Reluctant Burglar: A Novel Read online

  The commute to the office passed without incident. If anyone had followed her, they didn’t give themselves away. She wasn’t fooled though. They’d grown cagier since her mad dash toward the federal building the other day. Besides, Agent Lucano wouldn’t have rookies on an investigation that involved a murder and millions of dollars of missing art. After checking in with staff about various projects, Desi took Max with her and headed for Boston Public Museum to conduct the employee interviews.

  “How are you doin’, hon?” Max fitted two coffees into the holders between them.

  And just what do I say to that? Desi let seconds pass while she merged into hectic freeway traffic.

  “Better and worse than I expected.” She settled the car into a lane. “I can function, which surprises me, but I’ve got big-time jitters, Max. I wanted more responsibility, but I never wanted the whole load. Not yet! What if I can’t keep HJ Securities afloat?” She glanced at her passenger and then returned her attention to the road.

  Why is she looking at me like her coffee’s been spiked with lemon juice? “Look, Max, just say it. And don’t soft-pedal what’s on your mind because I’m the newly bereaved. I don’t have time for coddling. Too much is on the line here.”

  “All right. Here it is.” The Texan let out a long breath. “HJ Securities is a great company, and I love my job, just like you do. But it’s a business, not a monument to Hiram. You can make it yours now, do things your way. Or even try something new. You would do great at anything you chose.”

  Desi opened her mouth, but no words came out. She did not treat the company like a shrine to her dad … Did she?

  “But you’ve got bigger problems.” Max looked away out the side window “I think—no, I know—you need to do everything you can to help Lucano solve this case. What happened with that guy breaking into your house nearly scared my hair straight, Des. We’ve lost your dad, and that’s awful, but I don’t think I could take it if something happened to you, too.”

  “Way to make me cry again, Max.” Desi picked up her cup, then set it back down again. Her hand shook, and she couldn’t drink.

  “Well, hey, you told me not to soft-pedal.”

  Desi let out a thick chuckle. “You don’t always have to do what I say.” Good thing she hadn’t asked her friend to get involved in her little game of now-you-see-me, now-you-don’t today. It was clear that Max didn’t understand. Desi would never be able to look herself in the mirror if she panicked and left her father’s name in the dirt.

  You’re on your own, kiddo.

  Desi and Max gathered their paperwork after a morning of interviews with museum employees. A throat cleared at the conference room door. Desi looked up. Curator Plate smiled and rubbed his head in a familiar gesture. Desi returned a nod.

  Plate stepped across the room with his usual bounce. “How did everything go?”

  “Just fine.” Max came up with the smile Desi had been unable to muster. “We made good progress this morning.”

  “Let me walk you ladies to the door.” The curator reached toward Desi’s briefcase.

  Heart thumping, Desi lifted the case away from his fingers. Plate frowned but didn’t say anything as she and Max led him out the door.

  “How well do you know Paul Dujardin?” The curator fell into step with them in an exhibit hallway.

  “My father counted him a close friend.”

  “Ahhh. But how well do you know him?” The man gave her an owlish stare.

  “Why do you ask?”

  Plate’s gaze danced away A muscle flexed in his jaw. “Art critics, movie and book reviewers—those sorts of people—they wield great influence without the matching responsibility.”

  Desi looked away to hide her smile. So Paul had given the museum a hard time in his reviews. “Many would agree with you. However, the best critics hold themselves accountable to the patrons of their particular art form.”

  Plate sniffed. “So, you’ll be back after lunch?”

  They stopped at the exit doors.

  “Not me.” Max held up her case. “I’m gonna hunker down in my office and go over these schematic drawings the security chief gave me.”

  “I’ll conduct the final interviews,” Desi said. “Then I want at least three hours uninterrupted to go over the data and determine if I need any callbacks before I leave for the day.”

  Plate nodded. “I’ll make sure my people know that heads will roll if you’re disturbed.”

  Desi gave a short laugh. “I haven’t seen any guillotines around here, Mr. Plate.”

  “Sanderson.” The man beamed. “Or Sandy, as my friends call me.” Color filled his round cheeks.

  “Thank you, Sanderson.” She offered a smile and her hand. “I’ll see you this afternoon.”

  They shook hands all around.

  “Hoo-wee!” Max chuckled when they were out of earshot on the way to the car. “You must have charmed the socks off that guy after you stole his painting the other day. Jealousy and flirtation in one sixty second conversation.”

  “Jealous of Paul? That’s ridiculous. The man is more than twice my age.”

  “Paul, is it?” Max rolled her eyes. “He’s rich and good-lookin’ and single. For some women, that’s all it takes.”

  “Now I know you’re teasing.”

  “You’ve got that right, girlfriend, but I don’t hear you denying that our escort was fishin’ for a little encouragement. You handled him like a pro. Discouraged him without antagonizing him. Your daddy would have had a laughin’ fit. In private, of course.”

  “High praise, lady, but don’t think it’s going to get you a thousand dollars and a day off.” Desi pushed the remote on her key ring to unlock the car. Oh, Dad, if only you were here to laugh with us. Those dratted tears started to get the better of her again, but she battled them back and had herself under control by the time they settled in and shut their doors.

  Max buckled her seat belt, still grinning like a nut. “You’re neither a gold digger nor desperate, so that leaves out one critic and one curator. But if we could get this sorry mess behind us, I could sure see you on the arm of a certain dark-eyed agent. Mm-hmm.”

  Desi shot out of her parking space, earning a few honks as she careened into traffic. “Max, your fantasies could give J. R. R. Tolkien a run for his money.”

  Her friend laughed. “Just call me a visionary.”

  Desi ignored her. Dangerous territory. Nobody needed to know that she’d not merely been on Tony’s arm, but wrapped in them, not many days ago.

  Or that she liked his eyes.

  Desiree stepped out the main door of the Boston Public Museum of Arts and Antiquities. She looked at her watch. A little after 2:30 p.m. That gave her two hours to be back where she was supposed to be. She trudged down the steps.

  Two men sat inside a nondescript sedan parked at the curb. They eyed her up and down, then looked away, no recognition on their faces.

  She knew exactly what they saw—a middle-aged woman with graying hair dressed in a shapeless long-sleeved dress and carrying a small handbag. An utterly forgettable human being.

  Desi smirked beneath her makeup and turned right. A few blocks later, she reached the bus stop. She sat alone on the bench, her handbag on her lap and her ankles crossed. The bus pulled up with a squeal of air brakes. Desi climbed aboard, paid her fare, and found a seat at the back.

  She looked through the rear window. Lots of people scurrying around, but no one she knew from the museum or the surveillance team. She’d shaken her tails. The young agent stationed outside the door of her private workroom would get quite bored this afternoon.

  Desi sat back and rubbed her shin. It still stung from barking it on that ductwork. She crossed her legs and counted bus stops. One. Two. Three. Four. Time to scoot out the door.

  “Wait!” She lunged to her feet and hurried down the aisle.

  The bus driver gave her a dirty look and reopened the door.

  Desi hopped out and watched the people in th
e windows as the bus pulled away. None of the passengers returned her look with interest or alarm. To make extra sure, Desi made two more abrupt bus changes. Not a soul showed any interest in her movements.

  Satisfied, she hailed a cab.

  Seagulls wheeled in the air at Pier 1 of East Boston Harbor. Their screams greeted her as she stepped onto a sidewalk skirting a line of sheet metal-covered buildings. Beyond the buildings, whitecaps played on gray-green water. Smells of fish and brine and diesel fumes fought in her nostrils. In recent years many of the old waterfront warehouses had been converted into upscale condominiums with amenities to match. This section, however, was a working shipyard.

  In the distance, laborers unloaded cargo with shouts as raucous as the gulls’. Close by, burly men in jeans and stained jackets stepped around her still figure. Desi shivered. The air was much cooler on the waterfront than in the city.

  “Excuse me, sir.” Desi addressed an older worker before he could hustle past. “Could you tell me where I might find Dock B, Warehouse 5?”

  The man squinted at her, the lines around his eyes making deep furrows. “Right over there.” He lifted his arm and pointed to an area a little apart from the rest. The spot contained several large warehouses fronted by a dock that berthed a variety of midsize ships.

  Desi thanked the man, who touched his fisherman’s cap and then strode on. She stared at the dingy buildings, a choking sensation squeezing her throat.

  Feet, you’re not going to run. You’re going to go in there and do it now.

  The sidewalk up to the front door of the Dock B warehouse office was cracked, but someone maintained a pair of trimmed bushes on either side of an opaque glass door. Inside the reception area, the smells of the wharf lost the battle with a citrus air freshener and the scent of cheap perfume.

  Desi’s stomach knotted. Stepping across a worn linoleum floor, she approached a woman seated behind a desk and tapping at a computer keyboard. The perfume smell got stronger.

  Pale gray eyes looked up at Desi through a pair of trendy glasses. “May I help you, ma’am?”

  Ma’am? Desi almost turned to see who might be standing behind her. Then she remembered her altered appearance. Yikes! Senior moment! “Yes, please. I’m here about Container 1193.”

  “Container 1193? Hmmm. Let’s see.” The woman’s fingers flew over the keyboard. She read something, then looked up at Desi with an inquisitor’s stare. “Name, please?”

  “Desiree Jacobs.”

  “Do you have identification?”

  “No driver’s license, but I brought a raised seal birth certificate. Will that do?” Desi produced a tattered document from her small handbag.

  The secretary studied the paper. “The birth date is smudged.”

  “I know. The certificate got wet a while back.”

  The woman frowned. “All right. I’ll ask the verification questions and see what happens.”

  “Verification questions?”

  “While Desiree Jacobs is listed as the only person besides the lessor to be granted access, the lessor provided four questions to ask if anyone shows up claiming to be her.” She returned her focus to her computer screen.

  Desi answered four questions that only she would know about her father—the name of his sixth grade teacher, who first inspired him with the love of art; the date and place he first met his wife; and the restaurant where he took Desi on her last birthday. The secretary smiled, placed a brief phone call, and soon a lanky young man in baggy jeans emerged from the warehouse area to escort her to the container.

  “One moment, Ms. Jacobs. You’ll have to sign in.” The secretary thrust a log sheet at her.

  So close and now this added risk. Her disguise ensured that she couldn’t be identified by sight, but if the federal agents or a murderer found this place, her signature would condemn her. Desi signed anyway. She had no choice.

  The young man whistled as he guided her between towering aisles of shelves stacked with crates and boxes. She was lost by the time they reached a wall of plastic containers, each taller than Desi and wider than her arm span. The teenager stopped at one labeled 1193 in big block letters.

  “I’ll come back in fifteen minutes to see if you’re ready to go.” He shuffled off.

  Desi glared at the container. What secrets are you hiding? A familiar electronic keypad leered back at her with numbered teeth. Moistening her lips, Desi punched in the code. She held her breath until an airlock exhaled, and the door swung toward her. An automatic light came on. Pulling the door wider, she peered into the smooth-sided vault.

  Her gaze traveled over six wooden-slatted crates of varying sizes. All were flat rectangles—the shape of paintings. None of the pieces were stacked on top of one another but stood on edge, ringing the wall. A fact that showed meticulous care for the contents.

  Bile rose in Desi’s throat. She swallowed hard. Get a grip, Des. There must be a logical explanation.

  A small black book caught her eye. The slim volume sat atop one of the crates. Desi crept forward on shaking legs and entered the container. Inside, she was able to stand upright, but not by much. The enclosed space smelled of packing materials.

  Just get it over with. Surely there’s a logical explanation. She snatched up the book before she could talk herself out of it.

  The leather cover bore no title. A snap held the book closed. She pulled and the snap released with a loud click—like the cocking of a gun that might blow her to smithereens. She opened to the first page and found words written in her father’s large-lettered scrawl.

  My Dear Daughter,

  If you’re reading this journal, it’s because I’m no longer in a position to tell you these things myself. Not that I ever meant to say a word if I could fix this without involving you. The fact that you hold this book in your hands means my good intentions have come to nothing, and you’re left with the mess I never meant to create. I have no idea how you will ever forgive me, though I hope that in Jesus you might someday, somehow find a way.

  But first I must confess all.

  Why are these precious pictures hidden away in a container on a dismal wharf?

  Because it’s true, my darling daughter: I stole them. To my everlasting pride and shame, I may be the best art thief the world has ever seen.

  Desi slammed the book shut. Tears blurred the crates into surrealistic shapes. Her breath came in gasps. Where were strong, warm arms when she needed to collapse again?

  What? She wanted Tony here now? Was she insane? Her father had just confessed to theft.

  She sank to the floor, clutching the little book to her chest. Tony Lucano must not find her father’s journal or this container. And she would never surrender the contents to a murderer. She needed time to figure out what to do. And she’d be doing it alone. Not only couldn’t Max help; now even God couldn’t help her because she was protecting a criminal.

  Her father.

  King of thieves.

  A man she had never known.

  S he’d better be where she’s supposed to be!

  Tony strode toward the private room where Ms. Jacobs should be hard at work evaluating interviews. “Don’t disturb me all afternoon,” she’d said. Yeah, well, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to know something was up with that. He could kick the station agent on duty outside her door for not reporting the suspicious request sooner.

  With closing time near, museumgoers drifted toward the main exit. Tony gritted his teeth and dodged the flow of people. He was swimming upstream in more ways than one. Desiree Jacobs kept throwing out obstacles when she should be scrambling to cooperate.

  “One moment, Agent Lucano.”

  Tony pivoted at the male voice and watched the museum’s curator hustle toward him.

  “May I walk with you?”

  Tony jerked a nod. “You can keep me from getting lost in this rabbit warren.”

  “My pleasure.” Plate’s chuckle was brief. “I need to talk to you about a troubling matter.”
r />   “Our request to study the last few hours of camera tape?” Tony started off again with the curator by his side.

  “Not at all. Happy to help. Your partner explained how concerned you are about protecting Miss Jacobs from whoever killed her father.”

  “That’s right.” Now that’s a shocker! Stevo, you can be tactful when you want to be.

  At their last squad meeting, word had come down from on high that Desiree Jacobs was to be treated as equal parts suspect and potential victim, with the public emphasis on protection.

  Plate went silent.

  “You had a concern?” Spit it out and move along, man. He needed to deal with whatever he found—or didn’t find—in the room up ahead.

  “I don’t mean to second-guess you,” Plate said, “but that art critic, Paul Dujardin, was skulking about at Hiram Jacobs’s funeral. He seemed extra attentive to Desiree, and I didn’t like it. He’s not a man to be trusted. You should look at him closely.”

  Tony stopped and stared down at the curator. That hard edge didn’t come from casual suspicion. More like bitter rivalry. “Are you saying Dujardin has a romantic interest in Ms. Jacobs? Or is that you?”

  Plate spluttered. “Oh my, no. Dujardin is older than her father was. She would never be interested in … What I mean is, my concern is professional.”

  Sure it is, buster.

  Tony narrowed his eyes. The curator looked away.

  Maybe he should remind the plump little weasel that he wasn’t much younger than Hiram Jacobs had been. Desiree would have no interest in this prissy specimen of masculinity either. Would she?

  What did he know of her taste in men? She was so enamored of her father that maybe she went for older guys. The FBI had psychological profiles on women like that.

  No, not this woman. He couldn’t make that picture fit. And not just because he didn’t want to.

  Tony forced a smile. “Nothing personal? Okay, if you say so. Then give me your professional reasons for distrusting Dujardin.”

  Plate looked away His hand skimmed the top of his head. “The man has no appreciation of true art. He’s about buying and selling. I’d put my money on him as a black market dealer.”