you moved it to that isolated church. So, I’ve decided to take it off your hands. Enjoy Lincoln’s Birthday.
The bragging tone and the specificity of the note were similar to the other ones in the file. The art piece and the holiday were always mentioned by name.
No one had expected the thief to make a move on Lincoln’s Birthday, February 12. The press, the FBI and most of Denver’s socially elite were expecting the thief to strike on Valentine’s Day. A priceless Cézanne was going to be auctioned at the annual Valentine’s Day Charity Ball—the one her stepmother was throwing—and the theory was that the thief wouldn’t be able to resist it.
No one had given any thought to the possibility that the thief might target the statue of St. Francis. Truth told, she hadn’t thought of it either. She’d been certain her father was right, and the thief would go after the Cézanne.
The small marble statue currently residing on a side altar in St. Francis Church didn’t have the monetary value of the artwork previously stolen. But there were those who would testify that it was priceless.
The statue of St. Francis had been donated to the Franciscan order in Denver years ago by an immigrant family from Assisi, Italy. They’d claimed it had been sculpted in the image of the saint himself, and that it possessed special powers to grant prayers. Since its arrival in Denver, the reputation of the statue had grown to legendary proportions. Even in its original home in the small prayer garden next to the St. Francis Center for Boys, the statue had attracted crowds. Many thought that paying a visit to the statue and saying a prayer was like having a direct line to God.
There were no documented miracles. Yet. But there were plenty of people who’d testified to the fact that the prayers they’d said to the statue had not only been answered but had changed their lives. People had fallen in love, marriages had been saved and babies had been born to supposedly infertile couples. And almost everyone testified to finding peace.
The article published in last Sunday’s edition of the Denver Post had included several of the stories. They ranged from recovering lost jewelry to improvements in health and relationships. There was even a local congresswoman who claimed she owed her latest election victory to St. Francis.
Nicola remembered a time when she’d believed in the power of the statue herself. She’d said a prayer, one she’d desperately wanted to be granted. But St. Francis hadn’t been listening that day. She hadn’t wasted another prayer on him since. But she was definitely in the minority.
When the St. Francis Center for Boys had been torn down and replaced by upscale townhomes as part of the city’s urban renewal program, Father Mike had received permission to relocate the statue to St. Francis Church. Since then the pilgrimages to pray to the statue had picked up in numbers.
Nearly half the money that had sustained the St. Francis Center had come from visitors who’d left donations in the small prayer garden where the statue had stood for fifteen years. Currently the three masses Father Mike commuted to say on Sunday were packed, and at least twenty percent of attendees were people from out of state who’d come to say a prayer.
What was the value of a piece of art that could answer your prayers? Nicola figured it might bring in a hefty price from some collector.
Evidently enough to have Father Mike hiring G. W. Securities, the premier firm in Denver, to protect it at its new location. That little known fact had also received quite a bit of play in the Denver Post article.
So if the statue of St. Francis was stolen, it would be the fourth piece of art snitched while under the protection of G. W. Securities. And to Nicola’s way of thinking that made the company’s owner, Gabe Wilder, a prime suspect. The fact that Gabe was the son of legendary thief Raphael Wilder added more weight to her suspicions.
“Turn left in twenty-five yards.”
As Nicola peered into the snow, a blast of wind slammed into her car and the rear wheels fishtailed. Holding her breath, she eased her foot off the gas and kept her hands steady on the wheel. Her headlights shifted, briefly pinning the SUV, and Nicola’s pulse jumped again. That was Gabe Wilder’s car all right.
This time the tingling feeling racing through her was so strong that she nearly trembled. Then she felt her tires regain traction, and she shifted her attention to the road.
Her suspicion that Gabe Wilder had to be playing a key role in the thefts was the reason she’d spent the past few weeks tailing that SUV all over Denver during her off duty hours. Not that her surveillance had done her any good. Thanks to secure underground parking garages and the fact that he lived in an apartment above his office, she hadn’t even been able to get a good look at the man himself.
Still, Nicola couldn’t rid herself of her gut feeling that Gabe had to be connected to the thefts. Each time she’d tried to connect the dots in the case, he was the one who triggered that tingling sensation.
Beneath her, she felt her tires spin and slide to the right.
Focus, Nicola. When she peered through the windshield all she could see in the glare of her headlights was a whirling tunnel of snow. But the driveway to the church had to be close. The GPS lady was never wrong. She pressed her foot lightly against the brake. Surely that SUV would have left tracks. Any minute now she’d see the indentations in the snow. She slowed some more. But if she made a left turn without being sure, she’d end up in the ditch.
“Recalculating,” her GPS system chirped.
“Damn.” She’d missed the driveway, but at least she hadn’t gone off the road. Not yet.
“Drive point four miles to Balfour Road.”
“In your dreams,” Nicola muttered as she eased her car to what she thought was the side of the road and stopped. That was when she saw the other vehicle. It was about fifteen yards ahead of her, just at the end of where her headlights reached. And it was tilting to one side in the ditch she’d been trying so hard to avoid.
Hoping that she’d left enough room for any possible travelers to get by her, she turned off the engine and then studied the other not-so-lucky car in her headlights. It was completely covered in snow, so it was impossible to figure the make or model—or even the color. It looked as if it had been abandoned. Just to make sure, she pressed the heel of her hand on her horn and gave three sharp blasts.
Nothing.
The church would be the closest refuge. She grabbed a flashlight out of her glove compartment, tucking it into the pocket of her coat. Then she turned up her collar and opened the driver’s door. Fighting the wind, she climbed out.
Her first surprise was that the snow almost came up to her knees. The second was the force of the wind that pushed her back against the car. Nicola shoved her hair back and managed to get the door closed.
Reaching the church ASAP had to be her first priority. Gabe Wilder had left his headlights on, which made it easier for her to see through the darkness. Assuming that was Gabe Wilder’s SUV, he had to be here because of the statue. And she couldn’t discount the possibility that whoever had been driving that abandoned car was inside with him. If one of them was the thief, that didn’t bode well for the other.
She shifted her gun from her holster to her coat pocket for easy access and moved forward.
2
HE
