Fatal Cover-Up. Lisa Harris

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СКАЧАТЬ her was going to be difficult for her to hear. Two days ago, he’d flown across the Atlantic, following a lead, in order to talk with her in person. And yet since his arrival there hadn’t seemed to be a right moment or a right way to approach her.

      “Three months ago a young man was killed during a museum heist,” he began.

      She shook her head. “Okay, but what does that have to do with Thomas?”

      “Forensics was able to match the bullet that killed him to another murder where the same gun was used. It was the same gun that killed your husband.”

      He caught the pain in her eyes and took a moment to study her reaction while giving her the time she needed to digest the information he’d just given her. He’d done his homework before catching the flight to Rome, but she looked younger than he’d expected. From her file he’d learned she was twenty-seven. She had a large family on her father’s side, but only one sibling, a sister named Shelby who lived in Dallas. Her parents were both deceased.

      Today, her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail with loose wisps around her face. She was pretty in that classic sense, and fit in perfectly as an Italian in her black-and-white dress and wedge sandals. And from what he knew about her so far, she was the kind of woman he’d like to get to know better. Not that he would. He’d gotten involved with a woman once before while working a case, and he’d learned quickly to never mix FBI business with personal relationships.

      “Are you okay?” he asked, when she didn’t respond.

      “I don’t know.” She stared at her cup. “This was just the last thing I was expecting to hear today.”

      “So you believe me?” He couldn’t exactly blame her hesitation. A complete stranger had walked up to her off the street and started talking to her about her husband’s murder.

      “Enough to hear you out,” she said finally.

      He glanced around the crowded café, wishing they were somewhere more private. But at least with the chatter of customers and the sound of cups clinking, no one would be able to listen in on their conversation.

      “Okay,” he began, “during the recent heist, two paintings worth over two million dollars were stolen. It was the fourth time in the past several years where thieves used a similar pattern. All the works were stolen during the day while the museum was open. And each time they strategically took small pieces of art with high price tags. The difference this time was that one of the guards was killed trying to stop them.”

      Talia shook her head. “I’m sorry someone was killed, but I still don’t understand what this has to do with me or with Thomas. He didn’t steal art. He stole drug money and cocaine.”

      He caught another flicker of pain when she spoke and regretted having her dredge up so much from her past. “When Forensics came up with a match, I went to your husband’s department and got your husband’s file. Among the case notes, there were three postcard-sized paintings by nineteenth-century Italian artist Augusto Li Fonti logged as a part of Thomas’s personal belongings, but they’re never mentioned again.”

      “Three postcards?” Her eyes narrowed as she took a sip of her espresso. “I don’t remember any mention of postcards, or understand why that would be significant.”

      “In the second museum heist we believe to be connected to the case I’m working on now,” he continued, “there were three paintings the size of postcards stolen. And because it’s not uncommon for the cartel to trade valuable artwork as collateral, it’s very possible for something like that to be found at a drug raid. I believe they were at the house where your husband was killed.”

      She set down her cup. “And you think I have them?”

      “You could have them without realizing how valuable they are.”

      A shadow crossed her face. “There are still people who believe that I knew what my husband was up to. And possibly even helped him.”

      “Did you?” he asked.

      “No...” She hesitated, clearly unsure if she could trust him. “I need to tell you something.” It seemed she’d decided she didn’t have anyone else to turn to.

      “Okay.” He waited for her to respond.

      She paused one more time then pulled out her phone, clicked on a message and handed it to him. “I received a text message late last night. They told me to bring the three paintings to the Spanish Steps when I got off work. Apparently you’re not the only one who believes I have them.”

      He quickly read through the message. “You were planning to meet them?”

      “I can’t,” she said. “Because I don’t have what they want.”

      “So you don’t remember any small paintings or drawings in your husband’s personal things?”

      “Maybe... I don’t know.” She pushed a wisp of hair behind her ear. “After the investigation closed, the department gave me a box of his personal things. I spent days sorting through all his stuff. I ended up giving some of his personal things to my mother-in-law, then donated most of the rest.” She looked up and caught his gaze. “You have to understand I’d just found out that my husband was a dirty cop and skimming money from police raids. I didn’t exactly want to keep reminders of him around.”

      He understood what she was saying, but now there was something else she needed to know. Someone else—perhaps someone with access to the information he had—had made the same connection to Talia that he’d made. And whoever was after the paintings had killed before. Which meant if that person believed she had them, then her life was in danger.

       TWO

      Joe watched as Talia rubbed the back of her neck with her fingertips. A part of him understood how she felt. Not only was there a strong possibility that her life was in danger, but she also had to be questioning her past decisions. And going through a long list of what-ifs. It was something he’d done far too much lately. But why wouldn’t she? The man she’d given her heart to had betrayed her, and now she was suddenly having to deal with what he’d done all over again.

      “Tell me about the paintings they want,” she said, taking the last sip of her espresso.

      “Do you want another espresso first?” he asked.

      “No. I’m fine.”

      “Okay.” He grabbed his phone and pulled up a photo of the three paintings the museum curator had given him, then handing the phone to her. “They were stolen from a museum in Boston four years ago. A trio of paintings worth somewhere around half a million each.”

      “They’re beautiful,” she said, studying the seacoast scenes.

      “Do you recognize them?”

      She turned the phone sideways. “You said they’re small?”

      “Yes.”

      “Then maybe. I just never made the connection. When I received the text message, I imagined paintings that hung on the wall, but you said Thomas’s list of personal items returned СКАЧАТЬ