A Priceless Find

  Sam reached for the bottle and topped up their glasses.

  Looking at her, he could almost see that she had a headache brewing, and he hated hearing the defeat in her voice. Unfortunately, she wasn’t helping her own cause. The longer she spoke, the more skeptical he became. What she’d suggested about a painting stolen from the Thompson Museum—and where it might be—was too outrageous.

  As those thoughts went through his mind, she suddenly sprang up from her seat.

  “I’ll be right back.” At Sam’s questioning look, she added, “I have something that will help, I think.” Not waiting for a response, she hurried out of the room.

  She returned a couple of minutes later, holding a folded piece of wrapping paper. Sitting down, she handed it to Sam.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s something that can prove if I’m right about the Rembrandt. About seeing The Tempest on the Ocean.” She shook her head. “I should’ve told you about it sooner.”

  She’d been so excited about what she had to say, it was understandable that she’d neglected to tell him everything. Sam glanced down at the folded paper. “What is it?”

  “It’s important. I can’t believe I didn’t tell you.”

  He was enchanted by her, and she had his full attention. “Chelsea?”

  “Okay. Okay. Sorry, again. I took a scraping from the painting. The one I think is the Rembrandt. The paint can be tested to determine its age. I’ll take the sample to one of the labs we use tomorrow. If the results show that the paint’s from the early 1600s, that’ll help, won’t it?”

  Sam stared at her unblinking. Yeah, that could be crucial evidence, although he didn’t want to think about the implications of Chelsea potentially having damaged a priceless work of art—if by chance it was the Rembrandt. Or how she’d obtained the sample. On the other hand, he knew he needed something solid to be able to get a search warrant. If the paint sample fell in the right time frame, that would add weight. “Yeah, it would help, but let me get it tested. If it proves to be of the right vintage, at least we’ll preserve the chain of evidence from this point forward.” He didn’t know how he’d explain where he’d gotten the sample of paint to begin with, never mind dealing with the possible repercussions. He’d worry about that later. For now, he wanted to focus on Chelsea.

  “I’ll get the paint tested tomorrow, but for now? Can we put all this aside?” He slipped the folded paper in his jacket pocket and took her hand in his. Running his thumb gently across her knuckles, he met her eyes. “For now, why don’t we concentrate on us?”

  * * *

  THE FLICKERING CANDLELIGHT, the gentle touch on her hand and the words, in Sam’s deep, persuasive voice, made it easy for Chelsea to put everything else out of her mind. They spoke about family, his and hers.

  “I have three siblings. Two brothers and a sister,” Sam explained. “There’s only eight years between my youngest brother and my older sister. We were close as kids and still have a very tight bond.”

  “Oh, I envy you that,” Chelsea said with true longing. “After I was born, my mother couldn’t have any more children. Don’t get me wrong. My parents are terrific. They gave me a wonderful upbringing. They’re fantastic role models, but it’s not the same. I was always a little jealous of my friends who had brothers or sisters.”

  “Siblings can have their drawbacks, too,” he said with a chuckle. “I’ve got two brothers, relatively the same height and weight as me. While we all lived at home, I could never find my favorite clothes or shoes when I wanted them.”

  Chelsea thought of the time she’d lent her dress and boots to Paige for her first big date with Daniel. And how often she’d rifled through Paige’s closet to borrow a sweater or skirt. She would’ve loved to share a wardrobe with a sister. Just one of the benefits siblings had, in her opinion. “That doesn’t sound so bad to me,” she countered. “You can talk all you want about the drawbacks, but I only have to look at your face to know none of that really matters.” She felt the twinge of regret she always did when she thought about it. “My parents are great, but I’ve always wanted a big family.”

  He glanced away briefly and his smile was melancholy when he looked back at her. “I bet you will have one. You strike me as the type of person who knows what she wants and goes for it.”

  Chelsea grinned. “Yeah, I guess I like to think of myself that way.”

  And the more she thought about it, the more she wanted Sam. She knew he couldn’t have kids of his own—he’d told her that—but she hoped if and when the time came, he would be open to alternatives, such as adoption.

  For the moment, she let herself get lost in his cool blue eyes.

  * * *

  “COLIN, I NEED a few minutes of your time,” Sam said when his captain entered the squad room the next morning.

  “Okay.” Colin gestured to his office with the Starbucks cup he held.

  Sam followed him in and dropped into the visitor’s chair.

  “Does this have to do with the Babineux theft?”

  “Correct.”

  Colin shrugged. “That darn case continues to elude us and has been taking up most of your time. The last thing either of us wants on our hands is a Thompson Museum heist lite.”

  “Funny you should mention the Thompson heist,” Sam said with a humorless laugh.

  Colin raised his brows. “I get the feeling I’m not going to like what you have to tell me.”

  “Probably not.”

  “What is it?”

  Sam filled Colin in on what Chelsea had shared with him the evening before.

  “Let’s put aside for the moment what she was doing in the warehouse and how she got in there.”

  Sam nodded. “Appreciate that.”

  “How credible is she?”

  Sam’s instinct was to defend her, but he had to be honest with Colin. There was too much riding on it. “She has an active imagination, however, she wouldn’t make this up. I’m not sure what it all means, but why would there be a carton of expensive-looking jewelry in the gallery’s warehouse at the same time as those forgeries—assuming that’s what they are—if there wasn’t a connection?”

  “Good point. What about the painting, the Rembrandt that was stolen from the Thompson Museum?”

  Sam compressed his lips as he considered how best to handle that question. He had to admit that he still remained skeptical of Chelsea’s claim that she’d found one of the stolen paintings that had eluded the FBI for so long. “Seems unlikely that it’s the original. Considering everything else Chelsea said and the fact that a very convincing forgery was substituted for the original Babineux, I suspect the painting she saw is a replica of The Tempest on the Ocean. But...we have a way to prove which it is.”

  “How?”

  “She took a paint sample.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. She took a scraping from the painting, and I have it.”

  “Well, let’s get it tested,” Colin said. “I’ll contact the FBI.”

  Colin made the call and spoke to Special Agent Ferguson, who had the file for the Thompson heist. Sam listened in on the conversation and shrugged at Colin’s exasperated expression when the special agent all but laughed at Colin for suspecting they knew the whereabouts of one of the stolen paintings.

  Still, he provided Colin with the name and contact information for a qualified and trusted lab in Boston to have the paint sample tested.

  It seemed that Sam would be driving into Boston that day, despite the coming snowstorm. The sooner he could get going, the better the chances that he’d be back before the worst of it hit Camden Falls.

  Sam called Chelsea as he headed to his vehicle, and told her he had the go-ahead to get the paint sample tested.

  “Would you like the names of the companies we
use?” she offered.

  “Thanks, but it won’t be necessary. I’ve got a contact in Boston,” he stated as he got into his car and started the engine. He could tell that Chelsea was curious about whom he’d be using and how he’d gotten the name, but he wasn’t prepared to let her know they’d spoken to the FBI. “I have to go, but I’ll call you later.”

  “You’re going today? They’re saying this storm will dump at least ten inches on us.”

  He smiled. “Yeah, I heard that, too. Which is why I need to get going.”

  Chelsea’s concern was evident in her voice. “If you’re sure you have to go today, please be careful driving.”

  “I will. I’ll call when I can.” He paused. “Chelsea, I had a nice time with you last night. Thanks again,” he added before he hung up.

  The drive to Boston wasn’t too bad, although it took him nearly twice as long as it would have without the inclement weather. He had no trouble finding the company, and the man he was to see, William Johnson, who appeared to be waiting for him.

  “Detective Eldridge.” The short, slight man with thinning hair held his hand out to Sam. “Special Agent Ferguson called and asked that I make this a priority.”

  “I appreciate it, Mr. Johnson.”

  “Bill, please. Can you tell me anything further about the sample I’ll be testing?” he asked as they walked into a bright, spacious laboratory. “Agent Ferguson didn’t give me any details.”

  Sam understood why. In no way did they want to influence the results of the test. If they mentioned the possibility that Bill might be testing a scraping of the stolen Rembrandt, there was always the chance—slim though it might be—that the prospect of such a discovery could influence the results. “No, I’m sorry, but I don’t have any details to share with you, either. We need to know, as precisely as possible, the age of the paint.”

  Bill nodded and switched on the task light over a workstation. “Agent Ferguson said the same thing. I should be able to tell you a year, give or take five, with ninety percent accuracy.”

  “That should do it.”

  Sam took a seat in one of the hard plastic chairs lined up along a wall and disinterestedly flipped through a magazine he’d picked up at random from a pile on a small table. He was amused by the sounds Bill made as he ran his tests, his tone becoming more gleeful as he progressed.

  “Detective?” Bill finally called to Sam as he swiveled around on his stool. Sam rose and walked over to him. “I’ve run several tests and repeated a couple of them, just to be certain.”

  To keep Bill from having to crane his neck to look up at him, Sam wheeled a stool from the adjoining workstation closer and sat on it. “What have you got?”

  “It’s rare that I get to run tests on samples this old, and guessing why the FBI might be interested in testing a paint sample, I have some thoughts on what we’re dealing with.”

  “What are the results?” Sam asked, in an attempt to keep him focused.

  “I think you’ll be pleased. In my professional opinion, the paint sample you gave me dates around the early 1600s, likely of Dutch origin. If I were to speculate—”

  Sam rose and held up a hand, not wanting to confirm or deny Bill’s speculation. If they truly were onto something as significant as finding one of the paintings stolen from the Thompson Museum, he didn’t want conjecture or innuendo floating around. He certainly didn’t want it hitting the media. “Thank you for your immediate attention to this. I’d appreciate having the sample back. Please send your report directly to me.” He exchanged his business card for the now properly sealed paint sample. He could tell Bill was disappointed to let go of it. “Please keep our discussion and your test results strictly confidential.”

  “Understood, but what about Agent Ferguson?”

  “I’ll inform him,” Sam said, and wondered how that conversation would go, in light of the information he now had.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  IN THE HOUR Sam had spent in the lab, the storm had intensified. He considered the wisdom of driving to Camden Falls versus getting a hotel room in Boston for the night, but with the results of the test, he didn’t want to put off getting back into the Sinclair Gallery’s warehouse. He contacted Colin and updated him.

  “I’m as sure as I can be about the results, considering I’m not a scientist and didn’t run the tests myself.”

  “I have a difficult time believing what it means,” Colin said.

  “I know. Me, too. I can tell you Bill Johnson seemed competent and he was skeptical enough that he repeated a couple of the more crucial tests.”

  “Do you have the report?”

  “No. He was working on it when I left and said he’d send it to me as soon as possible. I’ll pull over at the next gas station and check my cell phone.”

  “Okay. Forward it to me as soon as you can.”

  “Will do. I’ll call Ferguson next. Let him know what we have. I expect he’ll want in on this now,” Sam added with some regret. “Can you start on the warrant?”

  “You bet.”

  Sam had a brief conversation with Ferguson. In view of the storm and because the forecast now said it wouldn’t let up for several more hours, Ferguson gave Sam the go-ahead to search the warehouse without him once the warrant came through, if he wasn’t there yet.

  For the first time since Sam had set out that morning, he was glad of the miserable weather. He was a team player as much as the next guy, but he wanted to be the one to search the warehouse before the FBI began leading the investigation. Stopping at the next gas station, he checked his emails.

  Bill had been true to his word.

  The report was in his inbox.

  It was clear and concise, and exactly what they needed. He sent a thank-you note to Bill and forwarded the report to Colin, along with an update on his ETA. He sent a copy to Ferguson, too.

  As Sam inched along I-93, he debated calling Chelsea. It was an active investigation, on a much larger scale than they’d anticipated. Police procedure was not to share information. But Chelsea had brought the matter to him, she knew where he’d gone, and she’d be impatient to hear the results.

  Most of all, he wanted to call her—just to hear her voice.

  “Are you okay?” was the first thing she asked, which made him smile.

  “I’m fine. How can I not be, moving a few feet an hour?” he assured her, only half-joking.

  “I’m sorry it’s such a bad drive, but I’m glad you’re going slow in this weather.”

  “Ha! At this rate, I’ll see you in March!”

  Chelsea laughed. “Then you have time to tell me what happened.”

  He inhaled deeply. “Chelsea, you have to keep what I’m about to tell you strictly confidential. You can’t tell anyone. No forgetting or innocently dropping a hint. I need you to promise me that.”

  “Sam...” He could hear the exasperation in her voice.

  “It’s not intended as an insult, but I have to emphasize the point, because I’m breaking protocol here.”

  “Okay. I promise,” she conceded.

  “Thanks. Now, if you’re not sitting down, you might want to. The paint sample has been dated around the early 1600s—”

  Her squeal on the other end of the line made him flinch.

  “I knew it. I knew it!” she exclaimed. “It is The Tempest on the Ocean!”

  “Before you get too excited...” Too late for that, he thought when she squealed again. “Let’s take it one step at a time.”

  “How can it not be the Rembrandt?”

  “First, is there any possibility that the original might’ve been copied at the time it was first painted? Are you aware of any paintings by the great masters having been duplicated in their day?”

  “No, but hypothetically speaking, if it happened
, I imagine that would make the replica priceless, too.”

  Yes, that made sense to him. It was quite likely that a replica done back in the 1600s would be valuable.

  “So, what now?” she asked, her voice imbued with excitement.

  “We’ve notified the FBI. On the strength of the testing, we’re getting a search warrant for the warehouse. I’ll execute it once I’m back in Camden Falls.”

  “Can I come with you? Like sort of as an expert consultant?”

  He had to smile at that. “No, I’m sorry, that’s not possible.” Seeing the long row of brake lights up ahead, glaring through the steadily falling snow, he smacked his steering wheel. It wasn’t looking good, especially when he noticed the flashing lights of a police vehicle off on the shoulder around the next curve, probably because of an accident. This was bound to delay him further.

  “If the warrant comes through before I’m back—” which seemed more likely now “—then someone else will execute it,” he said grudgingly. “Either way, I’m sorry, but it’s not possible for you to attend.”

  They spoke a few minutes longer, and Chelsea made him promise to drive carefully before they hung up.

  * * *

  SAM PULLED INTO the parking lot of the police station shortly before nine that evening. It had taken him the better part of the day to go from Camden Falls to Boston, get the sample tested and drive back, most of that time spent behind the wheel.

  The drive hadn’t been an easy one, and he was exhausted from the concentration it had required. He couldn’t wait to get out of the car and stretch his legs. He hadn’t spent this much time sitting behind the wheel in ages, and his injured hip and knee were both throbbing.

  Standing in the station’s parking lot, he turned his face up, welcoming the cool caress of snowflakes on his skin. It beat the heck out of the hissing, sluggish heater in his police-issue vehicle.