“Here you are, Miss Lake. Your very own box.” The bank manager opened the safe deposit box with both keys, his grin as sleek as his black toupee. “We appreciate your business. If you need assistance, please press that buzzer on the door.”
“Thank you.” Cora adjusted her black rimmed glasses under the tried-and-true blonde wig, and tightened her grip on her oversized purse. This time, the wig was pinned in an up-do with the same hair clip, ivy leaves entwined around a mini dagger.
“Be sure to take your key with you when you’re finished.”
She smiled. “I will.” And then some.
When the bank manager left her alone, she closed the box, and removed the key. The other brass key in her pocket felt like a lead weight. With a glance at her silver chain watch, a gift from her mother when she’d graduated high school, she took a deep breath. “You ready?”
“Go ahead,” Tom’s voice came through loud and clear through her earpiece.
She posed by her box, and grabbed her phone, pretending to text something. Several seconds went by.
“You got it?”
“You’re good. Surveillance will think you’re busy on the phone. Twenty-five seconds on the clock, go.”
Twenty-five seconds.
That was all she needed.
With fluid motions, Cora pulled the key from her pocket, and stuck it in the safe deposit box belonging to Portia Conway. Then she pulled the broach clip from her hair, and removed the small dagger. Her lock picking tool.
This one was too easy. Only three seconds to open that puppy. After lifting the lid, she grinned. “Jackpot,” she whispered.
Photo after photo of more priceless works filled the box, among other diamonds, jewelry and papers.
She could hardly contain her glee with each picture, items that’d been missing from history for decades, that had haunted the priceless art restitution community for nearly eighty years.
All documented proof they still existed, and in Portia Conway’s possession. Somewhere.
Which is what Cora was here to find out.
Among all those papers had to be a bill of lading, and delivery address, some kind of receipt showing where all the items were hidden.
Cora Castillo was going to find them. Daughter of the legendary recovery specialist, Calev Cohen.
Pictures of items from the famed Amber Room in Russia, artwork by Degas, Emil Nolde, even a small Picasso, among dozens of others. The biggest score of her career.
Of any recovery specialist’s career.
With only fifteen seconds left to get her proof.
Using her camera phone, Cora snapped a few photos of the dozen or so images.
Plenty of time.
Until one of the images made her heart freeze.
A painting in a silver frame of a landscape, an old stone bridge arcing over a tranquil river, with a lonely man fishing off the bank. On the bottom, Kromlau Brücke, Admon Cohen.
“Holy shit.”
Great Uncle Admon.
“What’s wrong?” Tom’s voice turned panicked.
Her father had told her of her great uncles, all artists in Germany during the Holocaust, and forced to report all their valuables to the Nazis. Like all wealthy Jews had been forced into. When his uncles had refused, the Third Reich had murdered them, and all their family artwork was believed lost. In 1943.
The color shots of her great uncle’s work proved they still existed, here. In Portia Conway’s collection.
The woman had no reason to hold these pieces.
Cora’s great uncle wasn’t that well known of an artist, and his pieces weren’t catalogued in any major gallery. They weren’t collectibles.
Her arms tingled.
“Three seconds. Move!”
She snapped another picture, her fingers shaking and clumsy on the button. “My great-uncle’s work is in here.”
“Later. Get out, now.”
“I need the address.”
“No time. Bug out.”
Rifling through the documents put her over on time. The more Cora searched, the more panic took over her muscle control.
A small notebook appeared at the bottom, stacked with papers and receipts. Too many to photograph.
“Miss Lake, if you’re interested in one of our—” The bank manager came back inside carrying a flyer, and stopped when he saw her searching through box other than her own. “What’s going on?”
Her heart leapt to her throat. She replied with the first thing came into her brain. “This box just popped open, I think the thing is broken. Scared the daylights out of me.” She cringed inside. That’d been the most pathetic response.
“Oh dear,” the manager replied, his expression concerned. He stepped forward.
“Run,” Tom muttered in her ear. “Just run.”
“You should really have that thing looked at.” She tugged her purse over her shoulder, and stepped closer. “Has that ever happened before?”
“No, not at all—”
Just as Cora’s lie registered on his face, she smiled.
“You know what? I got nothing. So sorry about this.” With open palms, she boxed his ears, stunning him. Then she jammed her fist in his throat, making sure he couldn’t call for help. Not hard enough to do permanent damage, but just enough for her to run to the door and close it behind her.
Locking him inside.
With purposeful yet casual steps, she strolled through the bank lobby, discreetly keeping her head ducked from the security cameras. Her heels clicked across the marble floor, echoing off the walls.
The security guard by the door smiled, and touched his hat.
Cora threw him a wink, and pushed out the double doors.