CHAPTER NINETEEN

Cora

The back door lock took less than a minute to crack, and thanks to Tom’s efforts, the alarm didn’t sound. Cora had free reign of Portia Conway’s townhouse.

She found her way back to the office, and used her trusty tools to break in. The house was as silent as a mausoleum, the only sound the occasional keyboard clicking in her earpiece from her coworker.

Their rule was radio silence unless there was a problem.

The woman’s office smelled like fresh polish, her wooden furniture gleaming. The dark wood a stark contrast to the white curtains and cornflower chair cushions. The floor-to-ceiling bookcases were loaded with more figurines, photo frames, and crystal vases than books.

The drawers on the desk were locked, but easily opened with her pick. She took the opportunity to return the woman’s safe deposit box key to the top drawer, as though it were never moved. Wiped clean of her fingerprints, of course.

Nothing in the desk gave Cora the info she needed. The address to wherever Conway stored all those stolen Holocaust paintings, and Amber Room items. No vault or safe behind any of the wall paintings either.

She checked all around the fireplace mantel for a hidden key, access panel, or something.

Nothing.

She never liked being in a room this long. The less amount of time available to be caught, the better. Even though the society lady was expected to be at her masquerade ball for several more hours, Cora still couldn’t shake the nerves from her stomach.

What if Conway caught wind of what I wanted? What if she moved them already? What if she got rid of all the evidence by now?

Questions swarmed her mind, and her breathing escalated.

“Calm down.” Tom’s voice came through. Probably because he could hear her racing heartbeat through the microphone in her shirt.

Breathe. Next step. Focus.

Conway was a flashy woman, thriving on peacocking her wealth and stature. As black market as these items were, she’d still want to flaunt the artsy side.

Her focus centered on the book-less bookcases.

Cora checked all the joints, above and below all the shelving, under all the figures and crystal vases, careful to put them back in their original places. Nothing.

“Does she have an upstairs office?” Tom asked. He could see her every move through the zipper cam. He was breaking the radio silence rule.

“Hush,” she whispered.

A few sirens sounded in the distance, and her heart rate tripled.

“Not for you,” he answered. “Domestic disturbance a half mile over.”

Thank God for Tom.

Her gaze stopped on a figurine made to look like Gustav Klimt’s Portrait of Adele, complete with gold leaf mosaic.

Cora tilted her head. The original Portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer was one of the most famed stolen artwork by the Nazi’s.

No way would Portia Conway be that callous.

She lifted the statue, revealing a button underneath. A soft click sounded from behind the shelf. The whole unit swung toward her an inch.

Bingo.

She held her breath. And pulled on the frame.

It swung open a few more feet, revealing a tall opening, with a massive vault behind it.

“Bingo.” Tom laughed.

It’d been a long time since she’d cracked a safe that big. However, it was one of the first tricks her father had taught her, after picking door locks, of course. She remembered a few of the manufacturer’s main try-out combinations, the industry standard often used among most of them, but a woman like Portia Conway probably had that number redone the second the vault was installed.

Surely, she wouldn’t be dumb enough to use her birthdate.

Which Cora knew by heart, from all the background research she’d done on her target before even moving to Texas.

She turned the dial and entered the woman’s birth date. The door didn’t budge.

Wait.

“Does this vault have a camera?” she whispered.

“Not that I can see,” Tom replied. “Why would she have a camera on a spot where she’s hidden info on stolen artwork?”

Good point.

She tried one of the manufacturer’s try-out combinations, nothing either.

Cora would have to do this by touch. Which meant she’d be here a lot longer. Unzipping one of her pockets, she pulled out her mini stethoscope. Slowly, she turned the dial and counted the wheels on the mechanism itself, just by hearing the clicks. Sweat dripped down her back, and a slight crick pulled at her lower neck. Beneath her nitrile gloves, her palms grew warmer. Finally, the last number clicked, and the hinges clanked. She pulled open the door.

The lights automatically turned on, and the fluorescent bulbs flickered to life.

Her jaw dropped.

A large room,contained Portia Conway’s personal showroom. Wall to wall full of the stolen artwork. Each piece was strategically placed and professionally lit, dozens of them, including many pieces from the lost Amber Room. A small Picasso, the Poppies and Roses painting by Degas, large gemstones, and more.

Toward the back of the showroom, Cora’s heart dropped. Her Great-Uncle Admon’s oil painting of the stone bridge, Kromlau Brücke.

Heat boiled in her stomach, and rose into her cheeks. Most of the items from the pictures in the safe deposit box stared back at her. Not miles away in a bunker, like she expected.

“That’s a lot more than an address.” Tom’s voice cracked. “We have no way of moving these items out. Not without getting seen.”

“Who hides this level of contraband in their house?”

“Apparently the egotistical Conway.”

“You’ve been recording this whole time, right?” Her soft voice echoed off the walls, like in a church.

“Yep.”

Cora let out a slow breath. They had proof these items were in Conway’s possession now. They had enough to convict her of that alone.

Tom was right. There was no way to carry all of these out.

She checked her watch.

Unless…

“I have an idea.”