The Thief

Vitoria whipped her head up. “I beg your pardon. He is a dealer in art. That is his business.”

“I don’t mean to offend you.” The man put his hand up. “But I’m not sure you’re aware of everything he did here.”

Vitoria went to get up, but her thigh muscles spasmed in an uncoordinated way. As she lurched to one side, de la Cruz ran over and caught her arm.

“My brothers were good men.” Or at least Ricardo was. Eduardo had always been a bit of a flake. “I won’t have their memories darkened with conjecture.”

“You’re speaking about them in the past tense again.”

She pushed herself away from the detective and stumbled as she went over to the windows. There was nothing to look out at particularly, no vista. Just the row of 1920s-era storefronts across the four lanes of Market Street.

“Listen, Ms. Benloise, I didn’t mean to upset you.” There was a pause. “I just think it’s time you know more, if only in case they get in touch with you. What you don’t want is to get sucked into this.”

“I know nothing of any other kind of business.” She pivoted back around and straightened her Escada jacket. “Is there anything else I may help you with?”

“Actually, yes. Since it appears as though you’ve taken over operations here on behalf of your brothers, I’d like your permission to view any and all security camera footage from the premises.”

Vitoria blinked. And kept the curse in her native tongue to herself.

This was the mistake she had made.

She hadn’t thought about any cameras. How in the hell could she not have thought about searching the security feeds? And what could be on them?

In rapid succession, her brain ran through the various angles. If she said no, they might force her to give them access by some kind of court order—although how they would get permission for that, she wasn’t sure, as Margot had worked here, but had not been murdered on the premises. More to the point, if de la Cruz was indeed aware of her brothers’ endeavors in the drug trade, the police might well use whatever was on the feeds as a way to…

To what? she wondered. Ricardo was dead. Eduardo had to be as well. And she had no official knowledge of the goings-on. Her only ties thus far were with the frustrated suppliers back in South America, and there was no way they would give her up: The American authorities couldn’t reach that far, for one thing, and anything that incriminated her would incriminate the suppliers.

But if she granted de la Cruz access, maybe he could do the work for her. She had no idea how to run computers or isolate footage—she wasn’t even sure where the feeds were kept. But both her brothers had been notoriously secretive. There wouldn’t be cameras in places there shouldn’t be.

Like up here, she thought as she glanced around the ceiling and saw nothing even remotely camera-like.

And given that Eduardo tracked the illegal money, there would be absolutely nothing in his office, either.

How was she going to explain her meeting Streeter after hours, though? Except…no, there was nothing illegal about her seeking out an associate of her brothers’ once she got to the States. It was not illegal to meet a man at the gallery—although if they could prove Streeter was into the drug side…

Then Streeter might implicate her.

Vitoria straightened her spine. “I would love you to look at the footage. I don’t know where it is, though?”

“Is there a security room here?”

“I don’t know.” She nodded toward the door they had come through. “Let’s go find out.”

As she walked over to the exit, de la Cruz followed her—and he stopped her before she opened things.

“I am very sorry about all of this. I know this has to be hard on you.”

She made sure to picture Ricardo in that cellar of death. And as the sadness rolled off of her, she said in a voice that cracked, “I am, too. My brothers were very traditional, and that could get stifling for a sister. But they loved me very much, and the feeling was mutual. I really…at the end of the day, I just want to know what happened.”

De la Cruz nodded. “I lost someone once. My old partner. One of the best men I ever knew, although he had a lot of demons. Big demons.” Those deep brown eyes grew unfocused, as if the detective were reliving scenes from his own life. “One day, he just disappeared, and no matter where I’ve looked, who I’ve talked to…I’ve never gotten an answer and it eats me alive still.”

“So you know how I feel.”

“I know exactly how you feel. And I don’t care whether or not your brothers were drug dealers. If they were murdered, if that’s the reason they’re not around, I will find out who did it and I will make sure justice is served. Do you understand? And if they were involved at the level of deals we think they were? Then they were very exposed, and it doesn’t look good for bringing them back alive. The kind of people making those sort of moves put a very low value on human life, and if they’re threatened in any real or imagined way, things get ugly quick.”

Vitoria put her hand to her mouth and closed her eyes.

The image of her brother did not have to be summoned this time. It came forward like a specter, haunting her.

“I hate the idea they would be hurt in any way,” she said roughly. “Especially Ricardo. I owe him so much.”

“I’m not going to let you down.”

“Thank you.” She opened her eyes. “Does this mean Margot could have been…I mean, if there was anything bad going on—which I cannot believe my brothers would be a part of—could Margot have been in it with them?”

“We’re not ruling anything out right now.”

She put her hand on his forearm. “Will you please tell me if you find out anything?”

“I will, ma’am.” He nodded grimly. “You have my word.”

THIRTY-SEVEN

As the sun began to lower over Caldwell and early rush-hour traffic flooded the downtown streets and highway ramps, Jo Early sat at her desk at the Caldwell Courier Journal with her aching head cradled between her thumbs and forefingers.

Rather like you might ever so carefully keep a bomb with an impact detonator cushioned from any possible impact.

She had been getting headaches over the last few weeks, and they were growing more intense. This one, in fact, was presenting her with a new level of agony, the light-sensitivity, pressure at the base of her neck, and roiling nausea a triple threat she could totally do without.

Closing her eyes, she came to a conclusion: As much as she prided herself on being a logical person, it was very clear she had a tumor.

Or, as Arnold Schwarzenegger called it in Kindergarten Cop, a toomah.

Kidding aside, maybe it was an eyestrain thing. Ever since she’d taken this job as online content editor for the CCJ, she’d been spending long periods of time in front of a computer screen. Back when she’d been a receptionist for that real estate office, she’d done scheduling and stuff on them, but this new position was exclusively computer work—

“Do you need some Motrin?”

As a familiar male voice pierced into her ear as if it were an ice pick, she almost told the man who had gotten her this job to pipe down there, Pavarotti. But she had a feeling it was her, not him.

Opening her eyes, she stared up at Bill Elliot’s earnest, hipster face. “I swear, I cannot shake this migraine.”

“Do you need to get your eye prescription checked?”

“I don’t have glasses.”

“Maybe you need them?”

Yup, Bill was the reason she had gotten this job, and he and his wife, Lydia, had opened themselves and their home up to Jo even though they were only in their mid-thirties. Then again, marriage and a mortgage were far greater separators between age groups than a couple of calendar years here or there.

It was like the difference between an eleven-year-old who hadn’t yet gone through puberty and someone who was fourteen and going on their first date.

A lifetime.

“I’ll make an appointment.” She sat back and rolled her shoulders. “You leaving for the day?”

“Almost. Do you want to go check out that warehouse with me tonight or no?”