The Spy (King’s Security #3)

Chapter 8

8

FIONA

I wasn’t sure why Zeke seemed so bothered by our visit with Denny. He usually took everything in stride and it unnerved me to see him thrown off balance. After we left, we dropped by Andrew’s place. He was clearly hungover and didn’t have much to say for himself, but there was no sign of a Monet in his living room, and honestly, with how much of a mess he was, I doubted he’d have been able to mastermind a heist like that anyway.

While we were with Andrew, Zeke had his staff dig into Sandra. They confirmed that she gambled, but from what they could tell, she wasn’t in a financial hole. We dropped by to ask her a few questions, and I felt terrible about how pale she got when Zeke brought up the gambling. It didn’t take long before she showed us the door. I got the feeling she wasn’t hiding anything though, and Zeke seemed to think the same.

Sam the recovering addict appeared to be living his best life. His eyes were clear, his complexion smooth, and while he clearly hadn’t liked us turning up on his doorstep, he’d been patient and polite. We paid a visit to each of the gallery’s staff members, although two of them weren’t at home—presumably, they were at the gallery—under the guise of checking on the effectiveness of King’s Security’s system to determine how we could improve it in the future.

By the time we finished, I was mentally and emotionally exhausted. I dealt with people constantly every day. I answered dozens of phone calls and fielded hundreds of emails, but for some reason, doing this had drained me more than dealing with demanding middle management and entitled customers ever had.

“Let’s get lunch,” Zeke said as we returned to his car after another deflating interview. “You need a break, and I’m hungry.”

I was tempted to argue that I could keep going for as long as he could, but he had a point. At this rate, I’d be no use to anyone. “All right.”

He looked surprised by my easy acquiescence but didn’t comment on it. “What would you like? Italian? Turkish? Indian?”

“How about sushi?” I always found sushi to be a refreshing pick-me-up. Plus it was something I wouldn’t have to work off at the gym later in the week. I’d left thirty in the rearview mirror a couple of years ago and staying trim took more effort than it used to.

“Great.” He grinned. “I know just the place.”

A few minutes later, he pulled up outside Sushi Ya . I side-eyed him. There was no way this was a coincidence. Not after he’d brought the berry Danish this morning.

“You know my favorite sushi place,” I said.

He put the car into park, switched off the engine, and unbuckled. “You should assume I know everything, Fifi. I usually do. ”

“Stalker.”

He touched his hand to his heart. “I’m hurt you could think that. I’m just thorough. No stone left unturned.”

“I’m counting on it.” Perhaps I found his attitude frustrating, but if it got me out of hot water, I wouldn’t complain. Besides, despite being unsettled that he seemed to know far more about me than I did about him, I couldn’t help being flattered that he’d been interested enough to find these things out about me. Many of the men I’d dated over the years hadn’t bothered to learn as much about me as Zeke had, and I’d have willingly told them anything they wanted to know.

He escorted me inside and we removed our shoes at the door and sat on cushions on the floor around a low table. A waiter took our orders and brought us a jug of water. I filled two glasses. My phone buzzed, and I glanced at the screen to see that I had a message from Sage. I opened it.

Sage: Are you okay? I’m sending you positive energy.

A smile stole across my face. I adored Sage. She was an absolute sweetheart, and I immediately felt better any time she got in touch with me. I tapped out a reply.

Fiona: I’m doing as well as I can. Thanks for checking in.

“Who’s that?” Zeke asked.

“Sage,” I murmured, slipping the phone into my bag. “Just checking up on me. She’s so lovely.”

“She is,” he agreed. “Too good for Kade, but she doesn’t seem to realize it yet.”

I rolled my eyes. He and Kade cared for each other, even if they would never admit it. They liked teasing each other far too much. “They’re perfect together.”

“They’re okay.” His expression softened. “She’s good for him.”

“She really is.” Kade had always been kind, but he’d also kept himself at an emotional distance for the first few years I’d known him. It was only now that he was beginning to thaw and let us see more of his real self.

I glanced at Zeke across the table. I still hadn’t seen past his emotional barriers, but I appreciated how hard he was working to help me even if he’d never let me in.

“Thank you, if I haven’t already said it enough. I appreciate everything you’re doing for me.”

For a moment, his dark eyes seemed to warm, and I thought he might say something real, but then it was as if a shutter slammed closed.

“All part of the service,” he quipped.

Ugh. I rubbed my temple, not wanting to let him see how much it frustrated me when he brushed off the chance for a real connection. For the first time, I wondered why he did it. Was it just the way he was, or had he learned the habit from someone in his past?

I could ask. What would he say if I did? Would he deflect the question like he did everything else, or would I shock him into dropping the act? Because the more time I spent with him, the more I realized that the cavalier attitude I found so jarring wasn’t the real him. It was a role he played.

I opened my mouth, ready to ask about his shady past since he knew all about mine, but then I closed it again. Whatever his past was, it was darker than a couple of accusations of theft, and deep down, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

Coward.

ZEK E

Fiona was oddly subdued as we finished our lunch. After the waiter took our plates away, I suggested we return to the office to touch base with Ronan and Kade, who’d both said they’d be in even though it was the weekend.

“Sure,” was all she said.

We drove to the office, where she insisted on taking the stairs. I usually did anyway, but it amazed me how someone who never wore a heel less than two inches high could be so eager to walk more than necessary. Of course, I took full advantage of the opportunity to stroll behind her and appreciate her pert ass and sleek legs. She worked hard at them. It would be disrespectful of me not to notice. I didn’t say anything though, because I was being a good boy.

As soon as we got there, Willow rushed out of Ronan’s office.

“Are you okay?” She opened her arms wide, and Fiona stepped into her embrace. “Ronan told me a little about what’s going on. Is there anything you need?”

Fiona didn’t seem to know how to respond. For a long moment, she didn’t say anything. But then, perhaps having support wasn’t something she was used to. Her apartment certainly hadn’t given the impression that she had company over much.

“Thank you,” she said eventually. “I’m okay. Obviously the situation isn’t ideal, but the guys are being amazing about helping me.”

“Of course they are.” Willow drew back and scanned Fiona’s face as if to double-check she really was all right. “You’re part of the family.”

Fiona’s eyes grew suspiciously shiny. I was tempted to tease her about it but I didn’t want to ruin the mood.

“Will you tell me more?” Willow asked her. “Ronan wouldn’t go into much detail. ”

“I suppose so.” Fiona sounded flustered, but she allowed Willow to take her hand and draw her into a meeting room.

When they were gone, Ronan beckoned me into his office.

“What’s up?” I asked as I closed the door behind myself.

“Debrief.” Ronan dropped into the chair behind his massive desk. “Give me a rundown on how your interviews went this morning.”

I gave him an overview of the people we’d visited and my impressions of them, then waited to hear his thoughts.

“None of them are obvious suspects,” he said. “Although it sounds as though at least a couple have the potential to turn to something like theft under the right circumstances. Without knowing more about their personal backgrounds, it’s hard to say who might have the contacts necessary to fence a painting like Daisies.” He sighed. “It would have been much easier if the janitor had been a wanted con man or if one of the artists were deep in debt.”

I smirked. “Nothing is ever that easy.”

“True.” He leaned back and gazed at me evenly. “Who do you like for it?”

“Honestly?” I shrugged. “I can’t be sure yet. It’s possible Fiona is right about her ex. Like you said, no one else we’ve spoken to is an obvious candidate.”

“What about the gallery manager herself?” he asked.

“Her record is cleaner than a nun’s conscience.” I paused to consider the idea more fully. “She would have access to the painting and no one would think anything of her being there out of hours. It’s also possible she’s come into contact with black market dealers or fences over the course of her career. But it seems unlikely she’d be involved. She’s the one whose neck is on the line if the gallery owner decides she didn’t do enough to protect the painting.”

“Good point.” Ronan rubbed his chin in thought. “I was able to confirm that the painting was replaced by a forgery.” He hesitated, then added, “Glen Boomer’s key card was used to access the gallery early on Thursday morning. When the police checked, it was in his possession, but he has a rock solid alibi for the time the card was used. He was across town in a spin class with more than twenty witnesses.”

“Huh.” That was an interesting tidbit. Either someone had swiped the card and returned it to him before he noticed it was gone, or they’d cloned it.

“The police checked and it didn’t appear to have been tampered with,” Ronan said, as if reading my mind.

“So most likely, someone took it, used it to steal the painting, and put it back without him seeing,” I said.

“It sounds far-fetched, doesn’t it?” Ronan agreed. “But that’s the theory we have to operate from.”

“All right then.”

“There’s something else.” The strain in his voice drew my attention.

“What?” I asked.

“I hadn’t realized this, but when Fiona was at art school, she specialized in the study of impressionist art and art history. Her final thesis paper was about one of Monet’s lesser-known works.”

I whistled. “Damn.”

In the context, that did sound incriminating. I could understand why the police had immediately thought of her. And shit, this wasn’t something we should have been blindsided by. Fiona should have told us this from the beginning.

“Not a good look,” I said. “Not unless the style she favors is ‘guilty as hell.’”