Читать книгу Fatal Cover-Up - Lisa Harris, Lisa Harris - Страница 10

TWO

Joe watched as Talia rubbed the back of her neck with her fingertips. A part of him understood how she felt. Not only was there a strong possibility that her life was in danger, but she also had to be questioning her past decisions. And going through a long list of what-ifs. It was something he’d done far too much lately. But why wouldn’t she? The man she’d given her heart to had betrayed her, and now she was suddenly having to deal with what he’d done all over again.

“Tell me about the paintings they want,” she said, taking the last sip of her espresso.

“Do you want another espresso first?” he asked.

“No. I’m fine.”

“Okay.” He grabbed his phone and pulled up a photo of the three paintings the museum curator had given him, then handing the phone to her. “They were stolen from a museum in Boston four years ago. A trio of paintings worth somewhere around half a million each.”

“They’re beautiful,” she said, studying the seacoast scenes.

“Do you recognize them?”

She turned the phone sideways. “You said they’re small?”

“Yes.”

“Then maybe. I just never made the connection. When I received the text message, I imagined paintings that hung on the wall, but you said Thomas’s list of personal items returned to me included three postcards. It’s strange...he used to send me postcards when he traveled.”

“So you do remember them.”

“I think so, but like I said, I didn’t pay much attention at the time to what the department gave me. I just thought they were postcards from one of his trips.” She took one last look at the photos, then handed him back the phone. “And apparently whoever passed them on to me assumed the same thing, as well.”

“Do you know where they are now?”

“I only wish I did. Because then I’d be standing on the Spanish Steps right now, handing them over to whoever wants them and putting an end to all of this.” She shoved her empty cup toward the middle of the table. “You said they use art as collateral.”

“Art has the unique advantage of having an international value without the hassle of money laundering and currency conversion.”

Talia shook her head. “Meaning?”

“Over the past decade there has been a huge push to regulate money laundering. Organized crime has adapted by using artwork instead of cash, sometimes in everything from drug deals, to tobacco trafficking, to gunrunning. And while the value of a piece of art that is used as currency is far less than its estimated legitimate value, it can still be worth millions.”

“So I understand how they ended up in the middle of a cartel meth lab, but here’s something that doesn’t add up—why now? Why are these paintings being connected to me three years after Thomas’s death?”

“I’m not sure, but it seems to have happened after I started looking in to the connection with your husband’s case and started asking questions.”

“So what are you saying? Someone inside the department is involved in this? Another dirty cop like my husband?” Her eyes widened at the thought. “Maybe even someone who worked with my husband. I mean, who else would know the case has been reopened? Who else would be looking for those paintings?”

“All of that could be true,” he said, wishing he had more answers for her. “He might have been working with someone else, or had connections inside, someone who’s been waiting all this time for a lead that would uncover the location of the paintings.”

“But almost three years have passed.” She shook her head. “And you don’t know if the gun that killed my husband was sold or stolen.”

“True.” He hesitated, but he needed to know more from her perspective. “I know this is hard for you, but what do you know about that night? Were there any discrepancies that bothered you after his death?”

“Other than the fact that he was accused of stealing over two hundred thousand dollars in cash and drugs from previous drug raids?” She shook her head. “I never could justify that.”

“So you never suspected he was involved in something illegal?” he asked.

“Never. I’d noticed he was distracted, but he’d been working long hours on a couple of tough cases. What I never imagined was that he was stealing evidence. Thomas was good at his job, and I’d always believed he was an honest man, as well.” A shadow crossed her face. “But I quickly learned that even those closest to you can hide the darkest secrets.”

“So no other inconsistencies?” he asked, not missing the ache in her voice.

“I’m not sure. What are you looking for?”

Joe tapped his foot, knowing he needed to tread carefully. “I’m not sure, actually. I spoke to the chief of police and read the case file. There were things that didn’t add up. Holes in the case. And while there had been a number of other instances where drug money had gone missing over the previous year, they were never linked conclusively to Thomas. The only solid evidence against him was what was found on him that night and a bank account with ten thousand dollars in it.”

Which meant even though they only had circumstantial evidence, the previous thefts had also been pinned on her husband. How it all related now to his FBI case, he still wasn’t sure, but the more information he had, the better the chances of finding what he was looking for.

Talia ran her finger along the edge of the table. “The case was closed quickly. At the time I was grateful, but now...”

“It makes sense. The department would have wanted to keep an internal scandal quiet and make it go away as quickly as possible.”

“Are you implying there’s a chance Thomas might have been innocent?”

“I wouldn’t jump to any conclusions, and in all honesty, your husband’s death isn’t my case.” He tried to backtrack, but it was already too late. The seed had been planted in her mind. “My job is to find the stolen artwork, return it to the rightful owners and in the process help keep it out of the cartel’s hands.”

She leaned forward. “But from what you know—with the inconsistencies of the case—is it possible someone was covering something up and framed Thomas?”

“I can’t answer that.”

Joe finished the last sip of his espresso. He couldn’t blame her for grabbing on to the slightest thread of hope that her husband was innocent. That wasn’t why he was here. But still...

“Tell me what you were told about the day your husband was murdered.”

“His boss came to me the day after Thomas’s death with the details. He told me that Thomas and his partner had been called to check on a possible meth house with two other officers.” As she spoke, he caught the lack of emotion in her voice. It was as if she was simply a reporter spewing out the news. Not the grieving widow of the victim. “The officers swept the house. No one was there, but it was full of equipment for cooking meth along with a large amount of cash and other stolen goods. Apparently Thomas heard something in the back of the house while they were busy securing the property. The other officers heard a shot. Thomas was dead by the time they found his body. The bullet had gone through his temple, killing him instantly. The back door was open, but they never found who’d killed him. But they did find ten thousand dollars in cash stuffed under his bulletproof vest. Later they discovered other stolen evidence hidden in the trunk of his car, and a bank account that pointed to the fact that this hadn’t been the first time.”

“I can’t imagine what you went through,” he said, not missing the pain in her voice.

“They brought me in, wanting to prove I knew what he was doing, which I didn’t. They tore our apartment apart from top to bottom, but never found anything.”

“You said you gave some of your husband’s personal things to your mother-in-law?” If she’d seen the paintings, there had to be a way to trace where they’d gone.

“Yes.”

“Do you think she might have them?”

Talia shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. I never asked her what she did with his things. Thomas’s family lives in Venice, but his parents are out of the country on a cruise right now. I could try to get a hold of them and ask her if she remembers.”

He caught the doubt surfacing in her eyes, as if she was trying to decide if she could trust him. And he couldn’t blame her.

“Talia, I—”

Her phone went off. She pulled it out of her pocket and clicked on the incoming message. He watched her face go pale as she stared at the screen. She shoved the phone across the table for him to read.

You really should have done what you were told.

He read the message, then scrolled through the two photos that were attached. One was of Thomas’s body at the crime scene from the night he’d been murdered. The second was a photo of them sitting at the café.

Every fiber of his being was on alert as he glanced around the open café. But looking for someone with a camera was like looking for a specific piece of hay in a haystack. Almost everyone around them was a tourist with either a camera or a cell phone.

“Do you recognize anyone?” he asked. “Maybe the man who tried to swipe your bag.”

“I don’t know... I don’t think so.” She shoved back her chair, and slung her bag across her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I need to go.”

“Talia, please wait. You don’t understand what you’re up against—”

“I just need to go.”

A second later, she disappeared into the crowd. He grabbed a couple of bills from his wallet, dropped them onto the table and hurried after her.

* * *

Talia searched the narrow street as she hurried toward the subway past the row of shops and restaurants and apartment buildings. She shouldn’t have left the café, but she wasn’t sure she could trust Joe. She wanted to. He seemed an honest man. But so had Thomas until she’d found out the truth about him. Which was why for three years, she’d done everything she knew to put the past behind her and forget. But now suddenly, in the last twenty-four hours every memory and fear she’d had after his death was being dredged up.

I don’t want to go back there, God.

Not now. Not ever.

She’d accepted the fact that her husband had betrayed her trust. She’d even accepted his death. But it had completely changed her life, and the way people looked at her. There were those who thought there was no way she didn’t know what he’d been involved in. Others simply felt sorry for her. And even though she’d finally healed to the point that she was able to go on with her life, it didn’t mean that the familiar apprehensions didn’t sometimes rise to the surface.

She wove her way through a group of young people standing at the top of the stairs that led to the underground Metro. She needed to leave, and get away from Rome. But where would she go? She had friends, but she didn’t want to get them involved. And the only person here who knew what was going on was Joe Bryant.

But could she rely on him?

She hurried down the stairs toward the subway platform through the throng of commuters waiting to get onto the next train. The ground was scattered with cigarette butts. Advertisements were pasted onto the walls. She quickly stepped into the car before the doors slammed shut, then let out a sharp breath of air. A street musician began playing the accordion in the corner of the crowded space as she grabbed on to the metal pole in order to keep her balance. She should feel safe, but even surrounded by people, she had to fight the urge to run. They were out there somewhere. Watching her. Following her...

A group of students chattered in the corner. A woman bounced a toddler in her lap. A businessman talked loudly on his cell phone. Her surroundings faded and were replaced by memories. The day they told her Thomas was dead. The day she buried him. The day she’d sat in the interrogation room for hour after hour, answering their questions. The police had eventually dismissed the possibility of her involvement, but there had still been lingering questions. How could she not have known? She was, after all, his wife.

She fought to push away the memories. She could go home, pack up a bag and take a train to Naples. Or maybe she’d go across the border into France. But that would only delay the inevitable. Until she found the paintings, and discovered who was after them, this wasn’t going to be over. And she wasn’t going to find out the truth by running.

The sun had slipped behind a line of clouds by the time she made it to her stop and climbed the long flight of stairs to the street level. She breathed in the smell of freshly baked bread from the bakery nestled beneath her apartment building, wanting to turn back time to yesterday, when everything had felt normal. She’d fallen in love with the area the first time she’d visited. Ivy leaves climbed the sides of the century-old building, with its green shutters and flower boxes. Laundry blew in the breeze on a clothing line on the second story. She glanced at the glass display case in the bakery window. Flaky croissants filled with homemade custard, cannoli and her favorite, chocolate mousse on a chocolate biscuit covered in dark chocolate... She wished she could stop now and consume one; it’d be a stress reliever.

Instead her phone rang. A wave of adrenaline rushed through her as she pulled it out of her pocket. If it was them again...

She checked the caller ID and hesitated.

She recognized the area code. It was someone from Texas. She opened the door to the apartment building and took the call.

“Hello?”

“Talia...it’s Captain Blythe.”

She started up the narrow flight of stairs to her apartment on the fifth floor. It had been months since she’d heard from the department where her husband had once worked. “I was actually planning to call you today. It’s been a long time.”

“Yes, it has.” There was a pause on the line. “Listen, I felt you needed to know that your husband’s case has been reopened. The gun that killed him was involved in another, more recent murder.”

Hearing him repeat what Joe had just told her made the situation seem so much more real.

“The FBI’s gotten involved,” he continued. “There’s an agent—”

“Joe Bryant,” she said, finishing his sentence. “He’s with the FBI and here in Rome. I just met him.”

“So you know about the reopened case?”

“Yes,” said, starting for the third floor. “Can I trust him?”

“I didn’t meet him, but the chief did and was impressed when the guy came by. He believes there were pieces of stolen art at the raid where your husband died, which is the reason the FBI is involved. The bottom line is that maybe after all this time they’ll find out who killed Thomas.”

She was breathing harder as she took the last flight of stairs to the top floor. This was the closure she’d prayed for. They’d never been able to find the owner of the gun. Never been able to find who’d pulled the trigger and murdered Thomas.

The case is breaking open again, God. I didn’t want to go there, but if this ends up helping me put it all behind me for good...

That was what she needed.

“I won’t keep you,” Captain Blythe said, interrupting her thoughts, “but if you need anything, call me.”

She said goodbye and hung up, wondering if she should have told him about the threats. But something had made her hesitate. Joe had implied that his reopening up the case had prompted someone to come after the paintings. But did that mean that someone else—someone inside the department—had been involved in Thomas’s death?

She pulled out her key and opened the front door to her apartment loft, trying to make sense of everything. The implications of the matching bullets, the text messages and inconsistencies she’d seen with the case... The man she’d married never would have been involved in stealing evidence, but she’d never been able to get anyone to listen to her. And eventually she’d come to accept that Thomas wasn’t the person she’d known all those years.

Inside the one-bedroom apartment, the space was a small, open layout with a cozy terrace and views of the neighboring rooftops and monuments in the distance. But it wasn’t the familiar layout of home that caught her attention as she stepped into the room. Someone had been here. Talia felt a sick feeling wash over her, along with a wave of panic. Books had been pulled down from their shelves, red couch cushions and half a dozen throw pillows lay scattered across the hardwood floor, while her artwork had been ripped from the walls. She picked up the shattered glass frame holding the photo of her with her parents and little sister that had been taken before her mom and dad had been killed in a car wreck.

Who had done this?

Wind blew through the open terrace door, causing the white sheer curtains she’d picked up at a local flea market to flutter in the breeze. Something clattered against the floor in the bedroom. She froze beside the kitchen counter. Whoever had trashed her house was still here. Without thinking, she set down the photo, grabbed a butcher knife from the kitchen counter and started for her bedroom.

When she stepped through the doorway, he was going through her dresser—the same man who’d grabbed her bag outside the Colosseum. Her intrusion into the room seemed to startle him for a second, then he pulled a gun out of its holster and pointed it at her.

“You should have shown up with the paintings,” he said in English with a thick Italian accent. “Toss me your bag.”

She hesitated, then threw it at him, still holding the knife. But the blade would be useless against a man with a loaded gun. He dumped the contents on her bed, scattering them across the dark blue bedspread.

She gripped the handle of the knife between her fingers.

“They’re not here,” he said, rummaging through her things. “The paintings. Where are they?”

“I don’t have them.” Talia fought to keep her voice steady. “I never did.”

He shook his head as if trying to figure out his next move. Light streamed in from the bedroom window. The man was in his mid-to-late twenties. Brown eyes. Dark hair with a streak of blond across his bangs.

He took a step forward. “I was told you’d say that. You knew you couldn’t fence the art right after your husband’s death, so you decided to be patient and wait to sell them.”

She shook her head. “Who told you that?”

“It doesn’t matter. All you need to know is that I wouldn’t cross the person I work for. They were involved in the death of your husband, they’ll kill again if they have to.”

“Over a piece of art?” She pressed her lips together, trying to fight the panic. But that wasn’t the only thing that sent a chill through her. He knew who’d killed her husband.

The intruder didn’t answer her question. But he didn’t have to.

“I don’t have them,” she repeated.

“And I said I don’t believe you. They were in your husband’s personal items, which were later given to you by the police.”

As he moved to the smaller bedside table, his gun still pointed in her direction, another memory surfaced. A few weeks after Thomas had died someone had broken into their house while she’d been out visiting with a friend. The only things that had been taken were a few pieces of her jewelry. At the time, she’d thought it was nothing more than a random break-in, but now... What if there was another explanation? What if the thief had been looking for something specific, like three valuable paintings?

But she didn’t have them. Or did she? Her mind raced. The days after Thomas’s death were still a blur, but she’d told Joe the truth. She’d given most of her husband’s personal things to her mother-in-law in an attempt to get rid of the memories. And while the paintings Joe had shown her seemed vaguely familiar, she wasn’t sure what she might have done with them. Could they really be there?

She eyed the gun that still pointed at her as the attacker continued searching. She needed to get someone’s attention. The balcony door to her bedroom was open. She could scream. Mrs. Lamberti from downstairs wouldn’t hear her—the woman was almost deaf—but someone else might catch her cry for help.

She started toward the door, but the man shifted at the movement and aimed his gun at her heart. “I want you to drop the knife and don’t even think about making a sound.”

She hesitated as her options vanished, then let the knife fall against the wood flooring.

Show me what to do, God. Please...

“Here’s the deal. If you’re lying to me, they will come after you. And in the meantime, I was told you might need some motivation.” He pulled an envelope from his back pocket and dropped it on the bed beside him. “I understand that you and your sister are close.”

She picked up the envelope and pulled out a handful of black-and-white surveillance photos of her sister. She stared at the shots of Shelby getting into her car at work, pumping gas at the local station, walking her Maltese poodle after school...

No, no, no. This couldn’t be happening.

The room began to spin. She couldn’t breathe. “You can’t do this.”

“Except I can.” His cocky smile sent a chill down her spine. “And if you really don’t have the paintings, you’ve got seventy-two hours to find them.”