Stolen (13 page)

“W
HY IS IT WHEN YOU THINK
of bloody criminals you call me, mate?”

Michael laughed as he put his friend on speakerphone and carried a cup of tea over to the window of his home office and peered out. “Because you're the only criminal I know, Keith.”

“I'm not a criminal.” His friend and illustrator feigned a hurt tone.

“Since your definition of criminal only includes people who have been apprehended while breaking the law and police suspicion counts for nothing, I'll agree with you. However, I think
you'll
agree that you do have far more experience with unsavory types than I do.”

“Not true. I have not once pandered to the Los Angeles video game producers or Silicon Valley types. I am only a lowly artist—”

“Of no mean skill who has a somewhat checkered past.”

“I prefer
colorful.
”

“Whatever.”

Keith gave a sigh long enough to travel the entire distance from London to Blackpool. Before breaking into video game design, he'd lived on the street and by his wits, staying one step ahead of police inspectors trying to ferret him out.

He had also had a hand-to-mouth career in advertising,
comics and portrait sitting. When he'd gotten in with Michael, Keith was considering having to go into criminal activity full-time to support his mother.

“Look, mate.” Michael kept his voice soft and easy. “I know this is a sore point with you, and I wouldn't bring it up if it weren't necessary. We—Mol and I—are in a bit of a sticky wicket out here.”

“In Blackpool?” Keith sounded incredulous. “Mate, there's nothing out there.”

“We have ghosts.”

“You don't believe in ghosts.”

“Doesn't mean they're not real, mate.”

Keith laughed and cursed. “You get me up early for this?”

“You should already be in the studio revising those mermaids.”

“I mean, I can't believe you took me away from my work.”

Michael grinned. Keith tended to be a layabout till there was a fire under him. He was at his best whenever a deadline loomed.

“Have you been watching the news?”

“No. Not since I got my new UFC DVDs in the post.” Keith was a consummate fan of the Ultimate Fighting Championship.

“There is a real world out there, mate.”

“You and I don't make any money in that world, Michael. We thrive on fantasy and other people's experiences so we can come up with our own.”

“True.” Michael looked back at his office. Books, comics and action figures filled all the available space. Posters of superheroes and movies covered the walls. A stack of non-fiction books on mythology, history, art and science fought
for space with magazines on the same topics. Anything to help fuel his imagination.

“What do you need, Michael? Whatever it is, I'd never leave you in the lurch, no matter how loath I was to do something.”

That was precisely why Michael had called. “You had an uncle that was an art forger.”

“Uncle Morrie. Sure. My mother's brother.”

“Is he still around?”

“If by
around
you mean on this side of the dirt, sure. But he's in the clink again. Pulling three to five this time for forgery. His hand's just not as sure these days. I tell him that, but he doesn't listen to me.”

“I thought you had him set up with an advertising agency.”

“I did. His hand's fine for that. He was making a decent wage there.”

“What happened?”

“Got into some bookies pretty deeply. Didn't utter a word to me. Even if he had, I couldn't have helped him. Uncle Morrie never stops self destructing till he's way past his eyeballs. Guys who busted him for forgery? They were the bookies he owed. They turned on him when he palmed a bad painting off on them. He's lucky they left him breathing.” Keith blew out a breath himself. “Truth to tell, Uncle Morrie's probably better off inside than out. He gets meals, dental and a physician's care while he's there. Out here, he don't take care of himself so well. Mum worries about him, and that's not good for her.”

“Can you talk to him?”

“I do every week. Take him a carton of ciggies to trade out with the other inmates so he can get what he needs.” Keith laughed. “Uncle Morrie's got quite the prison tat
business going inside. Getting to be a real
artiste.
The ciggies go toward buying ink and needles, which are contraband inside.”

Michael sat at his desk and turned on the monitor. Onscreen, several reproductions of paintings stood in neat rows. The images were all of art that had gone missing from the train robbery. Most were in black and white, but they were clear enough that the details could be made out.

“Why are you asking about Uncle Morrie?”

“I need some information about an art theft that happened back in 1940.”

“Mate, that's not gonna happen. Uncle Morrie is old, but he isn't that old. I swear, it wasn't him. Besides that, he's an artist, not a booster.”

“I thought maybe he could ask around, see if anyone knows something.”

“If a mate was involved, Michael, Uncle Morrie's not gonna grass on him. He's never been that kind of bloke.”

“I wouldn't ask, but I don't have a lot of places I can go.”

“Well, I can send it up the flagpole, mate. Don't know if you'll get anything from him, but I can try.”

“I appreciate it, Keith. Will you be able to talk to him soon?”

“If it's that important, I can go today. Now that I'm up…away from my work, I mean. But it's gonna cost you a carton of ciggies.”

“All right. Let me e-mail you the information and the paintings I'm interested in. See what Uncle Morrie knows and get back to me.” Michael switched off his mobile and glared at the computer screen.

Then he leaned back in his chair and reimagined the scene of the train robbery. If he'd just gotten his hands on
gold bullion—
because, mate, if I was bent, there is no bloody way I'm gonna leave that behind!
—how would he get it out of there?

 

S
YN
R
ODERICK WAS PROPERLY
dashing in white sailor pants that hugged her every curve, and she knew it. It showed in the smug smile she wore when greeting Molly. The red-and-white striped top molded to Syn's body and left her tanned midriff bare. A sapphire gleamed in her navel and lent her a positively exotic look.

“Molly, so nice to see you again.” Syn held out her hand.

Though she didn't want to, Molly took the woman's hand. She also hated that if Syn Roderick's greeting was ersatz, and it had to be, she couldn't detect it.

“Please sit.” Syn waved to the small table in the boat's stern. “I thought we could stay out here and enjoy the sea.”

“Of course.” Molly took a seat under the shade of the festive umbrella. The attendant arrived and Syn asked her for a martini and Molly requested a Diet Coke.

“Since we have a common interest, I thought it might be best if we got this matter sorted.” Syn curled her legs underneath herself in her chair and managed to appear elfin and innocent.

Molly couldn't help thinking that the woman reminded her a lot of the jealous queen that gave the poisoned apple to Sleeping Beauty. Guiltlessly, she rather liked the thought and believed she would hang on to it.

Syn tapped her glass with her fingernails. “Okay, let's start with why Simon wished to do this documentary.”

“At first I believed he wanted to do the story because it was a good one. I now realize that's not true.”

Syn smiled a little. “You know about his daughter?”

“Yes. Her death must have been hard.”

“It was.” Syn stared into the contents of her glass. “She was my friend at university. Did anyone tell you that?”

“No.” The pain in the young woman's eyes looked real to Molly. “I'm sorry for your loss.”

“It was a bigger loss than you might assume. Jenna was my only friend.” Syn drained her glass and the attendant whisked it away without a word. “My only
true
friend. I suppose you've heard something of me.”

“I gather tabloids are quite generous when it comes to you.”

Syn grimaced. “My main concern is keeping Simon safe.”

“From whom?”

“From Aleister Crowe and Bartholomew Sterling. Both of those men are capable of using violence to get what they want. The death of that woman should have told you that.”

“We can't be sure her death is even linked to the documentary.”

“You may not be sure. But I am.” Syn leaned back against the chair and lifted her head up like she was queen of the realm. “Simon said that woman was killed because of what she knew.”

“What did Mrs. Whiteshire know?”

“Simon hasn't been specific, but he says it would change things between him and Bartholomew Sterling.”

“Change them how?”

“By giving him the upper hand. Whatever it is could destroy Sterling's world if he wants it to.”

Molly took a breath. “If that's true, as much as Simon hates Sterling, why hasn't he already used it?”

Syn shook her head and her pale locks tousled in controlled disarray for a moment. “I can't answer that.” She
paused and took another sip. “I also know Philip Crowe planned to steal the paintings aboard the train.”

“Can you prove that?”

“No.”

“Can Simon?”

“Possibly. As I said, he isn't being very forthcoming. I thought perhaps you could talk to him and get something from him. You also knew the Whiteshire woman, and Simon was interested in her. I figured you might have information I didn't.”

“And if I did, that I might share?”

Lifting a shoulder, Syn looked nonchalant. “It would only seem fair.”

Molly was still considering how to respond to that when the boat's captain entered the stateroom. Tall and rangy, Hugh Dorrance was dressed in khakis today.

“Miss Roderick, if we're going to make your appointment, we're going to need to get underway.”

One of Dorrance's sleeves was raked back and an intricate tattoo stood out on his forearm. The skin art was in black ink and faded in places. Molly thought it was a snake coiled around some kind of rifle, but she couldn't be certain.

Dorrance caught her staring and quickly dragged his cuff down to cover the tattoo.

“Thank you, Captain. I hadn't forgotten, but I hadn't realized it was so late, either.” Syn turned her attention back to Molly. “It was a pleasure talking to you. Mostly. I hope you'll find the information I gave you useful. And if you should feel inclined to compare notes, you have my card.”

S
EATED IN HER CAR AT THE
marina, Molly watched as
Crystal Dancer
powered out toward deeper water. Syn Roderick didn't appear on the deck, and Molly couldn't help feeling that the woman was running from something. At that moment the double bell of her phone call was answered.

“Hello, love,” Michael said through her earpiece. He sounded happy.

“That woman is detestable.”

“I suppose I don't have to ask whom we're talking about.”

“If you do, you're much less intelligent than I thought you were when I married you.”

“You think that already.”

Despite her mood, Molly smiled at the quip. “You're right.”

“So maybe you want to fill me in on what's happened.”

Putting the car in gear, Molly backed out of the parking space and sped up the hill leading down to the bay. In the distance, Glower Lighthouse stood guard over its rocky promontory. She quickly relayed the conversation she'd had with Syn Roderick, and threw in the one with Aleister Crowe for good measure.

“So Syn believes that Simon has something he can blackmail Bartholomew Sterling with?” Michael's voice
was quiet and steady, and Molly knew that he was thinking through the information.

“So it would seem.”

“But why tell you?”

“To put pressure on Simon.”

“You're going to put pressure on Simon?”

“Michael, I'm involved in this production. I've promised several people a great many things in return for their help. And their money. I misjudged Simon. I'm not used to doing that.”

“I wouldn't be so hard on yourself. Too many things were hidden.”

“Still, if the documentary is going to go south, I need to do damage control while I can.” Molly took a deep breath. “So of course I'm going to put pressure on Simon. I'll get in touch with Miss Abernathy before I approach him. Then we'll ambush him.”

“I called Keith. Asked him to talk to his Uncle Morrie.”

Molly had heard many stories about the infamous uncle. “Whatever for?”

“On the off chance that he might know something about the train robbery.”

“But if he did, wouldn't he have talked before now?”

“Sure. But maybe the information was ignored back then. Or the police couldn't make the case. Or no one was able to connect the dots. I also contacted the insurance agencies that had to pay off on the stolen art.”

“I hadn't thought about that.” Molly considered the prospect now. “If any of them are willing to talk, it could put a different spin on the documentary.”

“Here's another one for you. Apparently at least a few of the pieces of art that disappeared were forgeries.”

“How did you find that out?”

“Followed the paper trail created in the newspapers. You have to love Google. As it happens, one of the pieces that was stolen was a painting called
An Afternoon at the Fair.
It was done by a woman at the Paris Exposition in 1889.”

“I've never heard of that work.”

“Not surprising. The painting was a modest piece, but because of the gender of the artist and the subject matter—especially with an incomplete Eiffel Tower in the background—it was unique.”

“That painting was on the train?”

“Yes. The original owner was Mrs. Reginald Featherstone, now deceased. The insurance agency reimbursed her for the loss, once they couldn't prove German soldiers were responsible for the robbery. However, the work has been sold twice since it was stolen. Once in 1958 and again in 1973.”

“I guess that painting is popular.”

“Paintings.”

Molly paused. “There's more than one?”

“There are at least three. The '58 and '73 paintings were both forgeries. The insurance agency, Bristol and Brinker, Limited, found out about the sales in open auction and discovered they were copies when they went to the sales to claim the paintings as agency assets.”

“Because, technically, since they paid off on the claim, the agency owns the original.”

“Exactly. Cutting through the red tape and legal problems took a while, but Bristol and Brinker executives evidently carry a chip on their shoulders where the Blackpool Robbery is concerned. That's what they call it—the Blackpool Robbery.”

“Lovely.”

“Isn't it? In fact, they've got a representative in town.”

“Do they?”

“Yes. I'm supposed to meet him in a little while. Want to come along?”

Molly thought about the opportunity, then decided against it. “I have to get my hands on Simon as soon as possible. And before I do that, I want to talk to Miss Abernathy.”

 

“Y
OU SHOULD REALLY TALK
to Simon about this, Mrs. Graham.” Miss Abernathy sat in front of her notebook computer in her room at the bed-and-breakfast watching film footage that had been shot over the last few days. She froze frames, cropped out sections, and began again.

The woman looked even worse than before. Her eyes had hollowed out and her complexion was pasty. She had a pot of coffee on the warmer and the aroma filled the room. A small metal ashtray from a pub sat near the computer and was filled to overflowing.

“Simon's my next stop.” Molly stood nearby. She hadn't tried to sit down since she'd entered the room. “I wanted to see you first.”

“Simon knows more about this project than I do.”

“Maybe, but you know
Simon
better than I do. Right now I need your expertise, not his.”

The woman sighed and shook her head. “No one's an expert on Simon Wineguard. Not even Simon.” She paused, then finally turned away from the computer. Her eyes were red-rimmed, as if she'd been crying. She reached for another cigarette and lit up.

Molly stifled the impulse to tell her that the bed-and-breakfast was nonsmoking. She was certain Miss Abernathy was fully aware of that.

“I wish you had met him before Jenna died.” Miss Abernathy breathed out smoke as she spoke. “Simon's divorce from her mother and Jenna's troublesome behavior
slowed him down a little. For a while. But he recovered.” She smiled weakly. “Simon's never been at a loss where women are concerned. That's why his marriage broke up. But Jenna's death…well, he took that hard.”

“So he blamed Bartholomew Sterling.”

“The man is a monster.” Miss Abernathy's tone was crisp, like each word was razor-edged and she had to be careful getting it out. “He makes his money in drugs, but no one has ever been able to prove it. Jenna died from badly cut drugs someone sold to her in one of his clubs. Sterling allows that kind of business to go on in his places because he profits from it.”

“Synthia Roderick insinuated that Simon has something on Sterling. Something that he can use against him.”

Miss Abernathy shook her head again and flicked ashes into the ashtray. “You can't trust that woman. She manipulates Simon. Plays him like a violin. And he can't see it.”

“She says she was a friend of his daughter's.”

“Jenna and Synthia met a few times, that's all. There was no deep friendship. She likes to tell Simon they were close, and Simon likes to believe it. But what she's really after is her own means of blackmailing Sterling. They both despise him.”

“Blackmailing him for what?”

“I assume it has to do with the train robbery.” Miss Abernathy stubbed her cigarette out. “There is one more thing Simon was holding back from you.” Molly waited.

“He had it on good authority that the robbery was an inside job. Not only that, but several of the paintings were forgeries. Some of the people who'd shipped their art figured out a way to turn a profit, as well.”

Memory of the forged paintings Michael had mentioned twisted through Molly's mind. “So the owners of the stolen
art filed claims for their losses with the various insurance agencies and were reimbursed for them, but someone made forgeries so that they could double their money.”

“Exactly.”

“Where did Simon hear this?”

“I don't know. I told him it was foolishness. That there was no way he could prove it. He, of course, chooses not to listen.”

“Where is Simon?”

“His room, probably.”

“I called his mobile. He didn't answer.”

Miss Abernathy shook her head tiredly. “He turns that off whenever he wants to. I can never reach him if he doesn't want to be reached.”

“We'll start at his room, then.” Frustration boiled up inside Molly and she worked hard not to let it explode. She didn't like it when a project she was working on didn't go smoothly, and this one was already way beyond.

Stubbornly, the other woman refused to move.

“Miss Abernathy, I'll go without you if I have to. But I think he'll listen to both of us.”

With obvious reluctance, Simon's personal assistant found her shoes and jacket and she and Molly went out.