Gabe

I inched closer and looked over her shoulder at the paper. “What’s that?”

“It’s supposed to be a sheet with the layout of the room and space to take notes.”

I leaned back and met her confused expression. “That’s not what it is?”

“No. I mean, yes, it is that. The paper itself isn’t strange, it’s what’s being shown.”

“I’m not following.” Art, in general, was a complete enigma to me. I knew very little about the history or value of anything in this room.

“These pieces.” Scarlett looked up and waved her hand around us. “They’re all from the Baroque period.”

“So?”

She lowered her paper. “The Baroque period was a time of cultural reformation in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.”

“Sorry, I’m not following you. Why should that matter?” I glanced around at the art around us, not quite understanding why she was so upset.

Scarlett shook her head and studied the paper. “A lot of the world’s most famous artists came from this period. Velázquez, Caravaggio, Rembrandt, Rubens, Poussin, Vermeer . . .”

I dragged my gaze back to meet hers. “Did you say Rembrandt?”

She sighed and lowered the paper. “Yes. That’s why this is so odd.” She looked around the room and then refocused on me. “The people on this list are all famous artists from that period.” She tightened her grip on the paper, crinkling it along the edges. “Artists whose works are displayed in museums around the world.”

I glanced around us. “I’m not sure I’m following. Are you saying that all of this should be in a museum?”

“I’m not sure. They could be imitations. What I do know is that Bridget is schooled in contemporary art, like me. She prides herself on being a modern woman of the world. This is neither her specialization nor her area of expertise.” She glanced at me. “It doesn’t fit her personality.”

I shrugged. “Perhaps you don’t know her as well as you thought.”

“No.” She shook her head. “There’s something wrong about all of this, but I can’t put my finger on it.” She leaned in close and pointed to a group of people at the other end of the room.

“See those men over there?”

I followed her gaze. “Yeah.”

“I’ve never seen them before.”

I glanced at her. “Makes sense. You deal in contemporary art, they like the bar area.”

“Baroque era . . . period. And no, I mean, this is supposed to be a private showing for people attending Mystique.”

“Mystique is a large art show.”

“Not that large.” She studied the group for a moment before continuing. “If they were large buyers, I’d at least recognize them.” She shook her head. “I’m willing to bet that none of these people are interested in the art show going on down the street. Bridget called them in specifically for this showing.”

Interesting. It was possible that Scarlett was on to something. Bridget and Henri were close friends. It was possible that his death had something to do with this show. According to Sal, his death also had the hallmarks of the Escort Killer. I wondered if Scarlett might have stumbled on a connection between the killer and the art world. This was all guesswork of course, but perhaps if I dug around, I might find the proof I needed to make the connection.

Shoving my hands in my pockets, I rocked on my heels and studied the group along with Scarlett. “What do you suggest we do about it?”

“I’m going to talk to them. Find out what they’re really about.”

“Good idea. Let’s go.” I took a step forward, but she put a hand on my chest, stopping me. “What is it?” I asked.

“I need to do this alone.”

I furrowed my brow in thought. “I’m supposed to protect you.”

“Then you can do it from over there.” She pointed at the buffet table. “Men are more likely to give information when they’re talking to a woman alone.”

“Something else Bridget taught you?”

“Yes.” She turned back to the group. “And I have to admit, she’s right. I always got more information about a potential buyer when I visited them on my own, rather than with Henri.”

I started to protest, but then brushed against a small square of paper in my pocket. It was the note from the coffee shop that Sal had wanted me to read. I had completely forgotten about it.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll be by the food. Don’t be too long.”

I watched her walk off in the direction of the men, my gaze fixing on the gentle sway of her hips. That woman was going to be the death of me, I was sure of it. Grimacing, I retreated to the shadows by the buffet table and pulled the note from my pocket.

The index card was heavy, with Sal’s familiar no-nonsense script. Jake knows and wants to chat.

I frowned and stuffed the card in my pocket. As much as I didn’t want to talk to Jake, I knew that a conversation was long past due. The meeting wouldn’t be easy. Jake would most likely try to get me kicked off the case. I was sure that Sal had already told him that I was undercover and wanted to stay that way, but to him, it wouldn’t matter. He’d blow months of work if it made him look good in the department. In his mind, this was his case, and I was encroaching on his territory, not the other way around. If I somehow managed to nab this bad guy and he didn’t, he’d take it personally. Last year, his partner made a major breakthrough in a case they had been working on. Jake managed to not only steal the credit, but to get the poor guy reassigned to a desk job for insubordination. He was an ass, but he closed cases, so the precinct turned a blind eye most of the time. Regardless, everyone knew that he wasn’t the type of guy you wanted to piss off.

So I really needed to meet with Jake soon or risk him screwing up my image behind my back.

I glanced over at the buffet table and wondered if the fruit punch had any hard liquor in it. I really needed a drink.

“Come here often?”

Startled, I straightened away from the wall and turned to see my boss standing a few inches away from me.

“Mr. Cox.” I straightened my suit jacket. “You’re here.”

“Yes, Gabe, I am. And call me Edgar.”

“What are you doing here?”

He smirked. “I live here, remember?”

“Ah.” I tapped my temple and smiled. “Rocco.”

“Yes, Rocco.” Edgar sighed and picked up a piece of dried fruit. “Although he has been far too busy these past few weeks to pay any attention to me.”

“Is that why you got into art? For Rocco?”

He nodded. “In addition to collecting art, Rocco is also an interior designer. Last year I had hired him to help redecorate my office. Thanks to him, my office is the envy of my peers. He really has a sharp eye.”

“It seems as if he’s not the only one.” I nodded over to Bridget, who was waving and crossing the room toward us. She was intercepted by an old fellow, and it was hard not to laugh at her obvious frustration at being diverted.

Edgar examined the fruit in his hand. “Well, that explains what I’m doing here. The question is, what are you doing here?”

“I’m working.” When he raised his brows, I nodded in Scarlett’s direction.

“Ah,” he said. “I see. How’s that going for you?”

“Great.” I adjusted my jacket and avoided his gaze. “Scarlett’s great.”

“I bet.”

I nodded to his hands. “I wouldn’t eat that if I were you.”

He glanced up at me. “No?”

I shook my head. “They’re stale.”

He frowned and flicked it into the garbage can nearby. “I’ll make a note of it.” He grabbed a glass of punch and took a sip. “This, however, is not bad.”

“Really?”

“Although it could use some vodka.”

I snorted and shoved my hands in my pockets. “I’m sure.”

He lowered his glass and studied me a moment. “Make sure you keep her happy and occupied. She’s paying a fortune for your time.”

“I will.” I watched Scarlett talk to the group of men and tried to push back the jealousy that rippled through me. I had no claims on her. She was a free woman and could do what she wanted. Still, it unnerved me to see her flirting with the guys in the corner.

“A word of advice,” Edgar said.

I dragged my gaze away from Scarlett and looked at him. “Yeah?”

“Don’t become too attached. Guys like us are replaceable to women like her.”

Before I could respond, Bridget materialized in front of us. “Edgar! I’m so glad you’re here.” She kissed both his cheeks. “Where’s Rocco?”

“Indisposed. But he will be along shortly,” he said. “How is the party going?”

“Dreadful, my dear, dreadful. All of these men are like old brooms, all bristly and dusty. I could really use some more lively . . . conversation.” She slapped his arm. “I distinctly remember telling you to come in costume.”

Mr. Cox glanced at me. “Didn’t have one, I’m afraid.”

“You should have called me, darling. I would have found something for you.” She shook her head. “Well, it’s too late now. Come.” She threaded her arm through his. “There’s someone you simply must meet.”

Mr. Cox leaned over and winked at me. “Duty calls.”

I took his glass and raised it.

He tapped the side of his nose. “Don’t forget what I said.”

“I won’t.” I took a sip of the punch. He was right. It wasn’t half bad.

I took another sip and lowered my arm in time to see Scarlett rushing toward me.

“Gabe, I’ve got it,” she said once she was within earshot

“Got what? Did the men tell you something?” I handed her a punch glass. Instead of drinking, she hooked her arm through my elbow and steered me away from the long lines waiting to glimpse the artwork on display.

She shook her head. “Nothing noteworthy. I guess that they are frequent buyers, just not in modern art. Which explains why I don’t know them. No, there’s something else.”

“What?”

After a quick glance around, she pulled me deeper into the shadows. “The paintings—something’s not right about them.”

I angled our bodies so I could get a good view of the artwork. I quickly scanned the crowd. Some were chatting, some were examining specific pieces, and yet others were reading their glossy brochures. Even Bridget looked at ease and in her element, which was a little surprising considering everything she had been through the night before. Surprising, but not uncommon. People often threw themselves into their work when dealing with a mess in their personal life. It helped them cope.

“What do you mean?” I asked as I refocused on Scarlett.

“When I first saw the list, I thought that perhaps Bridget was selling replicas of art from famous artists. A good replica can catch quite a profit with the right buyer. But now, after looking at some of them . . .”

“What?” I asked when she didn’t continue.

“Now, I’m not so sure they’re fake.” She waited until a chatting couple walked past us. “I think these might be stolen paintings.”

I raised my brows. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was.” She glanced at the crowd around us. “I mean, I can’t be sure. This isn’t my area of expertise, but . . .” She pressed her lips together as she focused on something over my shoulder. Turning, I could see that she was watching Bridget talk with some of her guests.

Taking her hand, I placed it in the crux of my arm. “Come on, let’s have a better look.”

“Are you sure?” she asked as we walked. “I mean, what if they are stolen? I can’t imagine Bridget wouldn’t know about it. I don’t want to draw too much attention.”

“We won’t draw attention. She’s expecting us to look at the paintings and bid on them.”

“Yes, but—” Something clicked on the sound system, and a reverberation pierced the air. I stopped as everyone around us covered their ears. When the noise finally subsided, Bridget was standing on top of a small platform at the far end of the room with a microphone in her hand.

She looked around the room, her fake smile shining down on everyone around her. “The previewing session is now over. Thank you so much for coming today. As you know, none of this could be possible without your support. In addition to the items we have on display, there will be a surprise auction item at the end of the show. So please, remember to bring your pocketbooks with you.”

There were a few chuckles in the audience, and Scarlett leaned in close and lowered her voice. “I wonder what she’s up to.”

“I don’t know,” I whispered back. “But I’m determined to find out.”

“That will be all,” Bridget said as she motioned to a man behind us. “Albert will show you out and safely to your transportation. Thank you again for coming to view the artwork, and remember that the Simpson Gallery is available for all of your cultural needs.”

The crowd turned and headed in our direction. Steeling my jaw, I dragged Scarlett to the side and tried to press against the tide of people so we could have a better look at the paintings.

“I’m sorry,” a security guard said. “The exit is that way.”

“We just want to take a second look at one of the paintings—”

The guard took my arm and turned me toward the door. “I’m sorry, sir, the viewing time is over.”

I started to protest, but Scarlett jabbed me in the side. I flashed her an irritated look.

“If you make a scene, we won’t be allowed to come back.”

She was right, of course, so we followed the crowd and exited the mansion. Once in the parking lot, I took Scarlett’s hand and led her back to the car.

“I guess we’ll have to wait until the auction at the end of the week,” she said.

I glanced back at the mansion, where several guards were showing the patrons to their cars. “No.”

“No?”

I scanned the front of the mansion, then glanced at her. “We’re going to sneak back in and have a look.”