Stolen Fury Page 12

  With the bag in one hand, she headed back out into the masses. She had one last stop before catching a bus north again. Turning south on Michigan Avenue, she wove between hurried shoppers and lingering sightseers and crossed at Huron Street. The Landau Gallery sat halfway down the block, towering columns advertising the entrance to the stately building.

  Lisa pushed the glass doors open and stepped inside. The busy rush of city life faded into the background. Inside she was enveloped by art and antiquities from around the world in a two-story main room with marble floors and a wall of windows. Her back tingled with the familiar feeling of history.

  The towering sculpture of a bull’s head made from polished black limestone captured her attention. Mesmerized by the intricate artwork, she crossed and stared at the artifact—truly, a wonder of ancient man—and could barely imagine unearthing something so incredible. She’d found her fair share of astonishing relics over the years, but never something as awe inspiring as this. She lifted her hand to run fingers over the smooth surface.

  “Please don’t touch that.”

  Startled, Lisa turned toward the female voice. A slim woman wearing a knee-length black skirt and matching jacket walked toward her from across the room. Her blond hair was pulled back into a tight knot. Wire-rimmed glasses sat perched on her straight, aristocratic nose. Her badge identified her as Christy Swanson, the gallery’s manager.

  Lisa hid her smile, thinking she must have tourist written all over her. She turned back to the bull’s head. “It’s a beautiful piece.”

  “Yes. It is.” The woman stopped next to her. “This bull once guarded the entrance to the Hundred-Column Hall of ancient Persepolis. If you’re not familiar with—”

  Lisa nodded. Gallery managers were all the same, trying to make a sale, trying to sound smarter than they really were. “Which means it predates the fall of Persepolis in 331 B.C., when Alexander destroyed the great city. But actually, I’m looking for something a little different.”

  The blonde’s eyes lit up at the idea of knowledgeable buyer. “Of course, Ms.…”

  “Maxwell.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed, and she nodded with a thin, tight smile and looked back at the bull. “What can I help you with?”

  Lisa stepped toward a marble bust of Medusa on a nearby pedestal. “You wouldn’t happen to have more pieces like this, would you?” She ran her hand over the cool marble, looked up with raised brow and watched as the manager’s eyes took on an excited gleam.

  Dollar signs reflected in the woman’s pupils. “Why don’t you follow me into the office where I can show you a listing of what we have on-site and in storage. If we don’t have what you’re looking for, we have ways of tracking them down.” She was as giddy as a conservative suit could get.

  Ms. Swanson gestured across the vast gallery floor to a woman dusting pieces on the other side of the room. “Marta, you have the floor.”

  The brunette nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Lisa followed the rigid Ms. Swanson up a curved staircase to the second-floor suite of offices. Double doors at the end of the hall were marked LANDAU. “Does Mr. Landau oversee acquisitions for the gallery?”

  Ms. Swanson ushered Lisa into an office with a view of the Mile and the hustle and bustle below. She gestured to a plush chair across from her desk. “Yes. He does.” Irritation flashed in the woman’s eyes before fading behind a well-kept shield.

  “Any chance he’s here today? Maybe I could pick his brain about the piece I’m looking for.”

  “I’m sorry. Mr. Landau’s unavailable at this time.”

  Just what did that mean? “Perhaps I could schedule an appointment with him?”

  Ms. Swanson straightened. “I’m afraid Mr. Landau doesn’t work with clients. He deals only in acquisitions.” She handed a color-print catalog across the desk, dismissing the question. “These are the Greek pieces we have available at this time.”

  Not conservative. Frigid. Lisa sat and scanned the contents of the desk as scrupulously as she could. There had to be something that mentioned how she could find the illustrious Landau.

  The intercom buzzed as Lisa was flipping to the second page of the catalog.

  “Excuse me.” Ms. Swanson pushed a button on the phone. “Yes?”

  “Paul Renault is waiting, Ms. Swanson,” a voice echoed through the speaker.

  “Thank you.” She turned the speaker off and looked toward Lisa. “I’ll be just a moment. Please excuse me.”

  “Of course. Take your time.” Lisa lifted the book in her hands. “I’ll just browse.”

  The woman nodded and disappeared into the outer office.

  Casting a quick look over her shoulder, Lisa waited until the ice queen was out of view, then moved to the desk. She shuffled papers, searching for anything of interest. Her fingers paused when she reached an engraved invitation to a gala for the unveiling of a new collection.

  A reception hosted by none other than Alan Landau.

  So he was around. Just invisible. And judging from his manager’s chilly response when Lisa had asked about him, untouchable by the general public.

  Invitation only. Tonight.

  Lisa chewed on her bottom lip. Maybe not totally untouchable. She still had connections in Chicago.

  She moved back to her seat when she heard voices growing louder from the reception area. When Christy the snow woman returned, Lisa smiled and stood. “Thank you so much for your time. I’m afraid I’m not finding what I’m looking for.”

  “Perhaps you can give me a description and I will see what we can do.”

  “That’s just it.” Lisa set the catalog on the desk. “I’m not completely sure. But I’ll know it when I see it.” She shook Ms. Swanson’s hand, grabbed her bags and headed for the door.

  When she was out on the street, she flipped her phone open and made a couple of calls. By the time she reached Huron Street, she already had her assistant in San Francisco arranging for two tickets to the Landau Gallery’s main event.

  God love a woman who could get things done. God love the small but far-reaching academic world of archaeology. There was a reason she kept the chirpy assistant around, a reason she forced herself to bite her sharp tongue half the time so she could remain in good standing with her colleagues.

  Checking right and left, she crossed the street and headed north. With a quick glance over her shoulder, she noticed a man dressed in a lightweight blue jacket weaving through pedestrians, brown hair peeking out of a Marlins ball cap, his gaze trained on her.

  Strange. A chill slid through her. She was pretty sure she’d seen that same jacket on the street when she’d stepped into the gallery.

  Probably a coincidence. For some reason, though, her gut wasn’t so sure.

  Thinking of the accident last night, she turned right on Superior instead of left. She took another right on St. Clair and headed south again, hoping that she was just jumpy. Casting a look over her shoulder, she saw her tail was still there.

  Shit.

  She thought quickly. Her best bet at this point was to catch a bus on Fairbanks, but she definitely didn’t want to drag a tail all the way back to Shane’s, if in fact that’s what this guy was. There was still a chance he was just headed in the same direction.

  She walked at a faster pace, pretended to turn right again on Ontario, then at the last second darted across the street in a sea of pedestrians. On the corner of Fairbanks and Ontario, she shot inside Timothy O’Toole’s Pub.

  Three televisions over the bar were tuned to a college football game. Whoops and hollers resounded through the tavern after a play, as the announcer’s voice echoed across the room. The bar was half-filled with afternoon patrons, glasses clinking amid an abundance of smoke.

  Lisa scanned the room, looking for a place to blend in. When the door behind her opened, she headed for the bar without looking back.

  She sidled up to the polished wood and gestured for the bartender. The blond guy sitting to her right nursing a
glass of cola turned toward her and gave her the once-over.

  “Water,” she told the bartender.

  The blond smiled. “Well, now, sugar. Looks like my day just got a whole lot better.”

  Lisa thanked the bartender, lifted her glass and sipped before turning toward the husky voice. Brilliant blue eyes with a hint of mischief sparkled back at her. It wasn’t exactly intellectually stimulating conversation, but at least it would help her disappear in the crowd. She rolled her eyes. “Does that line usually work?”

  “Depends. How smart are you?” He winked.

  “Very, I’m afraid.”

  “Damn.” He grinned. “But I suppose I could make an exception for you, considering.”

  “Gee, I’m so flattered.”

  The blond’s grin widened.

  Not wanting to get too comfy with the witty banter, Lisa’s gaze darted over her companion’s shoulder. Blue Jacket slid into a booth across the room, tugged his cap low over his eyes and lifted a menu, trying to look inconspicuous.

  It didn’t work.

  Okay. Not a coincidence. He was following her, no doubt about it. And from the way his gaze kept darting her way, he wasn’t hiding it too well either.

  She’d never been one to run and hide. And the guy was obviously alone. The best defense she could see was a tough offense.

  “Hold that thought.” Lisa set her glass on the bar and dropped her bags on the floor. “I just saw an old friend.”

  She waited until the waitress moved away from Blue Jacket’s table, then slid into the booth across from him.

  The man’s head darted up. Surprise registered in his dark eyes. He rose an inch out of his seat before the sole of her new boot jammed into his groin. His face contorted in pain as he dropped back down onto the vinyl bench. His hand shot beneath the table to rescue his manhood.

  “Ah, ah, ah.” Lisa applied more pressure with the sole of her shoe. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  His palms hit the top of the table. He slammed his eyes shut and let out a pathetic groan.

  Dammit, he was just a kid. Maybe twenty-five, if he was lucky. She was pretty sure she’d never seen him before. That didn’t make her feel better.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you following me?”

  “I’m not,” he moaned.

  She wedged the heel of her boot into his balls. “Wrong answer, cupcake. Try again.”

  His eyes flew open, revealing chocolate irises. The remaining color drained from his cheeks. “Okay. I was,” he croaked. “Please…please…for the love of God, let…go.”

  No one could claim she didn’t have a heart. Lisa eased the pressure off his package but kept her foot within striking distance. “I’m listening.”

  He drew in three deep breaths and kept his eyes down. “I was just supposed to find out where you were headed. Who you were with.”

  “Hired by whom?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She flexed her foot.

  “I swear!” He jumped in his seat. “A woman called. Gave me a description.”

  “What was her name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you meet her? What does she look like?”

  “Look, I don’t know, okay? I only spoke with her on the phone. Payment came in the mail. Half before, half after I found you.”

  She watched him with sharpened eyes. Sweat rolled off his forehead and trickled down his temple. “Did you follow me last night, too?”

  “What?” His head finally came up. A smattering of freckles graced the pale skin of his nose. “No. I came in on a plane this morning. I swear. I’ve got ticket stubs in my pocket if you don’t believe me. I was waiting at the gallery for you. She said you might end up there.”

  She studied his face for any sign he was lying. She didn’t want to believe him, but something in her gut said he was probably telling the truth. He wasn’t old enough to have a personal bone to pick with her, and she had a strong hunch he wasn’t yanking her chain when he said he didn’t know who had hired him. He looked too scared to be lying and too stupid to make up a bum story.

  Common sense told her there’d been two men chasing them last night. Two men she’d vaguely seen through the lights and smoke of that bar. One, she was pretty sure, had been black. Both had looked bigger than this kid. Although she wasn’t 100 percent sure, she was fairly certain he hadn’t been either of them.

  And he was most definitely alone. Stupid, but alone.

  Lisa’s boot landed against the floor with a thunk. The kid let out a long, relieved breath as she signaled the waitress. “Southern Comfort,” she told the girl when she reached the table. “My friend here is a little under the weather.”

  “And ice,” he grunted. “A bag of ice. Please.”

  When the waitress stepped away shaking her head, Lisa leaned forward. “Listen up, cupcake. You make a lousy shadow. Find another line of work.” She fished money out of her pocket and tossed bills on the table. “And crawl back under your rock. Tell whoever it is you work for you couldn’t find me, or I promise I’ll make your life hell.”

  She eased out of the booth. The kid’s head hit the table just as the waitress eased by Lisa to deliver his drink.

  Lisa walked back toward the bags she’d left across the room. The blond, who had watched the whole scene from his spot on a stool, smiled and eased an elbow on the bar. “Sugar, where the hell have you been my whole life?”

  Lisa lifted the glass and sipped her water. “In a cave,” she mumbled.

  The comment was obviously lost on him. He shifted in his seat, one obvious thought on his mind as his eyes zoomed in on her breasts, then darted to her face. “Why don’t we blow this joint? I’m only in town for a few more days, and I could certainly use a tough chick like you to show me the sights.” He reached out, ran his finger down her arm. “Someone to protect me from the mean streets of Chicago. What do you say?”

  Lisa considered the suggestion all of about two seconds before Rafe’s irritating mug flashed in her mind.

  Shiiiit.

  Now she couldn’t even flirt with a good-looking guy without being hounded by the man? Sullivan wasn’t her boyfriend, for crying out loud, wasn’t her lover or even anyone she was interested in pursuing on a personal level. He was a business partner, plain and simple. Nothing more. She wasn’t tied to him, so why wasn’t she taking this guy up on his offer?

  “I wish I could,” she heard herself say before she could stop the words spilling from her mouth. “But this isn’t the best time.”

  Dammit. Sullivan was using her. Enjoying it, too. And she was falling right into his trap.

  Dammit, dammit, dammit.

  The blond fished a business card from his back pocket. He reached for a pen down the bar and scribbled on the back. “This is the number where I’m staying for the next two days.” He handed it to her, his lips curling in a knowing smile. “Of course, if you say yes now, you can save yourself a phone call.”

  A couple hours away from the mess she’d gotten herself into wouldn’t be so bad, would it? She was running on adrenaline after the last few minutes as it was. Blowing off a little steam would probably improve her mood and her outlook.

  She glanced at the card in her hand as decisions raced through her mind.

  ALEC MCCLANE

  FREELANCE JOURNALIST

  Not a thief. Not a liar. Definitely not a jerk.

  And damn if that didn’t make up her mind.

  Chapter Nine

  Shane ripped a piece of steaming dough from the pretzel in his hand and walked along the bike path in Lincoln Park as he glanced out across the choppy water. A crisp breeze blew off Lake Michigan, rustling his hair and sending shivers down his back.

  He tugged his jacket collar around his neck, hunched his shoulders and bit back a curse. He needed out of this city. Soon. Before the goddamn snow hit. If he had to face one more winter of biting wind and bitter cold, he just might shoot himself with his own gun.

>   He popped a salty piece of dough into his mouth and dropped onto a bench to finish his lunch. Ten minutes passed before Jack Taylor finally sauntered up from the other direction, a file folder tucked under one arm and two Starbucks in hand, tendrils of steam rising from the white paper cups.

  “Thought you could use some real joe. Not that crap they’ve got down at headquarters.” He handed Shane a cup, sat next to him and set the folder on the bench at his side.

  “You’re a saint, Taylor.” Shane lifted the drink to his lips and tasted the hot, bitter liquid as it slid across his tongue. Not the shot of Jameson he really wanted, but good enough, considering it was only two in the afternoon and he was still on duty. “Almost makes me want to move to the Pacific Northwest.”

  “Nah, too wet there. You’d never cut it, Maxwell.” Jack lifted one large gloved hand and pointed toward a couple of teenagers dipping their toes in the surf. “Look at those idiots. Gonna freeze their asses off.”

  Shane’s gaze followed. He watched as one stupid kid who couldn’t have been more than fifteen dared the other to go out as far as his knees. The dark-haired moron at the kid’s right rolled up his pants legs and headed out into the freezing water. “Serve ’em right it they catch hypothermia.”

  Jack chuckled. “Anything to get out of sittin’ in class. Not too long ago you and I would have been doing that.” He watched two women dressed in thick sweats, hats and gloves as they jogged by. When they rounded the bend, he glanced up to the gray sky. “Smells like snow.”

  “Smells like snow, my ass.” Shane leaned back against the bench, wrapped his bare hands around the warm cup. “You haven’t been able to smell crap since you took that bullet.” Three years and a handful of surgeries later, all that was left of that dark night was a thin scar on Jack’s cheek. But it had been enough to make Shane’s ex-partner say adios to the Chicago PD.

  Jack shot him a grin. “You’re perky this afternoon. I sure do miss that sunshine-sweet temperament of yours.”

  “I need a fucking vacation.”

  Jack sipped his drink. “You need a career change, my friend. I keep tellin’ ya, PI work is cush. Set your own hours, choose your clientele. No one lookin’ over your shoulder, telling you what to do. Pretty sweet.”