Sleight Of Hand (28 page)

Standing on the stair above him, she stared
at the perfect knot in his navy tie. Of course his tie was tied
perfectly. She couldn’t imagine him looking rumpled or sweaty,
or....

“Are you married?” She shoved her sunglasses
on, embarrassed by her impertinence. Stop playing your stupid
games. The man was an FBI agent, for heaven’s sake. She didn’t have
to work at pushing him away, because a cop was not going to be
attracted to someone like her. Thank God.

“I thought I was the one who was supposed to
ask the questions." His mouth compressed into sterner lines as he
wrapped his large hand around her elbow again and steered her up
the stairs.

When they emerged on to the busy sidewalk she
hitched her satchel further up on her shoulder and stepped to the
curb, the coffee shop directly across the street from them.

Gage tugged her back. “We’ll use the
crosswalk.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. The crossing is
way the hel...dickens down there." Wonderful. Five minutes in his
company, and she was using crosswalks and trying not to swear.

She yanked her elbow out of his firm grip. “I
can manage by myself." Then turned and plowed into two businessmen
hurrying in the opposite direction. The now familiar feel of Gage’s
hand settled on her shoulder as he steadied her. When she shrugged
his hand away, a long-suffering sigh seeped out of him.

“If you want to get yourself trampled or run
over, that’s fine, but could you wait until I’ve asked you a few
questions?” Still wearing his I-mean-business look, he grabbed her
arm again propelled her along the crowded sidewalk.

Had the Grim Agent--cousin, she was sure, to
the Grim Reaper--just made a joke? You’d never know it by the way
he stalked along beside her.

“Do you dye your eyelashes and eyebrows?”

He stumbled, his hold on her elbow
tightening. “What?”

“They’re dark. Not really black, but close.
And your hair’s blond. I was just wondering...." Her voice trailed
off as he stared at her as she’d just been beamed in from outer
space. It was a reasonable question, after all. She had friends who
dyed, tattooed and be-ringed just about every part of their
bodies.

He wiped his hand over his face, looked
around him as if it was his first time in Boston, then squared his
shoulders. “Who’s Raphael?” he asked.

“My twin brother.”

For the briefest of seconds, he closed his
eyes. “I don’t dye my eyelashes,” he said after a minute. “Or my
eyebrows, the hair on my head, or on any other part of my
body."

She curled her tingling toes inside her
sneakers and tried not to think about any part of his body, dyed or
not. All she had to do was answer a few simple questions and be on
her way. She could handle that-–if she could keep her mouth shut
long enough to let him ask the questions.

A few minutes later, Gage checked his watch
as he settled into a chair by the coffee shop window. “It’s seven,
and I haven’t eaten. Are you hungry?”

“No." Sophie dragged her gaze away from the
window.

He frowned across the table at her. She’d
clammed up at the stoplight and hadn’t said a word since, as if the
effervescent energy that sparkled out of her had suddenly dried up.
He’d had to work hard at not laughing out loud at some of her
antics. Dye his eyelashes. Geez.

“You folks ready to order?” A slender young
man in black jeans and a white shirt stood at attention by their
table.

“Still serve breakfast?” Gage asked.

“Yes, sir.”

Gage winced. He’d always figured it was his
suit that encouraged people to call him sir, but lately he'd
wondered. Maybe it wasn’t what he wore, but something in his
expression. “I’ll have two eggs, scrambled, whole wheat toast and
bacon. Coffee first." Gage turned to Sophie. “Are you sure you’re
not hungry?”

“Just coffee will be fine."

Gage considered adding an extra helping of
toast, but dismissed the waiter with a wave of his hand. After the
wine she’d drunk, Sophie probably needed to eat something, but
according to the scant notes Spencer had scraped together, she was
twenty-seven years old. Old enough to take care of herself.

A forlorn wail rose from the table behind
him, and he turned to see a small, freckled-faced boy with bright
red curls kneeling up on the bench seat and yowling as he pointed
straight at him.

Gage looked around, saw a little red toy
convertible on the floor beside him, leaned over and scooted it
back toward the boy’s table. The yowling stopped immediately, and
Gage let out a long breath. Man. He felt up tight tonight.

Turning his attention to Sophie, he pulled
out his notebook and pen from inside his pocket, then took his wire
rimmed glasses out and slipped them on. “Let’s get the essentials
out of the way first. Your full name is Sophia Pascotto and your
address is...." He’d already checked her address, but often found
it revealing to ask questions he knew the answer to.

Sophie cocked her head to one side and
studied him. Again she reminded him of a bird. Not the dead one
this time, but a small, startling alive one, her eyes bright with
curiosity, half her hair still standing up while the other half lay
plastered against her head, as if someone had ruffled her
feathers.

He wanted to reach over and either smooth
part of it down or run his fingers through the flat part to make it
stand up. He raised his eyebrows. “Your address?”

“My guess is you already know it." She
squinted at him. “Around kids a lot?”

“Never enough, it seems.”

“Are they for reading?” She nodded at his
glasses.

God help him. He couldn’t even get her to
answer basic questions. He tossed his pen on the table and folded
his arms over his chest. “My glasses? Yeah, they’re for
reading.”

“How old are you?”

“Old enough to need reading glasses. Are you
going to tell me where you live?”

“In the North End. 156 Lewis Street. The top
two floors. One for living, the top one for working.”

“Good." He started to ask another question,
but the waiter appeared with his meal and two cups of coffee.

Gage sipped his coffee, welcoming the shot of
caffeine as he waited for the young man to finish arranging
everything.

“You’re an art restorer?” he asked once they
were alone again.

“Yes.”

“Tell me what an art restorer does.”

“Restores art.”

He swallowed a mouthful of eggs, feeling more
tired than hungry. He’d had a long, hard week, and he didn’t need
this crap on a Friday night.

“Have any idea why I’m questioning you?” He
caught her gaze and held it this time. Her eyes were dark enough to
be almost black. She looked sober now, maybe afraid. “A painting
came in a few weeks ago, supposedly from Europe,” he continued
before she could answer. “A Matisse. It’s a forgery.”

Sophie shrugged her shoulders. “So?”

“You’re right. Art forgery hardly compares to
murder or acts of terrorism." He cut a piece of bacon and nodded as
he chewed it. “The only person hurt is the art dealer who sold the
forgery. They have to give the client’s money back and suffer the
damage to their reputation. And go to jail for a while." He watched
Sophie filch a piece of his toast.

“So what’s the big deal this time?”

“This time, the art dealer happens to be the
wife of my boss. Special Agent Parker is the supervisor of the
Boston FBI field office, and he’s mad as hell." He gulped his
coffee to ease his tight throat muscles.

It was his rotten luck Spencer was taking a
month off to spend time with Sarah and their new baby just as this
case had opened up. After screwing up on his last case, Gage didn’t
need his boss breathing fire down his neck.

Sophie now gnawed on his other piece of
bacon. He pushed his plate across the table to her, his appetite
gone.

“Thanks." She pulled the plate closer and dug
into the eggs as if she hadn’t eaten for a week. “So, I guess your
boss--what’s his name?”

“Parker.”

“Parker. Right. I guess he’ll be riding you
hard until you find out who did the forgery.”

“Likely." He caught the waiter’s eye and
pointed to his empty coffee cup. “Who’s Moira Pascotto? Any
relation of yours?”

“My mother. Why?”

“Just another name on my list." According to
his notes, Spencer had already spoken to Sophie’s mother. That
Sophie bought certain art supplies from a store called the Palette
was the excuse Spencer had suggested using to ask questions about
Moira Pascotto. He’d written con artist beside her name. Another
one of Spencer’s intuitive guesses. Gage would do some serious fact
gathering on Mrs. Pascotto come Monday.

“Would you bring me another order of toast,
please?” Sophie smiled at the waiter as he refilled their coffee
cups.

“The address you gave me in the North End,
that's an expensive part of town. You make good money restoring
paintings?”

Sophie shrugged, her sweatshirt sliding off
her shoulder again. He wished she hadn’t done that. The hint of
feminine allure–-her delicate bones, the dusky pink tone of her
skin--titillated him far more than if she’d taken her sweatshirt
completely off.

On the other hand, he didn’t see a bra strap,
which probably meant she wasn’t wearing one. And her T-shirt was
white.

“Hey, Mr. FBI Man. Gage. You finished or
what?”

“Yeah. I mean, no."

Maybe he should phone Mindy, his perky next
door neighbor, and ask her out. She’d done everything to catch his
attention except parade naked in his front yard. Problem was, newly
divorced ladies always acted a little too desperate for his taste,
and she lived right next door. He’d have to face the morning after
every time he went outside.

He rolled his shoulders and stared at his
blank notebook. What had he been asking Sophie? He glanced across
the table, then away. Why wear the damned shirt if she wasn’t going
to pull it up over her shoulder?

“Money,” he said and picked up his pen.

“You already asked me that question.”

“I didn’t hear your answer. Sorry." He
glanced at his empty plate. She’d eaten everything.

“I thought you looked spaced out. Where did
you go?”

He raised his gaze to meet hers, letting her
see the heat he knew still lingered in his eyes.

She yanked her sweatshirt up over her
shoulder and shrank down into the oversized garment, then opened
her mouth as if to say something, but the waiter appeared with her
second order of toast. She grabbed the plate from him and busied
herself with piling spoonfuls of blueberry jam on one piece.

“I make okay money." She ripped a corner of
the toast off and stuffed it in her mouth.

“You specialize in Impressionist and Post
Impressionist paintings?” He wrote the words money, Impressionist
and Post Impressionist in his notebook.

“Yes.”

“The Palette said you buy Belgian linen on
occasion." He wrote linen under the other words.

“Is that why you’re questioning me?” She
laughed, but it came out sounding strained, and she still hadn’t
looked at him. Not since he’d let her see what he was feeling.

“I use the linen for relining,” she
explained. “When a canvas is weak or torn, you have to fuse new
linen to the backing. If it’s an expensive painting, the owners
usually prefer you keep the material as authentic as possible.”

“Does your mother work?” He felt as though he
was groping in the dark for something to hang this case on. Damn
Spencer’s blind leaps of intuition. Following a hunch was no way to
build a case.

“Mother owns a small art gallery.”

“And your brother, Raphael? Is that his real
name?”

A ghost of a smile drifted over her face as
she stared down at her covered hands. “Yeah. He hated his name when
he was a kid until the Ninja Turtles became popular.”

“What kind of work does he do?”

“He travels back and forth to Europe a lot.
Sometimes he brings back a couple of paintings for Mother’s
gallery.”

“That’s it? He travels? Is he independently
wealthy?”

Sophie laughed and finally looked at him.
“Hardly. He’s good at doing lots of things.”

Gage gripped his pen tighter. “Does he
paint?”

“Of course, but he doesn’t take it
seriously.”

“So, he doesn’t work with you?”

“No." She frowned as if she couldn’t follow
his reasoning. “It takes special training to be a conservator.”

Gage wanted to ask her why she had chosen
that profession rather than investing time in her own talent. If
she had talent. But he didn’t want to get off the subject which had
suddenly become not Sophia Pascotto, but Raphael.

“Does Raphael use your studio to paint
in?”

Her eyes narrowing into slits.
“Sometimes.”

“Then he has access to all your
materials?”

She jumped to her feet and grabbed her
satchel. “You’re way off base. Raphael would never paint a
forgery!” She shot a killer glare in his direction and stalked out
of the coffee shop.

A smile slowly spread over Gage’s face. The
lady was quick. Quick to understand what he was getting at and
quick to defend her brother. Intelligence and loyalty were two
qualities he had a lot of admiration for.

His smile faded. Looks like his routine
questioning had just turned into a full scale investigation. The
Pascotto family had the perfect set-up to paint, transport and sell
forgeries.