One Wrong Move, page 3
“That’s it?”
He stood and brushed off his hands. “That’s one piece of the map.”
“Excuse me?”
“There are several actions necessary to get in.” Christian placed his hand on the knob. “There’s usually a shrill alarm.” He looked to the sheriff. “I called the alarm company to let them know it might go off.”
“Wait,” Andi said. “The alarm never went off?”
“Apparently not,” Christian said. “Which means they somehow avoided triggering the motion sensors and made it to the keypad in time.”
“The keypad?” she asked.
“You have two minutes from the time you use the fob to get to Tad’s office at the back of the gallery, open the safe, and key in the code before the alarm goes off.”
“You put the keypad in a safe?” she asked.
He nodded.
Ingenious. “And the chances that someone without prior knowledge could figure out all the steps of the map, as you called it, are what?”
“One in a million,” Christian said.
“Right.” So it had to be someone on the inside or someone with contacts on the inside. She looked between him and Tad, wondering who the guilty party was.
FIVE
CHRISTIAN O’BRADY held the heavy cobalt blue door open, and Andi stepped inside the Gaiman Gallery. It was, in a word, exquisite. Terracotta walls, glass display cases with gold-rimmed bases, and on the far wall, two Georgia O’Keefe paintings of the New Mexico landscape in shades of orange and rust that immediately drew her in.
Even the lighting was superb—a combination of track and uplighting. Whoever designed the space was very talented, and the collections echoed the high-priced insurance policy Tad Gaiman possessed.
Andi’s gaze pinned on the empty cases—each one standing six inches higher as they moved to the right. “What items did these cases hold?” she asked while Christian and Sheriff Brunswick strode to the back of the gallery to check on the alarm keypad and the safe that was supposed to keep it just that. Then Christian would need to reset the system.
“They . . .” Tad finally sobbed. He pulled a clumped-up tissue from his pocket, dabbing it at his tearing eyes. “They were my pride-and-joy collection.”
That was a first. She’d never seen an owner moved to tears over their loss. Anger, outrage—that she saw a lot—but tears and sniffles, never.
“Let’s begin with you telling me about them,” she said, wasting no time. Brunswick held the primary investigative role, but it made no sense to stand around waiting. She’d be sure to fill him in on anything she learned and would give him the leeway to conduct his investigation first. It was frustrating at times being in the second seat when she’d been the golden child at the Bureau, but that had been a lifetime ago.
Tad sniffed, this time dabbing the scrunched-up tissue to his nose. “There are nine missing pieces, all necklaces.”
“I’m going to need you to go into more detail.”
“They were my five Mexican fire opals and four artistically designed Mayan jade jewelry.”
That was serious money.
She looked around the gallery. “What else is missing?”
His gaze followed hers around the open space with industrial-style, open ceilings.
“I’ll have to do a walk-through,” he said.
“Agreed.” It was a necessary part of the process.
They’d barely moved into the next gallery room of miniature Mayan statues when Sheriff Brunswick and Christian O’Brady returned.
“So?” Tad asked, his leg bouncing, his boot tapping against the tile floor.
Christian exhaled. “They knew what they were doing. They left the safe open and dismantled the keypad with great precision.”
“Like someone knew where it was located and how to dismantle it?” Andi posed.
Tad looked like a deer in the headlights, then blinked. “Surely you aren’t suggesting me, my child.”
She’d opened her mouth to answer when “Welcome to the Jungle” played from Tad’s pants. He held up a finger to pause her, then retrieved his phone from his right pants pocket.
“Hello . . . I can’t talk, Cara. My Jeopardy Falls gallery has been robbed. . . . What?” The blood drained from Tad’s face. “It can’t . . . Are you . . . Okay.” Tad hung up the phone while the woman was still talking.
“What is it?” Christian asked.
“Cara called. My Albuquerque gallery was robbed too.”
Andi’s eyes widened. “What?”
Back-to-back heists. That was practically unheard of. A set hadn’t been pulled off since those teens managed to a solid decade ago. She’d read about the case while prepping for the job Grant had so graciously offered when her world imploded. She’d taken time to review every major art heist in the last twenty years. He’d given her a job she didn’t deserve, the least she could do was excel at it.
“And Cara is?” Sheriff Brunswick asked.
“My assistant in Albuquerque. She runs the place while I’m here,” Tad managed to say in his dazed state, his eyes glassy, his movements oddly pronounced, as if he were moving in slow motion.
“I’ll call Albuquerque PD. Give them a heads-up that we’re likely looking at connected cases. If you’ll excuse me.” Brunswick grabbed his phone and stepped away.
Andi bit her bottom lip, hard. It was the last thing she wanted to utter, but she had to say it. “Based on what my boss briefed me on, your Albuquerque gallery has—”
“Hold that thought,” Tad said, cutting her off. “I need to make one more call.” He dialed then paced. “Jessica,” he said, his voice a frenzy of syllables. “Is everything okay at the gallery? Yes, I know it’s early, but I need you to check on the gallery. Why? Because my other two have been hit. Okay. Call me back.”
“Your Taos gallery?” Andi asked.
Tad’s face, now splotched with patches of deep red, was stricken with panic.
“They’ve already sent a team out to your Albuquerque gallery,” Brunswick said, striding back over.
Christian looked to Andi. “What were you trying to say to Tad earlier?”
She swallowed, praying the words didn’t get caught in her throat. “While this gallery is focused on art pieces, Mr. Gaiman’s Albuquerque gallery contains ancient artifacts of cultural significance.”
“And?” Tad frowned.
“Cultural artifacts are the FBI’s jurisdiction.” There, she’d said it. Mentioned them. “You’ll need to call the Bureau’s art theft team.” She took a steadying inhale that did anything but steady her.
“You okay?” Christian asked.
“Fine,” she said, trying to convince herself of that.
“You just look a little faint,” he said.
“Oh. I skipped breakfast,” she blurted out. It was true. Not the reason for the discomfort sifting through her, but true all the same.
“Then we better grab something on the way out of town,” Christian said.
“Wait. We? What?”
“We both need to go to the Albuquerque gallery. No sense driving separately.”
“I . . . uh . . . I’m fine driving,” she said.
“Okay, I can ride with you then.”
“I . . .” She could insist she drive alone, but while she prayed the man wasn’t involved in the case for only heaven knew why, he was still a high-priority suspect, and the ninety-minute ride would give her plenty of time to question him. “Okay,” she said. “But I’m good with you driving.” Her head was still swirling at the thought of the Feds. She just prayed Adam wouldn’t be there. Anyone but Adam . . . and Jeremy, of course, but if he’d stuck to his plans, he and his new bride were off on their honeymoon.
Heat rushed her limbs. He’d kept the same wedding day, same honeymoon location—just got a different bride. Could she be a worse judge of men?
The list of the stolen items from Tad’s Jeopardy Falls gallery complete, Andi and Christian headed for the door and Gaiman’s Albuquerque gallery.
“I’ll continue working the scene here,” Brunswick said, “and then I’ll swing by Alex’s.” He lifted his chin at them as Christian held the heavy gallery door open for Andi. “Keep me in the loop.”
“Will do,” she said.
Christian nodded. “Always.”
Tad scampered after them and climbed into his silver Porsche. “I’ll meet you two down there.”
“You think he’s okay to drive?” she asked Christian as he held the passenger door of his Bronco open for her.
“I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
She started to climb into the Bronco, then paused.
“What’s wrong?” Christian asked.
“I need to get my work satchel. It’s in my truck.” She lowered her foot. “I’ll just be a sec.”
“No problem.” He smiled. “Take your time.”
He was so calm, level, as if this were an everyday occurrence. It threw her. The thrill of working a case pulsed through her. But Christian O’Brady was as solid as a rock.
She strode across the lot, her heels wobbling on a loose piece of asphalt.
Unlocking her truck, she moved for the door, then paused at the paper stuck under her windshield wipers.
“What’s up?” he asked, his hand still on the passenger door.
“Must be a flyer,” she said, pulling the cream paper out from under the wipers. Odd. It was an envelope. She cocked her head and flipped it over. Her name was scrawled across the front.
Curiosity raking through her with an air of unease, she opened it and pulled out a tri-folded paper. Her gaze had been so intent on the envelope, she’d missed Christian striding to her side.
“A letter?” he asked, his brow arched.
“Yeah. With my name across it.” She unfolded the paper.
“From someone you know?” he asked, stepping beside her.
She cast her attention to the cursive handwriting, and her gaze fixed on the signature. “It’s signed Penn and Teller.”
“What?” His broad shoulders went taut.
“I don’t know anyone named Penn or Teller,” she continued, then cocked her head at Christian’s clenched jaw. “Do you?”
He cleared his throat, his fists releasing, his fingers shaking out. “They’re famous magicians.” He tilted his head. “You’ve never heard of them?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Magicians never really were my thing.”
He held out his hand. “Do you mind?” he asked, stepping closer still, his six-four frame dwarfing her five-four one, despite her two-inch heels.
“No.” She handed him the paper.
He gripped it, his eyes scanning the page as hers did the same.
My friend Stan never loses at the poker table. How come?
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“It’s an old poker riddle,” Christian explained.
“But why would someone leave a poker riddle for me on my car?” It made zero sense.
“Are you sure it was left for you?” Why was his voice so tight?
“It has my name on the envelope.” She shrugged but couldn’t fathom who’d leave her such a message. She held it up for him to see, and his shoulders slackened. Odd. “Does it make sense to you?” Curiosity pricked in her. Did he think it’d been left for him? And if so, why?
“The answer is—”
“Stan never plays,” she said.
A soft smile curled on his lips. “Right.”
“So, the question stands—why would anyone leave a riddle on my car? Let alone one signed by magicians.”
“I think the thieves left it.”
“Wait. Why?” She narrowed her eyes.
“The message,” he said. “I think they’re saying this is a game.”
“A game?”
He nodded. “I’m afraid so. And, I think they just invited us to play.”
SIX
“BUT,” SHE SAID, “if they left the letter on my car after we entered the gallery, then . . .”
“Then they’re close by,” he said, scrutinizing their surroundings, fixing on the diner patrons across the street. He scanned each face, looking for one out of place. Or . . . He stilled. Was it someone he knew?
“But that means they broke in here, rushed down to Albuquerque, then circled back?” she said.
“Weirder things have happened.” He knew by experience. “I’m going to run this in to Joel. I’ll be right back.”
“Joel? I’m assuming you mean Sheriff Brunswick?”
Christian nodded.
“I didn’t realize you were on a first-name basis.”
“We play baseball together. And . . .” He shrugged. “It’s a small town.”
“Right,” she said, her piercing gaze still scanning the diner scene.
Twenty minutes later, they were heading south on Highway 14—aka the Turquoise Trail—for Albuquerque. Andi kept her hands, damp with cold perspiration, at her side. Something about the note had spooked Christian, and returning to Albuquerque—likely to see the FBI art theft team, no less—had completely upended her. They made quite a pair.
“You okay?” he asked, one arm draped across the wheel.
“Mmm-hmm.” She wasn’t asking why he asked. She already knew the answer. Instead, she’d focus on him.
“How often have you seen back-to-back heists?” he asked before she could do just that.
“None since I started in this line of work, but I do recall reading about one while I was researching for the job.”
“This line of work?” he asked. “Is it a newer occupation for you?”
The guy was too intuitive for his own good. “Yes.” Which led to the question she didn’t want to answer.
“What’d you do before?”
“I worked in an office.” It was true. The FBI crime lab was in an office building. Before he could prod, she shifted the focus. “So what about you? How’d you get into the security business?”
He tapped the wheel. The sun fanned out across the windshield, spilling in to warm her. “It’s not my main profession,” he said, his tone once again casual. Unaffected.
“Oh?” What else did a security consultant do? Security officer, perhaps? Which would give him even more time inside a gallery to rob it. She pinched her lip with her teeth. Don’t assume. But . . . She exhaled, shifting to face the man better. Don’t trust. “What is your main profession?”
He glanced over at her with a sideways smile. “I’m a private investigator.”
“Really?”
He chuckled. “You don’t have to sound so shocked.”
“Sorry.” She offered an apologetic smile. “I just hadn’t anticipated that.”
He dipped his head. The man was entirely too handsome for his own good. “And what did you anticipate?”
“I don’t know.” She smoothed her skirt. “Maybe a security guard.”
He chuckled again, the sound warm and inviting.
Whoa, girl. He’s a suspect, remember? “So . . . private investigator? How’d you get into that line of work?”
He straightened and swiped his nose. “Just fell into it.”
“And the combo of the two?”
He rubbed his hand along his thigh. “While investigating cases, I noted that a lot of thefts, break-ins, and intrusions could have been prevented with a more sophisticated security system.”
“And you knew how to make them?”
He glanced in the rearview mirror and then over to her. “I studied it enough that I started consulting. After some time, I installed the upgrades myself. But that’s only a small portion of what I do.” He glanced in the mirror again.
She turned to look over her shoulder. “What is it?”
“Nothing. I just thought I . . .”
“You . . . ?”
“It’s nothing,” he said, but his lingering attention in the mirror said otherwise.
She glanced back one more time, then turned toward him, her attention back on the case. “I didn’t get a chance to ask Tad about his missing fob before the call about his other gallery came in. That’s first on my list when we arrive.”
“No need.” He glanced in the mirror again.
She shifted. Seriously? What was up? “Is something wrong? Someone following us?” That would be a first.
“There’s a white SUV about a half mile back. I can only see it on the straightaways, which are few and far between.”
“This is a two-lane road,” she said, curious at the intensity in his eyes. “I imagine it could look like anyone is following us.”
“True.” He clamped the wheel. “But I noticed the vehicle in the diner lot as we drove past.”
She squinted as the sun beamed off the windshield. She pulled her sunglasses out of her bag. “You’re quite observant.”
“PI.” He shrugged.
She wondered what the profession was like. What he was like. There was something enticing about him that made her curious, but she wasn’t following that inclination, period.
“Do you really think he or they are following us?” she asked, turning and resting her weight against the back of the seat.
“We’ll find out.”
Before she could ask what he meant, he banked hard right. Now, instead of running parallel to the trees and lush forests, he pulled into the midst of them.
Reaching a small dirt road, he once again banked hard right . . . pulled up about ten yards, then made a U-turn. The Bronco rocked to a stop as her heart thudded. Anticipation roiled through her limbs, her hands no longer clammy—now everything was hot.
Dust billowed on the road. Someone was coming.
SEVEN
THE SOUND OF AN ENGINE GROWLED, and then a blue minivan bumped across the rutted dirt road that crossed by theirs.
Andi looked over at Christian. Nervous laughter, yearning to be released, bubbled in her throat, but she kept the pressure inside.
“Huh,” he said. “I guess I was wrong.” Again, with the casual reaction.
