Suspicious (On the Run) (3 page)

Gemma Neeley, of Scotland Yard’s Art Squad, did not look up from the catalogue of Dutch paintings when she sensed that someone had stopped in front of her desk.

“I’m not going to the pub with you, Davy,” she said in her American accent. “I already told you that. Doesn’t matter what you call it, that’s not football.” Gemma had strong feelings about football, having spent her childhood after her parents’ divorce shuttling back and forth across the Atlantic between her English mum and her American dad, who was a staunch Green Bay Packers fan. She had other reasons she wasn’t going to the pub with Davy, but she kept those to herself. Better to let him think it was the football thing.

“Davy giving you problems, Gemma?”

She looked up and saw the office’s fluorescent lights shining on the dome of Nigel Edwards, her boss and the head of the Art Squad. He’d taken the razor to his patchy hair growth last year, declaring that he’d rather resign than resort to a comb-over at the ripe old age of thirty-four.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Gemma said. At six-foot-two with golden blond hair, blue eyes, and a curvy figure that couldn’t be disguised, even swathed in a trench coat against London’s fickle weather, Gemma stood out in the mostly masculine police world. She had plenty of experience deflecting and diffusing passes. She rolled her chair back a few inches. “What’s up?” As much as she liked her easy-going boss, she knew he hadn’t dropped by her desk to chat.

“Got word that there’s an informant who says he has information on the country house robberies.”

Gemma frowned at the art catalogue on her desk. She was working on a cold case, a painting that had been stolen ten years earlier during a break-in at a pitifully ill-secured regional museum. The painting was beautiful—an exquisitely detailed still life of a table, post meal. Messy and realistic, it showed a ruched tablecloth littered with breadcrumbs, tilted glasses, and a half-peeled lemon, its rind curling over the edge of the table. The artist was Willem Claesz. Not exactly a household name. Not like Vermeer or Rembrandt.

Nigel lifted his chin toward the catalogue. “Anything on the Claesz?”

“No,” Gemma said, reluctantly. “Just going over everything, looking for something that was missed the first time.”

Nigel nodded, his dark brown gaze on the catalogue, too. “If we get a break on the country house thefts, it would be good for the department. Higher ups are rumbling about cutting our budget.”

“Again?”

“Some idiot has floated the idea of closing the department altogether. That way, they could shift all our funding to terrorism.”

“Well, can’t blame them. Lot easier to justify funds to prevent terrorists from killing citizens than to find a dusty old painting,” she said with a downward quirk of her lips. The budget battle was a constant threat. The Art Squad was the easiest thing to cut.

Her boss waited a beat. “But jewels make headlines.”

“Unlike poor Claesz.” If they recovered the Claesz, it might get a mention or two, buried at the bottom of the day’s news. If they found a stash of missing jewels, it would be headline news.

Gemma slapped a sticky note on the corner of the page then closed the catalogue. She took the paper Nigel held out. “Well, let’s see if we can find something and get a nice splashy headline to keep the bean counters at bay.”

***

“That’s not the way the zipper goes.” Zoe looked over her shoulder at Jack.

“I thought you wanted my help with it.”

“Zipping it up, not down.”

He reversed course with the zipper. “Pity,” he said as he fastened the tiny hook at the top of the zipper, his breath fanning over her bare shoulders, making her shiver. “Don’t tempt me.” Zoe shot him a look as she crossed the room, her dress swishing around her, and stepped into her shoes, stilettos that she’d borrowed from her friend Helen’s well-stocked closet. “You look tempting in that tux, but you’re the one who promised Harrington we’d be there an hour early.”

“I knew we shouldn’t have tried to work in the Castel Sant’Angelo.” He adjusted his cuffs and held out his arm.

Zoe gave herself one final check in the mirror and rubbed her collarbone. “I shouldn’t have gotten so much sun today. My freckles are really popping.” She reached for her makeup bag.

Jack crossed the room and caught her hand. “Your freckles are incredibly sexy.”

She laughed. “No they’re not. Spotty, blotchy patches are not sexy.”

He pulled her into his arms. “Yes they are.”

“Then why don’t you see lots of models or actresses with freckles?”

“Hollywood and the media are messed up.”

“Well, that is true. I’ll give you that point, but think about it. All those statues and paintings we’ve been looking at, how many freckles did you see? None. Freckles aren’t attractive.”

“Yes, they are.” Jack studied her face then said, “I can see I need to demonstrate. Perhaps kiss each one?”

“Then we’ll be so late, the opening will be over.”

“Later, then?” Jack raised an eyebrow.

“Definitely.”

Gray clouds slid across the sky as they emerged from the hotel, and Zoe hoped it wasn’t about to rain. If it did, the increased humidity would erase the smooth lines she’d flat-ironed into her hair and tease out her natural curls, giving her more of a Little Orphan Annie look. At least her hair was up. She’d spent half an hour twisting her hair into a soft chignon, using several strategically placed hairpins decorated with tiny navy blue beads. If the humidity did descend, at least the frizz wouldn’t be quite so noticeable.

They took a taxi to the museum, which was located a few blocks off the Piazza del Popolo in the northwest of the city. The first raindrops spattered down as they hurried up the steps to the palazzo that had been converted to a museum. They gave their invitation to a young woman at the door with flyaway brown hair and an elfin face who was juggling a phone and a clipboard while she kept reaching up to adjust an earpiece that continually slipped out of her ear. “Oh, Mr. Throckmorton is waiting for you. This way, please.” She guided them through the grand entrance hall to a gallery that ran around a central courtyard. Weathered statues, most of them missing limbs, and often their heads as well, lined the interior wall.

“See—zero freckles,” Zoe said softly.

Jack raised an eyebrow languidly. “Their loss.”

Their escort said, “This is the end of the exhibit, the last room, but Mr. Throckmorton said to bring you directly here.” They entered the spacious room with mosaics on the floor and a heavy wood-beamed ceiling. Partial frescoes of rural scenes decorated the walls and more statues ranged around the edges of the room, but it was the jewels displayed in the center of the room that had everyone’s attention.

Zoe could see why they would save these pieces for last. The gems glittered and sparkled. The contrast of their modern craftsmanship—relatively speaking—against the ancient art of the statues, frescoes, and mosaics only emphasized their sophisticated beauty.

Harrington saw them and moved across the room. He was also looking distinguished in a tuxedo. “Thank you, Amy,” he said to the young woman and she left, hastily grabbing her earpiece as it slipped again.

“My new assistant.” He winced as Amy narrowly avoided a collision with a waiter holding a tray of appetizers. He turned to them and shook hands with Jack. “Good to see you. And you look lovely.” He kissed Zoe’s cheek, and she almost made a quip about not being too sweaty for a kiss, but stopped herself. They weren’t supposed to have met for a year. She thanked him instead.

A handsome man in his thirties with black hair threaded with silver at the temples, black eyes, and a roguish smile joined their group, his gaze fixed on Zoe. “Harrington, is this the lovely creature who rescued your piece that had gone missing?”

“Yes, we are indebted to Mrs. Andrews. Carlo Goccetto, head of Millbank and Proust’s European region,” Harrington said as he introduced them, and Zoe didn’t miss the significant glance that passed between Jack and Harrington while Carlo kissed the back of her hand.

Zoe disengaged her hand from his slightly damp palm. “And this is my husband, Jack.”

Carlo flicked a glance at Jack. “Delighted.”

“Both Mr. and Mrs. Andrews played a vital role in the return,” Harrington said, giving the titles a slight emphasis, which Carlo either completely missed or ignored.

“Have you seen the exhibit, yet?” Carlo asked Zoe.

“No. We just arrived.”

“May I?”

Zoe opened her mouth to refuse, but Jack cut her off. “Go ahead, I’ll catch up. I need to make a phone call.”

Zoe sent Jack a dark glance as Carlo extended his elbow. Jack leaned in and whispered, “I know you can handle him. Find out what you can.”

As Carlo pulled her away, she looked over her shoulder and mouthed, “You owe me.” They moved through the chain of rooms to the beginning of the exhibit, then they retraced their steps, looking at coiled gold Minoan earrings, Greek cameos, bracelets from Pompeii, and rough gold crosses. Zoe admired the pieces, and Carlo told her interesting stories about some of the jewelry.

“Did you know Caesar was obsessed with pearls?” he asked as they looked at a large pink-tinted pearl.

“No,” Zoe said, using the excuse of leaning closer to the case to wiggle her hand free of his arm, but he adjusted his stance, moved with her, and kept her hand firmly tucked into the crook of his elbow.

“He even had a law passed to prevent anyone from owning pearls except the aristocracy.”

Zoe murmured an appropriate reply, and he towed her along to the next room. “They’re all so beautiful,” Zoe said as they moved by the heavy medieval pieces to more delicate Renaissance jewelry studded with gems. “Can you imagine having one of these?”

His mouth curved down into a frown. “Too much trouble,” he said quietly. “Believe me, I know. The insurance, the security. No, I enjoy them, but I would not want to own any of these jewels.”

“Even the Flawless Set?” Zoe asked, hoping she wasn’t being too obvious.

“Ah, that would be the worst of all,” he said. “The notoriety alone…” he trailed off, squeezing her hand tighter to his side. “No, I prefer other things of beauty.”

Zoe was glad to see they were almost back to the last room where Jack was moving through the crowd toward them. As they entered the final room again, Harrington’s assistant, Amy, careened through the doorway and ran directly into Zoe, knocking her back against the doorframe.

“Oh! I am so sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Zoe felt her upswept hair slip to the nape of her neck and looked down to see several of the beaded hairpins on the mosaic floor.

“I’m so, so sorry.” Amy flushed and scrambled on the floor for the pins, turning an even deeper crimson when she saw Carlo glowering at her as he knelt down to help her.

“Nothing that can’t be fixed.” Zoe took the pins from Amy’s shaking hand and Carlo’s slightly damp palm, thinking that it was too bad she couldn’t thank the girl for giving her the perfect excuse to ditch Carlo. Zoe stopped Amy in mid-apology, told her with a significant look at Carlo that it was nothing to worry about, and left for the restroom.

“Learn anything?” Jack asked when she joined him later. He removed disks of deep-fried bread topped with dollops of buffalo mozzarella and a basil leaf off a tray and handed one to her.

“Only that he has excellent triceps muscles.”

Jack did a double take.

“He kept my arm pinned to his side the whole time.”

“I see.”

They spent the rest of the evening in the final gallery surrounded by the exquisite jewelry, and even though it was almost two hours, Zoe wasn’t bored. She admired the jewelry, especially the Flawless Set. The diamonds flashed and glittered under the lights. The necklace was the most spectacular of the three pieces, a string of graduated round-cut diamonds that began small, about the size of a pea, at the clasp and gradually increased in size to the largest stones in the front, which were bigger than Zoe’s thumbnail. Zoe walked slowly around the necklace, amazed at how large even the small stones were. Then she looked at the matching bracelet, a single string of diamonds, as well as the earrings, which were two medium round-cut earrings in simple settings. It was the most popular piece and people invariably entered the room and moved directly to it.

“What do you think?” purred a voice behind her shoulder. “Beautiful, no?”

Zoe shifted so that Carlo was not directly behind her. He was slightly shorter than Zoe was, and his hot breath doused her shoulder. Unlike the pleasant shivers Jack’s breath on her bare skin had given her earlier, this guy’s panting made her long for a cocktail napkin.

“Yes, they are gorgeous,” she agreed. She looked back, expecting to find him staring at her as he had during their tour of the exhibit, but now he fixed his gaze on the Flawless Set. So much for not wanting it, Zoe thought. The guy was all but drooling.

“A few people do not like it,” he said. “They say the design, the setting, is too simple, that it is crude, even boring. What do you think?”

“I think the stones are so beautiful that they don’t need elaborate settings or extra gems to enhance them.”

He dragged his gaze away from the stones to her face. “Exactly. Yes, that is it. You put it so well. There is a painting—very fine—in the gallery upstairs. Perhaps I could show you…”

“Oh, my husband wants me. Excuse me,” she said, extracting her hand from his sweaty grip.

Jack was busy, keeping an eye on things while seeming to be doing nothing else except to stroll around the room. He was good at that—appearing completely relaxed on the surface, but being on high alert underneath. She joined him. As they admired a statue twisted into what looked to be a truly painful position, Jack said, “What do you think of him?”

“Carlo?”

Jack raised an eyebrow.

“Well, what else am I supposed to call him? Mr. Goccetto?”

“It would make me feel better, yes. He seems quite the ladies’ man.”

“He’s got sweaty palms and is more interested in the diamonds than any woman in the room.”

Jack looked happier as they went to look at a floor mosaic. Zoe had been fascinated with mosaics ever since she toured Pompeii, and there were some fine examples fitted into the floor of the room. Zoe studied the scene of gladiators fighting while Jack appeared to be doing the same, but he was keeping an eye on the people moving through the room.