Chapter
twenty-one

Zander was lying.

Britt’s heart reverberated slowly like a bass drum. Boom. Boom. Boom.

He was lying.

She activated the tracking app on her phone because back when she’d set it up, she’d added him to it. It took the app a few seconds to pinpoint Zander’s location, a small space of time that stretched wretchedly long with the premonition that he was not at the inn, writing, like he’d told her.

The circle representing Zander appeared on the app’s screen, traveling south on Highway 101. Nauseating proof. She’d just caught him in a lie.

He was fifteen minutes outside of town. Not a tremendous head start. If she drove fast, and she liked to drive fast, she could probably shave off a few minutes of his lead.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

A quaking had begun deep inside her torso. It was fear, she realized. She was afraid that their whole relationship was abruptly, horribly at risk.

She’d been so careful of him. She hadn’t imagined that he might not be as careful of her. It hadn’t occurred to her to doubt him. Not once. Now, however, as she stared at her tracking app, she saw that she shouldn’t have been so blindly naïve.

Zander. Zander had lied to her. He’d lied.

Big, bottomless misery hovered above her, waiting to swallow her whole. The only thing that could generate that level of misery was equally big and bottomless attachment.

She cared about Zander even more than she’d realized.

When she got to wherever he was going, he had a lot of explaining to do.

The fourth key Zander tried on the door of apartment #618 slid easily into place, then turned the deadbolt with a solid click.

He entered, then locked the door behind him. Cool, moist air enveloped him.

One of the keys had actually worked.

He was inside his uncle’s secret apartment.

A contemporary kitchen that looked like it had never been used gave way to a living area. The space held the minimum amount of furniture. A simple table with four chairs. Beyond that, two sofas and a coffee table. Cream curtains partially covered the windows at the rear of the space. An open door led to a bedroom containing a bed with a beige comforter.

If the painting had once been here, was it now gone?

He flipped the light switches and illumination flooded down. As he progressed through the kitchen, the living room’s right-hand wall became visible first. Three easily recognizable oil paintings had been suspended there. All were knock-offs of famous works. Monet’s Water Lilies. Van Gogh’s Starry Night. Degas’ ballerinas.

He walked farther and was finally able to glimpse the left-hand wall.

In the center of it hung a painting.

It was a painting he’d seen many times before in articles about the Triple Play, on microfiche, on computer screens, in the books he’d checked out about Renoir. Very few people had seen this particular masterwork face-to-face in the past thirty years. Now all at once, he was in that number.

Young Woman at Rest.

Oil on canvas. Painted in the year 1876 in the impressionist style by the famously brilliant Frenchman Pierre-Auguste Renoir. Owned by the Pascal family since 1931. Taken by the Nazis in 1941. Found and returned after a painstaking search by Annette Pascal’s grandparents and father in the year 1968. Stolen again in 1985 by James Richard Ross, who later became Frank Joseph Pierce.

A simple wooden frame bordered the painting. Brightness shone against the textured brushstrokes, each one melting into the next with awe-inspiring skill.

Zander’s memory supplied the subject’s name. Nina Lopez. Nina had lived more than a century before, yet to this day, her skin glowed with youth. Golden brown hair flowed over one shoulder onto her floral dress. Her liquid eyes looked out from the picture thoughtfully, almost as if she had been waiting with long-suffering patience to be found.

A hush fell over Zander, quieting his body and mind.

This piece of art was far more timeless than he was.

Every detail of it proclaimed masterpiece.

He glanced again at his surroundings. It seemed that Frank had done what he could to ensure the painting’s security. He’d furnished the apartment, likely so that nothing about this interior would arouse suspicion should staff from The Residences need to enter. He’d even added other impressionist works to the room. Anyone who observed them would think that this apartment’s renter liked European art from the late 1800s. They’d have no reason to imagine that one of these pieces might be an original.

Frank had positioned the curtains so that the sunlight couldn’t quite reach Young Woman at Rest. The thermostat read 70, which ensured an environment neither too hot nor too cold. A whir sounded from the direction of the ceiling vent above, which didn’t match the others. Had it been fitted with a humidifying device? The moisture in the air seemed to attest to that.

Up until now, there’d still been a chance Frank hadn’t been involved in the Triple Play. Emerson could have been lying. The clues they’d followed might have led them down the wrong path. But now he was looking directly into the face of the Renoir and the certainty that his uncle had stolen it.

The uncle he’d loved.

No person was perfect. He wasn’t. His parents hadn’t been. But back when he’d come to live with Frank and Carolyn, they’d both seemed as close to perfect as people could be.

Maybe it had made him feel safer to think that, and in those days, he’d needed a sense of safety in order to function. Maybe thinking that had just been simpler for him.

This painting testified to the fact that Frank had made a colossal mistake. Around the time of his wedding to Carolyn, Frank had placed his trust in a God who forgave even the most colossal mistakes. But if Frank’s faith had been genuine, why hadn’t he taken steps to make amends for his mistake? Why hadn’t he returned Young Woman at Rest to Annette Pascal long ago? Without too much difficulty, Frank could have done so without incriminating himself.

Zander took a few steps back, to get a more distant perspective on the painting, and spotted an envelope on the coffee table. Written across it in Frank’s familiar handwriting was one word.

Carolyn.

Carefully, he picked it up. The business-sized envelope held a stiffness, the kind of stiffness that worked its way into paper as it aged.

He knew what to do about the painting. He’d leave it here until the FBI came to retrieve it.

But this letter? Frank had intended this for Carolyn and only Carolyn. If he left it here, the FBI would very likely take it. As the letter’s rightful owner, Carolyn deserved to open it herself and read it first.

He carefully folded it and slid it into the back pocket of his jeans. After the FBI had custody of the painting, he’d explain everything to Carolyn and give this letter to her—

Someone knocked on the apartment’s door, the sound unnaturally loud in the silence. Zander jerked. His chin whipped around.

“Zander?” Britt called from the hallway.

Terror contracted his heart.

Had Emerson learned of his trip here? Had she somehow gotten hold of Britt?

He ran to the door. Splaying a hand on its wooden surface, he looked through the peephole. As far as he could tell, Britt was alone on the other side. As he watched, she turned and moved in the direction of the next door.

His thoughts shot in a thousand different directions. He opened the door. “Britt.”

She whirled. He looped a hand around her arm and tugged her into the apartment. She’d probably only been in the hallway for a short time, but he felt frighteningly exposed.

All of his careful plans, his precautions on her behalf, were racing through his fingers like water.

They faced off. Him, shocked and rattled. Her, with a tight, accusatory expression on her face.

“How did you know I was here?” he asked.

“The tracking app on my phone. Remember? I connected your phone to it years ago. Before your trip.”

He’d forgotten. Pressure banded around his chest. He might be having a heart attack. Think, Zander.

“When Carolyn told me you’d taken Frank’s phone and keys, I knew that, at the very least, you’d deliberately kept that information from me. Then when I called you, I could tell you were lying. So I checked the app.”

“And followed me here.”

“I couldn’t find your car—”

“I swapped cars with Clint.”

“—but the tracking app showed me which corner of the building you were in. I started at floor one. I’ve been knocking on all the doors in this corner on every floor.”

Think. If he was going to protect her, he first needed to think through the dangers she may have brought with her. Then decide how to counter them.

“You’ve found the painting. Right?” She spoke without inflection, proceeding into the apartment. When she spotted the Renoir, she simply stood, observing it.

She wore white jeans, a loose turquoise shirt. She’d woven her hair into a messy braid that snaked over one shoulder. She looked just like she always did, except for the waves of betrayal pouring from her. She was furious with him.

He was terrified for her. “Did you drive here in your car?” he asked.

She gave a rigid nod.

“No one followed you?”

“No.”

“That doesn’t mean they don’t know where you are.”

“How? I’ve been keeping an eye on my rearview mirror ever since the day you told me you thought Nick was tailing you. I’ve never once suspected that anyone was following me.”

“Emerson knows you’ve been hunting for the painting with me. She may have placed a GPS device on your car.” In that case, Emerson could be right on their heels. They might only have minutes to evacuate.

Britt looked at him sharply. “A GPS device?”

He jerked his chin.

“If you suspected that they might have put a GPS device on my car, why didn’t you say so?” she asked.

Why hadn’t he warned her? In retrospect, keeping her in the dark struck him as unforgivably stupid. “Because I didn’t plan for you to come anywhere near this painting. Look, we need to get out of here.” Urgency marked each word. “This piece of art is worth a fortune. There are plenty of people in the world who wouldn’t hesitate to kill us both to get their hands on it.”

“If I’ve inadvertently led those people here, then I’ve also led them to the painting.” She gestured to the Renoir. “We can’t let them have this.”

“Yes, we can.” If his choices were risking Britt or letting the painting fall into the wrong hands—no contest. He’d let the painting go. “Let’s leave—”

“We’re taking the painting. We need to cover it in something.” She rushed to the curtains. “Give me a leg up.”

“Britt.”

“Give me a leg up.”

He cupped his palms and lifted her. She raised the edge of the curtain rod from its support, tipped the rod down, and let one of the curtain panels pool on the floor.

Zander set Young Woman at Rest on the curtain, and they hurried to wrap it in folds of cloth. He lifted the painting, and they dashed into the hallway. He didn’t bother locking the door behind them.

Elevator or stairs? “Let’s take the stairs,” he decided. Fewer cameras.

They’d leave Britt’s car here and drive Clint’s anonymous truck straight to . . . to Detective Shaw. They only had to make it to the police station in Merryweather. Yet under these circumstances, Merryweather felt much too far away.

Maybe it would be better to take the painting to the closest police station. Here, in Olympia. That’s what he’d do. He’d take it to the nearest station and entrust it to the police, who were much better equipped to protect it than he was. Then he’d get Britt far away from it.

Their breathing accelerated as they sprinted down the final flight of stairs. They reached the first floor and pushed through the exit doors that emptied to the parking lot. He led the way as they ran toward Clint’s truck.

The mild, cloudy day appeared harmless. Peaceful. Light wind rustled the bank of trees at the perimeter of the lot. Clint’s truck waited for them, just forty yards or so away.

They sped toward it.

Twenty yards.

All four doors of a black G-Class Mercedes SUV parked nearby opened simultaneously. Four men climbed from it. Immediately, their focus centered on Zander and Britt.

His gut pitched. They ran faster.

“I’d slow down if I were you, Zander,” one of the men called.

Zander cut a look over his shoulder. The one who’d spoken was Nick Dunlap. And he’d drawn a gun.

Instantly, Zander stopped. Britt ran a few more paces before pausing to assess the situation. Her eyes met his and a wordless conversation passed between them.

Go, he pled. She wasn’t carrying the painting. He was. So they were unlikely to shoot her. If she continued forward, she might be able to get away. Go!

She gave a minuscule shake of her head. I’m not leaving you.

God, Zander prayed. God.

These men knew his name. If they knew that, then they knew what he held.

They’d come for the Renoir.

They hadn’t come to hurt Britt. She was unarmed. If he cooperated with them and handed over the painting, then they’d have what they wanted and they’d let Britt go.

Nick holstered the weapon as he and the other three men neared. Zander placed himself between them and Britt. They were all wearing slim, custom-made suits. All looked like Nick did, with weathered faces and muscular frames.

One appeared to be in his mid-fifties. The others were younger. Nick. Then one with recessed eyes. One with thick, black hair.

“Out for a stroll on this pleasant day?” the oldest one asked Zander and Britt in an amused Scottish accent. Wrinkles fanned out from his eyes. He wore his graying hair short and a gold signet ring on one of his fingers.

Neither Zander nor Britt answered.

Tension had overtaken Zander’s entire body.

“Tom,” Nick said to the older man, nodding as a sedan pulled around the corner of the building in their direction.

Tom. This was the Tom connected to Nick and Emerson.

“It’s all right,” Tom said to Nick. “Zander and Britt here are too intelligent to try to signal the driver. They know they’d just end up putting him or her in jeopardy and that really wouldn’t be fair, seeing as how the driver isn’t involved in this at all.”

The sedan drew even with them. The old woman behind the wheel gave them a benign scan and continued on.

Tom flicked his fingers toward the covered painting. “That looks heavy. We’d be glad to carry it for you—”

“Who are you?” Zander asked.

“We’re the ones who’ve gone to a lot of time and expense to locate that painting,” Tom answered.

Zander held eye contact with Tom. “Both the Pascal Museum and the FBI are offering a reward for this painting. If you’ll let us return it, we’ll let you pocket the reward money.”

In response to Zander’s offer, Tom’s attention roved to Britt. He aimed a smile at her—both tender and cold—that turned Zander’s blood to ice. “Interesting proposition. Except that the reward money is just a drop in the bucket compared to what I can get for the painting.”

“Turning it in is fast and easy,” Britt said. “No risk.”

“There’s always risk, love.”

“But not the kind of risk that could land you in jail,” she said.

Tom chuckled. “I’ve dealt with the risk of jail for close to forty years now. I’ve even been an inmate a time or two.”

“We’ll hand the painting over to you,” Zander said. “And you’ll let us go.”

“You’ll hand the painting over,” Tom agreed. “I’m not so sure about that last part.”

“You’ll have what you want, and you’ll let us go,” Zander stated.

“But you see, I want two things.” Casually, Tom resettled and smoothed his suit jacket. “I want the painting, and I want to get out of the country with it safely. If I let you go, you’ll run inside that building,” he inclined his head toward The Residences, “call the police, and make it more difficult for me to get out of the country.”

“No, we won’t,” Zander said flatly. “You have my word.”

“I never accept a stranger’s word,” Tom said kindly. “In fact, I never accept the word of a friend. Or even a brother, for that matter.”

Panic twisted every second into an endurance test. “In that case, tie us up inside Frank’s apartment.”

“Not a bad idea. Just to show you how reasonable I am, I’ll compromise. I’ve got one seat available in the car, so I’ll leave one of you here inside the apartment. I’ll take the other as collateral, to ensure the silence of the one we leave behind.”

“I’ll go,” Zander said, grabbing on to the thread of hope Tom had offered. They’d restrain Britt at The Residences, and they’d take him. That, he could live with. He couldn’t live with the prospect of them loading her into their SUV.

“Zander,” Britt hissed.

“What?” Tom asked Britt in the same understated, entertained tone he’d been using since the conversation began. “You don’t like that plan?”

“I don’t want you to take him,” she said. “He’s told you that we won’t interfere with your plans, and we won’t. Tie us both up in Frank’s apartment.”

Tom regarded them with approval. “Look at the two of you. Both trying to protect the other. Charming.” He caught Nick’s eye. “Put Britt in the car and leave Zander in the apartment.”

The thread of hope Zander held snapped.

Nick and the one with the recessed eyes immediately came forward.

“It’s not personal, Zander,” Tom was saying in his Scottish brogue. “It’s just business.”

The one with recessed eyes attempted to thrust Zander to the side. Zander stayed on his feet and shoved the painting into his arms. Nick came at him. Zander swung, his punch connecting with Nick’s jaw.

Out of the corner of his eye, Zander saw Britt racing toward the nearest entrance to The Residences.

The dark-haired one bolted after her.

Pain exploded against the side of Zander’s face. In the split second when his attention had been diverted, Nick had landed a blow. Zander came up swinging. He and Nick exchanged punches—a haze of fists and force and hurt—until the other one rushed Zander from the side, tackling him to the ground.

Zander tried to twist—

Both men thrust him onto his stomach. A knee pressed into the small of Zander’s back. Zander rotated his head toward Britt, praying she’d made it inside the building.

Instead, the dark-haired man had pinned her arms in front of her and was hauling her back toward them. She was kicking, struggling. “Zander!”

“Britt,” he rasped. He heaved against the weight immobilizing him.

“I’m sorry,” she cried. “Zander! I’m sorry.”

A prick stung the side of his neck, and his vision began to gray.

Britt writhed, doing her best to land blows against her attacker’s legs as the man continued to cart her to the SUV.

No.

His worst nightmare was playing out before him. Britt, in danger because of a situation with his uncle that he’d involved her in.

Britt!

Unconsciousness submerged him.

Text message from Carolyn to Zander:

Carolyn

Britt came by the store earlier, and I told her how you’d taken Frank’s keys and cell phone to your friend. She seemed surprised, so I simply wanted to let you know that I’d talked with her. I love you.