Page 99 of Enduring Caine
“You don’t believe that.” He came so close I could smell his cologne, bringing with it all the memories of when we were together. Confessing our love, making plans for when he moved to the States, dreaming about shared careers tracking down criminals. “You believe in law and order, Sam.”
“I believe in doing in the right thing.”
He raised the tube. “Then put on something you can slip this under—it’s too obvious in my waistband—and help me do the right thing.”
I looked into his eyes, the light gray invisible in the shadows. This was the sort of thing I was always doing to Antonio. I’d get a harebrained scheme in my head about solving an art crime and he’d counter with all the reasons we should report it to the authorities and go about our lives. Now Vin was asking me to get involved in his scheme, and I was the one resisting, even though hewasthe authorities. “I don’t know when Antonio will be back.”
He smiled and his shoulders relaxed, like he recognized my resistance was over. “I was just talking to him. He’s heading to the kitchen with Cristian and Leonardo for coffee. I think they’ll be there a while.”
“With Leonardo?” I hurried past Vin to my suitcase and pulled out a pair of lounge pants. The tube was only two inches in diameter and two feet long, which could easily be concealed against my thigh. I ripped a hole in the deep pocket to feed the cylinder through.
“It sounds as though they used to be friends.”
“How long will this take?” I went into the bathroom to get changed and closed the door over, so we could still talk.
“Gallery, cave, and done in under thirty minutes.” He handed the tube in through the open door when I reached for it. It was a lot heavier than I’d expected and something inside clanked when I moved it too fast.
“He’ll be at least that long downstairs, won’t he?”Please. I didn’t want him coming up here to find me gone. The doubts in his head would consume him.
Vin’s voice softened. “He will. And my contact in the boat will be there in fifteen, so we need to hurry.”
Elliot Skinner and I had discussed a plan to get me working as a consultant with the FBI Art Crime Team. We were building a portfolio of cases, proving I didn’t have to be stationed in a field office. So I could work from anywhere I wanted to. Surely securing this painting would go a long way toward that goal. It would prove I could do important things.
Then I’d be able to settle down in Brenton with Antonio and my family around me. And if Antonio and I weren’t really meant to be together, I could move. Maybe back to Boston to help with the Gardner Museum case again. Maybe to Texas or Florida with warmer winters than the Midwest.
Or maybe even back to London for the occasional case the FBI coordinated with Scotland Yard.
But I wanted it to work with Antonio. I wanted to live in Brenton with my family and new friends, whether I stayed on with Foster Mutual Insurance as an adjuster or switched to Special Investigations like they offered me last week.
No matter what it was, I could still be with Antonio.
I blinked at myself in the mirror, just as haggard as earlier, but with a different light shining from inside. I could do this.
And I could have everything I wanted.
Vin pulled a screwdriver and a small pry bar out of the tube I’d carried to the gallery. We’d only seen one guard on our way down, but Vin and I smiled and said he was escorting me to the kitchen for a late-night snack. The man waved us on and I got us into the gallery.
I held the tube while he worked on opening the crate as quickly as he could. It was three feet tall and wide, two deep, made of pale wood, and it would open from the top as soon as the screws were out. “A drill would have been easier.”
He put his weight into unscrewing the lid, shoulders bouncing slightly. “I’ll tell them that the next time I have to do something like this.”
“Or send two screwdrivers. I feel useless.”
“Listen at the door. We shouldn’t have any company, but it’s best to be certain.”
I nodded and crossed to the gallery door, pressing my ear against it.
“So, you never told me—why didn’t you join the FBI?” He grunted as he started on the third screw. “I’m sure you didn’t fail any of the application process.”
“Long story. Not interested in talking about it.”
“Do you still follow the news on frauds and robberies?” He chuckled, moving at a remarkable pace. He was on the fourth already. “I remember you talking so much through our art crime classes, like you knew half of what any of the instructors were going to say.”
“Sometimes.” More like all the time. That’s how I’d identified the stolen painting at the auction in August. “I have other hobbies now.”
Before moving to the fifth screw, he pointed atThe Magdalen. “That’s the one you said was stolen?”
“Yeah. Giovanni said it came from a dealer in Brazil and started talking about bringing pieces home to Italy.” I brought the pry bar over when he was on the last screw and loosened the tight-fitting lid. Once he was done, we lifted it off, revealing a framed painting stored in cellophane wrap, cushioned with blocks of wood and pink Styrofoam.