Treacherous

Book 6: On the Run International Mysteries

by Sara Rosett

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; International Crime & Mystery; Female Sleuths; Crime & Mystery

Synopsis

A mysterious package, a rumor about a missing painting, and a dangerous game of hide and seek . . .

Zoe loves working as a consultant for a company that specializes in the recovery of stolen art. Her only complaint is that the jobs are few and far between, so when she meets an eccentric collector who is on the hunt for a painting of a blue butterfly that might—or might not—exist, she jumps at the chance to look for it. She comes across shady dealers and a confusion of clues as her search for the elusive painting takes her from tropical destinations to the cobblestone streets of Madrid. 

Treacherous is the sixth installment of the lighthearted On The Run series from USA Today best-selling author Sara Rosett, which features globetrotting art heists and international intrigue.

Release date: November 15, 2017

Publisher: McGuffin Ink

Print pages: 268

Sample

PROLOGUE

 

 

Robert Novall didn’t need to wait until his last colleague left the room for lunch. No one suspected anything, but it wouldn’t do to make a mistake at this point.

 

The printer whirred to life, and Rob picked up the five pages from its tray. It was laughable really, the amount of time and money the company put into monitoring their activities while completely overlooking one thing—paper.

 

Footsteps sounded in the hall, someone coming back. The new guy darted in, grabbed his jacket, and asked if Rob was coming with them. Rob tossed the stack of pages on his desk to deal with later. The first four pages were various memos and reports that he needed, but the page on the bottom was different. He left it with the others at the side of his desk and went to lunch.

 

On his way out, he passed through the metal detector as well as the full body scanner, then retrieved his personal phone from his locker, and dropped off his lanyard. The whole process had to be repeated in reverse when he returned. No personal phones, cameras, or any other sort of digital equipment were allowed inside the office. Computer activity was highly monitored—files accessed, search queries, downloads—it was all tracked, but they were so focused on plugging any digital holes that they didn’t even think about someone going analog.

 

No one monitored or cared what was printed, and his current work project gave him legitimate access to the files, so what he was doing didn’t raise any red flags. In fact, it couldn’t raise any flags. No flags were in place to be raised. No one had set any warnings connected to what came off the printers. Who would bother to print anything sensitive—especially at their company?

 

Rob made sure he was back from lunch before everyone else.

 

He settled at his desk and removed the bottom page from the stack. He folded the paper into fourths lengthwise, then leaned over, lifted his pant leg, and slipped it inside his sock. It stayed there for the rest of the day, tucked against his calf. He logged off his computer at the end of his shift and headed to the elevator. He rode the elevator down, then walked through the metal detector and the body scanner. The single sheet of paper didn’t create a wrinkle or bulge that could be picked up on the screens. The security guard waved him through with a bored nod.

 

Rob kept up his easy pace as he walked to the Metro, then stopped for a calamari sandwich on his way home. When he arrived at his apartment, he closed all the curtains before removing the paper. He smoothed the creases, took a tube of lip balm from the drawer of his desk and removed the cap, revealing the port of a flash drive. He plugged it into his laptop, and quickly transcribed the single page of text. He hit save, then added the printed page to the growing stack on the corner of his desk under the Rubik’s cube.

 

Rob disconnected the flash drive, replaced the cap on the lip balm, and dropped it in the desk drawer. He stretched his arms over his head then logged into the forum. “Tuck05” was online, discussing the latest article from a tech blogger. Rob jumped into the discussion, hitting a couple of threads, then he transitioned to a secure, private connection and sent a message. Rbn: I’m close. Another week or two and I’ll have it all.

 

A few seconds later a reply popped up. Tuck05: Glad to hear it. No problems?

 

Rbn: None. Easy.

Tuck05: Watch yourself.

Rbn: No worries. No one has any idea what I’m doing.

Chapter 1

 

 

Monday

 

Zoe could feel him gaining on her, his steps pounding on the asphalt, seconds behind her. She forced her legs to pump faster. In one last burst of speed, she flew by the mailbox at the curb in front of the house. She thrust her arms into the air as if she were breaking the tape at the end of a marathon instead of finishing her afternoon jog. Jack came alongside her, his hand raised for a high-five. “You beat me today, but I’ll get you tomorrow.”

 

She slapped his raised palm. “You’re sure confident for someone who just lost.”

 

Hands linked, they slowed to a walk. Jack tilted his head in the direction of the brown delivery truck that had pulled away from the curb in front of their house a few moments earlier. “It was the incentive of a package that gave you that final kick of speed. If you hadn’t seen a package being dropped off on our porch, I would have beaten you. I know how much you love opening boxes.”

 

They turned and headed back to their house. “So you’re saying I have no impulse control, that I have some sort of Pavlovian response to a sealed box?”

 

Jack raised his arm and used the sleeve around his bicep to wipe the sweat away from his forehead. “Boxes, gift bags, letters, junk mail. You’re not a girl who likes to wait around and savor the anticipation of opening something later.”

 

“Why would you want to wait?” Zoe asked as they walked into the shade under the cottonwood tree in their front yard. “That’s no fun.”

 

“So what’s in the box today?” Jack opened the mailbox and removed several flyers and a catalog then handed them all to Zoe. “Office supplies? Clothes? A gallon of milk?”

 

“I know I order a lot online, but I do draw the line at dairy products—at least for now. If we get one of those services that delivers in an hour, then all bets are off.”

 

“I’d expect nothing less.”

 

They walked up the sidewalk to the porch, and Zoe picked up the box as Jack opened the door. “It’s those hanging file folders I ordered the other day,” Zoe said. “And to show you I do have self- control, I’m not opening it right now. I’ll wait—until we get in the kitchen, at least.”

 

Jack grinned and stepped back so she could go inside first. “I’ll stay out of your way then.”

 

She swatted him on the arm with the catalog and transferred the box to a better position in her arms. “This seems awfully heavy for twenty hanging file folders.” She tilted the box so she could read the label as she walked into the kitchen. “Did you order something from Spar Eon? Is this yours?”

 

“No, I don’t have anything being shipped here.”

 

Zoe put the box down on the island and reached for a pair of scissors to cut the tape. Her phone, which she’d left on the island, buzzed with a call. It was Harrington Throckmorton, owner of Throckmorton Enquiries.

 

Zoe put down the scissors. “I better get this. He may have an update on the Milam file.” Since Harrington was based in London, they usually spoke in the morning, Zoe’s time. It was late afternoon now, but if he had news he’d call immediately.

 

The Milam home—or a more accurate description would be mansion—in Highland Park, one of Dallas’s most expensive neighborhoods, had been broken into last week. A Miró had been stolen along with some rare coins. The Milams had hired Harrington’s firm, which specialized in discreet recoveries of art and other valuables. Zoe worked for Harrington as a consultant and was handling their search for the missing art and coins. Zoe had been in touch with every contact she and Harrington had in the art world. So far, she hadn’t uncovered so much as a whisper about any of the stolen items.

 

“I have that late meeting,” Jack said. They exchanged a quick sweaty kiss before Jack trotted up the stairs to shower. Zoe sat down on a barstool at the island, which was her work area, and answered the call.

 

Harrington’s crisp British accent came over the line. “Hello, Zoe.

 

Do you have a moment?”

 

“Of course.” As ever, Harrington was infallibly polite. Zoe hitched the barstool closer to the island. With the phone tucked between her ear and her shoulder, she pushed the cardboard box aside and pulled her laptop closer. A few clicks brought up the Milam file.

 

“So how is everything in Dallas?” Harrington asked.

 

Zoe thought he meant how is everything going with the Milam case, and she was about to launch into a list of who she’d talked to recently, but then Harrington went on, “Jack is well?”

 

“Yes. He’s fine. If you want to speak to him, I can have him call you back.” Zoe glanced at the clock. As fast as Jack showered, he might actually be back in the kitchen before she hung up. “He’s planning security for a new skyscraper that’s going in downtown, so if you had something for him he might not be able to take it on right now.” A few times in the past, Harrington had asked Jack to step in as a consultant when clients were interested in making their valuables more secure.

 

“Oh, no. Nothing like that on my agenda at the moment. How is Dallas? Are you enjoying some cooler weather, now that it is September?”

 

A thread of unease twisted through Zoe. It wasn’t like Harrington to beat around the bush. He always was polite and asked how she was doing, but then he moved on to business. “Yes, it’s so nice that Jack and I just got back from an afternoon run.” During the summer the humidity was so intense that the only time they could run was in the late evening—or in an air conditioned gym.

 

“Excellent. Right.” Harrington cleared his throat. “I spoke to Mr. Milam this afternoon…”

 

Zoe sagged. She could tell from his tone what he was struggling to say. “They want you to work their case, not me.”

 

“Er—well, that is a stark way to phrase it…but, yes, they do.” Harrington sighed. “I’m sorry. I tried to convince them that my plate is full, but Russell insisted.”

 

Russell. Of course Russell Milam and Harrington communicated on a first-name basis. Zoe would never be able to call a man forty years older than her “Russell.” She just couldn’t do it. It would feel disrespectful. But Harrington could do it, and do it genuinely. Russell Milam and Harrington Throckmorton had known each other socially before the Miró was stolen. The flat in London was just one of several properties that the Milam family owned around the world, not to mention their yacht in the Mediterranean. Russell Milam and Harrington had dinner together when the Milams were in London.

 

Zoe rubbed her forehead then straightened and forced an upbeat tone into her voice. “It’s okay.” She closed the computer file with the data on the Milam robbery. “I know you did everything you could to convince them to stay with me as the lead in the case.” “Oh, I did. I’d much rather have you working this than me, but well…”

 

“Yes, I know. And I understand, too.” Who wouldn’t rather have the famous art recovery expert Harrington Throckmorton work their case instead of the unknown consultant, Zoe Andrews? Well, actually that wasn’t true. She was known. Unfortunately, when anyone searched her name online, her history of being a participant on a reality show popped up first. The fact that it was when she was a kid and her stage mom had engineered the whole thing wasn’t highlighted. If someone scrolled down, then they’d find out she’d been linked to a multi-million dollar fraud case that had been under FBI investigation. It had all worked out. She’d been an innocent person caught up in an international incident, but the articles that reported the happy resolution that cleared her name ranked much lower in the search results than the ones from early in the investigation that shouted about her possible guilt.

 

“I’ll send you everything I have.”

 

“That would be helpful. I’ll get in touch if I have any questions. I may have some admin tasks for you next week.”

 

“Sure. I’m happy to help.” It would be what she’d been doing for months for Harrington, mostly administrative tasks with a little research and background work thrown in. She was happy to do it, but what she really wanted was to lead the search for the missing valuables. So far, she’d been in charge of one successful recovery. She wanted to get more cases under her belt. Besides the fact that Harrington wanted to transfer some of his workload to her, she wanted to establish herself in the field. A thought whispered through her mind. And prove that her one and only successful recovery hadn’t been a fluke. Zoe shook off that thought and reached for a pen. “Is there anything I can do for you right now?”

 

“As a matter of fact, there is.” Harrington sounded relieved. Zoe was sure he was glad he’d gotten through breaking the bad news about the Milam case. “It’s about that Jenson case,” he said briskly. “One small detail…”

 

Zoe grabbed one of the flyers from the mail, flipped it over, and made some notes on the white space around the address.

 

While she was writing, Jack walked into the kitchen, his dark hair still damp from the shower. He was in his business casual attire, an open-collared blue dress shirt and dark pants. He took one look at her and raised his eyebrows. “Everything okay?”

 

With the phone still pressed to her ear, she raised a shoulder and made a face that she thought expressed her feelings: not great, but nothing tragic. Zoe mouthed the word, Later. Having a client who preferred to work with your well-known boss wasn’t anything that should hold up Jack. She waved a hand, motioning him to the back door.

 

Jack pressed a kiss to her forehead then picked up his keys and computer bag. Zoe went back to making notes. After Harrington ran through several small tasks that Zoe could do for him, he said, “That’s it for now. I’ll be in touch again after I read your notes.”

 

“I’m sending them to you right now. I’ll start on these other things. I’ll probably have them done in a few hours.”

 

“Yes. I know,” Harrington said. “They are rather pedestrian.” He paused. “I am sorry about the situation with the Milam family.”

 

“It’s not your fault,” Zoe said. After a beat, she added, “This is the third time, though.”

 

“A run of bad luck, is all—well, or…” he lowered his voice, “… bad people, rather. Samantha Bascom is an old woman who likes to make as much trouble as possible. She insisted on working exclusively with me simply because she knew it would inconvenience me. She quite likes to make life difficult for everyone around her, even her art recovery specialist. And the Robbie case, you and I both know that was a power play on the husband’s part. His wife wanted to work with you, so he insisted on working with me to annoy her. I wasn’t at all surprised to hear they filed for divorce.”

 

“I wasn’t either.” That case had been a nightmare and, truthfully, Zoe had been glad to step down. Recovering valuables is difficult enough without adding relationship issues to the mix. “But you can’t deny it’s a pattern.”

 

“A string of bad luck.” His tone was firm. “You’re not to let it bother you.” He sighed. “Sometimes dealing with people is more difficult than finding a stolen painting. You’re a valuable asset to Throckmorton Enquiries, and I know that in time others will recognize that as well.”

 

“Thanks for the pep talk. You’re good at it. You could give motivational speeches at business conferences.”

 

“I’d rather deal with the Samantha Bascoms of the world.” Zoe heard the shudder in his voice. Harrington didn’t like to be in the spotlight. When his recoveries drew press attention, he made his way through the interviews in a workmanlike way, answering reporter questions, but never allowing his photo to be taken. “Let them run a photo of the art, not me,” he always said. He knew that the publicity was good for business, but he was most comfortable recovering lost items discreetly.

 

Zoe hung up, and after a quick shower to clean up after the run, she focused on work, knocking out the tasks Harrington had given her. She was done in a few hours with the admin tasks of sorting and collating data into spreadsheets, and a few emails that needed a standard reply. Zoe sent off the last email then stood and rotated her shoulders. It was nearly six-thirty. She made a circuit around the island a few times. She always thought better on her feet. Being dropped from the Milam case stung, no matter how nice Harrington had been about it.

 

The fact remained that a client didn’t want to work with her. Zoe was an unknown while Harrington was the established expert. She paused to do a few stretches that she should have done after the run. As she stretched her quads, her gaze roved over the ceiling, which looked uniformly smooth and even with its new coat of white paint. You’d never know that part of the ceiling drywall had been torn away after a pipe leaked. She couldn’t afford the repair and it stayed like that for months. That had been when she and Jack were on the outs. For quite a while, she’d had a view of the two-by-fours and pipes in one corner of the kitchen ceiling, but now it was all patched over. Kind of like her and Jack.

 

She grinned as she switched to stretch her other leg. She and Jack were together, and with Jack’s business and her work for Harrington, they had a comfortable life. Nothing excessive. They weren’t moving into the Milams’ neighborhood, that was for sure. But they had enough to pay their bills, keep up the house, and even indulge themselves sometimes with a night out or even a trip.

 

Zoe had once liked skipping from one freelance gig to another. She’d loved the freedom it gave her. But while she occasionally took on a few freelance jobs—she still got an occasional copy-editing job—she had to admit that she enjoyed the work she did with Harrington. She wanted to do more of it, and not just the support stuff.

 

She eased out of the stretch, her fingers drumming out a quick beat on the island. There really wasn’t anything more to think about, she decided. She loved the art recovery work, but if she was going to do it, she needed to establish her own reputation. It was obvious to her now that she couldn’t ride Harrington’s coattails any longer. She needed to prove herself. In short, she needed to build up her own portfolio of successful recoveries so that clients would see her as an expert, not just Harrington’s helper.

 

Harrington said she’d had a run of bad luck with clients. Well, she wasn’t going to wait around and hope things changed. She’d make her own luck.

 

And she might as well start close to home. She went to the refrigerator. Poetry magnets held up pizza coupons, the schedule of the martial arts class at the gym, and Jack’s doodles. Tucked away, behind a postcard reminder about a dental cleaning, was a newspaper article. She plucked it out and skimmed it as she made her way back to the island.

 

Old Master Stolen From Dallas Museum, ran the headline. Two months ago, a curator doing inventory at the Westoll Museum, a small private museum, discovered a Canaletto was missing from their storage area. A thorough search revealed another missing painting, a Picasso.

 

 

Chapter 2

 

 

Zoe picked up her phone and scrolled through her contact list until she found the name she was looking for.

 

“Ruby Wu.”

 

“Hi, Ruby. It’s Zoe. Are you busy?” “Not if you can give me a second.” “Sure.”

 

Classical music came on the line, then Zoe listened to a voice-over recite the museum’s hours. Ruby’s voice cut into a description of one of the Westoll’s current exhibits about Caravaggio. Zoe hadn’t realized that her call would make Ruby think that she’d made a discovery about the lost art. Zoe had met Ruby a few months ago when Zoe was doing research for Harrington. His name opened lots of doors, and Ruby had taken Zoe on a private tour of their galleries. Since then, they’d met for lunch a few times.

 

Over the last few months, Zoe had made an effort to meet as many people in the local art community as she could. Her contact list was now filled with gallery owners, curators, and artists. She was making her way through the pawnshops and flea markets, too.

 

Ruby came back on the line. “Okay, I’m back. Do you have news?”

 

“No. I’m sorry. I should have told you that right away. How are you doing?” Zoe asked.

 

“Well, I still have my job, so that’s good.” “But you’re not in charge of security.”

 

“Someone has to be blamed, and I am in charge of the artwork. The fact that two pieces of art have disappeared doesn’t reflect well on me.” She sighed, then her tone became brisk. “But enough about that. What can I help you with?” Zoe could picture Ruby tucking her long black hair behind her ears and straightening her glasses as she got down to business.

 

“Actually, I was calling about the theft. I know the Westoll isn’t interested in hiring us—”

 

“Which is absurd, but you know my thoughts on that.” “Right. Maybe they’ll come around soon.”

 

“But by then, where will our lovely Canaletto be? And the Picasso? I’m afraid they’re already out of the country by now, don’t you think?”

 

“I hate to say it, but that would be the smart play for the thief,” Zoe said. Getting art away from the place it was stolen, and in particular, into another country was the ideal way to avoid getting caught. It was one of the things that made finding art so difficult. The police and investigators worked within jurisdictions and one of the simplest ways to confuse things was to cross into another jurisdiction. “But that’s not to say that the local area shouldn’t be checked. Maybe the thief couldn’t leave the country for some reason, or maybe they aren’t that savvy.”

 

“We can only hope. As long as they don’t do something stupid like…destroy them. Or damage them. I’m sure climate controlled storage is the last thing on their mind.”

 

“They know those are valuable pieces. It’s in their best interest to take care of them.” It was true, but Zoe avoided mentioning the cases she’d read about when art had been transported wrapped in dirty blankets or left in damp basements. “Look, I know you’re busy, and I don’t want to keep you, but I’m going to do everything I can to find the Canaletto and the Picasso.”

 

“But you know the board won’t hear of calling in anyone. They swear our security is able to handle it. They don’t even want to work with the police, if you can believe that.”

 

“I’m not surprised,” Zoe said. As strange as it sounded, many art institutions didn’t want to call the police when something went missing. They feared bad publicity might spook future donors who might pull back their bequest or loan if they thought it wouldn’t be safe. “This is completely on my own. I’ll work on it in my spare time. I know you can’t tell me anything specific about the robbery, but I wanted you to know—”

 

“Got you. Thanks, Zoe. If you can find them it would be…well, it would be wonderful.”

 

They talked for a few more minutes, making plans to go to lunch again soon. Zoe hung up then worked her way through the contacts that she thought would be most helpful. Most people didn’t have any information and hadn’t heard anything about the paintings, except for Evelyn at Salt Grass Gallery. Elegant and efficient were two words that came to mind when Zoe thought of Evelyn.

 

Zoe had met her at an art show in December. A slim woman in her forties, she had crossed the open space of the gallery, making a beeline for Zoe. She had been dressed in a designer suit and had her auburn hair swept up into a chignon. Evelyn held out her hand and said, “I’ve been looking for you. Harrington said you’d be here. Can I show you around?”

 

Evelyn was single, a co-owner of the gallery, and an accomplished photographer, who specialized in portraits. Zoe had later met her after one of her photography shoots when her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she was in casual jeans and an oxford shirt, but she still looked impeccable and had the air of someone who knew exactly what was next on her to-do list—and she’d get it done, whatever it was.