Counterfeit Conspiracies (7 page)

I thought back to the day before, the first time we'd met. It was soon after I'd received a bogus message on my phone, right before I was scheduled to get into the
Castillo.
New directions so close to the truth I hadn't realized they didn't quite match closely enough, and led me down a rabbit trail. It took time I didn't have to recover and backtrack from the mistake, then more time roaming the sprawling estate to try to find the contact. Time someone obviously used to kill him. Was I misdirected to save me? Or to trap him? Could I have been the proposed victim instead? And had it been Hawkes who'd sent the message?

Now I seemed on a second fool's errand. On my own because my compatriot was missing, as was the treasure I'd been sent to claim. And instead of bogey emails and text messages, I now had a bogey Englishman-cum-Southerner on my tail. Hopefully, Gerry would remember where he might have seen Hawkes before and could give me the heads up. Until then, I was on my own. Max would be angry at me for withholding information, but involving him now would only further muddy the waters.

Which led to the real muddy waters in my life; the dockside ones I believed held the possible opportunity of meeting with the 'smelly Welshman' who may have been the last person to see Simon. I had to hope the evening meeting with the Jones character was the same or a confederate to whomever Simon met that morning.

I struck off at a strong pace toward the Victoria and Albert Museum. It was just far enough that a Tube ride would have saved some time and effort, but I had both to spare as I waited for the Docklands meeting, and walking above ground not only let me check for anyone following me, but kept me from getting trapped on a train with someone I wanted to avoid. Nevertheless, my Prada sat heavy on my shoulder. I contemplated ditching the bag before the meeting to give myself more options for maneuverability.

 

"It's so great to see you, Laurel. Have you a place yet to stay while you're here?" Cassie Dean asked. She had cut her blonde hair since coming to London, and also sported a couple of thin fuchsia streaks.

"You've found a new look. No one could mistake us for sisters anymore," I said.

She laughed. "We really used that to our advantage at Cornell. Too bad you had to go and graduate ahead of me. Have you been waiting long?"

I linked arms with her and moved away from the front desk. "No longer than usual, Cassie. I knew someone would finally find you among all the artifacts. Patience builds character I'm told."

"You already have plenty of character, Laurel. Guess my work is done."

"I take it you like it here?"

"I don't ever want to leave. I'm hoping I can get a full-time position soon," she said. "Now that I've completed my Master's it's the perfect opportunity to try for something like this. Keep your fingers crossed for me."

"Always do, Cass."

She had written to me months before about landing a summer job as a conservation intern, and her excitement hadn't waned. Always a positive person, the true tip-off to her happiness was noticing how the no-nonsense leather clogs on her feet never quite touched the floor. The beige smock protecting her clothes showed the evidence of wood dust and stain.

"Yes, I'm fine for lodgings," I answered her previous question.

"Well, I have a flat with a spare room, just off Portobello Road." Her face brightened when she mentioned the place. "You're always welcome."

"Those places can be a bit pricey for someone only receiving an internship stipend, Cassie," I said. "Can't help being both pleased for you and a bit jealous."

"The owner offered the flat on the condition I'd renovate the woodwork," she explained. "That's my specialty: plaster work and restoring historic wood and furniture. I'm as thrilled to work on the mid-nineteenth century flat as I am to be here at the Victoria and Albert."

"I can tell." I laughed. I couldn't help it. Her exuberance was contagious. "Is it one of those huge connected buildings?"

"Yes. Originally part of over two-thousand acres on the crown of Notting Hill." Her hazel eyes glowed as she spoke. "What would be considered a block-long condo back in the States, is part of a project built more than a century and a half ago. The buildings hark back to distinctive Italian designs of old. The Italianate influences are still seen in the elaborate stucco front villas that line up like residential soldiers down the street."

I rolled my eyes. "Extravagant talk for an intern."

"I won't be an intern forever, Laurel. Just wait." She frowned down at my shopping bags. "That looks like clothes."

A quick look around showed no one within earshot. "Cassie, I don't need a place to stay, per se, but I do need some help. Can you give me a tour? We need to talk without being overheard."

Cassie blinked, then smiled. Anyone watching her wouldn't have noticed the shift, but I caught the look in her eyes and knew she perfectly understood. "Let's start down this way."

We journeyed through Italian Renaissance casts and copies, made for the use of nineteenth century British art students to study and sketch. When a group of the twenty-first century variety approached, Cassie slipped into tour guide mode.

"The idea of this room lies in the lessons offered," she said, masking our true purpose for being there. "Making art accessible to all, and providing a means for every working man and woman to gain an appreciation and education in the world's art."

She continued to wax poetic from the founding in 1852 when the Victoria and Albert began as the national museum of design and art. Ten kilometers of galleries held every imaginable kind of art discipline from around the world and throughout the centuries. Even with all the wonderful artifacts I'd been involved in gaining—and losing—I couldn't help but feel giddy at what this museum offered. Where else could you see an Indian throne and the first freestanding bookshelf, the Heneage Jewel owned by Queen Elizabeth I, and a staggering wealth of ceramics, metalwork, textiles, paintings, photography, and musical instruments all under one huge roof. The marvels from the once vast British Empire, long after the fabled sun had set.

"And your favorite would be?"

"The furniture and sculpture of the display areas. It's honestly the most peaceful atmosphere I've ever found in a museum home," she said. "But that's if I'm just looking. What held me in sway the first time I came is the area that still draws me. The conservation room and its opportunity to return distressed art to the public."

The students moved on, and our discussion switched to more pressing topics.

"I need you to take these shopping bags for me and keep everything safe," I murmured. I reached into my pocket and removed the coral, pushing it down the side of one bag to hide in the depths. "There's a laptop buried beneath, and a USB drive inside that coral piece that I need you to see."

"Sounds interesting," she whispered. "Follow me, and we'll find an empty office."

Down another hall, she switched on the light in a room a little smaller than a broom closet. One corner held several monitors that showed various entrances.

"Not deluxe accommodations, but serviceable for our needs," she said. "This is just a backup area, and the guard always breaks about this time each day."

I took in the gray walls, the subdued lighting, and the triple monitors.

"This is fine." I withdrew the laptop, powered up the computer and pulled apart the coral. Cassie gasped. I put a finger to my lips. Despite her assurances, I wasn't completely ready to feel safe. "I want you to know what you're protecting. It only seems fair."

Pictures glowed on the screen, and I flipped through the digital gallery. I pulled a scrap of paper from the Prada and jotted down my cell number. "I need you to look at these when you can, Cass, but keep the information to yourself. Email or text me regarding any item you spot that has a history. No matter how innocuous you might believe, I need to know. I'm grasping at straws here and looking for any connection."

"You want me to keep this drive and the computer?"

"If you can. I have something I must do tonight. If everything goes well I should be by to pick up the whole shebang before midnight. If not, I'll need to know it's somewhere safe until you can get it to the Beacham Foundation."

She nodded. That was what I loved about this girl. She always
got
what needed to be done. No hysterics, no histrionics. She scribbled on a Post-It and exchanged it for the phone number I held. "Here's my address and phone. Take the number twenty-three bus at Ladbroke Grove Station. Or from here you can take the tube from South Kensington and change to the Hammersmith and City."

"Thanks so much." I bundled everything back into its shopping bag.

In her normal, overly restorative mode, Cassie grabbed a tissue and cleaned the screens on the security monitors. "Always leave a place looking better than how you found it."

That made me smile, then gave me an idea. I pulled out my phone and scrolled to find the photo Gerry sent earlier. "One last thing. Have you ever seen this person before?"

She took the phone and stared for a moment at the screen. Then she pointed toward the middle monitor. "You mean that man?"

 

 

 

 

 

"How in the hell did he find me?" As frustrated as I was to see him again, I had to admire his tenacity just a little.

"He probably pinged your phone. Triangulated the location," Cassie said. "He knows you're inside this building, or maybe just this block, but he won't be able to determine
exactly
where you are."

"That sounds plausible, but doesn't solve my immediate problem." I rubbed my temple, trying to diminish the headache I felt coming. "I need to get away from here, and I need to be able to communicate. I obviously can't do either of those things with my cell."

"Here's a quick plan." Cassie pulled her phone from a pocket. "Mine may not have every bell and whistle yours sports, but it's no slacker. We'll trade. Key any numbers in you know you'll need."

She walked to the back wall and opened a small cabinet. "Leave your cell in here and make an escape. The phone will hold him to the building, and I'll keep him busy. Or at least keep eyes on him. Once the guard returns from break, your man won't be able to search for the phone in here, even if he does narrow down the area range. I'll pick it up before I leave this evening."

"I don't want him following you either."

"Never fear." Cassie flashed her best impish smile. "Whenever I'm carrying it, the phone stays off. I'll turn it on only to check your messages. I'll call you if anything is urgent."

Okay, the control freak in me worried about this plan, but it really did sound like a good option, except . . .

"He'll still know where you live, even if he has several floors to check out before he finds you."

"Public places will be the rule. Never call you or have the phone on in my flat. It will be like now—he'll know the general area, but he won't be able to pinpoint the spot or me."

"You'd make a good spy." I gave her a hug. "Thanks, Cassie."

"No sweat." She grinned and pulled open the office door. "See you later. Remember, bus twenty-three to Ladbroke—"

"Or the Hammersmith and City line," I finished. "I'll remember. You really are terrific, you know."

She gave me a wave goodbye and slipped out of the door. I tucked the ear bud back into my ear. Immediate road noise. The bug was outside, but I could tell from the monitors he was in the building.

Damn. It must have fallen off his lapel.

After I stashed the receiver into a pocket, I scrolled through contact numbers on my phone, and quickly keyed the necessary ones into Cassie's. It took longer than expected, but that could also have been because I felt panicked. I shoved the phone into the cabinet the moment the last number dinged as it entered, and slammed the door. Then I raced from the office before the guard came back.

I met the uniformed employee as I rounded a corner down the hall, and we shared a smile in the passing. Hoping Cassie had eyes on Hawkes, I looked for a way out, back option preferable. I should have asked Cassie before she left. There had to be a rear exit, but I couldn't risk standing out to any employee by asking for directions to the nearest escape hatch. Sigh.

Finally, what logic-based brain molecules I possessed that were not already consumed by stress, realized Cassie's restoration area needed nearby delivery access. The escape hatch I needed. Next stop, stairs to the lower level.

I stopped a second after the last step. The other side had to be the two-story pit, the area Cassie called the conservation room that showcased the restoration team with their projects du jour, while visitors gawked from a catwalk above.

"Can I help you?"

Of course, someone worked immediately nearby when I pulled open the heavy door that separated the stairs from the conservation room. The artist, a young man with paint and dust in his hair, straddled a three-legged stool and held a paintbrush with only a couple of bristles. Though stopped in mid-action, he appeared to be painstakingly transferring dots of paint from a color-riddled palate to an Old Master on the easel before him.

"Um, looking for Cassie?" I extemporized, sweeping the area with an almost three-sixty look, as if trying to spot my friend. "I was supposed to walk with her to the freight door."

"Take a gander up, love."

He pointed the end of his brush at the catwalk, and I nearly swallowed my tongue. There was Cassie, biting a lip to keep from shouting at me, with Hawkes in plain sight, his back to me as they talked. My breath caught. His hands moved in that perpetual elegant style I already associated with him, but I had little doubt they wouldn't be so gentle if he caught me at that moment. I'd heard too much in my receiver before it fell free. He had his orders and I had mine, even if I was improvising on the fly. Instincts kicked in, and I shuffled back into the stairwell. My guide gaped. Hawkes turned. There wasn't time to hide behind the door

I jumped forward and grabbed the painter's arm, pulling him to his feet. Hawkes pivoted on the catwalk and ran back to the south hall. I dragged the painter toward a hallway on one of the long walls. "Where's the back door out of here?"