Finding Jessica Page 11

  “Bjorn Toorun was an ex-con, just the sort of punk who’d work for someone like Beach.” Franklin stared at Thorne. “And he was a friend of Chad Connor’s.” Thorne didn’t like the way he said “friend,” and it took a minute for him to realize what he meant.

  “Oh,” Thorne said, “I see.” He wasn’t surprised Chad had, ahem, a friend, but he was a little disgusted that Chad could be putting his personal life ahead of the job they’d hired him to do.

  Franklin put his elbows on the desk and leaned toward Thorne in a menacing way. “He also says you’re impeding the murder investigation of that PI. They interviewed Connor, and they’re convinced he’s been working undercover in Haven, and he wants to know why.”

  “How did he figure that out?”

  Franklin leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “He’s alleging you and Connor concocted an alibi for Amber so he’d take her off his list of murder suspects.”

  “Well,” Thorne said, “I hope you told him the case is classified.”

  Franklin’s eyes narrowed into tiny slits. “Don’t you dare tell me what to do.” Thorne saw the vein on Franklin’s forehead pulse as he took a deep breath. “Rhodes has threatened to go public if it turns out Amber had anything to do with either murder. He’s prepared to tell the media the FBI purposefully impeded his investigation.” He let his breath out. “I can’t believe you compromised Connor’s identity.”

  Thorne didn’t care if that hayseed cop knew about Chad, and he doubted he’d have the nerve to go to the media. “Sir, I believe I acted in the best interests of the Bureau,” Thorne said. Amber was in federal custody, where she could be protected. The goal was to get Beach. Right now she was the only potential informant they had, and she looked so small and vulnerable sitting in the FBI’s federal lockup outside the city. “There’s no evidence Amber had anything to do with Cappodecci’s murder,” he insisted. “Rhodes had a chance to interview her, and he came away with nothing. He’s on a fishing expedition.”

  “You’re underestimating the man, the same way you’ve underestimated Beach.” Franklin’s face was turning a dangerous shade of red. “Time to try another tactic.” He suddenly swiveled his chair around to face the window, and Thorne watched him loosen his tie and unbutton his shirt so he could breathe easier. When Franklin spoke next, his voice was even and steely. “I told Rhodes you’d be home by seven o’clock tonight. Chandler is driving down from New Hampshire to meet with you.”

  Thorne was stunned. “You invited her to my home?”

  “There’s no point making her drive into Boston when she’s got friends she can stay the night with in Lexington,” Franklin swiveled his chair back around. “You’ll give her a briefing on Operation Haven, and you’ll accept any help she offers.”

  Thorne clenched his jaw. “Sir, I object.”

  Franklin slammed his hand on the desk. “You’ll do as you’re told.” The framed photo of his chubby wife and grim-faced children tipped over. “I’m disappointed in you and your squad. We’re six months into Operation Haven, and not a single arrest.” He set the picture back in place and pointed a fat finger at him. “I believe Sandy Beach goes to sleep every night with a smile on his lips. Do you know why?”

  Thorne shook his head.

  “Because he’s screwing the FBI, that’s why.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The clock is ticking, Thorne.” Franklin spat out the words, then waved his hand at Thorne dismissively, as if he were shooing away a fly.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Rose hadn’t expected to eat dinner with Thorne, but when she arrived at the colonial brick house where he lived with his mother, the tiny birdlike woman dragged Rose to the dining room, where she’d set the table with pressed linen and bone china worn thin with age. She slammed a large bowl of hot stew in front of Rose before she could even introduce herself. The faded wallpaper of vined roses and the threadbare oriental rugs reminded Rose of her grandmother Chandler, who had died in her sleep the same year Rose’s mother died.

  Thorne ate his food in stony silence, a wide cloth napkin tucked into the collar of his shirt. Rose hadn’t realized how hungry she was until she’d mopped the last bit of meat sauce from her plate with a slice of homemade bread. His mother was as good a cook as Heidi. As soon as the meal was over, Thorne ordered his mother to stay in the kitchen until he told her to come out, and then he turned to Rose.

  “I’ve been instructed to give you a briefing,” he said in a bored voice, “so let’s get on with it.”

  “Don’t you think we should help your mother clean up first?” Rose glanced over his shoulder at the closed kitchen door.

  “She likes to clean,” Thorne told her.

  No wonder Rocky had begged off on the meeting, Rose thought. Thorne’s a spoiled man-child in a business suit. “Marcus hardly ever lets me meet his girlfriends,” his mother had chirped in Rose’s ear as she’d plowed into her food. “The last one he brought home was a nitwit in tight clothes and too much makeup. I told Marcus she looked like a hooker.” She’d smoothed her flowery print skirt over her lap, straightening nonexistent wrinkles. “She made him watch those reality shows. If you ask me,” she’d gone on, shooting sideways glances at Thorne, “the younger women today aren’t interested in expanding their minds, only their bosoms. I told Marcus I didn’t think hers were real.” She’d squinted at Rose’s chest. “Yours look real.” That was the point at which Thorne had grabbed his mother by her shoulders and yanked her out of her chair.

  Now Rose could hear the water running in the kitchen. “Your mother made a lovely meal.” She heard the clatter of silverware going into the dishwasher, and for one moment Rose was back in her childhood home, drying dishes while her mother washed and sang “Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue,” making beards and moustaches with the soap bubbles so Rose would laugh. “The least we can do is help her clean up,” she said.

  “I told you, she doesn’t want any help.” Thorne reached down for his briefcase, and Rose saw him check out her legs. God, he’s not just a miserable son, he’s also a sleaze. But she realized the short skirt and heels might actually work to her advantage in this meeting. Flashing her legs had gotten that pig Vladimir to spill everything he knew about a Russian mole at MI6. The Brits still owed her big-time for that one. “Now let’s get this briefing over with,” Thorne said. “Of course, some aspects of the case are classified, so I won’t be divulging every detail.” She watched Thorne pretend to scramble around in his briefcase while gaping at her calves.

  “You finding what you need in there?” she asked.

  “Of course.” He snapped the briefcase shut and placed it squarely in front of him. “In the last eighteen months there’s been a string of art heists at museums, galleries and private residences in New York and Boston.” He passed her a sheet of paper. “This is a list of the paintings that were stolen and what they’re worth. As you can see, they’re all very valuable.” Rose looked down at the neatly typed list of artists and titles. “The FBI got involved about six months ago after a heist at the Frick in New York. We figure the robbers had a hard time getting the painting off the wall, and one of them took off his glove. He left a fingerprint behind, and that’s all we needed to identify Johnny Jumper, a thug who works for Sandy Beach.” Thorne lifted his chin as if for applause.

  Rose looked at him blankly. Behind Thorne was a sepia picture of a guy in a military uniform. He had Thorne’s upturned nose and looked just as pompous. “Well, have you questioned him?” she asked.

  “Jumper hasn’t been seen since the night of the robbery.” Thorne tightened his tie. If he tightened that tie any more, his head would probably explode, which might not be a bad thing. “Beach must have found out we positively ID’d him, so he permanently got rid of the evidence, so to speak.” Thorne sniffed. “Jumper completely disappeared.”

  “The art crime team at the Bureau must have a leak.” Rose said. “Otherwise how would Beach know they’d found Jumper’s print
?”

  Thorne pursed his lips as if he’d eaten a lemon. “That’s a subject beyond the scope of this briefing.”

  Rose leaned back. She wondered where his father was, and she felt pity for his mother, banging around in the kitchen, to have raised Thorne all alone. “Okay, then tell me what this has to do with the Bureau planting Chad Connor in Haven.”

  Thorne poured water into his crystal cut goblet. Rose thought she saw his hand shaking. “We tracked Jumper to Beach, and then four days later Beach’s aide, Nicky the Knife, showed up in Haven.” Thorne licked his thin little lips. “A surveillance team took notes on who he spoke to, where he went, but there was no sign of any paintings being moved. Three months later there was a robbery at a private residence on Beacon Hill, a Vermeer.”

  “And I bet Nicky made another trip to Haven four days later.” Rose picked up her own goblet, which weighed as much as a small child, and took a drink.

  Thorne’s eyes slid all over her as if, she thought, he wanted to get her alone and frisk her. “It’s a different number of days. Sometimes it’s four, sometimes three, sometimes one day or the same day.”

  Rose had asked Daniel to look up everything he could find on art heists over the New Hampshire border, and now she let the information fly. “Well, I found out there’s a broker in Montreal suspected of selling stolen artwork to a private collector.” Daniel was her secret weapon. He could find anything he needed on that magic computer in D.C.

  Thorne stared at her. “I’ve read your file.” He gave her a deprecating smile. “Why are you a private investigator in the middle of nowhere?”

  Rose wanted to smack that stupid sneer off his face, but there was no point in reacting to a Neanderthal. A Neanderthal in pinstripes. She almost laughed. “So, you think Nicky’s bringing the paintings to Haven?” Rose put her hands on the table and looked up at the ancient chandelier that looked as if it might come loose from its moorings any minute. “And transporting them to Canada?”

  “There’s no evidence of the paintings.” Thorne leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest as though annoyed at Rose for asking. “But based on intelligence we’ve received from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, we believe they’re being transported over the border. What happens to them when they get to Canada is anybody’s guess. Maybe they’re being stolen for a third party or being used as collateral for drugs.”

  “What have you seen on surveillance?”

  “Not much,” Thorne admitted. His hand went to the tie again, trying to tighten the knot, but it was already too tight, and his fingers just fumbled around uselessly. “Nicky does the same thing every single time he comes to Haven. He stays at the Hillside Resort and buys a new shirt and tie at Henry’s Apparel,” he said, “and he stops by Minot Auto to talk with Tom Minot.”

  “And you’ve been listening to them,” Rose said.

  “Of course.”

  “What do they talk about?”

  Thorne touched his tie again. Rose wanted to swat his hand away. “Mostly cars,” he said. “Sometimes Nicky even takes one out for a test drive, but he’s never bought one.”

  Rose tapped her pen on her open notebook. “Minot Auto’s got a dealership in Canada. They’ve got trucks transporting cars back and forth at least a couple times a week.”

  “We’re aware of that, Ms. Chandler. That’s why we had an agent hired as a driver, so we could pull the trucks over and search them. Unfortunately, the searches have all come up empty.”

  “You still haven’t explained Chad.” Rose moved her antique Windsor chair closer to Thorne, and it seemed to unnerve him. He looked up at the old chandelier, then back to the table. “Is he part of your surveillance team?” she asked.

  Thorne rolled his neck from side to side. It made Rose feel a little gleeful. He was uncomfortable. Good, let him get so flustered he didn’t know which way was up so he’d stop interfering in her investigation.

  “Chad’s not an FBI agent,” Thorne replied. “He’s one of the Bureau’s art theft experts.” So Chad’s a specialist, Rose thought. “He’s helped Wittman on several of our most important art heists over the past few years,” Thorne waved his hand around grandly. “Athens, Copenhagen, Paris. He’s been quite instrumental in figuring out what we know so far: paintings are being transported to Canada, and Nicky’s orchestrating it. There’s no other reason for him to travel so far north, like clockwork, just days after every robbery.”

  Rose smiled. “He could be taking a vacation.” She moved her chair closer to Thorne. She liked that it bothered him.

  Thorne sighed. “I appreciate your attempt at humor, Ms. Chandler, but Nicky’s not spending time in Haven to enjoy the scenery. Someone is helping him. That’s why I had Chad assigned to live in Haven, to keep his eyes and ears open and report back to me on anything suspicious.”

  “So the FBI’s been spying on Haven’s citizens,” Rose shook her head. “You should have told the Haven PD. We’re not a huge town. They know most of the people who live there. If you had a question about someone in particular, they could have given you an answer. They’re the ones who led you to Amber in the first place.” Rose knew Rocky was still kicking himself about making that phone call. He should have taken her advice and interviewed Amber about Hal’s murder first, and then called the FBI. “Speaking of Amber, have you been able to confirm that she got her false ID from Beach?”

  Thorne raised his hand to touch his tie again but stopped midway when Rose glared at him. “She’s not talking right now, but the FBI’s counterfeit documents expert says Amber’s are real. She didn’t get them from some two-bit gang member bribing a clerk at the DMV.” He folded his hands on the table. “Stolen paintings, stolen identities … I don’t really care how I get Beach, just as long as I get him.”

  The kitchen door creaked open slowly, and Thorne’s mother took a tentative step into the room in her sweet flowered skirt and frilly old lady blouse. “Marcus, is it all right if I go upstairs to my room?” Rose thought of her own mother, hair spilling over her shoulders, her silk saree flowing behind her. Come on and dance with me my little Rosebud, my sweet fiery girl. “There’s a new House Hunters starting in five minutes.”

  Rose stood to intercept her. “Thank you for dinner,” she said. “I enjoyed it very much. You’re a fabulous cook.”

  “You’re welcome any time, dear,” she said. Rose thought she saw tears in her eyes. “I wish my son had more friends like you. I wish he had more friends, period,” she said.

  Before Thorne could reply his mother hurried to the stairs. As soon as she was out of sight, Thorne sighed. “May I continue?”

  Continue being a jerk? Rose wanted to say, but instead, she sat down. It was getting late, and she was sick of Thorne. “Go on,” she told him.

  “We need Amber because we need evidence. Every time we arrest one of Beach’s fall guys, he pays bail and hires an attorney for them. They never talk and always walk, but Amber’s different. I don’t believe she’s cut out for a life of crime.” He smiled a little, but it was an awkward look on him, and it faded quickly. “If I can convince her to tell us what she knows about Beach and his operation, and if we can positively tie her to the art thefts, she could be the best chance the FBI’s ever had to nail him.”

  Rose tossed her notebook on the table. “That’s all well and good, but in your eagerness to pin Beach, you seem to have forgotten Hal Cappodecci. There have been two murders in Haven. You think they’ve got nothing to do with your investigation?” She put her pen behind her ear. “Do you know if Nicky was in Haven the night Hal was murdered?”

  Thorne flexed his jaw. “Yes, but he was under surveillance the entire day. He never went anywhere near the murder scene, so he couldn’t have killed him.” Thorne was trying not to stare at her legs.

  Rose sat back and crossed them. Time for some shock and awe. “There seems to be a common theme going on here.” She moved her chair closer to Thorne again. “We’re both working cases that involve stolen paintings, a
nd even though the crimes are separated by decades, they seem to be converging around Sandy Beach.”

  Thorne sat up as though someone had called his name. “What stolen paintings are you talking about?”

  “Oh, sorry, I guess Rocky forget to tell you about my meeting with Delores Beach last week,” she apologized offhandedly.

  “You spoke to Delores Beach?” Rose loved seeing a red flush spread up Thorne’s neck. She had rattled Mr. Calm, Cool and Collected.

  “Oh, don’t look so shocked, Thorne, what do you think we’ve been doing, sitting on our asses?” So a small town detective and a PI can kick the Bureau’s butt, she thought. “Delores just happened to tell me that Jessica Winters, the woman we’re trying to find, stole a painting called The Peacemaker from Sandy thirty years ago, and it was never found. Isn’t that fascinating? You’re looking for stolen art. We’re looking for an art thief,” she said brightly. “So we’re all in this together now.” She made her voice sound like a purr and touched his hand. “Right?” But Thorne was looking at her as if she were the devil. “Don’t worry,” Rose said sweetly. “I promise, when we figure everything out, we’ll let you know how it all ends.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Barrington focused his camera on the Lamarche sisters, sitting in the shade at one of the folding tables on the groomed lawn of Veteran’s Park. The two elderly ladies resembled poodles with their long noses, small dark eyes and round puffs of white hair. Despite it being eighty-five degrees, they were both wearing blue wool cardigan sweaters and had tied colorful silk scarves in wide bows around their necks. Behind them loomed the sign reading Haven Library’s Annual Pie Bake Contest.

  “Smile ladies.” The sisters tilted their heads like inquisitive puppies and smiled shyly. Perfect. Emily had warned him that they had sticky fingers, and she thought they might have stolen the scarves they were wearing from Rose’s store. But they were just the kind of local characters who gave Haven its quirky, humorous edge. “Thank you for your time,” he told them. “Cute dog,” one of them said. Barrington glanced down at Cosmo, sitting patiently near his camera bag. Ever since he’d gotten sick, he’d been thinking about getting a dog to keep him company. It was the first time in his life he’d had regrets about being a bachelor and living alone. Reaching down in his camera bag for another reel of film, he touched the flask, just to make sure it was there.