One Sizzling Night. Jo LeighЧитать онлайн книгу.
the cop. Brown’s retiring soon. He’s been after the Houdini Burglar for most of his career. He doesn’t want to go out looking like a fool.”
“A cop? About to retire with a pension?”
“Why not? He’s been obsessed.”
Neil gave her a slow, considering look. “Fine,” he said. “Let’s assume you’re right. What is it you want to do?”
She tried to relax, her gaze going to the Modigliani hanging behind him. It was one of her favorites, one he’d kept out of circulation far longer than most. She suspected because he knew of her fondness for the painting.
As his curator, she worked up a complete profile for each piece in his vast collection, checking and double-checking the provenances, all of which went into a very complex metadata formula that told them when a piece was ready to go into circulation, and where. Some of the pieces would be marked for sale, while other were to be held on to as an investment. All that mattered to her was that she had the rare and wonderful privilege of seeing the work up close, studying the craft and basking in its pure genius.
“I need to prove he didn’t do it,” she said, finally sinking into the leather chair. “As long as he’s on the run he can’t return to his home in Paris or access his accounts. I’m sure he has money stashed away somewhere in case something like this were to ever happen but who knows if he can get to it.”
“Do you think he’ll try to contact you?”
“No.” The thought hadn’t even occurred to her. She shook her head. “After ten years without a word? I doubt it.”
“You’re right. He wouldn’t want to involve you.”
Kensey stared in disbelief. “Are you serious? He doesn’t care about me. A letter, Neil,” she said, the pain as sharp now as the day she’d found herself alone in a Swiss hotel. She’d just turned eighteen and was about to start at Yale, which had the best undergraduate fine arts program in the world. She’d been over the moon about it. “Three lines basically telling me to have a nice life was all he left me before he disappeared.” He’d also left enough money to finance her Ivy League education, including a master’s degree in art restoration at the Istituto Superiore per la Conservazione ed il Restauro in Rome. Plus her Manhattan co-op. She hoped the overtures hadn’t eased his guilt one bit. “He’s probably forgotten he has a daughter.”
Neil hadn’t looked away once. But she did, before she could see pity in his eyes. “The smart thing would be to stay away from the investigation,” Neil said. “It’s not easy to trace you back to that old life, but it can be done. So, why risk it?”
“I don’t know.” Kensey sighed. “I honestly don’t, but... I can’t look the other way. I wish I could.”
Neil’s gaze drifted toward the window and the lush greenery outside. “What’s your plan?”
“I don’t know that, either.” The headache that had been teasing her since four o’clock this morning was making itself known, as it began to throb behind her temples. “If I’m right and he’s being framed, the fake painting would have been destroyed by now. The insurance company will have pictures. I still have connections from when I worked as a fraud investigator... I can call in a favor.”
Neil stared at her with unforgiving focus. With his thick dark hair and athletic build, the man had the nerve to be great looking. She’d have preferred he wasn’t. Not because they had anything going on, but because some people automatically assumed that their relationship was more than professional.
Okay, so they were friends, as well, but that was a far cry from being lovers...
“Do you know how many red flags you’d send up?” Neil asked. “I don’t care what anyone owes you, you’ll end up under the same microscope as Foster.”
“I hadn’t thought that far ahead,” she admitted. “But you’re right. I need to be careful.” She exhaled slowly, embarrassed at how foolish she sounded. “I can’t let this go, Neil. I can’t. He’s in his late fifties. He can’t spend the rest of his life in prison. Even if he gets off, the authorities will be watching him. He’d be forced to retire. So I wouldn’t feel guilty helping him.”
Neil nodded. “I agree something’s off. It wouldn’t surprise me if he has been set up. But he’s not my concern. You are.”
Kensey smiled. “Thank you.” Of course he would think of her first. She’d never wanted him to be involved, but now that he was, she was incredibly grateful. “I mean it. I don’t know where I’d be without you. I hope you understand that I have to do this.”
“Time isn’t on your side, Kensey. You’d have to work fast. Once the police arrest him and have enough to indict him, the prosecution will start digging deep. And I don’t think they’re going to dither on this one. Too many rich, interested people involved. No judge will consider bail, since he’s the poster boy for flight risk. And once he’s in Sing Sing, he’s going to stay there.”
Her heart squeezed so tightly it took her by surprise. She never would have guessed that helping her father would matter so much to her. “I can’t tell if you’re encouraging me to get moving, or trying to get me to drop it.”
“I know you better than to think you’d do that.” He rose and walked over to the coffee service on his credenza. After filling his own mug, he held out the carafe to her.
She shook her head. God, all she needed was more caffeine added to the adrenaline racing through her body.
“I know you have something in mind,” he said. “Tell me what it is.”
“I don’t have a plan. Not really—” The idea Kensey had entertained at five o’clock this morning seemed completely insane now. If she told Neil about it, he would probably have her committed on the spot. No, first he’d fire her, then he’d call a psychiatrist to send men in white coats to haul her off to some sterile institution with cheap hotel art on the walls. Kensey sighed. “I could steal the original myself.”
Anyone else might’ve spit out his coffee. Neil swallowed and set the mug down on his desk, then sat. “You don’t know who has the Degas.”
“We’ve both heard the rumors.”
“Rumors being the operative word.”
Kensey studied her boss. His brows lowered, he wasn’t quite frowning, more like he was deep in thought. She was encouraged by the fact that he hadn’t told her outright it was a ridiculous idea.
“You and Ian Holstrom used to be business partners,” she said. “Do you think he could have a private collection of stolen masterpieces?”
“We parted company over twenty years ago. Hard to say what he’s into now.”
“Is he capable of such a thing?”
Neil’s smile held no humor. “He wasn’t always narcissistic and greedy. We made a lot of money very quickly and Ian figured that entitled him to a seat among Boston’s elite. But he was crass, always talking about how rich he was. People didn’t like him. They still don’t, no matter how much expensive art he acquires. So, yes, I can see him wanting to stick it to everyone by hording stolen art for his own amusement, but I can also see how the rumors might have gotten started out of disdain for the man.”
“But since the Degas hasn’t been seen in seven years, only the forgery, it is possible Holstrom has it, right?”
“It’s also possible Seymour’s painting isn’t a forgery.”
Kensey didn’t blink. “I’m not wrong. And I don’t have any other leads.”
Neil sighed. “Look, you can’t break into his house. Holstrom has top-notch security. He’s an arms dealer and defense contractor, for God’s sake.” Neil held up a hand when Kensey tried to interrupt. “However, in addition to his love of art, he has an insatiable appetite for fine