The Spy (King’s Security #3)

Chapter 5

5

FIONA

I felt like throwing something and I had no idea why. Surely it couldn’t have been because of Zeke’s flirting with Patience. Why should I care what he did? Except that he’d promised to take this seriously and it didn’t feel like he was.

“Did you learn anything interesting other than Patience’s phone number?” I asked as we reached the SUV, wincing at the catty note in my voice.

“Actually, yes.” He pushed the button to unlock the car and got into the driver’s seat.

I yanked the passenger door open and dropped onto the seat. “So?”

He turned to face me, his expression amused. “Calm down, Fifi. I said I’d help you, and I will.” He relocked the doors and started the engine. “I think we both guessed that it’s likely the Monet was replaced with a forgery, similar to what happened in the Black Swan case four years ago.”

I nodded. “I picked up on that too.”

He drummed his tattooed fingers against the steering wheel. “Well, did you know that the Windy City Gallery has one of our security systems installed, or that there are no in-person security guards present?”

“No,” I admitted, the heat of frustration inside me cooling down.

“What about the fact that they have five full-time staff, a few part-timers, and others who work in the attached café—most of whom presumably have access to the building?”

I looked down at my lap. Okay, so he’d gotten useful information from Patience. Shame welled within me. I’d had no right to get snarky with him. He was trying to help me, and he had no reason to do that other than being a generally good person. I should know better than to treat him poorly.

“Thank you,” I said. “I’m sorry for snapping at you. You didn’t deserve that.”

“Apology accepted.” He pulled out of the park and maneuvered onto the road.

“I don’t know why I’m being so rude. It’s been a rough day, but that’s no excuse. I’ll try not to do it again.”

He reached over and put his hand on one of mine. “You’re allowed to have off days. I know better than to take it personally.”

The shame churned in my gut. Of course he’d choose today to be understanding. I felt like even more of a bitch. But then he glanced over, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Besides,” he added. “I’ve had plenty of practice at being rejected by you before.”

I huffed and removed his hand from mine. There was the Zeke I knew.

“What should we do now?” I asked, to change the subject.

“You need to go home and take care of yourself,” he said. “ Like you said, it’s been a rough day. You deserve a little recovery time.”

“I can’t,” I replied automatically. “I mean, I don’t want to.”

My apartment was as empty as the rest of my personal life. For the past four years, I’d thrown myself into my job with King’s Security. I rarely dated. After Bergen’s betrayal, it was too difficult to open myself up to anyone again. I worked, did my socializing at the gym, and other than that, my life was depressingly barren.

“Just because you don’t want to doesn’t mean you shouldn’t,” he pointed out.

I looked out the side window and pulled a face. He was right, but I really didn’t think being alone, in my stark apartment, would help anything. “If you were in my situation—accused of a crime you didn’t commit—would you just go home and take a nap?”

I turned to face him just in time to see his jaw clench. Interesting. Usually, he wasn’t one to show his emotions about anything.

“No,” he admitted. “I’d work my ass off to find out who was responsible and I’d make them pay.”

I shivered at the dark promise in his voice. Despite the rumors about his black ops background, I’d never been scared of Zeke. I’d thought of him as mostly harmless. Now, I realized what a mistake that might have been. He sounded like a man who meant what he said.

“I’ll take you back to the office,” he said after a minute passed in silence.

“Thanks.”

We didn’t speak for the rest of the journey. My mind was whirring, the events of the day replaying themselves on fast-forward. I wondered if Zeke had ever had cause to get revenge on someone before. I would like the chance to do the same to Bergen. An image of him popped into my head and I wondered where he was. I hadn’t been able to figure out where he went when he left me, although I assumed it was somewhere within Chicago since the police said they’d been at his place. I’d have hired a private detective, but my finances had been wiped out. It had taken me years to pay off the debt he’d accrued in my name and by then, there hadn’t seemed much point in hunting him down.

When we arrived at the building that housed King’s Security, Zeke parked in the underground parking lot and we took the stairs up.

“Are you hungry?” I asked, my stomach growling.

He patted his flat belly. “I could eat.”

“I’ll stop at the café and get us something.”

We parted ways, and I made a beeline to the café. While I stood in line, I looked around, wondering whether any gossip had spread yet about the police having been in to question me. Nobody was staring, but I thought I noticed a couple of pairs of eyes skirt away.

When I reached the counter, I ordered a pasta salad and a caramel latte for me and a sandwich with black coffee for Zeke. I’d ordered lunch for him before when he and Ronan were in meetings together, so I knew what he liked. They called my order, and I carried the food up another flight of stairs and down a corridor, past the open-plan area where Zeke’s staff worked, and to his door. Several people smiled at me. I tried to smile back, but it was strained.

I paused in the doorway, watching Zeke read something on his computer screen. His dark hair fell over his forehead and the swirl of a tattoo peeked out from beneath the neckline of his shirt. His expression was intense, and his fingers moved quickly over the keyboard as he began to type. My breath caught, and I tried to tamp down the flutter of attraction low in my gut .

He really was a sexy man. Sexier than Bergen. There was just something about him that was nearly impossible to resist. I pressed my lips together. Had I judged him unfairly because he had a surface resemblance to my ex? I’d never thought so, but after today, I was beginning to believe I might have been wrong about him. Maybe there was more to him than I’d believed.

ZEKE

I sensed Fiona watching me and bit back my instinctive need to ask whether she liked what she saw. I was trying to put her needs first, and that meant less flirting.

“That smells great,” I said, turning to face her. “What did you get?”

A flush stained her cheeks, as if she knew that I knew she’d been staring at me. “A chicken sandwich with coffee for you, and pasta salad for me.”

“Thanks, Fi.”

See? I didn’t even call her “Fifi.”

She set my coffee and meal on my desk, then took hers to the chair she’d brought in earlier and sipped her drink. Whatever it was, it smelled sweet.

“Need a sugar high as well as a caffeine pick-me-up?” I asked.

“Whatever will keep me going.”

I considered pointing out that she didn’t have to keep going. She could leave the research to me and my team while she took a much-needed nap, but I understood why she didn’t want to. She no doubt felt powerless, and being involved would help her feel like she was doing something .

“I’ve pulled up the gallery’s staff list,” I told her, grabbing the sandwich and pulling it closer. “It seems the cafe staff don’t have access to the gallery itself outside of normal working hours. Their key cards allow them to enter the building via a side door, but provided the doors between the cafe and the gallery are locked overnight, they can’t get further in. It’s up to whomever opens the gallery to unlock the connecting door.” I bit into my sandwich and moaned. She’d remembered exactly how I liked it. I shouldn’t be surprised. Fiona was one of the most competent people I knew.

“What about the part-timers you mentioned?” she asked. “Do they have key cards?”

I chewed and swallowed. “Not according to our records.”

“So that leaves the gallery staff,” she mused, digging her fork into a piece of pasta.

“And three of the artists whose work they display.” I hadn’t thought to ask about that earlier, but fortunately, whoever installed their system had kept good records.

“Interesting.” She looked thoughtful. “That’s not common. Or at least, it didn’t used to be.”

“Worth looking into?” I asked around another mouthful of food.

“Isn’t everything?”

“At this point, yes.” If we got new information to narrow things down, we could be more selective about who or what we investigated, but for now, there were no bad leads.

I finished the sandwich and washed it down with coffee, then wiped my fingers on a napkin and returned them to the keyboard. “The criminal records for each staff member are in this file too. Let’s check them, shall we?” I opened Patience’s first. As I’d expected, she was squeaky clean. “Not even a parking ticket for your buddy Patience.”

Next, I checked her assistant, Glen. Unlike Patience, he did have a couple of parking tickets, and one for speeding, but other than that, there was nothing of interest. One by one, I opened the others and scanned the summaries. Clean. Clean. Another speeding ticket.

“No red flags?” Fiona asked.

“Nope.” The first of the three artists with a key card was a different story. “Here we go.” I sat up straighter. “One arrest for drunk and disorderly behavior, another for assault during a bar fight, and a D.U.I.” I checked the photograph. The guy was in his late forties or early fifties with gray facial hair and deep-set eyes. “Andrew Garnet. Heard of him?”

“He paints abstracts,” she said. “Mostly in shades of red and black. He’s talented, but there’s something disturbing about his work. I wouldn’t like to be inside his mind.”

I noted his name on a piece of paper. He might be worth questioning, although being a violent drunk was a far cry from stealing a priceless painting. I opened the next artist’s background check.

“Huh. This guy was charged with possession of a controlled substance and intent to distribute.” I found his name. “Sam Robbins. Ring any bells?”

She shook her head. “No, sorry.”

I looked at Sam’s headshot. He was younger, perhaps in his late twenties, and his cheekbones were hollow, his face gaunt.

“I thought artists were goody-two-shoes,” I said. “You know, all classy and highbrow. Isn’t that how art is portrayed?”

Fiona laughed, and my heart lifted at the sound. She’d been too withdrawn today. “Most of them aren’t squeaky clean. I’m sure some are, but for many, their angst fuels their work. They draw inspiration from everything they’ve been through.”

I frowned, noticing that she’d referred to artists as “ them” and “they.” I’d been under the impression she was something of an artist herself, but the way she was speaking didn’t support that theory.

“Aren’t you an artist?” I asked.

She waved her hand dismissively. “Not like these guys. So, who’s the last one?”

I glanced at the final name. “Sandra Michaels.” I raised an eyebrow. “She’s clean as a whistle.”

Sandra Michaels appeared to be an older woman who’d behaved herself for her whole life.

“So, what next?” Fiona asked.

I drummed my fingers on the desk. “We talk to the staff in person. Unless you have a better idea?”

“Unfortunately not.”

I nodded. “We’ll start with Sam and Andrew since they might have substance abuse problems, which can cause people to make poor decisions, then move on to the others. We can’t do that tonight though.”

“Why not?” she demanded.

“It’s too late for us to reach out. We’re not the police. People aren’t obligated to talk to us, so if we barge in there at this time of night, they’re unlikely to tell us anything.”

She grimaced. “I guess that’s a fair point.”

I grinned. “Can I get that in writing? ‘Zeke was right.’”

“No.” Her lips pressed together. “You’ll never hear it again.”

“Ah well, worth a shot.”

She rolled her eyes. “What about Bergen? Shouldn’t we be looking into him?”

I crossed my arms. “Do you know where he lives?”

“No,” she admitted.

“I’ll see if I can find him in the DMV register and we can go from there. Again, even if we get his address, turning up now won’t do us any favors. We need to be more strategic. ”

I could see that she wanted to argue, but she kept her mouth shut. Technically, I shouldn’t have access to the DMV records, but I didn’t let that stop me. I ran a search and found our guy. Fiona leaned forward and I quickly minimized out of the tab, afraid that if she saw his address, she’d take it upon herself to pay him a visit. I searched for, and wrote down, addresses for the other people we wanted to check out, and by the time Fiona and I had made our action list for tomorrow, the office outside was dim and everyone had left.

“Let me take you home,” I said. She’d already missed the train she usually took. Not that I was a stalker who knew her schedule.

“But…” She trailed off.

“Come on.” I stood and held out a hand. She took it and pulled herself up, then cleared away the trash from our food. We headed down to the basement level, where I escorted her to my car.

She stopped and raised an eyebrow at the mid-range silver hatchback. “I expected you to drive something flashier.”

“Nah. This baby is better for tailing people or going unnoticed.” I patted the hood. “No one expects a mom car to be following them.”

I’d never fully believe that no one was watching me. With the circumstances under which I’d left the agency, I was sure they kept me under surveillance. Fortunately, Fiona didn’t ask any follow-up questions. She got in and directed me to her apartment. We were quiet as we drove, and I couldn’t help wondering what was going on in her head. I didn’t ask though, and soon, I parked outside her building. She hesitated and glanced at me.

“Would you like to come up for a coffee?” She raised her finger. “I really mean coffee. This isn’t an invitation to get me into bed.”

I studied her face. I’d expected her to be glad to be rid of me, but she looked reluctant to leave. Perhaps she didn’t want to be alone.

“Sure.”

I followed her to her apartment on the third floor, curious to see the inside. When she unlocked the door and pushed it open, I was surprised by the sight that greeted us. The apartment was nearly bare. The walls were unadorned and almost as starkly white as the interior of the gallery had been. The carpet was threadbare and while I could see a sofa and two armchairs, there were no cozy touches like throws or cushions, which I’d expected from her.

I frowned. This didn’t feel like a place where Fiona should live. It reminded me of my own condo, which I’d intentionally kept minimalistic. Fiona should be surrounded by color. She was vibrant, and her home should be the same way. Not like this.