The Black Sheep and the English Rose Page 7

  “We all have our tools of the trade,” she said. “You’d be surprised what a nicely tailored pair of Italian leather pumps can do for a mission.”

  Picturing those long legs of hers in Italian heels and nothing more than the lingerie he’d discovered her in earlier—was it only today?—he was inclined to agree with her assessment. He kept that bit of information to himself, however, and continued his descent.

  “Watch the last step,” he warned as he reached the bottom. “It’s a bit steeper than the others.” He would have turned and offered her a hand, had he been willing to risk even that much contact. He wasn’t. Not at the moment anyway. He was sporting quite the raging hard-on. Again. And was growing concerned that the condition was going to be permanent as long as she was around. The solution, of course, was to end their less-than-strictly-business working relationship as soon as possible. Which was his goal, of course.

  His thoughts strayed again to the third floor. To the huge, king-size bed he’d had specially made. It was built into a frame set directly on the floor and was covered in blankets and linens of various weaves and textures. There were pillows of all sizes, scattered everywhere. Panels of sheer curtains and netting hung from the ceiling, shrouding the bed in a filmy mist of ivory and pale blue. He rarely slept there, but when he did, he enjoyed the reminders of some of the places he’d been. Nepal, Peru, Indonesia.

  Now he was picturing her there, beautifully splayed amongst the plush pillows and Egyptian cotton. The use he could make of some of those cushions, arching her body just so, getting caught up in the way her skin would look, so creamy and smooth against the bold jewel tones and exotic weaves.

  “So,” she said, a bit of wonder in her tone as she lightly hopped off the last step. “You really do have a Bat Cave right here in Gotham City.”

  He kept his back to her and his twitching erection from view. He walked over to a computer monitor, pressed a button so a keypad eased out of the console beneath, and typed in a series of pass codes. Lights came on in the cabinets surrounding the lab part of the room, and the countertop glowed a cerulean blue. A large screen was revealed over the desk and shelving units when wall panels slid apart. Incongruously, there was a pinball machine at one end of the panel of high technology, and Pac Man at the other. Smiling as he watched her take it all in, he pulled a small kit from one of the cabinets and flipped it open. “Why, yes, Girl Wonder,” he said, “yes, I do.”

  He held out his hand. “Know anything about fingerprinting?”

  She absently dragged her gaze back to his as she handed him the stemware. “Mostly about how not to leave any behind.”

  He shouldn’t grin at that, but he did.

  She didn’t peer over his shoulder when he turned and placed the glass on the countertop. Instead, she came to stand directly beside him. “I pick things up pretty quickly, however.”

  “That much, I knew.”

  Now it was her turn to smile. “So,” she said, “where did a former assistant district attorney/current adrenaline junkie part-time jewel thief learn how to process fingerprints? I won’t ask where you got all the expensive toys.”

  “My partner, Mac, used to be a detective with the NYPD. As for the electronic gadgets, that’s also Mac’s specialty.” He brushed lightly over one set of prints, then carefully placed a piece of specially treated, clear tape over the powder. “The computer system is Rafe. If you want to know anything about anything, or anyone, he’s the guy. Given enough time, he can uncover anything. If he can’t find it, it’s not out there to be found.”

  She leaned over to examine his actions more closely, and a waft of spicy lavender scent tickled his nose, among other things. “Which makes you the bankroll guy, I’m guessing,” she said.

  He wasn’t insulted by the remark. Mostly because it was true. “Initially, yes. The company funds itself now.”

  “Big buck clients?”

  “Smart investments. We don’t charge for our services.”

  That gave her pause. Good. He discovered he liked shaking her up, being unpredictable. Lord knew she was often that for him.

  “Interesting way to run a company that’s not a charitable foundation.”

  “Yes, I thought so myself.” Smiling, he went back to work. He motioned her to follow him over to another small table, where he peeled off the fingerprint tape and processed it.

  “You have access, I assume, to some kind of fingerprint database.”

  “We do.”

  “So, if John’s shower and champagne companion is in that database, that means she’s not likely to be your run-of-the mill Susie Secretary.”

  “Or Dora Desk Clerk,” he teased, making her roll her lovely green eyes. “Highly doubtful that’s the case anyway. I don’t think Reese would stop in the midst of a full-scale deal meltdown to have a little fling with the hotel receptionist. Whoever was in that shower with him is, at the very least, involved in some aspect of his world. Whether it’s the part that’s a little shaky on legalities, I don’t know. But the timing of this meeting certainly suggests it is.”

  He scanned the image into the computer, then sat back and keyed in the information to start the system searching. Once it was running, he swung around in his chair to look at her. Not surprisingly, she was presently looking over the various tools and equipment lining tables, walls, and a large lab center. Knowing Felicity, she either had a photographic memory, or some kind of recording chip buried in her earring. He certainly wouldn’t put it past her, anyway. In fact, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to revamp the entire setup down here after this was over. He’d have Mac rewire the entire security system. Mac had been bugging him to update to a newer technology anyway.

  He glanced at the computer screen, then turned his attention fully back to her, and contemplated the fact that he was already planning a complete security overhaul designed specifically to keep out the very woman he’d invited in. He could say it was all about keeping his enemies closer, but that was a lie he wouldn’t even pretend to tell himself.

  “So, if we find this woman, then what?” she asked, still wandering around. She wasn’t poking into anything, or even touching anything, but he doubted she was missing much anyway.

  “We dig up as much information on her as possible. Then we find her.”

  Felicity looked over at him. “Find her. In a city of millions.”

  “You track things a lot smaller than people.”

  “But there aren’t generally a million or so of them running around. And we have to do this before the piece leaves the country. Either you have access to a lot more data than even I could imagine, or you know more than you’re letting on.”

  “I’m pretty well connected.”

  She held his gaze for a moment longer, looking as if she wanted to say something, then went back to wandering around his office and lab space. “You say you don’t use this place often? A lot of gear here for the occasional user. Nice toys, too,” she added, with a quizzical glance in his direction, as she walked past the pinball machine.

  “Helps me think. It’s a left brain-right brain thing.”

  “Not a stunted childhood thing?” she asked, smiling this time.

  He smiled back. “Oh, no, that, too. Definitely didn’t get enough toys growing up. But then, who does?” He gestured to the rest. “As to that stuff, well, we have the means to own some pretty nice gear. So, it’s not a bad thing to have it when you need it.”

  She glanced over at him, a smile playing around her mouth. “There’s a sentiment I can agree with.”

  His body stirred.

  She nodded toward the computer. “I think we have something.”

  Surprised, he turned to look at the monitor and discovered she was right. “Usually takes longer.” A lot longer. He chalked it up to luck and rolled his chair back over to the screen and began to scroll through the information. Felicity came to stand behind him and read over his shoulder.

  “Julia Forsythe,” Finn said, reading out loud.

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nbsp; “American,” she said as he continued to scroll. “Interesting.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. “Why do you say it like that?”

  “Nothing specific, just that I haven’t discovered too many of you Yanks in this line of work, that’s all. At least at such an advanced level.” She smiled at him. “You being the exception, of course.”

  He didn’t bother to correct her assumption, thinking she was baiting him for precisely that purpose. “My experience is that it doesn’t seem to hold to gender or race.” Now he smiled. “A thief is a thief.”

  She didn’t respond to his baiting either. And he found himself regretting they would never fully be able to just be themselves with each other. Too much was at stake, for people who mattered. Well, in his case anyway.

  He turned away to another computer and began typing in the pertinent information. She was still standing at the other monitor, scanning through what little info there was on the hit.

  “One prior arrest. Grand theft. A felony,” she said, making a humming noise, but no other comment. “Charges were dropped.”

  “The arrest was enough to get her prints in the system. That’s all we needed.”

  “You’re not going to find much then, are you?”

  “I’m not researching her criminal history.”

  Felicity looked up at that. “Oh?”

  “As you said, not much there to look into, and what is there isn’t exactly a surprise, on the surface anyway.”

  “Says here, last known address is San Francisco.”

  “Still is,” he said.

  She walked over to stand behind him. “My, my. You are rather connected, aren’t you?” She leaned down to peer more closely over his shoulder as additional information about one Julia Dawn Forsythe, age thirty-three, single, scrolled onto the screen in front of him now. “Impressive.”

  It was that, he thought. Knowing what their setup was capable of didn’t mean he still didn’t enjoy watching it in action every now and again. He’d sent the information back to their home system, with an alert to Mac, who’d set up a direct link into Rafe’s database, which extended well into realms it probably shouldn’t. Finn didn’t ask questions. He just enjoyed the results.

  “She’s an art dealer,” Felicity said. “How convenient.”

  “With a rather impressive private studio,” Finn followed.

  “I’m surprised her arrest wasn’t more of a put off to her clientele.”

  “She was arrested four years ago. She opened this studio just under two years ago.”

  “And already such a success. Interesting.”

  He shifted to look at her, but she kept her attention on the monitor. “I launched Trinity around the same time.”

  “But you said you’re not-for-profit. Your funding comes from investments made from your inheritance.”

  “True, but—”

  “It says here her taxes last year showed her to be in the red by almost a million dollars.”

  “Maybe she had private funding as well.”

  Felicity looked dubious. “And shall we make a bet on the likely method used to secure this private funding?”

  “She could just be a dealer who uses Reese to obtain objets d’ art for certain clients who wish to remain anonymous.”

  “For a hefty finder’s fee. And dealers willing to take risks can make an even better turnaround for their investment.”

  “You sound as if you know something about this.” He looked at Felicity, who’d straightened and taken a step back.

  “Hardly, darling.” Rather than take offense, though, she laughed quite naturally. “Why ever would I want to part with something I worked so hard to obtain?”

  It was a classic Felicity Jane response; confident and self-effacing, all at once. And yet, he wasn’t buying it this time. “Money?” he said.

  “I have more than I could spend in several lifetimes, so that would hardly provide motivation.”

  “Maybe not for you, maybe for the Foundation. It can’t be easy maintaining your ancestral holdings.”

  She tilted her head. “Someone’s been doing a bit of digging, too, I see. But to answer your query, no. The Foundation and my ancestral holdings, as you so quaintly call them, are maintaining themselves as well as can be expected, without my turning to a life of crime to help uphold them.”

  So then why have you? he wanted to shout. He’d already asked her once, outright, but she’d danced around the answer by turning it back on him. Perhaps if he hit close enough, he’d see the truth of it in her eyes. “Maybe it’s the thrill of obtaining the piece, and, once secured, it no longer holds any fascination. So it would only make sense, then, to get rid of it. Enter John Reese.”

  “I told you, we’ve worked together on Foundation business. And his work with, and for, them would pass the closest scrutiny.” She didn’t respond to the rest, other than to say, “I thought we were in a race to track down the whereabouts of one Julia Forsythe? Surely your prurient interest in the motivation behind my recreational pursuits can wait until we’ve located our quarry.”

  Recreational pursuits. “I am tracking. If you worked with John in the past as a client, rather than as a peer hunting the same piece, then it holds that you might know something of Miss Forsythe.”

  She sighed. “I knew of John and his reputation—both good and bad—prior to this little adventure, yes, but, and I say this for the last time, I’ve never purchased anything from him personally, regardless of provenance. I’ve never dealt with Miss Forsythe in any manner. Anything else?”

  She held his gaze with ease, her tone flat, indicating her displeasure with the direction of his questioning, but nothing more. Or less.

  “But you know of her?”

  She shook her head. “I know of her kind. There are a lot of less-than-scrupulous art dealers in the world. In this city alone, in fact. It doesn’t say more or less for her that I’ve not heard of her. She could be quite the big thing in the States, for all I know.”

  Every question he asked seemed to net him no information, other than to add more questions to his list. It was frustrating on several levels, mainly the one that needed to be successful in solving this case in order to do the right thing by his client…and the other part of him that wanted to understand her better. Instead, he was more confused than ever. Instinct told him there was a lot more at play here than she was letting on. But that could be wishful thinking, based on the near constant hard-on he’d been sporting since seeing her again.

  “So, what’s next, Mr. Holmes?”

  Finn turned his attention back to the report. With a little more time, he could get quite an extensive dossier on Miss Forsythe, but time was a commodity he didn’t have. He was also itching to do a more thorough search on his current partner-in-not-quite-crime. Though not so much for the purposes of the case at hand. If he’d been smart, he’d have dug more deeply a long time ago. And he’d been tempted many times over the intervening years to do just that. Mostly it had been fear of what he’d discover, and what it might lead him to do about it, that caused him to opt to leave himself in the dark. What he didn’t know couldn’t hurt either one of them.

  But now that he’d made a more direct connection, one he couldn’t ignore, it was well past the time for burying his head in the sand. Or anywhere else. It was time for answers. One way or the other, he’d get them. Just as soon as he found Julia Forsythe.

  “What’s the next step?” she asked.

  He started tapping at the keyboard again. “Next, we search for any information pertaining to previous visits she’s made to the city.”

  “And you’re going to get this—wow.” She leaned over again as information began scrolling onto the screen. “How in the name of heaven can you access flight information like that? Particularly after 9/11?”

  He leaned forward to get a closer look. “She’s a regular visitor, it seems. Comes to the East Coast, New York City in particular, half a dozen times a year or more. All in the past two y
ears since going into the art business.” He scrolled down. “Bingo. I love the Internet and travel package deals.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I don’t have to dance around Homeland Security and flight databases. Avalon Travel’s Web site is much less secure.”

  “Avalon Travel?”

  “Small San Francisco agency, it appears. They book her flights and hotel.”

  “Hotel?” Felicity repeated.

  He felt the sudden spike in tension and smiled. “And car rental.” He tapped a few more keys, then abruptly pushed his chair back. “Come on.”

  “You don’t think she’d still be there, do you?”

  “Nope, she checked out earlier today.”

  “But—wait up a second, will you?” She kicked off her heels and grabbed them before hurrying up the steps behind him. “Where are we going?”

  “Airport.”

  “She has a flight leaving tonight? Which one?”

  “Yep.”

  “But airport security, you can’t get out to her gate—”

  “It’s a private airfield, but we’re not going there. At least not yet.” He held the front door for her, never more thankful for Felicity’s limo sitting curbside, awaiting its mistress’s next whim. “She has to return her car first.”

  Felicity paused. “Who rents a car in the city?”

  He gave her a sardonic smile as they climbed in and closed the door. “I don’t know. Someone who wants to avoid using public forms of transportation for whatever reason?” He stretched out his legs. “You tell me.”

  “It’s true, I use my own town car, but it’s not quite the same as driving yourself about in this horrible traffic. Given the alternate forms of transportation, I’m simply surprised Miss Forsythe would choose to squire herself about.”