposition," I responded, feeling the anger
boil up inside me. "Someone who wants to flaunt his thievery right
under the noses of the people committed to the celebration of true
art and beauty."

"The irony, of course, would give his ego a
boost every time he walked through the door," Jack said in
agreement. "Another reason this is probably tied to the marked
counterfeit masterpieces we've uncovered."

"But who? Moran? Or Tony B?"

"Tony B doesn't have the financial
wherewithal for an operation of this scope," Jack said, authority
in his voice. He shook his head. "Though he'd like people to
believe otherwise. The man could be a general contractor–type for
an organization, but as the leader…no. However, I can see him
ordering the death of someone and stupidly think he could hide it
in a crate on a roof filled with similar crates filled with more
evidence of his criminal activity."

So if Moran was running things through
Rollie's presence in Florence, why hire a thug like Tony B, who
didn't seem to try to curb his goons, and who possessed a vicious
streak of his own that was almost tattooed to his face? Granted his
record up until this weekend had always appeared fairly clean, but
no one changed so quickly without a trigger for the switch deep in
the DNA of his black little soul. Jack's words left a lot to think
about, but the minutes were skittering madly by. We didn't have
time to do much more than view and speculate as we rushed through
the huge and intricate spaces, through the many rooms, and
progressed down to the first upper floor.

There, paintings covered the walls, and all
manner of works were displayed. The floor held a sense of the
temporary, a sort of waiting in the air as though each and every
object was impermanent and could be moved elsewhere at a moment's
notice.

"This is where everything must cure," Jack
said.

Of course. The creative process had several
steps before a piece fully became whole. The canvas, the wood, the
clay, the metal—each had to dry at individual rates.

"Look, Jack, this is a Poussin. I'd swear to
it." I ran across the room. "Over here is what looks like a Turner
and a Cézanne. I need more time—"

"Our time's run out, Laurel. We have to get
out of here."

While I'd been focused on the art, Jack paid
attention to our surroundings. He stood at the doorway waiting for
me, and I made my way toward him. He dowsed the light. I passed him
and turned on my flashlight to lead the way, but he whispered
urgently, "No."

I clicked it off. He pulled me back toward
him and put his mouth near my ear.

"Listen carefully. No matter what happens in
the next few minutes, I want you to quickly and quietly find a
place to hide and figure out a way to get out of here that doesn't
depend on returning to the ground floor."

I slowly nodded, knowing he would feel the
movement. "But what about you?"

"Forget about me. You are not to try to find
me or help me. You may be putting both our lives in jeopardy if you
do. We each need to take care of ourselves from this point forward
until I get back in touch with you." He gave me a little shake as
if for emphasis. "Play tourist. Have fun. Understand? Don't let
anyone prove the real reason you're in Florence."

I again nodded and reached with my free hand
to touch where he held my shoulder. "Be careful, Jack."

A soft kiss warmed my ear before he
whispered, "I'm counting on your creativity and deviousness to get
you out of here safely. Don't let me down."

I squeezed his hand and took off. On the
second floor, I'd noticed an architectural structure in the far
eastern room that seemed familiar to me, but I hadn't quite worked
out how. I wondered if its counterpart was on this floor and raced
in silence to further investigate.

Yes! The same. I skimmed my hand over the
wood, searching, searching, searching for the irregularity I knew I
would find. With a touch, a short door matching the wall paneling
popped open. One step inside, and I used the small metal knob to
pull the door closed behind me. I switched on my flashlight and
knocked away cobwebs. I hated spiders, but evidence of their
habitation meant no one used this recently. It wasn't just a space.
There was an actual, very narrow, stairway. It went upward or down
to the ground floor. I picked the downward option. Yes, Jack said
not to return to the street level, but I couldn't bear to go up to
the roof with what waited up there. Plus, the Fendi with all my
emergency tools to safely climb down the palazzo's façade was still
in my closet at the
pension
. Ending up a greasy spot on the
pavement, or if not a greasy spot at least broken in some way, was
not part of my game plan.

Halfway down the stairs it sounded like all
hell broke loose below me. No shooting. A lot of yelling and
furniture movement. That kind of drama. And even scarier when it
was sound alone and I couldn't follow the action.

I proceeded quietly until the stairway
ended, and I stepped down to the very narrow enclosure. My fingers
quickly identified the way out. I did not want to be trapped.

Because a narrow band of light lit up my
space, I reasoned the paneling on the ground level in the room must
have a decorative feature keeping the two pieces from sealing.
After switching off my flashlight and sticking it in the clutch, I
discovered I could see into the room if I stretched a little taller
on my toes. I carefully pulled on my shoes and found I was now at a
perfect height to see.

We hadn't fully toured the bottom floor, but
I could tell this was the equivalent of a formal living area. It
seemed packed with men—the noise level was atrocious—and the
furniture could only be described as askew.

Jack stood in handcuffs, expressionless, and
surrounded by men speaking Italian. Some wore uniforms, some
dressed in suits, but all were either talking with each other or
into cell phones. So many people talking at once, in a language not
my own, made it difficult to catch what was being said.

But not impossible. Something about how
great a day it was with the apprehension of a famous thief they had
been pursuing for months.

Say what?

As I nearly disregarded Jack's warning and
stepped into the room in his defense, Tony B sauntered in from the
entry. All conversation stopped, and the men came to attention.
Even the ones on their cells stopped talking.

The next thing I heard was Tony B speaking
Italian and calling Jack a hardened criminal. Hoping he'd be kept
locked up until Jack was an old man.

Bastard.

The man who I assumed to be head of the team
was part of the
carabinieri
contingent, or military police,
with half the backup his men, and the others uniformed local
polizia
. How did Tony B get both military and civilian
forces to work with him?

The top man nodded. He thanked Tony B for
helping in the capture of a man who had eluded authorities for some
time. Tony B nodded and stood, waiting with a bored expression.
What did the guy want? Flowers?

The head
carabinieri
quickly gathered
everyone together to leave, and two uniforms manhandled Jack in a
way I hated to watch. They hustled him out of view and, I assumed,
out of the palazzo.

Tony B was left alone in the room.
He strode toward a bar in the corner and poured himself a drink.
The hood took a long swallow. He contemplated the empty glass for a
moment, then slammed the glass against the wall. It shattered, and
the shards showered to the floor.

Seconds later, he left the room,
clicking off the light as he passed the switch. What sounded like
the outer door echoed closed, and I heard a lock set.

The darkness gave me a kind of
safety zone to contemplate what I'd just seen. I now understood
Jack's warning but not how he knew what was coming. Or why. My
brain was too full, and I knew if I didn't move soon, the panic
would start. Something I could not risk.

I focused on my breathing. Told
myself to consider Jack. He'd said I could put him in jeopardy.
Well, I could put both of us in jeopardy if I was discovered, but
right now his predicament seemed far worse than mine. Remembering
his warning helped me stay in that tight place until a full thirty
minutes passed. I opened the door of the crawl space, then crouched
a little to get out.

Jack said to have fun and play
tourist—I presumed to show I couldn't have been a player in this
drama. Just pretend and act carefree. But how? I didn't know what
any of this meant, but I knew I wouldn't be able to casually
dismiss Jack being dragged away, cuffed by police in a foreign
country, and taken to a jail cell in who knew what kind of
condition.

I didn't know
anyone to call to help Jack
.

I took a deep
breath. I had to get out of here without being seen, return to
the
pension
, and
call Nico. Possibly Max as well. Someone had to figure out what to
do.

I hung up from my third call,
frustrated. My little bedroom—so lovely earlier in the day—felt
like it was closing in on me with every unsuccessful,
long-distance, middle-of-the-freaking-night phone call. Since my
return, I'd talked to Nico, Cassie, and yes, even Max. All three
said the same thing, "Come home."

No way. I used the anonymous
Italian phone to call Jack's cell, but after the umpteenth time
hearing his voice mail kick on, I squeezed the phone between my
hands and allowed the tears to flow. I'd never felt so powerless in
my life. It was a totally foreign and completely miserable
feeling.

Then Nico called back. "Tell me
what you want for me to do. I will do it."

I hadn't had any options a moment
before, so this one threw me off guard a second. But only for a
second. "Find Tina Schroeder for me. Find where she's
hiding."

"The dead girl?" His voice was
incredulous. "I imagine she is in the Miami morgue."

Past time to fill him in on the
rest of the previous evening's surprises. After a fast wrap-up, I
said, "There's no doubt in my mind Tony B is behind her bogus death
and rejuvenation. See if you can get any intel on where the thug
would hide her in Florence. I'd say to check her passport too, but
I doubt she's traveling under her own name."

"Who do you think really got her
throat cut? I am assuming there truly was a body since the news
organizations reported on the mugging."

Given the lack of a hue and a cry
over Tina's disappearance, I had little doubt. "It had to be her
mother, Phyllis, who died in that alley. Tina was the family's meal
ticket, and I've been checking my phone for either a memorial
service or even an offered reward for information on the murder.
Nothing. Not a damned thing associated with Tina's name except the
flash reports from the newspaper websites. The dead body had to be
Phyllis."

"And you believe Tina can help you
find Jack?"

I took a long deep breath before
answering. "I believe if I find where she is that she'd better tell
me something, or she and her mother may be able to share a
grave."

Nico chuckled. "Got it. I will get
information to you as soon as possible."

"Thank you."

Even better, I knew since he
didn't hedge at all that I could count on something soon. Just one
of the things I liked best about Nico. If he couldn't do something,
he would say so, but if he expected he could, then you should
believe it as well. Still, he didn't end the conversation without a
warning.

"From what you said happened at
the palazzo, Jack apparently knew something was up. Tomorrow, do
exactly what he said. Play tourist, act carefree, and do what you
are told for once. We do not need to lose you as well."

Okay, I bristled a little, but
then I remembered Jack's hand over my mouth and agreed with Nico.
"Yes, I'll ride my Vespa, and I'll be a good girl."

He snorted, then asked, "How do
you think he knew what was going down?"