Yeah. Sweet. Jack had been trying to lure him away from the department for nearly two years now. And there were days where he actually thought about making a change. About ditching Chicago and heading off to the sun and fun.
Damn, it was tempting.
“So I heard there was some action at the Marriott last night.”
Jack’s rugged voice pulled Shane from the little fantasy taking root in his mind: a sunny beach, a stupid tropical print shirt and no worries.
Not today. Not anytime soon as far as he could see. He shifted and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he glanced toward the frigid water, the cup held gently between his hands. He and Jack kept each other informed. Sometimes Jack’s outside connections were just what Shane needed in a tough case. “Carl Tegan’s covering it. Brutal double homicide.”
“Any leads?”
“None so far. Carl’s gut thinks it was a professional hit, though.”
Jack nodded. Carl Tegan was a good detective, and his gut was usually right—but that didn’t make Shane feel any better.
Shit, Lis. What the hell did you get wrapped up in?
“I haven’t heard anything on the street,” Jack said. “But I’ll keep listening.
Shane ran a hand over his face and tried to refocus. “What about Sullivan?”
Jack reached for the folder at his side. “Interesting fellow.” He handed the folder to Shane. “This related?”
Jack’s mind was always one step ahead. Shane set his cup on the ground by his feet, flipped open the file. Jack’s cramped handwriting filled an entire page. “Maybe.”
Jack nodded, but didn’t push. “Degree in art history from Florida State. Graduated magna cum laude, worked his way through school with scholarships and the military.”
“Navy boy,” Shane mumbled, studying Jack’s notes.
“Yep. And smart. Did six years active duty after college. Naval Diving and Training Salvage Center. Traveled all over the globe. Got hold of a couple guys he served with. Had nothin’ but good things to say about him.”
Shane flipped a page. “What else?”
“When he got out of the service, he invested in a gallery a college buddy of his had opened.” Jack pointed to a name on the paper Shane was holding. “Peter Kauffman. Place was struggling until Sullivan signed on. Kauffman ran the day-to-day operations. Sullivan was the go-to guy.”
“How so?”
Jack shrugged. “Word is Sullivan had a knack for finding rare pieces. Anything the client wanted, he was able to get. Used his connections overseas to get whatever was needed.”
“Caught up with him, though,” Shane muttered, flipping to the police report on Sullivan’s arrest.
“Charges dropped for lack of evidence,” Jack corrected. “And this you’ll find interesting.”
“What?”
“The arresting officer? Sullivan ended up marrying her.”
Shane’s head darted up. “He’s married?”
“Was. Six months. Divorced about a year ago. Then some eight months ago he up and sold his share of the gallery.”
Shane’s brow creased as he studied the papers. “Why would he do that? Looks like they were raking in the dough.”
“Yeah. They were. Still are. The Odyssey Gallery has some big-name clients.”
Shane leaned back against the bench. “So why’d he pull out? Have a fight with his partner? Screwing the man’s wife?”
Jack turned the page for him. “Medical bills. His mother’s terminal. Cancer.” Shane looked closer. “Been in and out of the hospital for the last year. Started some experimental treatments that cost an arm and a leg. She’s hangin’ on, but doesn’t look like she’ll last much longer. My guess? Sullivan sold his stake to pay for her treatment.”
Shit. He was still a criminal, no matter what his reasons.
“Guy’s got a place in Key West, right?” Shane asked. “Why not sell that? Real estate down there has to go for a pretty penny. Why not pay his bills that way?”
“House is in both his and his brother’s name. Inheritance kind of thing. Maybe the mother wouldn’t let him sell it. I don’t know the family dynamics there, only that he didn’t go that route.”
No, because he knew he didn’t have to. Shane frowned. “Assuming that’s the case, then why not steal what he needed? Sell off a few prime pieces and I’m sure he’d have more than enough dough. A guy who knows how to get things like Sullivan shouldn’t have trouble in that area.”
“Morals?”
“Right.” Shane flicked Jack a disbelieving look. “Not this guy. And that’s what we’re talking about, right? He’s a high-class criminal who’s gotten away with it so far, all under the pretense of ‘in the name of art’ and the almighty buck.”
Jack shrugged again, looked out at the rippling water. “You can spin it however you want, Maxwell. Looks to me like he’s in a bind. Needed cash, sold his share. For whatever reason, he’s not scamming anyone to get his dough this time.”
No, not just anyone, dammit. The prick was scamming Shane’s sister.
“I think he’s working on his own now.”
“What makes you think that?” Shane asked.
Jack pulled a photo from the back of the file. “He cuts ties with Kauffman, gets his mama all set up in a cush Miami care facility, bills squared away, and two months later pays cash for a pretty new sailboat.”
Shane lifted the picture and studied the pristine white sloop. Envy stabbing him, he let out a low whistle. “Damn. I need to get me one of these.”
Jack chuckled. “Yeah, me, too. We picked the wrong line of work, schmuck. Point is, Sullivan didn’t touch his reserves from selling his part of the gallery to buy that little toy. Which means—”
“Which means his sudden cash flow’s suspect.”
“Right. Unless he’s working for someone under the radar. Tracking down a few special pieces maybe?”
Three special pieces. The Furies. And if he happened to have double-crossed the hand that was feeding him, if he was going out on his own to find the best deal, pitting dealers against each other, the prick was in over his head.
And dragging Lisa along with him.
***
Peter Kauffman’s phone shrilled. Five seconds earlier and it would have ruined the mood entirely.
With a heavy sigh, he tucked one arm around the woman straddling his lap and breathing hot against his neck. “Hold that thought, precious.”
Pushing them both forward, he reached for the phone. “Kauffman.”
“You sound way too relaxed to be at the office.”
Pete leaned back against the leather chair behind his desk and smiled at the sound of Rafe’s voice. The man had timing, he could say that for his friend. “And you sound a little stressed, buddy.”
“I have reason to be stressed, Pete.”
Maria braced both hands against Pete’s shoulders and sat up. A seductive smile curled her sensuous mouth. With one hand, she pushed dark, silky hair back from her face and tightened her pelvic muscles.
“Tell me about it,” Pete mumbled. Distracted by the increase in pressure, he ran a hand over the vee of her fire red suit jacket, exposing voluptuous cleavage. His hand drifted down her abdomen, across her hip where her skirt was pushed up and her bare thighs rested against his slacks.
“I was nearly charcoal last night,” Rafe grumbled in his ear.
The seriousness in Rafe’s tone drew Pete’s attention. His hand paused on Maria’s thigh. “Say that again.”
“I said,” Rafe huffed, “someone’s onto us.”
Maria pushed off Pete’s lap and tugged her skirt down, obviously sensing his change in focus.
Pete repositioned himself and sat up straighter. “Tell me what happened.”
While Rafe ran through the events of the previous night, Maria strode to the massive floor-to-ceiling glass bookshelf across the room and ran slender fingers over leather tomes and marble trinkets resting on the shelves.
“
I’m telling you,” Rafe said, “this wasn’t a coincidence.”
“And you didn’t get a look at either of them?” Pete asked.
“Not a good one. Both men were big. One was black. I didn’t stick around to find out their names.”
That didn’t narrow things down much. Pete frowned. “What about Stone’s research?”
“Kindling.”
“Fuck.” Pete ran a hand over his forehead. Not the answer he was hoping for.
“Maxwell’s got a couple leads we’re following today. I don’t think it’s a total loss. Yet.”
“And if she’s wrong?”
“She’s still our best chance at this point. The woman’s a bloodhound. She’s not quitting.” He paused. “Speaking of, what can you tell me about Alan Landau?”
“Landau?” Surprise registered. Maria turned his direction. “Big-time dealer up north. Has a reputation for being involved in some shady dealings, if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I have an idea. Do me a favor. Find out if he’s put out any feelers on Greek pieces under the radar.”
“You think he’s involved?”
“Maybe.”
“I’ll look into it today and call you if I find anything.”
“Good.”
Pete ran a hand through his hair. “In the meantime, keep me posted. I wired some cash into your account. Let me know if you need more or if there’s anything else I can do on my end.”
“Got it. Thanks, Pete. I’ll call in a few days if I don’t hear from you sooner.”
The line clicked in Pete’s ear. Aggravated, he replaced the receiver, pushed to stand and zipped his slacks. Maria stood across the room, arms folded over her chest as she gazed out at the sparkling view of Biscayne Bay from his third-floor office.
“I do so like America,” she said with her thick Greek accent. “Land of opportunity. It would be a shame to have to leave so soon and without what I came for.”
Not an option. If she left, she was taking her business with her. He needed her bid to up the stakes. And though she wouldn’t ever be the woman of his dreams, she was a good diversion from his own personal demons.
Pete crossed to her and tried to keep his voice even and assuring. “No reason for that yet. This is just a minor setback.”
She turned and met his gaze, dark eyes locking on his as if she knew exactly what he wasn’t saying. “Rafael is a liability.”
Not in Pete’s eyes. “He’ll get the job done.” He tried to settle the doubt flickering across her face by running both hands down her arms. “Trust me, would you? The man knows what he’s doing. He’s made me a ton of money over the years. He’s going to make us both very rich.”
She frowned in obvious disagreement. “This is different, Peter. It’s personal for him. Emotion clouds a man’s judgment. He’s not to be trusted. I read it in his eyes when he came to me in Greece. I told you we should have gone with someone else.”
Yeah, emotion did cloud a man’s judgment. Pete knew that all too well. Shaking off the thought, he said, “I know how to keep Rafe in line.”
“And what if you can’t? A wild card is the last thing we need right now. There are others more qualified—”
He held up a hand to stop her. She may be a client, but he was still in charge. “No one’s more qualified than Rafe. You have to trust me on this. Give him time. He knows how to work this. He’s done it before.”
She pursed her lips and studied him a long moment. “And what of the woman?”
Pete shook his head even as a tiny place in his chest squeezed tight. “This is Rafe we’re talking about. The only thing he cares about is getting his cut. He won’t be distracted by a woman. At least not for long. And not when the payout’s as big as this. Trust me. No woman could change his priorities.” Not like me. “Especially not Lisa Maxwell.”
The dry look she sent him said she didn’t agree. “I hope you’re right. Because if you’re wrong, my contact will be very upset.”
***
Where the hell was she?
Rafe had passed “concerned” over an hour ago. Pacing to the windows overlooking the lake, he checked his watch for the hundredth time and clenched his jaw. How long did it take to hit a clothing store and hightail it back here? Not five hours, that’s for sure.
He glanced down at the street. Cars whizzed by. A few pedestrians in thick jackets jogged along the sidewalk, but there was still no sign of Lisa.
Something had happened to her. He could feel it. He never should have let her go out alone. He grabbed his jacket from the back of the couch and stuffed his arms into the sleeves. He didn’t have a clue where to look for her, but sitting there waiting was making him nuts. He grabbed the door and wrenched it open.
Lisa jumped and pulled startled fingers back from the knob. “Oh, my God, you scared me.” She pressed a hand against her heart. “Don’t do that.”
He turned when she pushed past him into the apartment and dropped an armful of shopping bags on the leather couch in the middle of the room. She shrugged out of a winter white suede coat with fur trim he didn’t remember her leaving the apartment in earlier and tossed the garment over the back of a chair.
“Where the hell have you been?”
She looked up from the shopping bag she’d already started picking through. “Close the door. You’re letting in cold air.”
He blinked twice, unable to process her words. “What?”
“The door, Sullivan.”
When he didn’t respond, she frowned and stepped past him, closing it herself. “Winter. Cold air. Chicago. Ring a bell, Slick?” Shaking her head like he was a complete moron, she moved back to the bag.
Good God. The woman was a piece of work. He glanced down at his watch, a mixture of relief and confusion pumping through him. “You’ve been gone for five hours. You said you were shopping. What the hell happened?”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were worried about me.” She lifted a white garment bag.
Worried about her? Damn right he was worried about her. After what had happened last night, they had no idea who was out there watching them. He’d been utterly stupid to let her walk out of the apartment alone, when any number of things could have happened to her. He’d realized that shortly after she’d left, and he’d been stressing about it since then.
“Don’t worry, Slick.” Her smart-assed voice dragged at his consciousness. “I didn’t run off and go after Tisiphone on my own. I know that’s all you were worried about.” She walked out of the room.
Oh, shit. The blood drained from his cheeks. That thought hadn’t even crossed his mind.
He tossed his jacket across the couch and followed her into Shane’s bedroom. She still hadn’t explained where she’d been, and he wasn’t letting it go just yet. Not until he had some answers.
He stopped in the doorway, slipped his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and tried to settle the nerves still churning in his stomach before he laid into her again. His eyes took a careful sweep of the room. Her garment bag lay across Shane’s unmade bed. She stood at the closet pushing hangers and jackets aside, searching for God only knows what.
She’d changed. She wasn’t wearing the same ripped sweater and dirty jeans she’d left in that morning. A long-sleeved black-and-white horizontal-striped blouse highlighted her curves, dipped low at her cleavage and accentuated the swell of her breasts. Snug black slacks molded to her muscular legs, hugged her hips and perfect behind. Shiny black boots with thin heels covered her feet, and light-catching silver drops hung from her ears.
She looked chic and stylish, and not a bit like the woman who’d walked out of here earlier, although that one had sent his blood soaring even before this little transformation. This one made his jeans grow tight. Even her hair seemed different, all tousled and wild from the wind, like she’d just rolled out of bed, like she’d just had a lover’s fingers run through her silky locks.
He straightened and coughed. Five hours. She’d
been gone five freakin’ hours. She’d better not have been off with some other guy. Not when his insides were tied in knots because of her. Not when he’d spent the last hour going out of his mind because he didn’t know where she was.
“There it is,” she said, pulling a tux from the closet.
“Where have you been?”
She looked up at him, green eyes sparkling in the artificial light. Stepping forward, she held the jacket against his chest. “Should fit. You and Shane are about the same size.”
Fit? What the hell was she talking about? “What’s going on?”
She laid the jacket on the bed next to the white garment bag. “You and I are going to a party.”
“A what?”
She pushed past him, and he stood slack-jawed while she sashayed out to the living area, grabbed a couple of shopping bags and returned.
“A party, Slick. As in, you and I both get dressed up and hobnob with the rich and famous.” She stopped in the doorway next to him, pinched his cheek. “I know it’ll be a stretch, but I think we can clean you up.”
She smelled like a sexy, exotic flower, looked like every man’s wet dream, and at the moment she was talking in complete riddles. He didn’t want to go to some party he couldn’t care less about. He didn’t want to do anything but discover what she’d been up to while she’d been gone. And tossing her onto that mussed bed so he could find something for that smart mouth of hers to do instead of flip sarcastic comments his way was sounding better and better by the minute.
He turned away, rubbed a hand down his face and tried to refocus. Holy hell, he was losing it. He needed to get a grip. Fast.
“You find anything on the Landau Gallery?”
Landau Gallery. Right. That’s where he was supposed to be focused.
He tried to remember what he’d found earlier in his research, tried to get images of her writhing beneath him out of his mind and glanced back at her, where she stood next to the bed, pulling items from the bag. “Specializes in rare sculpture. High-end clients.” If he wasn’t going to get lucky, he might as well get serious. “Your brother mention the assistant who was murdered last week?”