Stolen Fury (16 page)
“I wish I could,” she heard herself say before she could stop the words spilling from her mouth. “But this isn’t the best time.”
Dammit. Sullivan was using her. Enjoying it, too. And she was falling right into his trap.
Dammit, dammit, dammit
.
The blond fished a business card from his back pocket. He reached for a pen down the bar and scribbled on the back. “This is the number where I’m staying for the next two days.” He handed it to her, his lips curling in a knowing smile. “Of course, if you say yes now, you can save yourself a phone call.”
A couple hours away from the mess she’d gotten herself
into wouldn’t be so bad, would it? She was running on adrenaline after the last few minutes as it was. Blowing off a little steam would probably improve her mood and her outlook.
She glanced at the card in her hand as decisions raced through her mind.
ALEC MCCLANE
FREELANCE JOURNALIST
Not a thief. Not a liar. Definitely not a jerk.
And damn if that didn’t make up her mind.
Shane ripped a piece of steaming dough from the pretzel in his hand and walked along the bike path in Lincoln Park as he glanced out across the choppy water. A crisp breeze blew off Lake Michigan, rustling his hair and sending shivers down his back.
He tugged his jacket collar around his neck, hunched his shoulders and bit back a curse. He needed out of this city. Soon. Before the goddamn snow hit. If he had to face one more winter of biting wind and bitter cold, he just might shoot himself with his own gun.
He popped a salty piece of dough into his mouth and dropped onto a bench to finish his lunch. Ten minutes passed before Jack Taylor finally sauntered up from the other direction, a file folder tucked under one arm and two Starbucks in hand, tendrils of steam rising from the white paper cups.
“Thought you could use some real joe. Not that crap they’ve got down at headquarters.” He handed Shane a cup, sat next to him and set the folder on the bench at his side.
“You’re a saint, Taylor.” Shane lifted the drink to his lips and tasted the hot, bitter liquid as it slid across his tongue. Not the shot of Jameson he really wanted, but good enough, considering it was only two in the afternoon and he was still on duty. “Almost makes me want to move to the Pacific Northwest.”
“Nah, too wet there. You’d never cut it, Maxwell.” Jack lifted one large gloved hand and pointed toward a couple of teenagers dipping their toes in the surf. “Look at those idiots. Gonna freeze their asses off.”
Shane’s gaze followed. He watched as one stupid kid who couldn’t have been more than fifteen dared the other to go out as far as his knees. The dark-haired moron at the kid’s right rolled up his pants legs and headed out into the freezing water. “Serve ’em right it they catch hypothermia.”
Jack chuckled. “Anything to get out of sittin’ in class. Not too long ago you and I would have been doing that.” He watched two women dressed in thick sweats, hats and gloves as they jogged by. When they rounded the bend, he glanced up to the gray sky. “Smells like snow.”
“Smells like snow, my ass.” Shane leaned back against the bench, wrapped his bare hands around the warm cup. “You haven’t been able to smell crap since you took that bullet.” Three years and a handful of surgeries later, all that was left of that dark night was a thin scar on Jack’s cheek. But it had been enough to make Shane’s ex-partner say adios to the Chicago PD.
Jack shot him a grin. “You’re perky this afternoon. I sure do miss that sunshine-sweet temperament of yours.”
“I need a fucking vacation.”
Jack sipped his drink. “You need a career change, my friend. I keep tellin’ ya, PI work is cush. Set your own hours, choose your clientele. No one lookin’ over your shoulder, telling you what to do. Pretty sweet.”
Yeah. Sweet. Jack had been trying to lure him away from the department for nearly two years now. And there were days where he actually thought about making a change. About ditching Chicago and heading off to the sun and fun.
Damn, it was tempting.
“So I heard there was some action at the Marriott last night.”
Jack’s rugged voice pulled Shane from the little fantasy
taking root in his mind: a sunny beach, a stupid tropical print shirt and no worries.
Not today. Not anytime soon as far as he could see. He shifted and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he glanced toward the frigid water, the cup held gently between his hands. He and Jack kept each other informed. Sometimes Jack’s outside connections were just what Shane needed in a tough case. “Carl Tegan’s covering it. Brutal double homicide.”
“Any leads?”
“None so far. Carl’s gut thinks it was a professional hit, though.”
Jack nodded. Carl Tegan was a good detective, and his gut was usually right—but that didn’t make Shane feel any better.
Shit, Lis. What the hell did you get wrapped up in?
“I haven’t heard anything on the street,” Jack said. “But I’ll keep listening.”
Shane ran a hand over his face and tried to refocus. “What about Sullivan?”
Jack reached for the folder at his side. “Interesting fellow.” He handed the folder to Shane. “This related?”
Jack’s mind was always one step ahead. Shane set his cup on the ground by his feet, flipped open the file. Jack’s cramped handwriting filled an entire page. “Maybe.”
Jack nodded, but didn’t push. “Degree in art history from Florida State. Graduated magna cum laude, worked his way through school with scholarships and the military.”
“Navy boy,” Shane mumbled, studying Jack’s notes.
“Yep. And smart. Did six years active duty after college. Naval Diving and Training Salvage Center. Traveled all over the globe. Got hold of a couple guys he served with. Had nothin’ but good things to say about him.”
Shane flipped a page. “What else?”
“When he got out of the service, he invested in a gallery a college buddy of his had opened.” Jack pointed to a
name on the paper Shane was holding. “Peter Kauffman. Place was struggling until Sullivan signed on. Kauffman ran the day-to-day operations. Sullivan was the go-to guy.”
“How so?”
Jack shrugged. “Word is Sullivan had a knack for finding rare pieces. Anything the client wanted, he was able to get. Used his connections overseas to get what ever was needed.”
“Caught up with him, though,” Shane muttered, flipping to the police report on Sullivan’s arrest.
“Charges dropped for lack of evidence,” Jack corrected. “And this you’ll find interesting.”
“What?”
“The arresting officer? Sullivan ended up marrying her.”
Shane’s head darted up. “He’s married?”
“Was. Six months. Divorced about a year ago. Then some eight months ago he up and sold his share of the gallery.”
Shane’s brow creased as he studied the papers. “Why would he do that? Looks like they were raking in the dough.”
“Yeah. They were. Still are. The Odyssey Gallery has some big-name clients.”
Shane leaned back against the bench. “So why’d he pull out? Have a fight with his partner? Screwing the man’s wife?”
Jack turned the page for him. “Medical bills. His mother’s terminal. Cancer.” Shane looked closer. “Been in and out of the hospital for the last year. Started some experimental treatments that cost an arm and a leg. She’s hangin’ on, but doesn’t look like she’ll last much longer. My guess? Sullivan sold his stake to pay for her treatment.”
Shit.
He was still a criminal, no matter what his reasons.
“Guy’s got a place in Key West, right?” Shane asked. “Why not sell that? Real estate down there has to go for a pretty penny. Why not pay his bills that way?”
“House is in both his and his brother’s name. Inheritance kind of thing. Maybe the mother wouldn’t let him sell it. I don’t know the family dynamics there, only that he didn’t go that route.”
No, because he knew he didn’t have to. Shane frowned. “Assuming that’s the case, then why not steal what he needed? Sell off a few prime pieces and I’m sure he’d have more than enough dough. A guy who knows how to get things like Sullivan shouldn’t have trouble in that area.”
“Morals?”
“Right.” Shane flicked Jack a disbelieving look. “Not this guy. And that’s what we’re talking about, right? He’s a high-class criminal who’s gotten away with it so far, all under the pretense of ‘in the name of art’ and the almighty buck.”
Jack shrugged again, looked out at the rippling water. “You can spin it however you want, Maxwell. Looks to me like he’s in a bind. Needed cash, sold his share. For whatever reason, he’s not scamming anyone to get his dough this time.”
No, not just anyone, dammit. The prick was scamming Shane’s sister.
“I think he’s working on his own now.”
“What makes you think that?” Shane asked.
Jack pulled a photo from the back of the file. “He cuts ties with Kauffman, gets his mama all set up in a cush Miami care facility, bills squared away, and two months later pays cash for a pretty new sailboat.”
Shane lifted the picture and studied the pristine white sloop. Envy stabbing him, he let out a low whistle. “Damn. I need to get me one of these.”
Jack chuckled. “Yeah, me, too. We picked the wrong line of work, schmuck. Point is, Sullivan didn’t touch his reserves from selling his part of the gallery to buy that little toy. Which means—”
“Which means his sudden cash flow’s suspect.”
“Right. Unless he’s working for someone under the radar. Tracking down a few special pieces maybe?”
Three special pieces. The Furies. And if he happened to have double-crossed the hand that was feeding him, if he was going out on his own to find the best deal, pitting
dealers against each other, the prick was in over his head.
And dragging Lisa along with him.
Peter Kauffman’s phone shrilled. Five seconds earlier and it would have ruined the mood entirely.
With a heavy sigh, he tucked one arm around the woman straddling his lap and breathing hot against his neck. “Hold that thought, precious.”
Pushing them both forward, he reached for the phone. “Kauffman.”
“You sound way too relaxed to be at the office.”
Pete leaned back against the leather chair behind his desk and smiled at the sound of Rafe’s voice. The man had timing, he could say that for his friend. “And you sound a little stressed, buddy.”
“I have reason to be stressed, Pete.”
Maria braced both hands against Pete’s shoulders and sat up. A seductive smile curled her sensuous mouth. With one hand, she pushed dark, silky hair back from her face and tightened her pelvic muscles.
“Tell me about it,” Pete mumbled. Distracted by the increase in pressure, he ran a hand over the vee of her fire red suit jacket, exposing voluptuous cleavage. His hand drifted down her abdomen, across her hip where her skirt was pushed up and her bare thighs rested against his slacks.
“I was nearly charcoal last night,” Rafe grumbled in his ear.
The seriousness in Rafe’s tone drew Pete’s attention. His hand paused on Maria’s thigh. “Say that again.”
“I said,” Rafe huffed, “someone’s onto us.”
Maria pushed off Pete’s lap and tugged her skirt down, obviously sensing his change in focus.
Pete repositioned himself and sat up straighter. “Tell me what happened.”
While Rafe ran through the events of the previous night, Maria strode to the massive floor-to-ceiling glass bookshelf across the room. Pete watched as she ran slender fingers
over an Egyptian pendant of a crouching pharaoh resting on the shelf.
“I’m telling you,” Rafe said, “this wasn’t a coincidence.”
“And you didn’t get a look at either of them?” Pete asked.
“Not a good one. Both men were big. One was black. I didn’t stick around to find out their names.”
That didn’t narrow things down much. Pete frowned. “What about Stone’s research?”
“Kindling.”
“Fuck.” Pete ran a hand over his forehead. Not the answer he was hoping for.
“Maxwell’s got a couple leads we’re following today. I don’t think it’s a total loss. Yet.”
“And if she’s wrong?”
“She’s still our best chance at this point. The woman’s a bloodhound. She’s not quitting.” He paused. “Speaking of, what can you tell me about Alan Landau?”
“Landau?” Surprise registered. Maria turned his direction. “Big-time dealer up north. Has a reputation for being involved in some shady dealings, if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I have an idea. Do me a favor. Find out if he’s put out any feelers on Greek pieces under the radar.”
“You think he’s involved?”
“Maybe.”
“I’ll look into it today and call you if I find anything.”
“Good.”
Pete ran a hand through his hair. “In the meantime, keep me posted. I wired some cash into your account. Let me know if you need more or if there’s anything else I can do on my end.”
“Got it. Thanks, Pete. I’ll call in a few days if I don’t hear from you sooner.”
The line clicked in Pete’s ear. Aggravated, he replaced the receiver, pushed to stand and zipped his slacks. Maria stood across the room, arms folded over her chest as she gazed out at the sparkling view of Biscayne Bay from his third-floor office.
“I do so like America,” she said with her thick Greek accent. “Land of opportunity. It would be a shame to have to leave so soon and without what I came for.”
Not an option. If she left, she was taking her business with her. He needed her bid to up the stakes. And though she wouldn’t ever be the woman of his dreams, she was a good diversion from his own personal demons.
Pete crossed to her and tried to keep his voice even and assuring. “No reason for that yet. This is just a minor setback.”
She turned and met his gaze, dark eyes locking on his as if she knew exactly what he wasn’t saying. “Rafael is a liability.”
Not in Pete’s eyes. “He’ll get the job done.” He tried to settle the doubt flickering across her face by running both hands down her arms. “Trust me, would you? The man knows what he’s doing. He’s made me a ton of money over the years. He’s going to make us both very rich.”