Marked Masters (4 page)

He tossed the black mask into my lap. "I've
been reviewing every idea I've come up with in the past week, and I
cannot figure out why Moran didn't kill you or have you killed
anytime between London and Le Puy-en-Velay. He could have done so
many times, with ease and little risk of exposure. Even
accomplished the deed himself, we now know."

"We now assume. No one's given me
confirmation yet about his French alias as my vehicular knight in
shining armor."

"Consider it confirmed."

Damn! I hate when he knows stuff before
me. Especially when I should have already been notified by
someone.
"So, did you order Interpol not to bother telling me?"
I crossed my arms. "Assured them you would tell me yourself, and
you simply forgot to mention it?"

"I received final confirmation an hour ago.
This is really my first opportunity."

Not exactly, but I'd let it slide this
time.
"You're right, Jack. It is puzzling how I was always able
to either slip away from Moran's clutches, or I simply wasn't shot
in the final showdown. As I recall, you were the only one who
almost strangled me in France. Should I be concerned at your close
proximity?"

"Keep this up, and I may try it again." He
frowned. "I'm not joking here, Laurel. I want to know what you have
on Moran that made Simon and the others afraid of killing you. And
why did Moran let you go when he had the opportunity to kidnap
you?"

Yes, that was a paradox I'd been
contemplating for days as well. My quick wits had allowed me to get
free of the first crew in Moran's line of hired help, but they'd
only intended to chloroform me at the outing. Okay, yes, again an
assumption since they took a couple of shots at us later, but they
blasted out taxicab windows when they likely could have aimed
better and hit me instead. But I was still walking and breathing
and thinking… Why?

Even Simon was confused, lamenting that if
he shot me when he had the chance, then he would pay for the act
later.

Jack's next question pulled me out of my
funk. "Did Moran know your grandfather? They had to be
near-contemporaries. Maybe he owed your grandfather a debt of
honor?"

"It's possible," I said, but I had
difficulty believing the theory. It was more likely my crooked
father had made Moran's acquaintance, rather than my straight-arrow
grandfather. Dear Old Daddy may have even owed the criminal
mastermind a huge debt of some kind when he died in the Swiss
avalanche. It was six months before the mangled body was found and
his dentist provided the evidence to prove those lovely veneers
were my father's.

Daddy Dearest owed every other blackheart,
after all. Moran's plan could easily be to spare my life to try to
get some kind of final debt repaid. Though, since I had little
money, I wasn't sure what I could offer in repayment. It had been
nearly a decade since my father's death, sure, but I'd never heard
of a statute of limitations on outstanding markers.

After my grandfather joined my grandmama in
the great beyond, my father happily fell headlong into a two-year
gambling, spending, debauchery spree to end all real and imagined
by Hollywood. Despite the wealth our family accumulated over many
generations, by the time my father went over the wrong side of his
favorite Alp with his latest bimbo, he had nearly run through the
entire estate. He'd left IOUs all over Europe and the Americas. Any
money that remained tied to Grandfather's estate was used to keep
all my limbs firmly connected to my torso by paying off the drug
dealers and mob bosses who crawled out of the woodwork to
intimidate me through direct and indirect contact.

Doing so did not save the family name,
however, or my social reputation and position with many of the
wealthy I'd always considered "our people," as individuals through
the years had been eager to remind me. Though, not everyone
abandoned me, I was happy to realize. A strong cadre of my old
friends truly possessed class and did what they could to help my
art mission. In that way I felt I was all the richer.

At eighteen, I left for college with nothing
but the rest of my grandmother's small trust she left specifically
for my use. I sold the classic Porsche my grandfather left for my
sixteenth birthday gift, and I learned what life was truly about. I
was still learning.

"So, has Moran had any dealings with the
Beacham Foundation?" Jack asked.

"You mean besides having his plans changed
whenever I find something he's stolen and get it returned to the
original owners?" I replied. When Jack nodded, I shook my head.
"Not that I know of. However, I've only worked full time with the
foundation five years. Until I graduated from Cornell, I worked
temporarily in different departments in an intern capacity, which
was only due to the fierce loyalty Max had to my grandfather's
memory."

"And you, I assume, were supposed to take
over the foundation."

Yes, he'd obviously been reading my file
again, so my voice bordered on sarcasm when I said, "Grandfather
always hoped I'd take my place in the business, but that, of
course, was when he held ninety percent of the stock. Once the
foundation became Beacham in name and tradition alone, I'm
basically nothing more than an employee, and I only know what
pertains to my position. I may learn more in the coming months as
the new head of Beacham London, but I doubt Max will change much.
You know as well as I that he's keeping a pretty tight noose around
my neck."

"I think you mean leash."

I shrugged. "Leash, noose, both can choke
the life right out of you."

By the time we'd made it out of the Miami
airport with our bags, it was well past noon. We actually arrived
there midmorning but found a full gamut of spooks in suits awaiting
us, with a representative from all three law enforcement
contingents: CIA, FBI, and Interpol. They huddled together near
baggage claim, obviously not wanting to miss Jack and me. Like we
were going to run away after calling and telling them about the
journal. Still, I understood the paranoia and almost laughed at
their attempt to look casual while the trio's body language shouted
otherwise. Even as they tried to look disinterested, each one
maintained a perimeter sweep of the area. Tweedledee and Tweedledum
were a pair of stocky, thirty-something Vin Diesel clones who
sounded like they hailed from Tennessee and New York, respectively.
They were also FBI and CIA, respectively. The tall, blond guy with
them, a Ukrainian, I thought, admitted to being the representative
from the Miami office for Interpol.

Jack took charge, and I let him. This was no
place for me to try to get involved, other than answering how I
found the journal. However, I did take the opportunity to deposit
each man's business card inside the wallet of my new Fendi bag,
purchased less than a week before to replace the poor Prada that
nearly died in battle during my and Jack's first great adventure.
Business cards are my aces. In my line of work, one never knew when
it might pay to have another specialized civil servant's direct
phone line. And I could never be accused of not considering all
future possibilities.

We ended up in one of the offices of airport
security, with Tweedledum pointedly ejecting, with a few choice
phrases, the much too interested local facility guard. After Jack
finished his debriefing, the CIA agent stared at us, then touched
his Bluetooth earpiece and started talking. The other two pulled
out cell phones and sent quick texts. I figured they were waiting
until they could be sure of a more secure environment before typing
any longer discourses.

The journal remained safely stored in the
false bottom of my Fendi until Jack gave a nod followed by an
impatient finger snap.

I stepped close to him and whispered, "Do
you like that hand? Or do you want to try to snap those fingers
again with your hand separated from your arm at the wrist?" I gave
him my best wide-eyed expression, and he had the decency to look
sheepish, so I pulled the book from my bag and handed it to him. I
thought there was going to be an actual tug of war over the
journal, but Interpol-guy used his accent to an advantage and
reminded everyone how most of the women were from around his former
stomping grounds. He promised to send copies of the journal to
everyone by "end of the business day."

"I'd like a copy sent to me, as well," Jack
said. When Interpol-guy assured a file would be forwarded to Jack's
email, my unease about my sometime-partner doubled. Jack had clout
somewhere—that was obvious—but he was also comfortable lying like
the proverbial rug. The problem was I just didn't know how to get a
true angle on our Mr. Hawkes. Incidents like this one made the
challenge doubly difficult.

My stomach alternated between a rumba and a
salsa by the time we finally left the security office. I'd already
given up on the four-star Miami restaurants I'd been dreaming
about, or trying to con Jack into paying since it required a wallet
thicker than mine. There was simply no way to get a late
reservation in Midtown or the Design District, nor in any of the
high-rise restaurants that glittered above the Miami River.
Reservations be damned! I was ready to find a food truck and troll
for dinner like a native.

As if my brain possessed a personal Google
map, I let my mind drift over the food offerings I knew wended
their way on the streets behind the city's art museums, my idea of
the best place to start. I would have arm wrestled Jack, and likely
won, in an effort to score the first Jefe's Fish Taco or a grilled
wonder from Ms. Cheezious.

We headed for the car rental outlets, and
I pulled out my phone to alert Nico, my gorgeous
right-hand geek. It was approaching the high season, which runs
from December through April, so I hoped he could get me a room at
The Sagamore or The Betsy. Known locally as the "Art Hotel" for
being the first of the Miami Beach hotels to focus on art, I
preferred The Sagamore. However, I was never disappointed when my
visits ended up with a stay at The Betsy and its renovated Art Deco
splendor.

"Who are you calling?"
Jack whispered, locking onto my elbow.

I stopped. "Why are you
whispering?" Then I stared pointedly at his hand. I thought my
comment about the snapping fingers made an impression, but now I
wasn't so sure.

He followed my gaze,
looked up, and shrugged. He used a normal volume to repeat, "Who
are you calling?"

"Nico. I need to find out
where I'm staying."

"I already texted him.
You're staying with me." He kept his hand cupped around my elbow
and took the lead in resuming our trek toward the car rental
counter. My rolling suitcase banged in irritation at the
speed.

"Do you think going all
alpha like this improves your odds?" I asked him.

The airport public address
system came on announcing flights, and I practically had to read
his lips. "What odds?"

"The odds I'll continue to
cooperate with you," I said. Then the PA ended, and I added
quietly, "You tell me nothing. You try to take over. You expect me
to follow docilely in your wake. You snap your fingers at me… When
are you going to get that isn't going to work with us,
Jack?"

The suits still trailed
behind twenty feet or so, and I saw Jack cut his eyes to look over
my head. He raised one finger. Then he ducked his head closer to
mine. "Our unexpected Orlando trip netted much less than we'd hoped
for, just a number, a map we could get online anywhere, and a few
scribblings that pointed to Miami. Despite Nico's best effort, he
has yet to figure out the purpose of the number, and I can't find
any clues on the map. While he's pursuing different angles, we need
to work the Simon trail and see what links your old beau has to
Moran. To get the kind of information we need, we're going to have
to play the wealth card. A yacht trumps a luxury hotel every time,
and we have one at our disposal. Does the opportunity to dine and
sleep aboard a yacht meet with
milady's
approval?"

"Ass."

"Is that a
yes?"

Outflanked again. My hand
itched to slap him. "Yes. It's a 'yes,' damn it."

Bringing Simon up in that
context was Jack's ace to shut me up, and we both knew it. Simon
Babbage was my short-time ex-lover, now archenemy, who apparently
also worked with master criminal Devin Moran. Or Philippe
Aubertaine. And probably another half-dozen aliases. We only
learned of this nefarious data in the last couple of weeks, and I
was still trying to process the traitorous Simon with the ex-lover
Simon. Not that I wanted him back—at least not as a lover. I wanted
him in the kind of handcuffs that never made a man
smile.

On a search Jack and I
undertook for a historic jeweled sword, Simon disappeared with a
bundle large enough to transport such an object, or any other art
treasures we didn't yet know about, and the thief hadn't been a
blip on the radar since. Everyone was looking for him. Me, because
our last conversation was far from finished and because he killed a
woman who looked eerily like me. And because I wanted to hit him
very, very hard where it hurt the most—his freedom and his
wallet.

Moran was trickier. He had
the ability and means to be practically anywhere and everywhere at
the same time. He also possessed the added genius of making me
later see, and be aghast at, all the things I'd missed during
particularly important times in the mission. I truly hated
admitting such weakness.

The craziest part was what
Jack questioned me about on the plane. The facts were clear that
Simon would have probably at least attempted to kill me at our last
encounter, yet he wasn't allowed to, and none of us knew why. Not
that we gave him much room to change plans anyway. If he had
dallied much longer, he risked Jack and me throwing a wrench into
his getaway plan.