“Tell a lie once and all your truths become questionable.”
Darius Masoud
I frowned at the half-inch of canvas left on the wooden stretcher behind the elaborate gilt frame in Gray’s panic room. The painting of the two women had been cut cleanly with a very sharp blade, but the edge of a second canvas, painted black, was clearly visible behind it.
Sterling Gray watched me examine the stretcher with crossed arms and an impatient glare. “I don’t know what you think you can learn from something the thief left behind.”
I studied him. He was impatient and annoyed. “Mr. Gray, I need to know whatever you can tell me about this painting.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I have told you what I know. It’s my father’s, and he’s had it as long as I can remember. My mother hated it, so he kept it in a safe until she died, and now it’s here, where he was supposed to be able to finally enjoy it.”
I searched the edge of the canvas that remained on the stretcher. “Who are the women? Who is the artist?”
The rigid tension in Gray’s shoulders loosened slightly with his sigh. “How the hell should I know? There were two signatures on the bottom – Alexandra something and S.”
“Two signatures?” I looked up sharply from my study of the edge of remaining canvas. “Approximately where were they on the painting?”
Gray pointed to the lower left side of the empty stretcher. “Alexandra something was here, under the woman on the left – the usual place for an artist’s signature, and the letter S was sort of carved into the paint in the lower right corner, under the other woman.”
I’d seen the painting of course, when I wired the frame to the wall, but I hadn’t studied it. The style had been European, from a century or two ago, and I’d had the impression of youth and beauty in the women. “Are you saying there were two artists?”
Gray shrugged. “There might have been. I always assumed the women in it were sisters – they looked enough alike – so maybe they painted it? Who knows?”
Sisters who looked alike.
Twins.
Identical twins. Thieves?
“Why does your father place so much value on this painting?” I asked, the blood beginning to pound in my veins.
“I don’t know. He said it was worth a fortune, but I don’t know why.” Sterling scrubbed his hands through his hair in an uncharacteristically tense move. “I just know that the painting was supposed to hang in this room, and after me, Cipher will be the next target of Markham Gray’s ire.”
“Talk to me about Markham Gray.” I sat down in the chair across from Dan O’Malley and Quinn Sullivan, the owners of Cipher Security. We were meeting in the third floor conference room at my request.
“Boston establishment,” said Dan.
“His corporations own everything from major commercial real estate to banks, and his ventures don’t tend to get scrutiny by agencies of oversight,” added Quinn. I’d been surprised that he was in the office when I’d called Dan to meet, and even more surprised that he joined us. Quinn Sullivan had the direct line to several heads of government departments programmed into his cell phone, and his own oversight tended to be of the multi-national corporation variety.
“In other words, he’s got some people in his pockets,” Dan said.
“You’re working on the theft of the painting from Gray’s house, correct?” Quinn got up to make himself a coffee.
“I am, and I have questions that will need to be addressed by Markham Gray personally.”
Quinn nodded. “I can facilitate a meeting.”
I considered the men sitting across from me. I’d worked with Dan directly on an operation and considered him to be straightforward and unreservedly honest. I’d had far less personal experience with Quinn.
“There’s a chance Gray won’t like my questions,” I said carefully.
“The fact that his kid won’t bring in the cops is a fucking road sign to that,” said Dan with a snort.
“Gray’s contract with us is substantial,” Quinn began.
I tensed and prepared to push back from the table. “Right, then.”
“Darius,” Quinn’s tone brought my eyes up to meet his, and our gazes held for a long moment. “Gray’s pockets may be deep and full of the kinds of people who clean up after his messes, but I’m not afraid of his dirt, nor of you digging in it.”
The spinning wheel of my thoughts finally settled on one. “I don’t trust easily. Too often, in my experience, people do what’s easy rather than what’s right. Placating Gray makes sense from a business standpoint, but if he has something to hide, I stand on ethics rather than ease.”
Quinn narrowed his eyes and watched me for a long moment. “You left Iran when you were young.”
I deliberately kept my expression impassive. Of course Quinn Sullivan had a file on me. His business was security. He had a file on everyone.
“You and your parents fled your country, first to England, then later to the U.S. in the wake of their investigation into the Chain Murders, after a newspaper editor was shot in the head.”
“Hajjarian had spearheaded his paper’s own investigation. My parents had shared information they had with one of his reporters.” I forced my muscles to relax.
Quinn turned to Dan to answer the question that hadn’t been asked. “The Chain Murders of Iran were a series of murders and disappearances of poets, writers, journalists, translators, political activists, and other intellectuals who had been critical of the Islamic Republic system in the late eighties and nineties. It is believed the murders were carried out by internal Iranian government operatives.”
Dan’s eyebrows rose as he nodded, and Quinn’s clear gaze returned to me. “I am in the business of security, which not only focuses on safety, but also on the business of knowing things, finding facts, and uncovering deceptions. I cannot imagine the fear your parents experienced to make them leave a country which they obviously loved enough to want to tell the truth about. Nor can I imagine what a seven-year-old boy and his little brother experienced of their parents’ terror. What I do know is that a person doesn’t come through experiences like that unscathed.”
He stood up from the table and buttoned his suit jacket. “I’ll set up a call with Markham Gray, and I’ll send over the file we have on Gray Enterprises.
“And if I find something?” I asked as I stood to leave the room.
“Come to us and we’ll figure out what should be done together,” he said as he gestured that I should precede him through the door. “You were ready to push back from the table when I mentioned the size of the Gray account,” Quinn said, using his casual tone to mask the laser focus of his observation skills.
I stopped and turned to look at Quinn, who stood several inches taller than me and practically radiated strength. “As you said, my parents’ lives were threatened in an attempt to hide the truth. And in my experience, people with something to hide are the most dangerous.”
“And in my experience,” Quinn said with the smallest quirk of his mouth, “it’s the people with something to hide who most often hire us.”
I offered up a wry smile that I didn’t feel. “Touché.”
Quinn’s tone was serious. “There is no attorney/client privilege in the security business. If, in the course of our relationship with a client, it becomes evident that there is criminal activity going on, our integrity, and the integrity of our other clients demands swift and immediate action.” His gaze was that of an alpha, completely secure in his power and dominance.
My eyes held his a moment longer than necessary before I said simply, “Thank you.”
He nodded and then left the room.
Dan went over to the sideboard and prepared a cup of coffee. “Quinn’s the only guy I know who lives with his fucking gloves off,” he said quietly.
“I’m not sure I know what that means,” I said, suddenly tired of all things that weren’t spelled out.
“You know the saying ‘the gloves come off,’ when a guy’s ready to throw down for real?”
I nodded. “A boxing term. Keeping gloves on means no one gets seriously hurt.”
“There’s also a tradition up north that no matter how cold it gets, you take your gloves off to shake hands. So living with his gloves off means he’s not hiding anything, or hiding behind anything. He lives his fucking life out loud, even when he’s not saying a word.”
Dan’s coffee had finished brewing, and he knocked it back in one blazing hot slug. Then he shuddered, slapped me on the shoulder, and steered me out of the room. “Come on. Let’s go see what kind of dirt we can dig up on the senior Mr. Gray.”