Take My Breath Away…. Cara SummersЧитать онлайн книгу.
glanced toward the painting again. “I hope that we’re both wrong about another robbery.”
Gabe hoped so, too. But his gut told him they weren’t.
As he left the FBI offices, he noted that more people had reported to work. And in spite of his determination not to, he glanced once more in the direction of Nicola Guthrie’s office.
Her head was bent over a file.
Gabe wasn’t sure it was relief or disappointment he felt as the elevator doors closed and he descended to the street level.
1
Two and a half months later, February 12
“TURN LEFT IN point nine miles.”
The calm voice of her GPS system had FBI special agent Nicola Guthrie gripping the steering wheel of her car and peering through the windshield into thickly falling snow. Easing her foot off the gas, she narrowed her eyes to study what lay in the beams of her headlights.
Not much. She was finding it more and more difficult to distinguish the narrow mountain road from the treacherous ditches that bordered it on either side.
The storm had been steadily increasing in intensity ever since she’d left Denver at 6:00 p.m. And her little Volkswagen Beetle convertible was not known for its winter weather capabilities. The one-hour drive to the church of St. Francis had stretched into nearly three.
And counting.
But it was going to be worth it. The moment that Father Mike Flynn had walked into her office and showed her the note, she’d gotten that tingling feeling deep inside of her—the same one that had guided every important decision she’d ever made. And it had never failed her.
Tonight, she had a good chance of finally identifying the art thief who’d been leading the FBI on a merry chase for the past three months. On each holiday since Thanksgiving, he’d relieved one of Denver’s art collectors of a priceless painting. And if she unmasked him tonight, her father would finally have to relent and take her career choice seriously.
Nicola glanced at her speedometer. She could walk faster than this.
“Turn left in point five miles.”
Not much longer. Her decision to join the FBI had not set well with either her father or her stepmother. Her father’s tendency to be over-protective she could understand. Her mother had been an agent who’d worked with him, and she’d died in the line of duty when Nicola had been a toddler.
Her stepmother was a different kettle of fish. Marcia Thorne Guthrie had been born to wealth, and her ideas about a woman’s role in society were slightly and almost lovably medieval. Marcia thought women should study art and literature, marry, run a lovely home and spread her largesse through the community by doing good works. And by throwing huge charity balls like the one Marcia gave every year at Thorne Mansion on Valentine’s Day.
In fact, that’s exactly where Nicola should be right now—at Thorne Mansion helping her stepmother make the final dessert selections for the ball.
The problem was Nicola didn’t want to follow in her stepmother’s footsteps. She wanted to follow in her father’s. But she dearly loved both of her parents—enough to get a Masters in Fine Art degree before she’d secretly applied to the FBI. Throughout her life, her rebellions against her parents had ended in eventual victories, but they had always been hard-won. And actions had always spoken louder than words. Eventually, she’d win them over.
Which was why tonight was so important. If she could just catch herself a thief. And if that thief turned out to be who she thought it was? Well, her father would have to give her bonus points for that because he thought Gabe Wilder was as innocent as a newborn babe.
She didn’t.
“Turn left in point three miles.”
“Where?” Nicola frowned into the swirling snow.
Then she saw it—just the outline of the church steeple. Ahead and to her left. She might have missed it if not for the headlights of a vehicle parked nearby. When a sudden break in the wind gave her a better look at the silhouette of the parked car, Nicola’s pulse jumped.
It was an SUV and it looked familiar. Could it be …?
The tingling sensation moved through her. She’d felt the same way when Father Mike had visited her office and shown her the note announcing that the statue of St. Francis was going to be stolen tonight. Gabe Wilder might very well be here.
“Turn left in one hundred yards.”
One step at a time, Nicola. First, you have to find the driveway. Then the thief.
During the long drive from the city, her practical side had been cautioning her that a semi-retired Franciscan priest like Father Mike didn’t fit the profile of the previous wealthy and socially prominent victims of Denver’s well-publicized art thief. However, during the twenty years he’d served as the director of the St. Francis Center for Boys, Father Mike had certainly rubbed elbows with the movers and shakers of Denver.
And the thief always delivered a note to his next target on the day he struck. Father Mike had received his note today. She’d read it.
I’ve always admired the statue of St. Francis—ever since I first saw it in the prayer garden at the St. Francis Center. I was so disappointed when 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