But the badges looked legit. The photo IDs matched. Customs agents. Tori lowered her hands to her sides and took a deep breath. “You’re both Bill’s?”
If this was a decent con, they’d have changed their names.
“Confusing, I know.” Brady laughed and pocketed his badge.
Backer sat beside him on the wall, rubbing his sore stomach. “Jeez, lady, you’re tougher than you look.”
“I told you she’d be right for the job.” Agent Brady took on an almost fatherly tone. “Your credentials are impeccable, Agent Westin. So’s your spin kick.”
“Thanks.” Now she was a little confused. “Why didn’t you introduce yourselves right away?”
Backer grimaced. “Did you give us a chance?”
Tori crossed her arms and canted her hip to the side. These guys were harmless. “You should have used the telephone or stopped by my office. Following a woman who’s on her own in the big city is hardly a reassuring way to approach her.”
“Sorry,” Brady apologized. “We wanted to keep this out of normal channels, for secrecy’s sake.”
Intriguing comment.
“You have a degree in art history, right?” he asked.
More intriguing. “One of my degrees is, yes.”
“And you’re Frank Westin’s granddaughter?” Backer seemed more impressed with that relationship than she was.
Not like she’d claim the man. But she supposed wealth and power and shady connections got one’s name mentioned in certain circles. “We’ve already established that. What do you want?”
“Have you heard of The Divine Horseman?”
Damn intriguing. She loved a good mystery. And, as far as she was concerned, The Divine Horseman was one of the biggest.
Tori could have run through the extensive mental catalog of Middle and Eastern European art she’d memorized from years of interest and study. But this was one rare, beautiful piece she knew by heart. The legend surrounding the sculpture had fueled adolescent fantasies about men and heroes that reality couldn’t match. “Jewel-encrusted statuette of a knight on horseback. European. Dates back to the Crusades. Stolen from a museum in New Orleans a year ago. Hasn’t surfaced at any public auction or private sale since. The diamonds, rubies and gold alone are valued at over a million dollars. The history of the Horseman makes it priceless.”
Agent Backer grinned. “She does know her stuff.”
Despite her earlier annoyance with these two bozos, their friendly banter and inept efforts at covert action were growing on her. And her curiosity was definitely piqued. “What about The Divine Horseman?”
“We’ve talked to your superior at the FBI and have gotten permission to recruit you to assist us. Your expertise in the art world, your Bureau training and your family connections make you the perfect choice for this mission. I have your orders here.”
“Orders to do what?” she asked, excited at the prospect of what they were asking of her, but leery of why the Westin name had to be a part of it.
“Word is, the current owner plans to sell it to a foreign investor and ship it out of the country. All under the table, of course. Before that happens—” Agent Brady pulled a sealed envelope from his pocket and handed her the assignment “—we want you to get it back.”
Two weeks later
“WAIT HERE.” The taciturn butler who’d introduced himself as Aaron Polakis opened the thick walnut door and pointed Tori into the library. His cropped blond hair had receded so far that the points of skin gave him a devilish expression which rivaled the friendliness of his personality. Maybe his thick Middle European accent was an indication he didn’t know the language very well. Or maybe he was just an economist when it came to words. He paused before closing the door on his way out. “Sit.”
Clearly, he hadn’t been hired to make guests feel welcome. She wondered what his real job was here at the Meade estate, and whether the gun holstered beneath his uniform jacket had something to do with it.
Tori felt comparatively naked without her Glock sidearm strapped to her waist. But then, art historians rarely armed themselves. This afternoon she was Victoria Westin, associate professor of antiquities, not Tori Westin, FBI agent. Indiana Jones aside, she needed to come off as book smart and boring, not armed and ready for action.
Bearing that in mind, Tori smoothed the legs of her taupe linen pantsuit and perched on the edge of the brocade wingback chair to await an introduction to her new employer. Her mother would tell her the color of her suit was drab and clashed with her rich surroundings. But the understatement fit the role she was playing. Besides, she was here to do a job, not snag a husband. Brains and resourcefulness were the requirements of the day, and Tori had those in spades.
She rose to her feet, intending to make the most of any unguarded time in the house by inspecting every room until she could narrow down the search. And, judging by the turrets and wings and widow’s walks she’d seen driving up to the front steps, she had plenty to search.
The Meade mansion was an historical testament to Victorian architecture, with its red brick and dark wood and ornate moldings. Heavy velvet curtains and gilt trim bespoke power and money.
But there was a chilly heaviness to the air, as if the weight of too much opulence and too many secrets had grown too great for the walls to bear. Tori pushed aside the fringed drapes and gazed out at the ominous clouds that gave a dusky cast to the afternoon sky and threw long, fingerlike shadows across the lawn and driveway below.
A few miles to the north, above the downtown skyline, the air was still clear and sunny and blue. But like a tail she hadn’t been able to shake, the clouds had rolled in and darkened and followed her south. Now, they seemed to linger overhead, thickening in strength, churning in an ongoing battle within themselves.
Tori knew it was only the results of winds and ions and barometric pressure, but a sudden, almost panicked need to feel the heat of the sun had her reaching toward the sky, splaying her fingers against the cool glass and holding her breath.
On the next, saner breath, she curled her fingers into her palms and pulled away from the window. She wasn’t prone to panic attacks or silliness of any kind, but the sensation of being trapped in a world of darkness had tapped into some whimsical notion from her childhood, when she’d still believed in fairy tales and mythical monsters.
Time to bring herself firmly back into the modern, real world she could control.
Activating the electronic sensor on her Cartier watch, she scanned her surroundings. A single hit. The blinking readout indicated one listening device. She let her eyes find it first, then crossed over to the bookshelf, ostensibly to inspect the leatherbound collection of French classics, while she evaluated the design and capability of the bug. Audio only. Good to know.
No camera, no problem with leaving a guest unattended. Apparently, she could snoop wherever she wanted as long as she was quiet about it. Smiling at her good fortune, Tori closed Les Misérables and replaced it on the shelf. Jericho Meade’s library spoke more of privilege and culture than of the top-notch security fortress her briefing had led her to expect.
Cole
