Veiled Magic (7 page)

Someone from the other end up the bar held up an empty glass and the bartender moved away to do his job. Donata got up slowly, tucked her helmet under one arm, and carried her beer with her as she moved to the back room. She hoped that Farmingham was right about this guy being the one they needed to deal with the painting. If she'd spent the evening in a filthy alley and a crappy bar for nothing, she was going to be really put out.

Donata spotted Peter Casaventi as soon as she walked through the door. He sat alone at a table in the back, a little older and a little scruffier than the picture from the paper, but still slim and muscular. He was dressed in well-worn jeans and a soft blue cotton shirt, and he needed a shave and a haircut. He was also startlingly attractive in a way that hadn't come through on the printed page.

A dozen overturned shot glasses sat in a neat stack in front of him, and he was methodically working on the next one while flipping through a beat-up paperback copy of
The Prince
.

Oh, that's just fabulous
, Donata thought to herself as she crossed the room.
A drunken forger who reads Machiavelli. My mother was right: I really have to start hanging out with a better class of people.

She slid into the seat across from him and put her beer down on the table next to her helmet. Its twin rested on the chair next to Casaventi. He must have arrived on one of the Harleys out in the lot. When he looked up from his book, she flashed him a bright smile.

He smiled back involuntarily at the sight of an attractive woman and stuck a bar napkin in his book before laying it down. Dark brown eyes glinted from underneath slightly bushy eyebrows, looking almost black in the dim light. The sound of clicking balls echoed from the pool tables across the room, a sharp counterpoint to the muted voices of the players. A few serious drinkers occupied other tables, but the room was mostly empty otherwise.

Casaventi gave her a surprisingly charming grin and gestured toward the chair her butt already rested on. “Care to sit down?” He looked ruefully at the empty glasses on the table and added, “I'd offer you a drink, but I seem to have finished them all off. Sorry.”

Donata raised her beer bottle in salute. “Already got one, thanks.” She glanced curiously at the dead soldiers. “You seem pretty sober for a guy with twelve empty shot glasses in front of him. You been here all day?” Not that it was any of her business.

Peter gave an ironic laugh. “Nope. About two hours, actually.” He shrugged. “Doesn't really seem to matter how much I drink; apparently I have a cast-iron constitution.” He slugged down the rest of his remaining shot. “Doesn't keep me from trying, though.”

Must be the Dragon half of his heredity
, she thought to herself. Dragons had notoriously fast metabolisms; they were immune to most poisons and illnesses, and healed from all but the most serious injuries incredibly fast. Thought to be a genetic offshoot of dinosaurs that survived the Ice Age, Dragons lived very long lives, but tended to be solitary, moody, and unpredictable. There weren't many of them around these days—they were less fertile than most of the other Paranormal races, and many of them had gone into hibernation during the long dark years of the Inquisition and never reappeared.

Donata wondered about Peter's father, clearly the Dragon parent, since the photo from the newspaper had revealed
a distinct resemblance between Peter and his mother, the famous Lily Casaventi. The man identified in the caption as his father, however, looked nothing like him at all. The Casaventis were too well known for there to have been a Dragon in the bloodline without anyone knowing, so that left out Lily. No doubt there was an interesting story behind it all—Dragons were notoriously possessive of their few offspring and usually stole any half-Human babies from their mothers to raise them in the Paranormal world. That clearly hadn't happened in this case, and she wondered why. But she had bigger mysteries to deal with at the moment.

“Well, I'm just as glad you can still see straight,” Donata said. “Because there's something I'd like to have you take a look at.”

Peter smirked across the table at her. “I'm impressed so far, but feel free to show me anything else you like.”

She resisted the urge to pull out her gun, safely holstered under the bulk of her leather jacket, and shoot him with it. Heck, in a bar like this, a little thing like a gunshot probably wouldn't even put a halt to the pool game.

Instead, she pulled her ID out of her pocket, flipped it open on the table for a minute, then put it away before any of the other patrons could take note of it. “Officer Donata Santori, Central Gates Precinct.”

A scowl replaced the friendly smile. “What can I do for you, Officer?” His eyes seemed to darken to black and his posture became still and stiff.

Donata sighed. This was not going exactly the way she'd planned. “Don't worry, Mr. Casaventi, I'm not here on official business.” She thought about that. “Well, at least not exactly.”

He raised one eyebrow in question and looked regretfully at his empty glass. “Oh? You obviously went to some trouble to find me, since I don't make that easy to do.” He nudged the pile of shot glasses, making them teeter precariously for a moment. “So why don't you tell me what I can do for you so I can get on with my evening's entertainment.”

Donata rolled her eyes. “Fine. I'd like to hire you to restore a painting. A very special painting.”

His other eyebrow shot up to join the first. “I doubt you can afford me on a cop's salary,” he said. “And where would a fine policewoman such as yourself get a painting worth paying me to restore in the first place?”

“Actually,” Donata said, “I got it from Clive Farmingham, who told me I needed to get you, and only you, to work on it.”

Peter's face lit up. “Good old Clive! I haven't talked to him in ages. We worked on a big project together at the governor's mansion a while ago. He was something of a mentor to me, back in the beginning of my career.”

It was Donata's turn to lift an eyebrow. “Oh? What kind of project?”

He shook his head, causing a lock of too-long hair to flip into his eyes, and brushed it out of the way impatiently. “A restoring project, Officer. Clive was strictly legit, I assure you.” He tucked the errant strands of hair behind one ear. “So how is the old guy, anyway?”

She looked down, hating to be the bearer of bad news. It was one of the reasons she preferred to stay in the calm, ordered world of the basement, instead of being a beat cop.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Casaventi, but Mr. Farmingham was murdered yesterday during the commission of a robbery at the museum where he worked.”

Peter looked like someone had hit him with a two-by-four. Donata would have gotten up and fetched him another drink, if she hadn't known it wouldn't have any effect. She gave him a minute to collect himself.

“If it is any consolation, we don't believe he suffered.” She paused. “And he spoke very highly of you.”

Grief etched itself briefly on Peter's face, only to be replaced by confusion. “Wait, I'm not sure I understand. You got called in on the murder investigation?”

Oh, boy.
“Uh, yes, that's right.” Donata tried not to squirm in her seat. She hated trying to explain her job to civilians. Especially
Human
civilians.

He frowned. “But if you were investigating his death, then how could he have talked to . . . ?” His voice trailed off as he figured it out. “Oh. Uh. Oh.”

Indeed. Donata stifled a sigh. “I'm a Witness Retrieval Specialist, Mr. Casaventi. Do you know what that is?” She waited for him to move away from her at the table, the way most people did when they found out what she did for a living.

Instead, he gave her a look that was colored more by curiosity than by apprehension or rejection. “I've heard of Witness Retrieval cops, but I've never met one before.” He peered at her more closely. “So you actually talked to Clive
after
he was dead?” He thought for a minute, and added, “And he mentioned
me
?”

Donata nodded. “Yes, to both. Mr. Farmingham was working on a painting at the time he was murdered, and that painting was the object of the thief's mission. Mr. Farmingham came to me afterwards, and he was quite . . . insistent . . . that the painting was of major importance and that you were the only man he trusted to try to restore it.” She paused. “And he seemed to think you had the special, um, talents needed to deal with this particular painting's issues.”

She stuttered to a stop, aware of how vague she sounded. How on earth was she going to explain the unusual background and difficulties involving this particular painting when Peter didn't seem to have any knowledge of Paranormals beyond that of any normal Human?

Peter made a face at her. “What the heck are you talking about—what kind of issues?” He held up one hand. “No, wait; just start at the beginning. Who is the artist?”

That, at least, she had the answer to. She pulled out her notebook and looked over what she'd taken from Clive Farmingham's file on the painting. “The painter was a guy named Caspar David Friedrich. Born 1774, died 1840. German. Do you know of him?”

He rolled his eyes. “Of
course
I know of him. This is my profession, after all. He was quite well-known during the early 1800s, but suffered from recurring bouts of depression, and eventually he was rejected by the artistic community. He died poor and obscure, although his work became popular again in later years and he is now considered one of Germany's greatest Romantic artists. He was known for paintings that expressed religious mysticism and a certain air of melancholy.”

Hmph
, Donata thought. She guessed those descriptions fit the painting from the museum. It was definitely depressing
her.

Peter perked up. “So the painting that Clive wanted me to look at was a Friedrich? I thought all his work was already identified and in other museums. Was this a newly discovered piece, or just one purchased from another museum?”

Donata reached into her coat pocket and pulled out the photograph she'd swiped from the file. “Here, you can take a look for yourself.” He bent over the table to get a closer view. “Mr. Farmingham insisted it was something called a Pentacle Pentimento.”

Peter's mouth dropped open. “What?” he said, stunned.

“A Pentacle Pentimento,” Donata repeated, then found herself moving without even knowing how it had happened. Peter pulled her out of her chair, shoved her helmet into her arms, the photo back into her pocket, grabbed his own helmet, and was walking her across the room and out the door before she had a chance to complete her sentence.
What the heck?

“Are you insane?” he hissed at her as he dragged her through the main room. “Mentioning that name in a room full of felons and lowlifes?” He faked a cheery wave at the bartender as they crossed the floor and headed out the door. “Do you
want
to get us both killed?” He muttered darkly under his breath as they double-timed it out into the night.

Donata let him push her along, but once they got out into the dim parking lot, she yanked her arm out of his grasp and swung around to confront him.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” she demanded. “I didn't say it that loud, and none of those drunken, degenerate yahoos are going to know the name of some obscure mythological painting that most people don't believe exists anyway.” She paused for breath, glaring up at him in the neon light from the beer signs in the window.

He shook his head at her. “When big money is involved, never underestimate the keen instincts of a drunken, degenerate yahoo, honey.” He slammed his helmet down over his head. “I want a look at that photo—but not here. Which one is your bike?”

She pointed at her BMW and a brief smile of appreciation flitted across his face, almost making her forgive his high-handed behavior. Almost. “Do you live near here? We could go to your place.” She gave him a look that dared him to make an innuendo out of that.

Peter hesitated, obviously not wanting to reveal where he lived, then gave in. “Shit. If you could find me here, I suppose you could find me there—although I'll be damned if I know how you tracked me down in the first place.”

“I've got my sources,” she said mysteriously, wishing that she could go home and take a shower to get the stink of those particular sources out of her nostrils. “And yes, I could. So let's stop wasting time and get going, shall we?”

“Fine.” He stalked off toward a flashy black Harley emblazoned with red flames. “Try and keep up.”

Donata fumed as she walked rapidly toward her own ride. For a guy who liked to keep a low profile, he had a pretty fancy motorcycle. Men.

She followed him as he pulled out of the parking lot and turned left, not right as she'd expected. Instead of heading deeper into the cheaper part of town, he kept taking streets that brought them closer to the pricey high-rises of Ridgemont.
Where the heck did this guy live, anyway?

By the time she trailed his red taillights into a basement garage on Claridge Street, she was completely baffled. She knew this building, or ones like it. Not for the obviously rich, who liked their condos complete with doormen and fancy lobbies, it was nonetheless a place that housed the monied elite. Was he taking her to someone else's place to try and throw her off his track? If so, it wasn't going to work.

From the garage, they rode an elevator up into the heights of the building. They didn't say a word to each other all the way up, until the door pinged open on the top floor and they walked out into a small entryway that required a code punched into a keypad to enter.

“You live in the penthouse?” she asked. She shook her head in disbelief. “I guess being a restorer pays better than I thought.”

He shrugged. “It's got the best light.” As if that explained it. Well, maybe it did, if you were a painter.

The door to the entryway opened into a large open loft space, airy and decorated with exquisite good taste. The walls were hung with striking (and no doubt expensive) artwork. Large potted palms set the living room area off from the dining area, and two long white leather couches dominated the room. It was beautiful, breathtaking, and like Casaventi himself, surprisingly charming. At least at first glance.