One Wrong Move, page 8
“Nope. We’re out of Joel’s jurisdiction, and they’re on the case now.” A kindness filled his eyes.
Great. He could pity her now. But his expression wasn’t one of pity, but of . . . compassion? “I’m gonna have to crawl to the back to get the case if I don’t want to get drenched again.” He shimmied sideways between the seats. “Sorry,” he said as his legs brushed her.
“All good,” she said as an unexpected warmth shot through her. She scooched back against the door, so he had more room, but he’d already tumbled into the backseat and was leaning over it to the rear of the vehicle. It took him a rustling moment, but he sat back up with two pairs of gloves and a plastic evidence bag in hand.
“You come prepared,” she said.
“PI gig,” he said. “Never know when you’re going to come across something.”
She scooched her back flat against the passenger door as he climbed back over and landed in his seat with an oomph.
Sliding the gloves on, he handed her the second pair and the evidence bag and then reached for the envelope, flipped on the interior vehicle light, and held the envelope between them.
Andi was scrawled across the front of the envelope—in what looked like a woman’s handwriting. Her chest squeezed. “I don’t understand why it’s addressed to me.”
“Could it be someone you busted in the past?” he asked, rain pelting off the steamed-up windshield.
“It’s possible.” She swallowed as Christian started the SUV and kicked on the defrost.
“How many thieves have you busted?” he asked.
“Four.”
“All from heists?”
“Yes. Two heists, each with two thieves.”
“Impressive.” He smiled. “Who were they?”
“In the first case, both had prior arrests for art theft, and they are in prison for a good while. The other two were gallery owners trying to cash in their insurance policy.”
The whir of the defroster filled the space, and Christian knocked the fan down one as the fog slipped from the windshield bottom to top.
“And the gallery owners . . . did they go to jail?”
“No. Since we never paid out, they had no restitution to make, but they both got fines, probation, and community service.”
“So it could easily be one of them. Fill me in on the way to Taos. I’ll call the office and ask Greyson to run the men. I’m assuming it was two men?”
“Actually, one man. The other was a woman.”
“Really?” He arched a brow. “You don’t see women involved in heists too often, but there is the mystery woman Todd met at the gala, who apparently conned him.”
“And stole his fob?”
He nodded. “Could she be the female gallery owner you busted?”
Andi shifted in her seat. “I suppose so. Tad couldn’t remember much about her, right?”
“Right.” He nodded. “Other than the fact that she had long, wavy brown hair, which Joel confirmed seeing in the gala footage he watched. He said she came in near the end of the night and managed to keep her face off camera.”
“That’s intriguing. You think she cased the place too?”
“She did, or someone else did and gave her the rundown of the place.”
“And Tad can’t give any more of a description? Anything about her face?” she asked. How could a man be with a woman and not be able to describe her? The notion sloshed her stomach.
“Unbelievably, no.”
“Do you think he’s lying?” Was he somehow involved? They’d pressed him hard before leaving, and he didn’t incriminate himself in any manner other than the murmured comment, but he’d grown stronger as a suspect in her mind. Probably not on-the-ground involved, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t hired someone to rob his gallery and given them the information to bypass the system Christian had installed.
“I don’t know for sure, but I’m certainly not counting him out.”
“So he could be in it with the woman?” she asked.
“Yes. It could be a total setup. I mean, this handwriting seems to indicate a woman’s involvement in at least some regard. I’m sure the Feds will run it through their handwriting experts. Maybe we’ll get something helpful from that.”
“Maybe.” She shifted in her seat. “Let’s open it.”
“Right.” He flipped back the unsealed flap and pulled out a cream tri-folded sheet of paper.
What does this say? Or nothing. Or nothing. Again, in what appeared to be a woman’s handwriting.
“Double or nothing,” he said. “And signed by Chris Angel and Houdini.”
“Another gambling riddle signed by two magicians,” she said.
“Illusionists,” he said.
Her brow quirked. “What’s the difference?”
“Magicians work on a smaller scale. Illusionists perform grand illusions like disappearing people, or in both Chris Angel’s and Houdini’s cases, their most famous—or one of their most famous acts—was Metamorphosis.”
“Which is?”
“Two magicians appeared to transform into each other.”
“Wow, that’s quite the illusion.” She narrowed her eyes. “You seem to know a lot about magicians and illusionists.” She’d never paid attention to any, but he easily recalled who they were by their names.
He shrugged. “I liked watching them as a kid.”
“Interesting. Did you ever try to pull off tricks?”
The muscle in his jaw flickered.
“I used to play ballerina,” she started, sharing first. “I had my pink leotard and bedazzled tiara.”
He smiled, and his clamped jaw loosened. “You have a tutu too?”
“Absolutely, a bright pink one.”
He chuckled.
“It’s funny what we want to be when we’re kids.”
“I suppose so.”
“What did you want to be when you were a kid? A magician?”
He shrugged. “Just a kid.”
She held his gaze a moment, and he seemed utterly sincere, but what kind of a kid didn’t have a dream? She turned her attention back to the letter. “May I?” she asked, holding out her hand, wanting to examine it more closely.
“Sure.” He handed it to her.
She held it in her gloved hands. “Why gambling riddles?”
“I think they’re still telling us it’s a game,” he said, holding the evidence bag for her to place the note in when she was finished.
“And there’ll be more?” she asked, studying the scroll.
“Double or nothing means another one is coming.”
She agreed. This wasn’t over, and with Alex missing and them run off the road, this “game,” as the thieves appeared to view it, was growing extremely dangerous. She exhaled, praying it stopped before it became deadly, but the worst feeling about Alex gripped her chest tight.
Father, please don’t let her be . . . She didn’t want to even voice it, but she needed to pray what was on her heart. Please don’t let her be dead.
EIGHTEEN
CHRISTIAN SWERVED as a tumbleweed toppled across the road, his headlights illuminating it as it danced in a flurry of blustering wind. He glanced at the GPS. Nearly there. They hadn’t wanted to wait around for the Feds to take the letter, so they’d dropped it off with the Albuquerque police detective who Tad said had been on site before the Feds showed. He could get it to them. Or they could duke out jurisdiction, for all he cared. Right now, he was focused on the task at hand. And—he sighed—growing enthralled with the beautiful woman sitting beside him. She kept him on his toes in the best possible way.
What would it be like to get to know Andi Forester better? He definitely wanted to find out. They were both tied to the case, which he prayed would end tonight. He’d alerted the local sheriff, Harold Brookes, about their plan—explained they were hoping to catch the men in the act. Harold had a pressing case and couldn’t commit to being with them but said he was only a phone call away.
Pulling up to Tad’s Taos wine gallery, Christian cut the ignition and pulled out the keys.
“Excuse me,” he said, leaning toward her. “I need to grab my gun.”
Andi scooched back into the seat as he pulled the Glock from the glove box, then shut it and straightened.
“I’m going to grab an extra mag, and then I say we run for it.” Of course, Deck didn’t have an umbrella.
She nodded.
He grabbed the mag from the rear lockbox—the back of his shirt soaked and suctioned to his skin in a matter of moments—and then grabbed her door for her. Taking her hand, they bolted for the front entrance, squishing under the narrow overhang.
“How do we get in this gallery?” she asked, her arms wrapped about her.
A triple set of keypads. Christian plugged the first code into the exterior pad. The door buzzed, and he held it open for her.
“Thanks,” she said, stepping inside, water dripping to the floor and puddling around them.
“I’ll take care of the next two alarms and see if we can’t find something to dry off with. Or . . .” He winced at the sight of her shivering. “At least warm up somehow.”
She nodded and followed him as he disarmed the system.
“If they come and see the alarm is off, won’t they know we’re here?”
“I’m going to reset them.”
“Then won’t we set them off?” she asked as he opened the back-office door—only the emergency lighting on.
“No motion sensors here. Another of Tad’s brilliant choices.”
“But you installed the system,” she said, her teeth chattering.
“I suggested upgrades to what he had in place, and he took two of my recommendations and blatantly ignored the rest, so I refused to back my work here too.”
She rubbed her arms beside him, and he fought the urge to tug her in his arms and warm her up.
He swallowed at the thoughts of her pulling at his mind. He hadn’t felt anything for a woman in a long time. How had Andi Forester managed to invade his mind in such a short amount of time? He shook off the thoughts of her dancing through his head and moved for the light switch.
“It’s almost like Tad wanted to get robbed,” she said. “The way he handled the systems . . .”
“I’m starting to wonder,” he said, flipping the lights on in the windowless office. They bathed the room in a warm glow. He took in their surroundings, and his gaze locked on the closet. “I bet Tad keeps a jacket or something in here,” he said, striding for it.
“Here we go,” he said, opening the door to find a jacket, dress shirt, tie, and even a pair of loafers. “This should help,” he said, pulling the jacket off the hanger, which clanged against the metal bar behind him as he strode to Andi. He draped it across her shoulders and tugged it together, reaching for the zipper.
“What about you?” she asked as he zipped her up, still wanting to pull her into his arms.
“I’m fine.” But he needed to focus on the case rather than how intriguing she’d become to him.
“You’re soaked to the bone,” she said, shivering. If she didn’t warm up soon, he was going to pull her into his arms.
He glanced back at the closet. “I’ll change my shirt. That’ll help.” He was taller and broader than Tad, but it would work well enough for the night.
Andi’s cheeks burned red at the sight of Christian O’Brady without a shirt. Struggling to hide her smile, she turned her glance away.
“Sorry,” he said. “I could have stepped outside if that made you uncomfortable.”
“No. It’s fine. No different than seeing you or any man in a swimsuit.” Though she doubted any man was ripped like he was. Wow. She looked upward and mouthed, Good job.
“It’s a little short,” he said, and she flashed her gaze back on him, and unbridled laughter spilled from her lips. The cuffs hit several inches from his wrists, the fabric straining.
He looked down and grabbed the hem of the shirt, it also landing several inches above his waist. “Yeah, not sure this is going to work.” He chuckled.
“It’s better than staying soaked. Besides, if you . . .” She strode over, unbuttoned the sleeves, and rolled them up his sinewy forearms one at a time. How did he have muscles like that for forearms? Sheesh. “There you go,” she said, finishing up.
“And this?” He grinned and pointed to his exposed waistline.
“That you’re just going to have to deal with.” She chuckled.
“Glad you find this so amusing.”
“Sorry.” She pressed her lips together, trying to stem her laughter, but it was no use.
The fact that she was supposed to have been married and off on her honeymoon by now was a harsh contrast to standing in a windowless office with a man who somehow disarmed her guard. And he was making her laugh. Belly laugh for the first time in a year.
“It’s okay.” He chuckled. “I know it’s ridiculous, but like you said, it’s better than being soaked.” He draped his wet shirt over the chair. “I can only hope this dries by morning, because I’m not wearing this home. I’d never hear the end of the ribbing.”
She shuffled her foot. “You and your brother . . . are close?”
“Yes.”
“But you believe he’s wrong about Mitch’s case?” At least he’d said he was inclined to believe she’d been set up, which went right in the face of Deckard’s judgment of her.
“I believe what Deckard found happened.”
Her stomach dropped, and she braced for what was coming.
NINETEEN
“BUT I ALSO DON’T BUY that you messed up,” Christian continued, stunning her. “Or, at least, I think your case should be investigated.”
“Wait.” She squinted. “So are you saying you believe both of us?” How was that possible?
“I believe Deckard found what he did. However, it doesn’t negate the fact that you could very well have been set up.” He rolled one of the two computer chairs over, spun it around, and straddled it, draping his hands over the back, gesturing with them as he spoke.
“So Deckard found the DNA was compromised and the evidence missing. We can consider that a fact. The sample was deteriorated beyond retesting, and the shirt is missing. But neither of those things means you did anything wrong. Especially if you believe you were set up.”
“I don’t believe I was set up. I was set up.” She bit her lip to keep from screaming.
He held his hand up. “I get it. Why don’t you walk me through more of the case.”
She shuffled her leg, pulled the jacket tight around herself.
“You could go in the ladies’ room, take your shirt off to dry, and wear the jacket zipped,” he suggested.
“That’s not a bad idea.” Her blouse was plastered to her. “How far is the bathroom? I don’t want to risk the thieves seeing me through one of the windows or doors. Actually, why don’t you just turn around and I’ll change here.”
He arched a brow. “You sure?”
“I trust you not to look.”
“Really? Don’t you know the hero always sneaks a peek?”
A bemused smile twitched on her lips. “So you’re the hero now? Does that make me the damsel in distress?”
“Hardly. I feel certain you can hold your own.”
She smiled. “All right, mister. Turn around.” She waited until he did so, then swapped out the shirt for just the jacket. “Okay,” she said as she’d finished zipping it up.
He turned around. “Feel better?”
“Much.” She draped it on one of the conference table chairs. “It’s interesting—”
“What’s that?”
“Tad’s galleries are primarily fine jewels, ancient artifacts, and exorbitantly priced wines, according to the dossier my boss just emailed over.” She wiggled the phone.
“But?”
“But he has all these modern, neo-minimalist areas within the galleries.”
“The exorbitant world is Tad. The Zen-minimalist is his ex or soon-to-be ex-wife, Veronica Gaiman.”
Andi arched her brow. “That’s a new one. What on earth is Zen-minimalism?”
“It’s defined as an ‘extension of simplicity,’ according to Veronica,” he said, using air quotes. “She says it’s where you take complex things to simple, getting rid of anything that’s unnecessary.”
“So the plain white tables and chairs, the lack of artwork in the break room or the offices,” she said.
“Exactly.”
“They sound like an interesting pair.”
Christian’s eyes widened on an inhale, then he streamed it out. “You don’t know the half of it. We probably could add Veronica to our suspect list too. I pray after tonight we’ll have caught the thieves and we can track down who all might be involved.”
“Tad’s on the suspect list, the mystery woman he supposedly can’t remember . . .”
“Me . . .” He moved to take a seat on the floor, propping his back against the wall and stretching out his legs.
She moved to sit beside him. “You kinda have to be on the list, given your knowledge of the security systems. It would be unprofessional of me to just assume your innocence.”
“I get it.”
“But my gut says you’re far from involved.”
“Why’s that?”
“You’ve been with me when both letters were left. The one is in a woman’s script. You said Joel . . . Sheriff Brunswick ran through the heist footage, and he would have noticed if one of the thieves was your size.”
“A perk of being tall, I suppose.”
“So who else should we have on the list?”
“Besides Veronica, Tad’s ex–business partner, Brad Melling.”
“So he’s got two exes.”
He chuckled. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”
“So what happened with Tad and Veronica’s split?”
“It was public and ugly. Both accusing the other of cheating.”
“Any merit to the accusations?” She relaxed, letting the solid wall hold her full weight. As soon as tonight was over, she was crashing out—at least for a handful of hours. She was going on fumes.
