Agent Backer grinned. She does know her stuff.
Despite her earlier annoyance with these two bozos, their friendly banter and inept efforts at covert action were growing on her. And her curiosity was definitely piqued. What about The Divine Horseman?
Weve talked to your superior at the FBI and have gotten permission to recruit you to assist us. Your expertise in the art world, your Bureau training and your family connections make you the perfect choice for this mission. I have your orders here.
Orders to do what? she asked, excited at the prospect of what they were asking of her, but leery of why the Westin name had to be a part of it.
Word is, the current owner plans to sell it to a foreign investor and ship it out of the country. All under the table, of course. Before that happens Agent Brady pulled a sealed envelope from his pocket and handed her the assignment we want you to get it back.
Two weeks later
WAIT HERE. The taciturn butler whod introduced himself as Aaron Polakis opened the thick walnut door and pointed Tori into the library. His cropped blond hair had receded so far that the points of skin gave him a devilish expression which rivaled the friendliness of his personality. Maybe his thick Middle European accent was an indication he didnt know the language very well. Or maybe he was just an economist when it came to words. He paused before closing the door on his way out. Sit.
Clearly, he hadnt been hired to make guests feel welcome. She wondered what his real job was here at the Meade estate, and whether the gun holstered beneath his uniform jacket had something to do with it.
Tori felt comparatively naked without her Glock sidearm strapped to her waist. But then, art historians rarely armed themselves. This afternoon she was Victoria Westin, associate professor of antiquities, not Tori Westin, FBI agent. Indiana Jones aside, she needed to come off as book smart and boring, not armed and ready for action.
Bearing that in mind, Tori smoothed the legs of her taupe linen pantsuit and perched on the edge of the brocade wingback chair to await an introduction to her new employer. Her mother would tell her the color of her suit was drab and clashed with her rich surroundings. But the understatement fit the role she was playing. Besides, she was here to do a job, not snag a husband. Brains and resourcefulness were the requirements of the day, and Tori had those in spades.
She rose to her feet, intending to make the most of any unguarded time in the house by inspecting every room until she could narrow down the search. And, judging by the turrets and wings and widows walks shed seen driving up to the front steps, she had plenty to search.
The Meade mansion was an historical testament to Victorian architecture, with its red brick and dark wood and ornate moldings. Heavy velvet curtains and gilt trim bespoke power and money.
But there was a chilly heaviness to the air, as if the weight of too much opulence and too many secrets had grown too great for the walls to bear. Tori pushed aside the fringed drapes and gazed out at the ominous clouds that gave a dusky cast to the afternoon sky and threw long, fingerlike shadows across the lawn and driveway below.
A few miles to the north, above the downtown skyline, the air was still clear and sunny and blue. But like a tail she hadnt been able to shake, the clouds had rolled in and darkened and followed her south. Now, they seemed to linger overhead, thickening in strength, churning in an ongoing battle within themselves.
Tori knew it was only the results of winds and ions and barometric pressure, but a sudden, almost panicked need to feel the heat of the sun had her reaching toward the sky, splaying her fingers against the cool glass and holding her breath.
On the next, saner breath, she curled her fingers into her palms and pulled away from the window. She wasnt prone to panic attacks or silliness of any kind, but the sensation of being trapped in a world of darkness had tapped into some whimsical notion from her childhood, when shed still believed in fairy tales and mythical monsters.
Time to bring herself firmly back into the modern, real world she could control.
Activating the electronic sensor on her Cartier watch, she scanned her surroundings. A single hit. The blinking readout indicated one listening device. She let her eyes find it first, then crossed over to the bookshelf, ostensibly to inspect the leatherbound collection of French classics, while she evaluated the design and capability of the bug. Audio only. Good to know.
No camera, no problem with leaving a guest unattended. Apparently, she could snoop wherever she wanted as long as she was quiet about it. Smiling at her good fortune, Tori closed Les Misérables and replaced it on the shelf. Jericho Meades library spoke more of privilege and culture than of the top-notch security fortress her briefing had led her to expect.
Cole Taylor was the name shed been givenwarned about, in fact. A former cop with KCPD, hed been seduced by enough money to turn his back on Meades illegal activities and become the reputed crime bosss personal bodyguard. Backer and Brady had said there hadnt been one successful break-in or attempt on Meades life since Taylor had taken over the job. No one in law enforcement on the local, state or national scale had been able to make a dent in Meades criminal empire since Taylor had taken over security.
Tori frowned. This notorious Taylor must have a secret weapon he relied on, because shed seen little evidence of anything top-notch since shed driven up to the main house.
True, getting here hadnt been easy. The feeling of isolation had probably been planted in her subconscious mind as shed wound around secondary highways and back roads to find it. Secluded on seven acres near the Kansas City Zoo and Swope Park, the Meade estate was surrounded by a forest of oaks and maples and leafy undergrowthsome of it landscaped, more of it left to grow wild and create a natural barrier that separated the redbrick mansion from the park, the road and the rest of civilization.
Yes, thered been a guard at the wrought-iron gate. Hed searched her shoulder attaché and scanned her with a metal detector. But at the house itself, shed seen nothing beyond a routine electronic alarm system at the exterior doors and windows, and Aaron Polakis, who seemed to have lost interest in keeping an eye on her. If this was Taylors idea of security, then she was overqualified for the job.
But she wouldnt claim an easy victory just yet. She couldnt help wondering what else the two Bills at the Customs Department had been misinformed about. They had little hard evidence that Meade had actually stolen the statueonly his affinity for rare art and business trips that put him in New Orleans at the time of the theft. Maybe the intercepted communiqués to a mysterious Sir Lancelot werent talking about the sale of the statue at all. The horse in the memos Bill and Bill had shown her could be referring to anything. A shipment of drugs. A thoroughbred. Another work of art.
If the statue was here, though, shed find it. She owed that much to the memory of her father.
A knight in shining, golden armor. A lone warrior on horseback. The Horseman will always ride to your rescue, her father had told her. Hed first shown her The Divine Horsemans picture in a museum magazine when she was fourteen, and, in her adolescent heart, Victor Westin had seemed every bit as handsome and heroic as that fabled knight. Hed promised to take her along on his next business trip and show her the real thing.