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After hanging up with Whitt, I called to see if Baker and Ortega would like to do the actual arresting when I showed up for the sketch.
Baker said, “Might as well. There’s only so much we can do on Michelangelo with federal agents gumming up the works. Why don’t you come by, and we’ll work out a plan?”
I told Special Agent Davis that I would be going to the police station, but I didn’t tell her who I would be working with. She might get suspicious that with Baker and Ortega, we were still poking around the Michelangelo case.
She asked, “For how long?”
“Couple of hours, I expect,” I said.
“I can do with a break,” she said. “Since you’ll be at the police station, I’ll follow you over and cut loose. Teague will meet you there.”
Once I pulled into the parking lot, Davis sped off.
I felt like a real detective hanging out at the police department, part of a complex housing police headquarters, county jail, and courthouse. Storefront bail bondsmen and low-budget lawyers’ offices circled the legal center like stationary vultures.
I met Baker and Ortega at their desks, which were each facing the other. Ortega’s was neat and pristine. Baker’s looked like a garbage truck had backed up to it and dumped a load of paper, empty coffee cups, food wrappers, and office supplies on it. Since we were dealing with stolen property, they’d brought in someone from robbery to take charge. Detective Eve Ramirez was drop-dead gorgeous. Her long black hair actually shone, and it was all I could do to keep from reaching out to touch it. I have the same problem with late-term pregnant women. I’ll be talking to them, and the next thing you know, my hand will be resting on their belly. My life is filled with awkward moments, but thankfully, I did resist touching Detective Ramirez. With her dark complexion and nearly-black eyes, she could have been cast as an exotic spy in a 1940s movie. She wore tight jeans, boots, and a violet V-neck blouse with a beige sport coat.
“You met my boyfriend a while back,” I told her. “Nick Weldon.”
“Rings a bell.”
“A professor at the university. He helped with some stolen artwork you recovered.”
“Oh, yeah. Funny guy. How’s he doing?”
Interesting. I felt a little stab of jealousy that she remembered him. “He’s on a fellowship in Vienna.”
“Nice. Though it sounds lonely for you.”
“It is,” I admitted.
My friend from high school, Jillian Caine, owned San Marco Bowling Lanes located on the beach road. I called her and arranged to have the easternmost bowling lane because there were glass doors there. Baker and Ortega could hide behind the shed and foliage just outside, until it was time to make the bust. Eve’s partner, Herman Banks, was a handsome black man as tall as a pro basketball player. He would be with Baker and Ortega, and a squad car with two uniforms hidden nearby would act as backup. Eve would play my security, and if it came up, we would be vague, but hint at a military and mercenary background. We decided on her instead of one of the guys because we felt that two attractive women would be doubly distracting to Alden Whitt, though in my estimation, standing next to Eve would lower my hotness rating from attractive to old maid.
“We’ll need money,” Eve said.
“Why? We’re not really buying the sketch,” I said.
Baker blew out some air and mumbled, “Rookies.”
“This is a buy bust,” Eve explained, “and it could go down different ways, but experience shows that Whitt will keep the sketch at a remote location, check the money, and then have it brought to us. We need some cash to show him.”
“Where are we going to get that kind of money?” I asked.
“We don’t need all of it, just enough to look like it,” Eve said. “I might be able to squeeze two or three grand out of investigative funds, but we’d need more than that.”
“How much to make it believable?” I asked.
Ortega said, “Enough to bundle it in banded stacks in a bag of some sort, gym bag or duffel bag. In the bottom of the bag, we’ll put in banded stacks of one-dollar bills with hundred-dollar bills on each side. At the top, we’ll have several that are all one-hundred-dollar bills in case he wants to riffle a stack.”
“That’s still a lot of money,” I said.
Eve grabbed a yellow sticky note and pencil from Ortega’s desk. She wrote down some numbers, did some math, and said, “It’d be nice if we had fifty to sixty grand.”
I had an idea. “Hang on a minute.” I called Shari Stephens and explained what was going on, how we were on the verge of getting the sketch back for her, but that we needed to borrow the cash.
“You’re just borrowing it?” Shari asked.
“We’re just borrowing it, right?” I asked Eve.
“If the cash actually changes hands, we’ll have to keep it in evidence until after a trial.”
“Oh.”
Baker spoke up. “But if it’s flash money, she can get it right back when we’re done.”
“What’s flash money?”
“Money we show to the seller,” Herman said. “But it never really changes hands.”
I explained it to Shari, who agreed, then asked, “Can someone meet Shari at the Ameris Bank on US1 to get the cash?”
“Before we take that step, I have the unpleasant task of asking for the Pope’s blessing,” Eve said. She saw my confusion and added, “Have to run it by the captain.”
I told Shari I would call her back when we got the go-ahead, then we all squeezed into Captain Briggs’s office. The robbery officer seemed to embrace every gruff, antisocial captain stereotype from every cop show on TV. A short heavyset man with more hair growing from his ears than on his head, he sat glowering behind his desk. When I was introduced to him, he’d scowled when learning my profession. The more Eve pleaded her case, the more he frowned. When she finished, he sat back and looked at the ceiling for a long time.
Expecting the worst, I was surprised when he said, “Go for it.” He pointed at me. “Get your client down here. I’m going to have some papers drawn up stating that she willingly supplies the money and that we aren’t responsible if her cash is lost.”
Shari sounded wary that the San Marco PD wouldn’t be held responsible if the cash was lost. “It just seems like a double loss to lose the sketch and then lose its value in money.”
“That’s just a fraction of its value, Shari.” I went on to explain how much Whitt and Ricky thought we were paying and how we would be bundling up the money to fool them into thinking it was the full amount.
“Three quarters of a million?” Shari asked, a little breathless.
“That’s black market. If you were to put it up for auction, a legitimate auction, you would probably get a whole lot more than that.”
“Oh my God. I never had a clue. Yes, okay, I’ll get the money and sign whatever paperwork.”
Eve and Herman went to meet Shari at the bank, then escorted her to the police station, along with her sixty thousand dollars in ones and hundreds. At the bank, they picked up a bunch of ten-thousand-dollar bands. Shari stuck around to help as we spent the afternoon bundling it up. We made four authentic bundles with ten thousand dollars in each. Those we would put at the top of a gym bag we found in evidence. Then we bundled the singles between authentic bills until we had enough to fill the bag. It wasn’t the right number of bundles, but they weren’t going to have the opportunity to count them. Hopefully, opening the bag and showing the money would be enough.
When we were finished, Shari drove home, promising that she could act natural in front of Ricky on this eve of what promised to be his big bust. Later that afternoon, I didn’t follow Ricky Stephens, though Special Agent Teague followed me as I showed up across from the dealership to let Elliot the Slim know that the case would be closing.
“I did good?” Elliot asked.
“You did great.” I paid him what he was owed, added a generous bonus, and told him to keep the burner phone.
Wanting to be refreshed for the fun to come, I went to bed by ten, but my mind was racing a mile a minute, so around eleven-thirty, I got up and took some melatonin. Twenty minutes later, I was in la-la land.
In the morning, I explained to Davis what I had going, and she had no problem ducking out again once I got to the police station, though I would have to phone her when I no longer had cops around me. All of us good guys got together in a police station conference room in the morning a couple of hours before the eleven o’clock meeting to go over everything. Baker, Ortega, and Eve’s partner, Herman, needed to know when to come in and make the bust. We considered having me wear a wire, but if Whitt checked for one, things would go bad, so we decided to do what we’d done the first time I talked with Adolph Hurst. I would call Baker’s phone from mine, and he would mute his and leave the call open. We decided on a phrase to signal Baker, Ortega, and Herman to make their move: This is it. This is really the sketch.
I phoned my friend Jillian to make sure everything was still a go at the bowling lanes, and she was excited to see everything go down. It was a slow time of day for bowlers, but she would make sure that anyone else would be given lanes down at the other end of the building. Baker, Ortega, and Herman left before us, wanting to get in place before the bad guys showed up. Next, Eve sent the backup patrol car to park out of the way and near the lanes.
It was almost time to leave, and I felt as nervous as a middle schooler at her first school dance. I kept repeating the phrase, This is it. This is really the sketch, so I wouldn’t screw it up when it came time to call in the troops. I called Baker on my phone, and we got our poor-man’s wire set up, then we went over everything one more time. There were variables we couldn’t count on when it came to what Alden Whitt would do, but we covered most of the possibilities, and the likely possibility that his security, if not Whitt himself, would be armed.
We got to the bowling alley twenty minutes before our arranged time. There were two other lanes in use at the far side of the building. I’d told Jillian to pretend not to know me when I showed up, and she pulled it off like a pro. She gave us lane number one and rented us our burgundy-and-tan bowling shoes. Eve carried the gym bag and went to sit at our lane. I could sit and get nervous all over again, or I could keep busy and roll a few balls. I put on my shoes and found a black ball with blue swirls that fit my fingers. Eve shrugged, put on her shoes, got a ball, and joined me. I was not a great bowler, but Nick and I came to bowl from time to time, like we did with putt-putt and the zipline through the trees above San Marco Gatorland Zoo. My first ball knocked down three pins, and I missed all seven on my next attempt. Eve got in place, lifted her ball, and froze for ten seconds before she started for the lane. When she released it, the ball headed for the gutter, and as I was about to wish her better luck next time, the ball arced back toward the center of the lane and hit the pins with an explosion that knocked them all down.
“I take it you’ve done this before,” I said.
She grinned, which made her all the more beautiful. “Twice a week. I’m in a league.”
“Should have met Whitt at the putt-putt course,” I mumbled.
When she didn’t roll a strike, she would roll a spare. She gave me tips, and my game picked up. We got so into bowling that it wasn’t until I picked up a split and Alden Whitt applauded, that we realized he’d arrived.
“Meg Atwood, you have so many talents.” Whitt smiled widely, yet the joviality did not make it to his eyes. I could sense his intensity now that we’d moved into the cash-for-art part of the deal. His gravitas was further reflected by his dark suit with subtle pinstriping.
“Alden, you have no idea as to the depths of my skills.” I was happy my voice didn’t tremble.
Eve’s whole demeanor changed upon Whitt’s arrival. With an expression that said, “Look but don’t touch,” she picked up the gym bag and moved to my side. Halfway between us and the front door, Ricky Stephens stood, a red box under his arm. Next to him was a man dressed much like Eve, in a dark golf shirt, slacks, and a sports coat.
“So who’s your friend?” Whitt asked, eyes roaming over Eve’s body.
“She’s Mr. X’s version of that guy,” I said, pointing to the man standing with Stephens.
“But so much easier on the eyes.”
“Don’t” was all Eve said.
“We call her Evil Eve,” I warned Whitt. “You really don’t want to know her.”
“Okay,” he said, “but I’m still hoping to get to know you better.”
I flashed him a smile. “Business today. Pleasure tonight.”
“Of course. You have the money?”
“Right there,” I said, nodding to the gym bag in Eve’s grip. “You have the sketch?”
Whitt gestured at the two men standing at a distance. “The man with my security is the seller; he has it with him.”
“Really, Alden? You brought an amateur to a transaction?” I made sure to sound plenty disappointed.
“I know what you mean, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Still working the con, I was silent for long seconds, wanting him to think I was considering calling it off.
“Meg, come on. He’s harmless. Come on, check it out.”
I focused in on the box in red wrapping paper that Ricky carried. “Let’s see it.”
Whitt smiled like I’d said something silly. “By all means—after I’ve seen the money.”
I returned a sarcastic smile. “By all means.”
Eve, moving her eyes back and forth between Whitt and his muscle, slowly unzipped the gym bag. She held it open for him to see, and without taking her eyes from him, she moved it so that I could reach in. I was as cool as a cucumber on the outside, but inside, I was praying like mad that I’d picked a bundle of all hundreds. I surprised myself with a steady hand and grabbed a stack from the top. Using both hands, I held out the stack to Whitt and riffled it like a magician showing a deck of cards. I’d picked a good stack. Whitt stepped forward and reached for the bag. Eve, as quick as a snake, gripped Whitt around the wrist.
“Show us the sketch, and you get the rest,” Eve said then growled, “Not until then.” Damn, she even scared me.
It took Whitt a couple of tugs to free himself, and he held out a calming hand to his security guy. I noticed the bodyguard had moved his hand into his jacket.
“Quite the grip you have there, Evil Eve,” Whitt said, massaging his wrist.
“She’s a badass,” I said.
Whitt did that “come here” gesture with two fingers, and Ricky Stephens approached with the security guy. When they got to us, Whitt said, “Ms. Buyer, I’d like you to meet Mr. Seller and Mr. Security.”
“Charmed,” I said sarcastically, noticing that Ricky was sweating freely.
“They have the money?” Ricky asked.
Whitt gestured to the gym bag Eve gripped.
I took it from her, put back the banded stack, and patted it. “Seventy-five bundles plus Mr. Whitt’s fee safely tucked inside.”
Ricky studied me. “Do I know you?”
Shit. I hoped he didn’t remember me from when I’d spied on him and Blondie at the Lazy Sandbar. “I doubt it.”
“Who are you working for?” Ricky asked.
I acted offended. “Alden, you are on thin ice here.”
“Don’t mind Mr. Seller, he’s a little nervous,” Whitt said and took the wrapped package from Ricky. “Look, he brought you a present.” He handed me the package, which was the size a dress shirt might come in.
As Ricky continued staring, I handed the bag with money back to Eve, put the box on the computerized scoring console and carefully removed the wrapping paper to reveal a white gift box. Eve kept her eyes firmly on Mr. Security, who returned the favor. I lifted the lid, removed some crepe paper, and there was The Floating Ballerina in a simple black frame. I’d seen a photo of it, but to see it in person, to realize what it represented, to know who had touched and drawn on that bit of linen, took my breath away.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” Whitt said.
I smiled.
Ricky jerked like he’d been hit with a jolt of electricity. He glared at me with recognition. “Wait a minute.”
Now! I had to say the words that would bring Baker, Ortega, and Banks, “This is—” Oh crap! My mind went blank.
“This is what?” Whitt asked.
Ricky said, “I saw you at the Lazy Sandbar the other day.”
“What? Me? No, not—This is it, this—uh...”
Eve stared at me wide-eyed. Suddenly, I was back in my middle school production of Annie, and as Miss Hannigan, my mind had blanked on one of the big lines. “This is it. This...”
The entire cast had stared at me just like Eve was doing now.
“Meg?” Whitt reached for the sketch.
Ricky pointed a finger at me. “You were taking pictures of us.”
It was like a lightbulb over my head clicked on to a million watts, and I remembered. I screamed, “This is it! This is really the sketch!”
Everything happened in an instant, and I felt like I was in a movie progressing in fast-forward. Whitt grabbed the box with the sketch at the same instant Mr. Security seized one of the money bag’s handles. It was like a new Olympics competition, synchronized snatching. I had a firm grasp on the other side of the box holding the sketch. With his other hand, Mr. Security reached into his jacket. Eve moved so fast, it was almost a blur, and she had her gun out and up under Mr. Security’s jaw before he could free his. By then, the three detectives had rushed through the glass doors by our bowling lane. Mr. Security left his gun in his holster, released the money bag, and raised both hands.
Whitt gave one more tremendous tug on the sketch box, pulling me off balance. Stumbling toward him while trying to regain my equilibrium while maintaining my hold on the sketch, my body fell into his. He made a high-pitched squeal, and I realized I’d inadvertently driven my right knee into his testicles. He released the box and fell to the floor, both hands holding his injury.
There were shouts of “freeze” and “police,” and Ricky bolted. Herman ran after him. Ortega took control of Mr. Security from Eve. She holstered her gun, passed the money bag to me, grabbed her bowling ball, ran a few steps, and rolled it hard. Instead of the wooden lane, it sped down the carpet and past racks of stationary balls, curved by Herman, and smashed into Ricky’s feet. He fell hard.
Eve cuffed Ricky, Ortega put his pair on Mr. Security, and Baker helped Whitt up into a kneeling position and cuffed him. Whitt looked up at me with raging eyes and a beet-red face.
“Sorry about the knee to the—it wasn’t intentional,” I said.
As Baker got him to his feet, Whitt continued to stare in silence. Maybe he didn’t say anything for fear he would still be speaking in upper registers. Baker took him away.
I went up to Eve and asked, “You’re a superhero, aren’t you?”