Chapter 26
Protocol dictated that Ethan should notify Scotland Yard that one of its own was in peril. He did not do that. Despite Reginald’s taunt, he suspected the man would not harm Livi. And he preferred to use his own team in a situation like this. Police would only spook him. It was late. No amount of secrecy would be gained with patrol car lights flashing in the windows of the entire neighborhood.
He placed the communications bud in his ear and tapped it on. When Chester came on, he explained the situation.
“I’m finally updated and can tap into the tracker you placed on the subject earlier,” Chester said. “Give me a moment.”
The man was a no-nonsense computer hacker. A bit droll. But he had a surprising social life, as Ethan discovered on the days he stopped into headquarters and found Chester bent over his work station with a hangover. But he was also—as The Commandeer had stated when she’d introduced them—the smartest man on the planet. For now.
Chester had winced at the qualifying follow-up, but had shaken Ethan’s hand eagerly and told him if he ever needed him out in the field he’d be right in his head.
Exactly where he preferred to keep him. Out of his way and in front of the computer.
Grabbing his car keys, Ethan dashed out of his flat and took the lift down. By the time he’d reached the carport, Chester had a location.
“He’s in Tower Hamlets,” Chester said in Ethan’s ear. “Shadwell.”
Ethan was startled. Shadwell was where he’d grown up, close to the river. Reginald had said something about living near Ethan’s childhood home. Was he still in the same house?
Twenty minutes later, he pulled into the block Chester’s directions had led him. To say he was stunned would be putting it mildly. Parker had indeed lived only three blocks away from Ethan’s childhood home, in a modest green stucco box.
After his wife had gone to bed early after a long day at the textiles factory, had Christopher Maxwell strolled the neighborhood in seek of a lover? His father had walked often. Always calling that he was going out for a pint, and then returning hours later while Ethan had sat before the telly watching a cops-and-robbers show or, more likely, Bob Ross.
“Not thinking about it,” Ethan muttered as he got out of the car and strode down the sidewalk.
“Not thinking about what?” Chester asked.
“I’m approaching the suspect’s home, so I’ll be quiet for a bit.”
Ethan clenched his fists and marched up to the house that Chester had said flashed red on his screen. It was a two-story block structure with a high roof.. No windows about the base of the house, so likely no basement. Neither the back door nor the windows had bars or boarding. Just an unassuming house in the middle of a working-class neighborhood.
He knocked, then mused at how odd it was to knock on the door of a kidnapper and actually presume an answer. Of course Reginald would expect him. If he’d been following Ethan for some time, he had to know he would use all his resources to track him down. Obviously Parker wanted him in his domain so he could control the situation.
Ethan stepped back from the door and kicked the lock. It gave easily, slamming inside against the wall. He walked through, scanning the dark living room. Pristine plaid furniture, a rug placed smartly squared with the floor boards, and newspapers folded neatly on the table. The empty teacup on the arm of the sofa felt wrong. Untidy.
He glanced around the ceiling, but didn’t see any security cameras. From the second story, a door creaked. Ethan leaned forward over the bottom step to get a better view of the top of the stairs. A beam of light played across the ceiling. He rushed up, dashing down the hall. Turning a tight corner, he spied the open door that emitted the light beam. With no concern for noise—the man had to know he’d entered the house—he walked down the hallway, arms flexed and ready for whatever he was going to face. Was Parker armed? Or threatening Livi?
He stood in the doorway, taking in the dusty scents mingled with… oil paint and linseed varnish. Stepping inside the well-lit attic room, Ethan spied an easel with a half-completed canvas beside the window, and behind that two stacked rows of paintings resting against the bare wood slat wall. A stand, palette, and water and brushes stood beside the easel. It smelled like an artist’s studio. An artist who utilized cheap shortcuts.
Whirling around to the opposite side of the room, he gasped. Livi sat slumped on a metal chair, staring at him. She wasn’t gagged, but she didn’t speak when their eyes met. Didn’t make a move to run to him. He couldn’t see any ties at her ankles. Her hands rested on her lap, unbound.
Sensing a presence just over his right shoulder, Ethan swung around. Reginald was unarmed. Ethan lunged at him, grabbing his shoulders.
“Ethan, no!” Livi screamed.
Ethan froze.
“Listen to her,” Reginald said. “She’s the smarter of you two.”
“You have no right dragging her into this. If you wanted to deal with me, you could have done this differently.”
“But not so effectively.” Reginald shrugged out of Ethan’s grip and stepped back. He nodded toward Livi. “Explain the circumstances to him, ma’am.”
Livi lifted her head slowly and awkwardly. She looked tired and tattered, but not injured that Ethan could see. She wore only one shoe.
Oh, Livi.
“I’m sitting on an explosive device,” she said. “The same type that was used in the vandalisms. But ten times more powerful. If I move, it’ll go off.”
Ethan clenched his fist and swung toward Reginald’s face.
“Stop!” Livi yelled. He paused, his knuckles inches from the bastard’s insipid grin.
“He’s wearing the detonator on his belt,” Livi said urgently. “It’s tuned to go off at an intense jolt, or manually.”
An intense jolt? Like receiving a punch to the face or gut? Damn it!
Ethan dropped his fist and backed away. Either that, or lay him flat and risk Livi’s life. A decidedly ingenious approach to keep him at rein.
“It’s remarkable,” he said testily, “how a series of art vandalisms has involved the bomb squad.” He prayed Chester would get that hint and alert the team. He spun on Reginald. “Why have you destroyed what you should be flaunting?”
“It wasn’t my best work. You pointed that out.”
“But you knew it was Christopher Maxwell’s work beneath your pitiful copies?”
“Of course. What better way to feel close to the father who always shunned me?”
“Right before you destroyed him, eh?”
Reginald beamed. He truly was mad.
Ethan considered his options. He was too angry to rationalize or bargain with the man. Yet, from the looks of things, he’d been lured here with a very specific end game in mind. But he didn’t know where the secret studio was. He should have thought ahead, found a place, and had the ECU set it up as a painter’s studio. Something he could have dangled before Parker.
But he hadn’t expected Parker to kidnap Livi. He would have to play this with the only card he had left: the truth.
“I wasn’t aware of any secret studio my father may have owned,” he confessed.
“That’s a lie.”
“It’s not.” Ethan splayed his palms. “My father kept many secrets. Not to mention an entire family secret.”
“He told me the same,” Livi said. “He really doesn’t know.”
“You mean to tell me Christopher kept something from you that he confided to me?” Parker’s eyes twinkled.
“Obviously he didn’t confide much if you don’t know where it is.” Ethan sneered, then inwardly kicked himself. Now was no time to annoy a man with a detonator. “And if he did have a secret stash or studio somewhere, it can’t still exist. He’s dead.”
“Did he leave it to you in his will?”
“No. I got the house up the street, which was sold. And with that meager profit, his debts were paid. I ended up with enough for food for about a year.”
“So what makes you think it’s not still out there?” Reginald asked. “Somewhere?”
“What do you believe is in this studio, eh?”
“Paintings. Forgeries. Items I can use to gain trust within a group that has expressed an interest in my work.”
“I see.” And he did see now. “A group?”
Ethan suspected the group trafficked in forgeries, or even stolen authentic artworks. Could it be the very same one he’d been tracking over the past year? If Reginald had passed himself off as a legitimate forgery artist, they’d want what he could sell or give to them.
“Why not sell them your own work?” Ethan pointed to the unfinished painting over his shoulder—another Rossetti—but eyed Reginald carefully.
The man thrust back his shoulders and lifted his chin. “I’m not ready for that. Still need more practice. Study. I’ve got the base down, and I’m very good with fabrics and draping, but her expression… I can never get the mouth right.”
Because he was a hack. A fool. A talentless idiot.
Who held Livi’s life in his hands.
Ethan peered over Reginald. His slacks hung smoothly along his thighs, indicating empty pockets. His belt was thin black leather with no discernable buckle design. Just a plain strap of leather and the cheap brass fixings that secured it in the belt holes. He could lunge for the man, but he risked Parker detonating the charge. Where on his belt? Until he knew exactly where it was, he had to work with him. Perhaps even tease out details. Yes, he must give Chester as much ammunition to work with as possible.
He glanced at Livi. Her eyes met his, but her expression remained solemn.
He turned and approached the painting. It was a poor beginning to Rossetti’s Lady Lilith. Rossetti had begun the piece using his mistress, Fanny Cornforth, as the model. Years later, the artist had altered the work to show the face of Alexa Wilding, which might be the reason for Parker’s difficulties. It appeared Reginald had used oils, but none that were specially mixed. Common craft store tubes of oil paint sat on the table.
Sneering, he picked up a tube and turned it to Reginald.
“I’ve never learned to mix paints like the masters,” Reginald said. “If Christopher would have taken the time—”
Ethan tossed the tube back onto the table, effectively stopping what could become a rant about his father not paying enough attention to a man who would kidnap and blackmail people. And threaten their lives.
He looked at Livi, meeting her gaze. She wasn’t teary-eyed, nor did she plead with her eyes. She was surprisingly cool, which gave further evidence to her professionalism, even in the literal face of death.
“Are you all right?” he asked her. “He didn’t harm you?”
She nodded.
“I am always a gentleman,” Reginald said. “Didn’t use much ketamine to drug her and get her here. It leaves such a nasty headache. I tested it myself before using it.” He beamed.
“You’ve kidnapped a constable of Scotland Yard,” Ethan pointed out. “And you’ve threatened her with death. I don’t believe the ‘gentleman’ defense is going to help you much.”
“You don’t have the authority to arrest me.” Reginald walked across the room into a beam of sunlight. Ethan stood near the canvas, and Livi sat twenty feet away, on the other side of Reginald. “And you didn’t call this in to Scotland Yard. That’s not your style.”
Ethan thrust back a shoulder, looking down his nose at the man. “How do you know my style?”
“I have been observant. And… Father would tell me things. You don’t trust women, and you are independent.”
Ethan narrowed his gaze on him. He had a hard time believing his father would detail his life to Reginald. On the other hand, he’d had a hard time believing Christopher Maxwell had an entirely other family.
But Christopher knew nothing about Ethan’s current work. Which still left a lot of questions regarding how Reginald had obtained his knowledge. Or if he were, in fact, merely bluffing.
“We would chat when I visited the place in Moorgate,” Reginald said. He shrugged. “Sometimes he’d let me watch him work.”
The place in Moorgate was the tiny flat Ethan had rented for Christopher after he insisted his father move closer to the city, where he could keep an eye on the museums and traffic flow. Those factors were key when planning a switch. Ethan had also been concerned his father was ailing. Only six months following the move, they’d learned about the lung cancer.
Christopher had invited Reginald to the new place? How had Ethan not known?
“Oh.” Reginald paced toward the window, then turned to look over his shoulder, catching a dramatic beam of sun across his face. “That’s right. You weren’t aware Christopher and I got on during the days before his death. And then you went to prison and abandoned him. I was his only confidant during his darkest hours. So you see? Perhaps you were not as tight with Father as you believe.”
Fists forming, Ethan caught Livi’s eye. She held a firm chin and intense gaze. It permeated his clothing, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him. Stand tall, she seemed to say... It wasn’t worth the bloodied fists. Or setting off a bomb.
“Christopher spent two weeks by my mother’s side when she was dying from breast cancer. He held her hand as she took her last breath.” Reginald shrugged. “That’s gotta hurt. He loved my mother more than yours.”
He was baiting him. Ethan would not allow it. Nor did he need Chester to hear the sordid details of a past that should matter little to him. Ethan shrugged. “The past,” he said indifferently.
“Indeed.”
“That’s not what we’re here to discuss.”
“Of course, a discussion is not a requirement. You’ve shown me you’ve no interest in any sort of a relationship. I’ll have to accept that. And if you’ve no knowledge of the studio, then the very least you can do before tossing me aside and trampling me is finish the painting.”
“Is that so? So I owe you that, do I? If anyone owes you anything, it’s my father. But he’s no longer here.”
“So you’ll stand in his charge.”
Ethan smirked and turned again toward the unfinished work. “You want me to finish that mess, and then…you’ll show it to your group?”
“Exactly. I know Rossetti is one of your favorites. Shouldn’t take long, since I’ve started the base for you.”
“Shouldn’t take long?” Ethan chuckled. “I spend weeks on my creations. I suspect Miss Lawson will, at the very least, need a bathroom break within that time period. It’s well into the wee hours of the morning!”
“You’ll finish it before the sun rises,” Reginald said. “Or she dies.”