Here Comes Trouble Page 27

  “Dad?” Sheila pressed her earpiece harder into her ear as she maneuvered her way through the crowd, catching glimpses of representatives from most of the wealthy families in Lantano Valley. “Is everything ready on your end?”

  “Just give me the word,” Jackson said, and Sheila didn’t care for the tension in her father’s normally calm voice.

  “Four glasses of the Cristal, please.” Sheila tapped her hand on the bar counter as she signaled one of the bartenders. “A tray, too, if you don’t mind. Right away?”

  Unease pricked at her like she was a voodoo doll. Tray in hand, she walked the perimeter of the room, listening for smatterings of comments and conversations she might put to use at a later time. The private showroom door came into view. Nothing like overstepping her bounds as the event planner, but this was one area in which she had the utmost confidence in herself. Not to mention the gullibility of the male species.

  Making a cautious play, instead of keying in the code, she knocked on the door. Chadwick’s face was far from friendly when he pushed it open.

  “Yes?”

  “I thought your guests would like a drink.” Sheila offered him the tray. “I’ve found a good glass of champagne makes the evening a bit brighter.” She lowered her voice. “And more lucrative.”

  Just when she thought Chadwick would close the door in her face, a fortysomething man with dark eyes and black-blue hair moved into view, his impeccable Armani suit making him look as posh as possible. “This must be Miss Tremayne.” He held out his hand and drew her inside. “Just the light we were looking for to set this room aglow. You, my dear, are more than welcome.”

  “Thank you. Cristal, gentlemen?” She didn’t miss the chuff of frustration from Chadwick as he closed the door. “Chadwick, nearly all your guests have arrived. We’ll be starting the bidding in a few minutes.”

  “Excellent. That gives us time to conclude our business. Antony DeLuca,” the dark haired man said and captured her hand in his as she tucked the now empty tray under her arm. “This is Mr. Aiken and Mr. Dubrov. We are business associates of Mr. Oliver.”

  “Pleasure to meet all of you. I’ll just— Oh.” She gasped, brought her fingers to her throat and tapped at her pulse. “Oh, they’re stunning. Chadwick. No wonder you wanted these kept under wraps.” The three paintings were lined up bang, bang, bang. Paris at Midnight in what was obvious SanSere’s unique impressionistic style, a Vermeer-inspired still life, and, there, in the center. Tears scorched her throat. Levia’s family.

  She forgot where she was, lost in the young face she only remembered as an old woman. An old woman whose family only existed in this painting.

  “It’s said the artist died during the war,” Tony DeLuca said. “An unknown family portrait Mr. Oliver says has been in his family for decades.”

  “It’s stunning.” Her eyes glanced across the streaks of brown and gold, the thread-thin silver highlights in Levia’s mother’s hair, the slight blush in the cheeks of both Abrams girls. And there, in the baby brother’s eyes, the unmistakable innocence that had fallen victim to evil. “Chadwick, I had no idea.”

  “Yes, well, I believe these pieces have found the right homes.”

  “They’re worth a small fortune, for sure. I’d heard of Mr. Abrams’ works, but I wasn’t aware any had survived the war. SanSere’s Paris was thought to have been taken to Germany after his deportation, you know.” Final confirmation to Nathan. “Gentlemen, I envy you. These will be excellent additions to any collection. And a very opportune investment.”

  “Which brings us full circle.” Chadwick looked more conciliatory than she’d ever seen him before. “We’ll be settling on those investments just now, Sheila. If you wouldn’t mind?”

  “Certainly. Nice to meet all of you.” She ducked out of the room, part of her reluctant to abandon Levia’s portrait now that she’d seen it with her own eyes. She sank back against the door, squeezed her eyes shut for a count of five. “Nathan?”

  “We heard. You ready to do this?”

  “More than ready,” Sheila said, letting the rage settle and her mind clear. “Take the son of a bitch down.”

  ***

  “Sold for eighty-five thousand to bidder ninety-seven.” The auctioneer banged his gavel on the portable podium and Malcolm shifted his gaze to Sheila, who taped the final bid tally and bidder information onto the wall beside his grandmother’s seascape.

  Alcina’s hand gripped his arm as she stood between Malcolm and Ty, her normally open face a mask of disappointment. “Your grandfather bought that for me on our honeymoon,” she said. “We’d hoped one day to retire there, to spend our last days together, but fate had other plans, I suppose. I still miss him.”

  “At least you’ll still have his painting,” Malcolm said, pulling out his checkbook, scribbling the information and then handed it over to Ty, who had done the same.

  Alcina gasped. “Malcolm, Ty, you didn’t—”

  “Our first official team effort,” Ty said, and kissed his grandmother’s cheek. “I’ll make sure it’s put back where it came from at home.”

  The tears glistening in his grandmother’s eyes was gratitude enough, and the warmth spreading through him seemed a good indicator as to what Sheila and her Nemesis-related family must experience when they completed their tasks.

  Malcolm had never met his grandfather—he’d died well before Malcolm had been born, but for all his life, he’d heard grief intermingling with the love his grandmother had for him, and neither had diminished with time. He hoped he wasn’t too late to spare Sheila that pain. As if he needed a reminder that his decision not to tell Sheila—and her family—the truth was the right one. The sooner he was gone, the sooner she could move on with the rest of her life.

  But while he was here . . .

  Jesus. How selfish could he be? He should have already left. No, he never should have gotten involved with her again, reminded them both of what could be—even when it couldn’t.

  “Countdown, four minutes,” Nathan said in his ear. Malcolm shifted his gaze to Sheila, who met his eyes with a confirming blink. “The office will be empty for the next fifteen,” he said, and Malcolm flinched in sympathy for the second security guard who was suffering a horrendous case of food poisoning thanks to a tweaked crab puff. “Dad?” Nathan said. “You in position?”

  Malcolm listened, the hair on the back of his neck prickling when no response came.

  “Sheila, do you hear me?” Nathan asked.

  “Mmmm-hmmm.”

  “Malcolm?”

  Malcolm coughed.

  “Dad?” No answer. “Shit.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of Chadwick Oliver and his family, I’d like to thank you for attending,” Sheila said as she stepped up onto the tiny platform in the center of the room. “If you’ll please stand by the paintings that you’ve won, we’ll process payments and have you ready to go in the next few minutes. Chadwick, if you’d like to say a few words in closing?”

  Sheila started applauding to get the crowd going as Malcolm’s father took her place, the three men who had emerged from the private showroom with him, milling about close by.

  “Of all times for him to pull one of his disappearing acts,” Nathan muttered from his sentry post in the security office upstairs. “We aren’t getting another chance at this.”

  Malcolm patted Alcina’s hand and stepped away. “I’m going to get another drink. Can I get you anything, Gran?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.” And still attached to her painting. “Ty, I think I might be ready to go now. I’m sure Malcolm wants to stay and help Sheila close everything down.”

  “Sure, Gran. Breakfast tomorrow?” Ty asked Malcolm.

  “I’ll see you then.”

  “Malcolm?” The tension in Nathan’s voice turned Malcolm’s spine to steel. “Can you—”

 
“On my way,” he said in as low a voice as he ducked into the crowd and moved into the down stairwell. Good thing he’d sat in on the final planning session. “Count me down and tell me where to go.” He shoved open the basement door, walked down the stairs, and turned into the dim passageway of pipes and halls. The basement level merged with the basements of numerous other businesses and buildings in this part of town, an underground hub of sorts.

  “I’m tracking your cell signal,” Nathan said, and Malcolm heard typing. “Turn left at the next corridor. And then a sharp right. The power box should be just above you.”

  Damp and steam thickened the air. Sweat beaded on his face as he located the power panel and the collection of wires hanging outside the ajar door. “Tell me when. Sheila, you in place?” Malcolm asked, his voice cracking.

  “Ah, Mrs. Stark, excellent,” she said in response. “This watercolor is going to be perfect in your solarium.”

  “She’s where she needs to be,” Nathan confirmed. “Okay, heading out now. Remember, I’ll be away from the system for the next three and a half minutes. Starting in twenty . . .”

  Malcolm counted down in his head, his throat constricting as his head went light. Not now, please not now. He took a deep breath, but the hot air made breathing more difficult. His fingers trembled against the metal switch and he felt himself sway . . .

  “Five, four . . .” Nathan’s voice crackled in his hear.

  Malcolm braced his feet apart to stay upright. His arms shook.

  “Three, two . . .”

  “One.” Malcolm said and flipped the switch.

  The sudden absence of power plunged him and the entire gallery into darkness, the absolute silence blasted against his ears. He could hear cries of surprise and calls for calm echoing from the open door to the stairwell. He squeezed his eyes shut and counted, not wanting to utter a sound for fear of distracting Nathan from whatever he was doing.

  Three minutes, thirty seconds.

  Jesus. His fingers slipped and he nearly lost his grip on the switch. How did they do this time after time? The rush might be addictive, but the ensuing adrenaline crash was bound to be a bitch. He focused on Sheila, on her family, on what they had to accomplish tonight, distracting himself, forcing him to remain calm as he continued to count.

  Two minutes, thirty seconds.

  The sound of restrained chaos continued to rain down through the hallways, echoing against the metal piping and insulated walls. He heard someone coming downstairs, saw the flashing of lights. Or maybe he was imagining.

  Two minutes.

  His hands trembled. Even in the dark his vision blurred. More banging. More footsteps sounded and voices echoed in his pounding head as they drew closer.

  One minute.

  His heart thudded against his ribs. He gasped for air. The second he flipped that switch, the lights would come back on and anyone around was going to see him.

  “Sheila,” he whispered. “There’s someone coming.”

  “Oh.” He heard her gasp followed by a crash and a yelp of voices. “Careful where you step,” She cried. “I think that was a painting. Please, nobody move.”

  “Twenty seconds,” he whispered. “Nathan?”

  “Give me five,” Nathan said. “I’m almost there.”

  “I don’t have five,” Malcolm ground out as he pushed his finger against the power switch.

  “Just a couple . . . more . . . seconds. Okay. I’m clear. Get the power back on. Now.”

  Malcolm flipped the switch. Lights exploded on around him, blinding him as he ripped wires free from the junction box and shoved them into his pocket. He latched the box as footsteps grew closer. He looked around, saw a janitorial closet across the hall.

  He stumbled his way toward it, his legs wobbly. The door was locked. “Damn. Nathan? Where do I go?” He was stuck in the open, nowhere to hide from whomever was making their way towards him.

  “Just have to make one more connection,” Nathan said. “Got it. Plug your ears.”

  The footsteps that had been closing in halted at the end of the hall as the security alarm blared. A spinning yellow strobe light spun in the basement and the footsteps reversed, pounding away as Malcolm made his way back to the staircase, one dizzying step at a time.

  “Wait, Malcolm. Stop.” Nathan blasted in his ear before he could take the first step. “Go back the way you came, take the first door on your right and then that staircase to the second floor. As fast as you can.”

  “Understood.” Jesus, a two-hour workout in the gym would be less exerting than one night as Nemesis. He found the staircase and pulled himself up and onto the second flight. He shoved open the door and found Nathan with his head sticking out of the security office.

  “In here.”

  Malcolm ducked inside and dropped into the chair beside Nathan as Chadwick and the gallery floor security officers piled inside, making the Keystone Cops proud.

  “What the hell is going on?” Chadwick demanded.

  “Malcolm said he saw someone heading down to the basement,” Nathan said, clicking his keys and keeping his eyes pinned on the screens. “We don’t have any cameras down there, but someone tapped into the security feed for the entire gallery, erased all the security footage for the last fifteen minutes.”

  “Fifteen—” Chadwick said, scanning the screens. “But the lights—”

  “The security code’s been deactivated,” Nathan said, tapping on his keyboard. “From inside the building.”

  “But nothing has a security code except . . .” Chadwick went from full anger flush to white panic in the time it took Malcolm to blink. “The showroom.”

  “Wait.” Nathan pushed a hand against Malcolm’s chest when he tried to stand. “You look like hell. Take a minute.” They watched Chadwick scrambling down the stairs on the security cameras and Malcolm couldn’t remember a more memorable sight. “Okay,” Nathan said, removing his hand. “Go ahead. You don’t want to miss the show.”

  ***

  Sheila couldn’t hear over the din of excited and confused rumblings and outcries. The gallery owner had ordered the doors closed and was in the midst of trying to calm everyone down, but shutting down the bar didn’t go very far to help that. Sheila kept Mrs. Stark and the other guests away from the two paintings lying on the floor amidst the glass and porcelain plates she’d intentionally sent flying.

  “Everyone, please, the power’s been restored. Everything is fine.” She tried not to smile as she heard her brother and Malcolm’s brief exchange with Chadwick in the security office. She crouched, balancing on her teetering heels as she scraped chunks of glass away from the edges of the watercolor. Splashes of wine dotted the canvas, causing the color to run in tiny areas, including . . .

  “Liza!” Sheila remained where she was, her thighs burning as she scraped a light finger over the paint as the young woman pushed through the crowd. “I need you to find Thomas Brosnan. Fast as you can, okay?”

  “Sure.” She all but crowd surfed her way clear. “No, please, stay back.” She kept her voice even, controlled, and made Sheila proud while she made sure anyone looking at her own face saw something was very, very wrong.

  The sight of Chadwick frantically plowing his way down the stairs to shove through to the private showroom was better than she’d imagined. When his three special guests glanced uneasily at one another before following, she felt as if she’d just rounded third base on her way to a home run.

  “Sheila?” Liza returned, gripping Thomas Brosnan’s plaid jacket in her fist as if she’d dragged him by hand. “Here he is.”

  “Miss Tremayne?” He blinked bifocaled eyes at her in a way that made Sheila think of a stoned owl. “Is there a problem?”

  “Liza, would you mind—” Sheila gestured to the crowd, including an increasingly antsy Mrs. Stark, who couldn’t stop looking between Sheila and h
er purchased painting.

  “Everyone, please, step back. We’re going to have people coming in to clean up, so please. We need you to move away from the glass.” Liza held out her arms and expertly corralled the crowd.

  “Mr. Brosnan,” Sheila said, touching his arm and gesturing to the watercolor. “I wonder if you would mind taking another look at this painting?” She stooped down and pointed at the blurring edges. I was under the impression that this artist sealed all his work with beeswax so water couldn’t damage it.”

  “Yes, yes, that’s very true.” He pushed his glasses up and peered closer. He swiped two fingers over the bottom corner, held up blue-green tinted fingers.

  “What does that mean?” Sheila asked, tucking her hair behind her ears as she raised frightened eyes to his face. He shook his head, wiped harder, and this time, a faint but distinctive “N” surfaced. “N.” Sheila gasped, eyes wide. “You don’t think—”

  “Someone needs to call the authorities,” Mr. Brosnan said with such a firm and loud voice Sheila could have kissed him. Her father—wherever he was—had been right. Whoever this guy was, he was a genius imposter. “This painting is a fake.”

  “A fake?” Mrs. Stark squealed in the perfect pitch to echo above all the noise in the gallery.

  “I need to tell Mr. Oliver,” Sheila said as the protests and cries of disbelief increased. She scrambled toward the showroom and ran into Malcolm making his way through the crowd. He looked pale and his skin was clammy, his eyes a bit glassy, but she attributed that to his first experience with Nemesis. “Do not leave my side from here on, understand?” She grabbed his wrist. “You need to be visible at all times.”

  “Don’t worry.” He nodded and loosened his tie. “I will be.”

  She keyed in the code and pulled open the door. The anger and tension was palpable. Chadwick’s full face was flushed, his stance defensive as he stared at the three men surrounding him.

  The paintings were gone.

  Despite every instinct to do a dance of joy, she didn’t have the luxury to indulge. “Chadwick, I’m sorry to interrupt.”