Reluctant Burglar: A Novel Read online

  “Aaaagh!” Desi bounded from the bed and paced the room, empty boxes scattering before her feet.

  I could just pull a Sergeant Schultz and “know nothing.” Who could say what she’d found? Or even if she’d found anything at all? Oh, Mr. Monster might hope, Tony might suspect, but no one knew except her.

  And God.

  She went still, shoulders slumped.

  Okay, Lord, You’re not the author of confusion. What am I missing?

  There had to be a way to save lives and jobs and catch the crook at the same time.

  The doorbell chimed. Now what?

  Desi went to the foyer and eased the door open. Shafts of sunlight dazzled her over someone’s broad shoulders. She blinked and focused.

  Tony?

  No! Don’t tell me any more had news. Last time he wore that expression, he brought tragedy to her doorstep.

  “Good morning, Desiree.”

  Desiree? Had they lost ground since last night?

  “Ms. Jacobs.” Lounging against a porch pillar, Steve Crane nodded to her. She’d seen a friendlier expression in the eyes of a caged cobra.

  She frowned at Tony. “What’s this all about?”

  “We’ve found Leone Bocca.”

  “Oh, thank God. Did he tell you anything that might lead to my father’s killer?”

  A muscle jumped in Tony’s cheek. “I’m sorry. Mr. Bocca was dead when we got to him.”

  Desi grabbed the edge of the door frame. “Another murder?”

  Tony shook his head. “He died of a gunshot wound inflicted the night he invaded your home. He’d been dead for some time when he was discovered.”

  Blackness swirled through Desi’s vision. Tony’s arm came up, then fell back to his side. His hands jammed into the pockets of his slacks. “The FBI deems you no longer in danger, and we have no proof that you knew anything about your father’s activities, so the surveillance has been dropped. You’re free to resume your life.”

  Resume my life? Why was he acting like a detached detective from a Dragnet rerun? Hadn’t his arms been around her just last night? What changed?

  Her lungs froze.

  Of course! How could she have been so gullible? Tony cozied up to her as long as he thought she might lead him to Bocca and whoever was behind him. Now that she was no longer some kind of missing link, he had no more use for her. That’s what she got for reading personal interest into strictly business.

  Desi drew herself up straight. “Thank you for updating me on the latest development, Special Agent Lucano. I trust you will continue to pursue the case from other avenues.”

  Steve Crane took a step forward. “You better believe well be on the job. We’re gonna find out everything about everyone in on this caper.” His stare pegged her as one of the guilty parties.

  Desi matched the man’s steady look. At least Crane didn’t play games. “I’m pleased to know you aren’t giving up. I won’t either.” She parted her lips in a smile she didn’t feel. “Good day to you both.”

  Desi closed the door and leaned her forehead against the wood surface. Long seconds passed; then footsteps retreated from her porch. Lucano the Louse had had the gall to look angry when she dismissed him and his partner. The man relied too much on his charisma to let him wind women’s hearts around his little finger.

  Not this woman’s. No way. No how.

  She straightened, then marched back into her father’s bedroom and began to strip items from coat hangers and fold them into boxes.

  That headstrong woman is going to drive me to drink. Wouldn’t that make Stevo’s day if I bellied up to the bar with him?

  Tony gritted his teeth as he drove away from Desiree’s house. He’d had to be on his professional behavior for their little talk. How could she not know that? Unless she was through with him now that the Bocca threat was gone.

  A chill bit deep into his bones. That made sense. Too much sense.

  He veered around a corner, and his shoulder hit the door.

  “Hey, pard, keep it below the speed limit.” Crane scowled at him. “We’re not on emergency call.”

  Tony eased his foot off the accelerator.

  Maybe the innocent sincerity he thought he’d seen in Desiree was an Oscar caliber performance, even better than Meranda. He smacked the steering wheel. Am I always going to be some conniving female’s patsy?

  No. As a matter of fact, he wasn’t. He gritted his teeth. “How soon can you have your guys on surveillance?”

  Crane chuckled. “Testy, are we? The damsel didn’t seem to be in distress.”

  “Drop it!” One more word and I’ll knock the grin off your face, boyo.

  With a grunt, Crane pulled out his cell phone and punched in numbers. “Watchdogs, coming up.”

  A half hour later, they were ready to start an interview for an unrelated case and still had no one lined up to keep an eye on Desi. Retired FBI agents must have better things to do than sit by their phones on beautiful Saturdays in May.

  “I’ll try again as soon as we get through this.” Crane’s gum cracked and popped as they headed for the interview room. “We can’t leave her to her own devices for long. No telling what mischief she’ll get into.”

  You can say that again, Stevo. A woman who’d take on a killer with a pillow might try anything, and they needed to be right on her tail when she did.

  The phone rang, and Desiree dropped the shirt she was holding. Forcing her heart back into its proper place, she picked up the extension just as the second ring started. She stopped with the handset halfway to her ear. What if this was one of the crooks? Maybe this was her call with “instructions.” How had they known to reach her in her father’s apartment? Or that the FBI surveillance was over?

  “Hello?” A deep voice at the other end. “Hello?”

  Relief swept Desi. “Dean, you’re home this weekend.”

  Max’s husband chuckled. “Don’t be so shocked. Just because the big cheeses like to fly to the hot spots on weekends doesn’t mean I never get one off. I’ve got a pickup in New York on Monday, but my feet’ll be on the ground until then.”

  “I’m sure Max is happy to have you around.”

  A deep groan. “She went to get groceries, and I’m here with Luke and Emily and a honey-do list as long as my arm. But say—” he cleared his throat—“I didn’t call to complain. I called to apologize. I was out of line last night. It’s just that—”

  “Don’t worry about it. Your heart was in the right place.”

  “Even if my mouth wasn’t?”

  “If it makes you feel any better, I think you were right about Lucano. We were supposed to go jogging this morning, but he cancelled before I even went to bed last night. Then he showed up at my door a little while ago all business. It seems I’m no longer of interest to the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  “What! Of all the—They’re not going to protect you from that dude who broke into your place? Max is not going to want to hear that.”

  “Bocca’s dead.”

  Sharp intake of breath. “Dead? Are you sure?”

  “Well, I didn’t see the body, if that’s what you mean. But Ton—Agent Lucano says the SWAT team didn’t miss after all.”

  “Yeow! Well, I guess all that’s left to say is thank God you’re safe and it’s over.”

  Over? No surveillance? Why am I putzing around with Dad’s clothes? Nuts! Wicked crazy, as the dockworkers would say “Dean, I need to go now. Thanks for calling. Apology accepted. See you and Max tomorrow at church?”

  “Sure thing. I’ll give her your good news.”

  Desi returned the phone to its cradle and then raced up the stairs. She assembled the things she needed and left the house, briefcase in hand. Just like she was headed to the office for a quiet Saturday of catch-up work.

  The FBI might have packed up and gone home, but evil eyes could still be watching.

  At the deserted headquarters of HJ Securities, she changed into her drab persona and slipped out
the back door into the alley. Her rapid bus changes went without incident.

  At the warehouse, a sleepy-eyed weekend staffer offered a mumbled greeting. Nothing like the suspicious secretary she confronted the first time. He signed her in and sent her back with no escort. She lost her way a couple times, but at last arrived at the container.

  Desi’s pulse throbbed in her throat as she punched the code and stepped inside. Everything appeared to be as she had left it. Six thin crates and a black leatherbound journal. Desi grabbed the book and curled into the corner of the storage bin to reread her father’s words. No new clues popped out at her.

  With a sigh she shut the journal and rubbed a hand across the back cover.

  What’s this? The leather had an odd bulge.

  She flipped the book open and explored the seam. A slit on one edge gave access to a folded white envelope. Her shaky fingers ripped the stitching further as she worked the envelope free. It was addressed to her and dated the day before her father left for his European tour. This letter had been in the journal the whole time, but she’d missed it in her hurry the first day.

  Her mouth went dry.

  Maybe she was about to discover the identity of a criminal mastermind.

  Who killed you, Daddy?

  She tore the envelope open, drew out several sheets of paper, and unfolded them. Her gaze fell on the familiar script. She blinked away tears and forced herself to read. No preamble, just a sentence bolded by overwriting several times.

  I think you should trust Lucano.

  Desiree gasped. Her father said that? There was more.

  The man is way too earnest about doing right to be a dirty agent.

  Bull’s-eye, Dad. She could almost hear her father’s dry chuckle.

  I know he’s been a thorn in the flesh to you. Me, too, though from the guilty side. But you need to turn the masterpieces over to the authorities, and I strongly suggest Special Agent Lucano. In an honest agent’s hands, they may stand some chance of being returned to their owners. This has always been my goal. I will never surrender these priceless works to the black market. I took them to protect them … and you. (More on that later.)

  Do NOT handle this matter on your own, baby girl.

  Again the script in bold.

  I know you think you can save the world if you just make the right move. You’re too much my daughter. Please, don’t be a fool like your old man.

  A tear hit the page. Dad knew her so well. “You were never a fool, Daddy.” The words fell from her lips in a whisper. Her fingertips caressed the page that her father, warm and alive, had so recently penned. A sob left her throat. Laying the journal and papers aside, she searched for a tissue in the scruffy purse her alter ego carried. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose, then returned to the letter.

  Run from this problem, hand it off to someone else, even if it costs the business. Everyone will pick themselves up and go on, including you.

  Now, I need to share with you how this travesty came about …

  Desiree devoured two more pages. Her father spoke with passion and sorrow about a time of weakness in his life right after Desi’s mother died—before he came to rely on the Lord as his Rock. A time when he was desperate for money to support his little girl and not thinking clearly. He had pilfered a small but valuable painting from a museum client—a classic low-tech theft—and sold it to Paul Dujardin for enough money to keep the business afloat.

  As soon as the theft was accomplished, they were both horrified by what they had done and made a pact never to steal again. Her father put the painting back at the earliest opportunity but kept Paul’s money as a loan, which he later repaid.

  Desi had known about the loan and had accepted the monetary bargain as a part of the closeness between the two men. To find out now that there was so much more to the story … Her breath hitched.

  At the time, the theft and then sudden reappearance of the picture created a media sensation. You can imagine our relief when the case went cold, and no one came knocking at our doors. But we congratulated ourselves too soon. Someone knew about Paul’s involvement—someone crafty and patient. He kept the knowledge hidden until he could use it to his advantage.

  This person has a long history in antiquities theft. I know that much. He started by blackmailing Paul into participating in more burglaries of priceless objets d’art. Then he made Paul tell him who took that first piece for him. I think it was me he wanted along. I have access and know-how few people possess.

  So do you, which is why I made sure he never went near you, honey girl. I agreed to cooperate instead.

  How I wish I could name this faceless monster, but he remains hidden. I think Paul knows, but he refuses to say. He’s terrified for his son’s sake. Such a scandal would ruin Senator Dujardin’s career. As if the loss of HJ Securities would be any less a tragedy for you and me!

  But I begin to sound pitiful and lose my focus. All my desire is for your health and happiness, dear daughter. Please do not let bitterness poison you.

  Tomorrow, I leave on my business tour through Europe. If you never read these words, then I was successful in freeing Paul and myself from this web of treachery, successful in securing the return of the paintings in this crate to their rightful owners. If you hold this journal in your hands, then I failed us all, and my dangerous legacy lies in your hands.

  Be brave. Do as I have instructed. Never forget how much I love you.

  A moan rose from Desi’s heart. She squeezed her eyes closed. Tears seeped down her face and plopped onto the paper. I’m not mad at you, Daddy. I’m not.

  Her father was a good man. He’d just made a mistake in a vulnerable moment all those years ago—a mistake that came back to haunt him. He should have told her everything as soon as the blackmailer showed up. She would have helped. Together they could have—

  Desi’s throat tightened. Exactly why he hadn’t told her. Were their positions reversed, she would have kept him out of it as well—would have given her life, just as he did, to keep him safe. Love meant sacrifice freely offered. No regrets. Just like Jesus.

  Oh, Daddy, you loved me so much! And you, too, Abba Father. Thank You for helping me find this, for letting me know that my dad died a man of integrity, at peace with You, determined to stand up for the truth. With such an example, can I do any less?

  She opened her eyes and wiped the wetness from her cheeks. The letter was signed Dad in her father’s large scrawl.

  One more page remained, a formal note to the authorities.

  To Whom It May Concern:

  I took these paintings over the course of the past six months, but have avoided turning them over to the mastermind behind the theft ring, a person who calls himself The Chief. I convinced him the items were in safe storage until a sale was made. In reality, I have been searching for a way to expose this Chief. But now a man named Leone Bocca has approached me to say that a buy has been arranged, and I am under lethal pressure to relinquish the pieces—a thing I will never do. So I must act.

  My plan is twofold. During the course of my European tour, I will use my many contacts in the art world to uncover the name of the person in charge of this operation. Then I will come home to turn him in to the authorities, even as I surrender myself and the stolen goods.

  Should I not discover my unseen blackmailer’s identity, I shall begin returning the pictures to their owners using much the same methods as I employed to take them. During that process, I expect this Chief to attempt to stop me, and it is my intent to be sure he is caught doing so.

  Following is a list of the paintings, as well as the names and addresses of the private collectors and organizations that own them, in case I am unable to complete my self-imposed assignment.

  Desi scanned the list and whistled through her teeth. The value of the masterpieces in this crate could set someone up as king of their own Caribbean island. And wealth certainly seemed to be the main objective. Whoever ran this organization treated priceless art like commo
n commodities to be dealt away for mere money.

  Not Paul Dujardin. Paul had to be as reluctant a burglar as her dad. Paul’s fierce reputation for protecting art and antiquities was well-known. Yes, he’d been a party, perhaps an instigator, in that smaller theft a quarter of a century ago, but Dad’s confession indicated sincere remorse and reparations on both their parts. Not an excuse for what they did, of course, but who in the human race had any excuse for their sins?

  Desiree slapped the notebook shut. She rose to her feet, jaw firm.

  Paul Dujardin might not be the mastermind behind the thefts, but he involved his friend in a scheme that got him killed. Desi’s blood raced hot.

  Coward! To think I was so charmed by you at Dad’s funeral. You were only there to make sure nothing happened to smirch your precious reputation.

  Desi paced the container.

  No doubt Dujardin justified his conduct as protecting his offspring, the same way her father had protected her. But that wasn’t apples to apples at all. Dad stood between the thieves and his daughter, while preparing to do the right thing at the right time. The dapper millionaire, with all the power of wealth and position, closed his eyes and washed his hands like a modern-day Pontius Pilate.

  Well, Mr. Pilate, you’re about to be confronted by an avenging angel.

  Desiree left the warehouse, her father’s journal and letter in her purse. Her strides destroyed the image of a middle-aged frump, but then her makeup job had been washed away by tears and tissues anyway. Who cared! Not the warehouse attendant snoring on the ratty couch in the front office.

  Outside, in the salt-laden air, Desiree brushed past rough-hewn dockworkers. The way she felt, she could power walk home. And nobody better get in her way.

  She reached the street and stepped off the curb—

  Brakes squealed. A flash of dark blue and a Yukon Denali just missed her toes. The mammoth SUV rocked to a halt in her path, and Desi looked into the driver’s face.

  Her knees turned to gelatin.