A lazy breeze wandered through the street. Plants and flowers barely moved, and the pink umbrellas strung up between the buildings for shade fluttered peaceable in the summer air. I sat at the end of the empty street at a small round table and sipped a latte. The crema had long since given up its shape and blended into the coffee. 

The last two days were a whirlwind of travel. First, two planes across the states, a third to London, a train ride to Paris, and a drive to Chanaz. I sipped my coffee and thought how much better the coffee was here than in Paris, London, or New York. I was tired, and the cool breeze tempted me to forget why I was in France in the first place.

Signing heavily, I gulped the remains of my cold coffee and laid some money on the table, nestling it under the saucer so the wind wouldn’t carry it away before the waiter could collect it. I know tipping is not expected in France, but I didn’t care. He earned a nice tip.

 The open windows on my rented Jaguar let the fresh in as I headed out of town for my destination. The engine’s roar echoed over the countryside as I sped along the winding country roads. Tracking her down had become a travelogue—first New York, London, and Paris. I was on her tail but didn’t know if she possessed the picture.
While technically, I held a private investigator license, I worked for insurance companies and investigated claims. It seems they don’t like paying large cash settlements on missing works of art or other valuable items. If possible, I get hired to find and recover the items and, in the worst-case scenario, prove the claim was legitimate or fraudulent. Too many missing items are traced back to the owner or their accomplices.

I get a finder’s fee of at least ten percent of the value of the recovered items. It's cheaper for them to pay me, to try to find it, than to have to pay out an insured sum. I hadn’t done too badly. The vintage jaguar in my Virginia estate had been bought and paid for by a stolen diamond I recovered from a fence in Spain last year.
The trip across the pond had been financed by Executive Life & Causality Insurance Company out of California. They had insured an extensive collection of paintings, some of which had been stolen. Most of the paintings had been recovered after it was discovered that a con woman had convinced the rightful owner she feared they were copies and she would get them authenticated by an expert she knew. The ruse had been elaborate and skillfully done, convincing the seventy-two-year-old owner that her family's inheritance may not be worth what she thought it was. I needed to track down the last missing painting, The Third Sister, as charged by my employer.
                                                                           ~~~
Simon Reynolds was a slight, bald man who always wore large spectacles and a navy suit no matter how hot. The only thing he hated more than not being impeccably dressed was paying out money on claims. When his in-house investigators couldn’t locate the last of the paintings and the most valuable, he contacted me. I took the redeye from DC, and by nine a.m. the following morning, I sat in Simon’s office in Los Angeles.
Simon waited, leaning against the desk with his hands in his pockets and chomping on an unlit cigar as I read through the file. 

“Well? Can you find her?”

I looked from the pile of paper in my lap. “Yeah, I think so. But…” I let it hang there. The next part was money. How much was he willing to spend on me, and how much would he bankroll to get it back?
There was no question Simon knew, as I did, who the culprit was. The only question was how badly he wanted her and the painting.

I know her. Gloria Smith, as she calls herself, most of the time. It's a nice, unassuming name and easy to forget. Her real name is Gemma Snyder, and she’s a handful. She’s been tied to a couple of deaths but has never been charged. She likes to travel in all the fancy circles and hobnob with the rich and famous, but she’d steal your coat right off you in a blizzard if given a chance. I’d caught up with her in New York several years ago on another case, and she’d barely gotten away, but not before tipping her hand.

Catching Gloria Smith was going to be expensive. I leaned back in the chair. “What’s your offer?”

“The painting’s insured for two million dollars. Your ten percent is two hundred thousand.”

“Plus expenses.” I reminded him. He glared at me over his thick glasses.

“Plus expenses.” He conceded. “And I want receipts.”

“You’ll get as many as I can, but I will expect you to trust me if I do not have a receipt.” He knew damn well how it was in the field. Sometimes, you can’t use a card, and there is no receipt.
Simon glared at me and grunted. “It’s a deal.”

Simon gave me the details of how Gloria had conned his client out of the picture and what she suspected she would do with it. It turned out the picture was part of a three-picture set painted in the 1800s called the Three Sisters because it was three paintings of three nuns in the church who had served for many decades and were now considered holy by the faithful. One picture was in a museum in Rome. The second picture was in the Vatican as one of its prized paintings.

The third one was sold to a private art collector in France and then sold at auction to another private collector, the current owner's father. He died at ninety-eight, and his seventy-two-year-old spinster daughter inherited the collection.

I spent the rest of the morning calling art dealers I knew would be likely to come across this kind of painting. A couple said they heard rumors that Gloria was making the rounds with a painting she wanted to sell, but no one had seen it yet. One dealer said that she was in New York and had what appeared to be a package that matched the size of the painting he was seeking.

I informed Simon what I had learned and headed for the airport six hours after landing in California. I catnapped on the plane, landing in the evening and heading for the same hotel where Gloria had been seen. I was determined that this time would be different. I had only spotted her in New York a couple of times. The closest was when she escaped by jumping onto a subway train, leaving me standing on the platform. But I had done my homework since then, studied surveillance photos of her, and better understood how she worked. 

The early morning sun worked its way through the narrow blinds that shielded its occupants from the reality of New York City life, but it was enough to wake me up earlier than I wanted to. Once up and moving, I threw my go bag over my shoulder and headed to the lobby in search of Liquid Life, which I call coffee and sustenance. 
A thick rug covered the floor, and opulent wall coverings added to the quiet elegance and money atmosphere. Most people in the lobby were checking in, but one person at the checkout counter caught my eye.
Her topcoat was not as stylish as the other women present, and her hair gave the casual appearance that she had just rolled out of bed. Her designer pocketbook oozed with the feel of money, but what interested me was the enormous satchel slung over her shoulder. It was well-worn, expensive leather, and, more importantly, big enough to hold the missing sister painting. Would she be brazen enough to carry a priceless painting around in an open carry-all?  

Spotting a magazine stand on the side near where they were checking out, I worked my way over to it and pretended to look at stupid mass-market tabloids and glossy magazines while I pulled a photo of Gloria up on my phone. No doubt, it was her. I fought the urge to confront her right then and there, but that wouldn’t have been smart if the picture wasn’t in the satchel, as I suspected. I’d look like an idiot, and my hand would have been played. No, I had to be patient and wait for the right time to catch her with the picture and, ideally, who purchased it.

I had planned to have a quick coffee and bagel before deciding what to do. However, that wasn’t an option anymore. I’d found her and needed to keep her in sight as long as possible. I positioned myself near the doors, hoping to overhear where she was going if she hailed a cab. If I had to leave, I’d have to settle with the hotel or have Simon do it. He wouldn’t be happy either way. 

Several cabs lined up on the street in front of the hotel when she went out. I was close behind, all but holding the door for her. She headed for the first cab in the row without any fanfare, just opened the back door, tossed her bag in, and plopped herself in beside her bag. 

I hurried to the cab directly behind as her cab was pulled into traffic. The cabbie glanced in the mirror and automatically said, “Where to, man?” 
I fished out a hundred-dollar bill, shoving it across the seat towards him. “Follow that cab.”
He grabbed the bill. “Which one?” I pointed to the cab she had gotten into, now stuck in traffic at the light. 
He jockeyed in and out of traffic to keep close to her cab. “What’s the deal?”

“Old girlfriend. Owes me money.”

We almost lost her several times, but the cabbie earned that hundred dollars. Eventually, we went south to the Belt Parkway, past Coney Island, to JFK Airport. We kept her insight using the cab number despite the sea of traffic and a hundred or more cabs that all looked alike. I emailed Simon from my phone and updated him on the hotel and where I was heading. He wouldn’t be happy with the expense account bills that would be showing up.
He dropped her off at International Departures, and I jumped out and handed the cabbie another hundred-dollar bill. 

I pushed my way to the counter to be second in line and heard her book a flight on the next plane to London. Fortunately, I had my passport and other papers with me. I always kept my go bag with me when on the job being a Boy Scout in another life. When my turn came up a minute later, I booked the same flight. The flight didn’t depart for another hour, so she headed for the VIP lounge. I followed at a distance. 

I watched where she settled down and headed for the free food. Coffee and two bagels and cream cheese in hand, I positioned myself where she wouldn’t see me, but I could see her, the restrooms, and the entrance.
The call for boarding came about twenty minutes later, quicker than I expected. There were about a dozen people scattered about the VIP lounge who rose and headed to the gate. I hung back a bit so I wasn’t too close to Gloria, letting another couple go ahead of me.

Once onboard, I stowed my go bag in an overhead bin and took my seat two rows behind her, thankfully. Gloria had stowed her small suitcase overhead, but the satchel sat on the floor before her, taking up most of her foot room. I settled in my seat, buckled up, and waited for takeoff.
                                                                                    ~~~
The following seven and a half hours were the longest and most boring hours I’d spent in recent memory. The drone of the engines in the background was mind-numbing, and the muffled footsteps of the flight attendants on the carpet and the low voices of their talking were annoying. The noise-canceling headphones I’d packed in my go-bag helped a lot, but nothing could fight off the tiredness of not having enough sleep in the last two days. Gloria seemed to nap the entire trip, besides lunch and a trip to the bathroom, taking the satchel.

It was dark when we landed at Heathrow, and I kept Gloria in sight as we left the jetway and entered customs. We got lucky as British Customs was less crowded than usual, and I managed to clear customs first and waited in the corridor heading to the exit where cabs waited. I texted Simon that I had arrived, snapped a photo of her as she walked past, and sent it to him. He texted back, I was right. The large satchel, portfolio size, could hold the painting.

She grabbed a cab, and I cut in front of a rather angry couple and took the one behind her. Playing follow that cab wasn’t any easier in evening London traffic than it had been back in New York City during morning rush hour.
We arrived at the St Pancras railway station, its tower and clock dominating the corner of Euston Road and Pancras Road. She paid for the cab, and I grabbed my go bag and rushed to follow. Inside, she headed for the ticket counter. I kept her in sight while she booked a ticket for the next train—destination Paris, France.

It was nearing midnight in London, but neither of us had eaten since the VIP lounge and lousy plane food. I wasn't unhappy when she headed toward a restaurant next to the train station. The sleek modern lines, clean pink walls, and heart-themed corner booth were too much for me after a long day on a plane, but I couldn't let Gloria out of sight. She found a booth, and I sat behind her again and ordered. Hopefully, she wouldn’t notice me as the same man in New York City this morning.

The Eurostar to Paris left the station at one a.m. I sat two rows behind her on the opposite side of the car, where I could see her, and decided I could risk a catnapping. She wasn’t going anywhere while we were in the Chunnel. I put my phone in silent mode and set the alarm for one hour. We’d been in France by then.
We arrived at the Gare Du Nord station on the north side of Paris at three-thirty. Thankfully, the station was somewhat deserted. Following her was not too difficult, but I needed help. I couldn’t stay away forever. I decided to risk making contact with her.

I picked my moment to bump into her. I managed to be beside her when she asked a porter where she could stay for the night. He recommended the St Pancras Hotel as it was close to the station.
“Oh, that sounds interesting. I’ve never stayed at a fancy hotel before.” I piped in, pretending to overhear the conversation. She looked at me for a second.

“Uh. Do I know you?” She gave me a questioning look.

“Sorry, I was getting off the train and thinking I needed to find a place to stay for the night. I heard you ask the porter about the hotel, and… sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.” I fumbled with my go bag, shoved a hand in my pocket, and looked at the floor like I was sorry I’d spoken to a beautiful lady without asking first.

The porter pointed in the general direction of the exit to the hotel and left, leaving me standing next to Gloria. “Hi, I’m Robert, Robbie. You can call me Rob, Robbie, or anything, and I’ll answer it.” I stuck out my hand from my pocket.

“Gloria, and you're right, the hotel sounds nice. I’m beat. I’ve been going since six this morning, and my feet are killing me.” She shook my hand and quickly picked up her leather bag again.

“Shall we?” I motioned for the exits and the thinning crowds. She nodded yes, and I walked out of the lobby with my quarry next to me, carrying what I hoped was The Third Sister.

Outside, the cool air and streetlights seemed surreal after spending most of the day in a plane cabin or a train car. The streets were mostly deserted in the wee hours of the morning. We quickly found the hotel with its imposing stone façade.

The young man behind the counter was entirely too chipper for this hour of night. As neither of us had reservations, checking in took longer. As I had no luggage other than my go-to bag and she only had one suitcase, I tipped the bellhop and told him I’d take the lady’s luggage upstairs. Before we parted, I asked if she would join me for breakfast, and she said she would meet me in the lobby at nine a.m.

Once inside my room, I emailed Simon, explaining exactly what had happened in the last twenty-four hours. I then contacted a local private detective, sent him a photo of Gloria, and arranged for him to have one of his operatives keep an eye on the hotel so Gloria didn’t get away. Then I took the hottest shower I could stand to wash the grime from traveling halfway around the world at record speed. 


The sun shone through the glass doors, making the lobby brighter than I remembered last night. The din of electric lights couldn’t replace the enthusiasm the natural sun gave in the late morning.
Gloria was standing next to the counter when I found her. She’d already settled her bill and was waiting for me. I noticed the leather tote was in her hand while her other bag was on the floor.

 “Ready for breakfast?” I grinned as I plopped my go bag next to hers and turned my attention to the clerk behind the counter. 

“I’ll go get us a table in the restaurant.” She collected her bag and headed for the fancy restaurant on the other side of the lobby. I watched her for a second and turned back to the clerk.

It took a few minutes to settle my bill and get a receipt for the room. Simon would want that receipt if I wanted to get reimbursed for it. I shoved the papers into my jacket pocket and headed for the restaurant.

Sliding into the booth across from her, I noticed the leather tote on the bench beside her while her other bag was casually sitting on the floor.  Two cups of coffee sat on the table, and I thanked her for the coffee. The server came, and we ordered.

I let her lead the conversation, hoping I’d better understand what she was planning. I told her I was over on a last-minute trip for work, but I had time to kill before meeting a client and reporting to my boss. Which strictly speaking was true. I’d always heard the French countryside was so peaceful that I needed to escape the city. She said she was meeting a client in a little village tomorrow in the south of France. I noticed she was vague about who the client was and why, but I didn’t push it. I’d been equally ambiguous about my work, only saying I had a meeting to attend at some point but not specifying where or when. I was waiting for the client to get back to me, and I didn’t expect to hear from them soon, so I had time on my hands for a while.

Whether she bought my lame excuse or not, I couldn’t tell, but I went along with her story, noticing she kept the old leather tote right with her all the time.
As we ate, we discussed various options. I told her I was thinking about going over to Switzerland but hadn’t made up my mind. But at any rate, I was tired of trains and airplanes, and driving sounded good to me. She said she planned to take the train to meet a friend in Chanaz on the Savière Canal, south of Paris. She wasn’t sure of the exact place and time yet. She was still waiting to hear from her friend.
 
Right on time, as we finished our coffee, my phone rang as I had arranged it. I quickly answered and made a show of sliding off the booth and walking towards the men's room. I didn't go far, just out of her sight. Coming back to the booth, I grabbed my jacket and bag.

“Listen, Gloria, I’ve got to go. My Boss called, and they want to meet this morning. I’m afraid I can’t drive you. I’m going to get a car and get going. It was good meeting you, and I hope you enjoy your stay here in France and meeting your friend.” I threw some money on the table and left.

Simon had called me as I requested to give me the opening to leave Gloria. I hurried to the concierge, who Simon said had the rental car papers for me to sign and the keys and that it was parked as requested across the street.

Gloria exited the hotel and took a cab. Midday traffic was light, so following her cab was relatively easy. The cab stopped at another train station. According to the reference I looked up on my phone, The Paris Gare de Lyon handles trains going south of Paris, which fits in with what she said at lunch about heading toward Chanaz. I followed her into the station and waited long enough to see her board the train to Chanaz.
Back in the Jag, I punched in the data on the GPS and headed south along the Seine River before turning right, then crossed the river and headed out of town. She had an eleven-hour train ride. I had a five-hour drive. I would arrive in plenty of time, hoping she didn’t disembark somewhere else along the line.

After a leisurely and enjoyable drive through the beautiful French countryside, stopping once for coffee, I arrived in Chanaz. I located the train station and found a place to park along the canal. I stretched my legs, found a bistro for a quick bite, and then returned to the train station, parked, and took a much needed nap.

The train arrived right on time. It didn’t take her long to appear out front of the station, two bags in hand. This was one time I was glad the Jag looked like every other car on the road. My old MK IV would have been quickly noticed and remembered. She barely glanced up and down the street before heading straight for a car rental place down the street. A few minutes later, she pulled out a new Mercedes convertible. I’ll say that for her, she was going in style. It had occurred to me on the way down that after all of this if she never had the picture or had already gotten rid of it, I would look pretty stupid. I had a lot riding on Gloria and that old leather satchel.

I wondered why she would go to all this trouble and travel halfway around the world to sell a picture. The obvious answer was the buyer couldn’t come to the States for some reason. Who over here could afford such a painting or would want a religious relic and couldn’t travel? There were two obvious answers to why they couldn’t travel to the States. One being legal, if they came over, they’d be arrested for some reason. The second was that they physically couldn’t for health reasons, making the possibilities more interesting. 

When Gloria drove to the main area of town and stopped at a cafe for dinner, I sent Simon an email asking him about possible collectors in France or Switzerland who couldn’t come to the States for some reason. 

Meanwhile, I had to keep an eye on Gloria and try to figure out what her next move was. I debated what to do. I couldn’t keep following her around forever and couldn’t show up again after saying I was attending an important meeting in Paris. The best I could do was keep tabs on her until tomorrow morning and pop up again with a story.
After dinner, she walked to a quaint bed and breakfast. I hung back and waited for her to come out. A few minutes later, she reappeared and moved her car to a parking place near the B&B. A glance told me there was no room at the Inn. It would be impossible to come in and blend in. I noted precisely where she was and found another Inn nearby. I was displeased by the idea of not being close to her, but it couldn’t be helped. The best I could do was be sure I was up early in the morning and hope she didn’t disappear before then. 


The morning fog lifted off the distant mountains when I parked the Jag near Gloria's Inn. Last night, Simon got back to me about possible collectors in the area who fit the request I’d made. He mentioned one name, Axel Berger, a French technologist who made a fortune in the early dot.com days. These days, he collects art the way I collect old socks. The only problem is he has raised flags in international circles for not being too particular about where he gets his art and has been suspected of selling stolen art to unsuspecting collectors. Simon had given me his details and sent a picture of Axel in the return email overnight.

I was waiting outside the B&B door shortly after seven a.m. when it opened, and Gloria stepped out to the early morning sun. I had to admit that she looked pretty good in the light top and short skirt, and she still carried the leather tote and her other bag.

She backed out, and I followed her at a distance until she parked at an open café. I pulled over where I could still see her. A few minutes later, she sat at a little round table out front with a coffee and food—time to become reacquainted. I circled the block and parked in sight of the café. Exiting the car, I pasted a big surprise grin as I approached her table.

“It is you! I drove past and thought I saw you out of the corner of my eye, but I wasn’t sure. How did you wind up out here?” I stood across from her, half leaning on the chair.

She seemed surprised to see me again. “What? Oh, I’m meeting someone down here later today. I thought you were in Paris. Please sit down.” She motioned for me to sit in the chair I was leaning against. I quickly parked myself in the chair and eyed her coffee.

“Oh, would you like some coffee?” I nodded yes, and she waved the waitress over and ordered more coffee for both of us.

“Anything else?”

I ordered a croissant and an orange juice to go with my coffee. I told her my meeting in Paris had gone quicker than I figured it would, and being I still had the car for several more days, I thought I’d drive about the countryside and explore for a few days while I had the chance. 

I tried to gently push her as to what she was doing down in Chanaz. Her friend was to meet her later that afternoon, but she didn’t say when. Gloria gulped down the last of her coffee, paid her bill, got up, and with a quick, “Gotta go. Nice seeing you again,” headed down the block without saying another word. Now, that was a brush-off. 

I finished my coffee and then walked to my car to wait. She wasn’t going anywhere I didn't know about. Earlier this morning, while still dark, I’d placed a tracking bug under her car. As I sat there, the week's events replayed in my mind. It occurred to me I was tired, not just from traveling but from chasing down other people's art and lost valuables.

The information Simon sent me about Axel Breger showed that he rarely left his estate, and visitors were few and far between. One would be hard-pressed to get onto the estate except for a few trusted employees and friends. It was also well-known that his art collection was dubious. Some of his paintings were believed to be forgeries, and a few were probably stolen. If I were right, Gloria would have a rare opportunity to see his collection firsthand. A small part of me envied her. Only because if what I suspected was true, the chance to catch an arrogant SOB with stolen art would make my week, possibly even my year. 

The purr of her Mercedes engine echoed over the chatter from the village, waking me from my daydreams of glory. I followed her car at a pace that kept me near her but out of her sight. I let myself enjoy the ride as much as I could. Stone walls boarded the cliff side of the road heading south out of Chanaz. The road had been cut into the side of a mountain, and the trees and undergrowth grew up to the road's edge. There were tourist lookouts along the way, and I wanted to stop and enjoy the view, but whether she had the Third Sister or not, I needed to finish this.

The tracking app on my phone told me she had stopped in a village not far ahead. I was familiar with the village as I had stopped here for coffee on my way to Chanaz. Her Mercedes was parked in front of an ancient stone castle that offered tours. A second car was parked next to hers, and I recognized the familiar shape of the Land Rover Defender. I parked a few empty spaces away from their vehicles.

I rolled down my windows and listened to the sound of trees blowing, and the occasional sound of a bird would catch my attention. I made a couple of quick phone calls before looking for them. When done, I quietly closed my car door, stretched, glanced inside her car, and saw only her travel bag. The satchel was not there. I didn’t expect it to be. 

A well-worn path led to the far side of the main wall and into the village. They probably took that path. I followed it, too. I continued along the narrow alley until it spilled into a larger street lined with buildings. In front of one structure, Gloria sat with Axel Berger at a small round table under a canopy of pink umbrellas, sharing a bottle of wine. The same restaurant I had stopped in on the way from Paris.

I stood in the shadows some distance away from them, not visible to them. Leaning against the stone wall, I watched them for a few minutes. Axel had a large leather case on the ground next to his chair. The well-worn satchel Gloria carried halfway around the world sat next to her. They were in deep conversation, neither paying any attention to their surroundings. I debated what to do. Legally, I didn’t have any authority. Even stateside, my authority was questionable, but it was even more so here. But when did that ever stop me?
I ambled over like I was at home in my living room. “That wouldn’t be the Third Sister, would it?”
They looked up. Gloria’s face went white for a second, and then she composed herself. Axel looked up and started to say something but stopped in mid-speak.

I was standing on the other side of the small table, looking down at them. The Third Sister was propped on the table leg between them—an attempt to keep it out of sight.

“Robby?” She found her voice and started to pick up the painting. I was quicker and reached it first, taking it away from her.

 Turning slightly towards Axel, I ignored Gloria. “This is a stolen painting. Ms. Smith, or whatever name she calls herself today, conned it out of its rightful owner. How much were you going to give her for it?”
 Axel looked back and forth between us. Clearing his throat several times, he took a large gulp of wine. “I… I suspected as much. Which is why I was going to contact the authorities as soon as I took possession of it.” He tried to sound sincere but failed.

“Robby, you can have a cut of the profit.” Gloria had found her voice.

“You don’t get it, do you? Stealing other people's stuff is a big no-no. You can go to jail for it. You should go to jail just for breaking an old woman's heart. I made some calls on the way over this morning. It seems you are well known to the local branch of the National Police. They were very excited to hear you were back in France. As for you, Axel, the authorities have questions for you, too. So, let's have a toast to the Third Sister.”
I lifted her glass just as the first police officer appeared from around the corner. Within minutes, a dozen police officers surrounded the pair of art thieves and arrested them. I sat and sipped the remains of her lovely burgundy under the pink umbrellas while the police took them away.

 
                                                                                 Epilogue
 
I had seen the pictures of the Third Sister that the insurance company had on file. But the sister looking up at me in the sun brought the picture to life, and she became real again. Then, I understood why people needed paintings like this and why they were so valuable.

The Third Sister was reunited with the other two paintings after being authenticated by several experts. Mrs. Edwards, the owner, loaned the Third Sister painting to the Vatican, as did the private museum in Rome, so all three paintings would be displayed together. Gloria and Axel were charged with possession of stolen goods. He was also charged with knowingly attempting to buy stolen property. It was enough to get them a search warrant for his estate, where they found several missing paintings and an extensive collection of other illegal artifacts stolen from various private collections worldwide.
​
I found my way back to Virginia. Simon sent me a check for $250,000, including the bonus from the insurance company and my expenses. Sitting in my leather chair, sipping a fine chardonnay and munching on pizza, I considered the adventures of the week before. Gloria was now out of circulation. Axel discovered that money couldn’t buy his way out of a long list of charges, including theft and various financial charges concerning his creative bookkeeping. It was nerve-wracking, but there was also an element of fun to it. 
I couldn’t wait until the next time.

A Night In L. A. 
​a James St.James Story



By the time I finished another cup of coffee, the pills and caffeine had begun to work. My head had stopped pounding enough so I could sort of move without the room spinning. 

I did remember the girl—long black hair, kind of skinny. She was friendly, offered to buy me a drink. That was all I remembered, a fuzzy picture of her smiling and a beer set in front of me. 

Something else came to me. She made a nod to her right. There was no one there except the waiter, a kid barely old enough to drink. Then something else came to me. She’d pushed a mug toward me. The pounding in my head wasn’t from the beer but the Mickey I’d been given. I’d heard they could leave a hell of a headache. They were right.

She’d made sure I drank the beer with the Mickey in it. No wonder I didn’t remember anything, but knowing all this didn’t get me out of the jam I was in. No one would believe me anyway. Hell, I didn’t believe me.

I checked my holster. My gun was still there. At least she didn’t take it. I pulled it from my holster and dropped the magazine. Eight rounds. A full mag. Good. I checked my spare mag. It was missing a bullet. Seven rounds. I froze. 

It was all clear to me. There was a body somewhere with my bullet in it. 

I usually carry a spare magazine with me. Whoever replaced the magazine with the fresh mag knew it would appear I hadn’t fired any bullets. It wouldn’t be until they looked closer that they would find a slug missing. 
 
I considered what to do. Not carrying that gun was a good start. So, it and the magazines went into the safe. I slid a different pistol into the holster when the door rattled with a loud knock.

I spun the lock on the safe and left my office. “Coming.” The front door rattled in the frame.

“Yeah, what do you want?” 

Los Angeles Detective Lindsay plowed his way into the room as I stepped out of his way. He stopped in the middle of the room, chomped on a cigar, and eyed me. “St. James, where’ve you been since last night?”

I thought fast. “I met a client at the Long Arm Bar on Seventh street.”

“Yeah, right, a pretty one?” Lindsay insinuated.

“I didn’t notice. I was working. What do you care anyway?” Although I had a pretty good idea. I glanced at Brenda leaning against the kitchen door frame where the remains of last night's spaghetti still sat on the table. I’d left in a hurry.

“We found a body with one of your bullets in it.”

“How do you know it’s mine?”

 “Ballistics matched it with the slug we recovered from your gun after last year’s shoot-out.”

“Who’d I kill today?”

Lindsay pulled his notebook from his coat pocket, flipped pages, muttering to himself as he tried to read his writing.

“Raymond Chambers. You know him?”

“Yeah, sorta. He tried to hire me months ago to do some work for him. I turned him down.” 

“My, you’re noble all of a sudden.” Lindsay sneered.

“I didn’t like the guy. He was mean, arrogant, and an asshole. So, I turned him down on the spot.”

“And came back to kill him.” 

“After six months? Get real. Even you don’t believe that.”

“I believe your bullet is in him. That is all that matters.”

I did meet with Chambers but left him in mid-martini. Who would have seen me there?

Branda went into the office and returned with my appointment book. “Here. He met Chambers at the bar and then left. He noted the time. If he’d accepted the case, we would track the hours he worked.” She shoved the book in front of Lindsay. He grabbed it and pawed through the pages. When the detective closed the book, Brenda snatched it from him and said she would return it to the office. With a glance at me, she left.

“See? I didn’t see him again after that.” I reminded him as I tried to think of who else I'd seen that morning.

Larry Pine. Yeah, he was there at a table not far from us. I passed him as I left. He had no love for Chambers or me. He’d had a couple of dames with him, but then he usually had a dame or two with him. 

But Lindsay was right. Why wait six months?

I leaned against the table nearest me, both to hide the safe and help keep me upright. Lindsay’s barging in here hadn’t helped my head any. I took a long swallow of half-cold coffee to buy myself some time to think. 

Lindsay fiddled with the notebook in his hands and acted like he was looking for something in one of the back pages of it.

“When did Chambers eat my bullet?” 

Lindsay glared. “About midnight as far as the doc can figure for now. And eat is right. You shoved the barrel of the gun in his mouth and blew half his head off. It was a god-awful mess.” 

I’d seen what a forty-five can do at close range. The bullets are big and slow, but they plow through bone like a battering ram. I didn’t need any more descriptions.

“Where’d you find the bullet?” 

“In the wall behind what’s left of his head. It hit a stud, or it’d kept going.”

“Look, it wasn’t me. Here.” I pulled the pistol from the holster and handed it to him. 

Lindsay dropped the mag and smelled the barrel. “Mmm, it’s clean.”

“Yeah, I keep ‘em clean. Hasn’t been fired in ages.” That was true.

He handed it back to me. I slid the mag back in and dropped it back into its holster and waited. 

“So?”

“So. You never answered my question. Where were you last night?”

“I told you, I met a dame down at the Long Arm Bar. She wanted to hire me.”

“To do what?”

 “Find her boyfriend. At least that’s what she said.”

“And?”

I thought for a minute. “I told her no. I didn’t believe her. Her story didn’t add up, and she had too much cash on her.” I made that part up. We never got that far before I had the beer with the Mickey in it, but Lindsay wouldn’t believe me, so I didn’t try to tell him—yet. 

“This girl, she have a name?” 

I fumbled around on the table next to me and found the notes I made when she called. “Yeah, Lori something or other, I couldn’t understand what she said. It was over the phone.” Again, I was making part of the story up as I went along.

“So, this Lori calls you, and you go running to her?”

“Well, no, I told her I was busy, and couldn’t meet her right away, so we met later at the bar.” 

“What time?” 

I glanced at the small clock on the far side of the room and tried to remember. “'Round ten-ish, I think.” 

“Okay, for now. Find this Lori and get her to back your story.”

With that, Lindsay left, not bothering to close the door. I stared at the open door, cold coffee in my hand, and wondered what had just happened. Shit. I was in trouble.

Brenda came into the living room and kissed me on the cheek. “I know you didn't do it.'' 

“Thanks, hun.” I pulled her closer and gave her a proper kiss. 

Releasing Brenda, I slid the bolt home to lock the door. I didn’t need any more uninvited guests. As a PI, I often worked on the wrong side of town and Lori from last night was definitely from that side. Right now, I needed to find out more about the Chamber killing. An eyewitness would seal the deal and get me in the slammer for a long time. I needed to find them too. 

After taking more headache pills with my cold coffee, I grabbed my old sports coat and headed out. My car was an old Ford with mostly rust and gumption holding it together, but it always started.
 
~~~

I considered some options, one being that Lori probably left town right after I passed out, but I headed for the Long Arm Bar anyway. Hopefully, someone would remember me being there last night and who she was. I expected the bar to be closed, but I knocked anyway. I heard noises inside, so I banged louder. 

“Yeah, what do you want?” The muffled voice sounded aggravated. 

“I need to talk to you.”

The door cracked open, and a short skinny bald man peered out at me. “What’s so important?”

I pulled my ID from my pocket and showed it to him. 

“PI—big wow.” He didn’t move the door.

“You were working here last night?”

“No. I decided to sleep here just for the hell of it. Yeah, I was here, so what?”

“I was here last night. You remember seeing me here? About ten-ish?”

“Why should I remember you? The place was packed. I don’t even remember crashing in the back room.” 

That I understood, a busy night is a long night, and it all runs together. “Look, I need to see if anyone remembered me here last night. I met a girl...”

“Good for you.” 

‘Not that kind of girl. She was supposed to be a client. Tall, skinny, long black hair?”

“Shit, that describes half the dames here.” 

I decided to stop being polite. I leaned against the door, pushing it open a little more. I remembered the kid, the waiter.

“Look, I’ve had a bad night and morning. I’m not in the mood for your games. I was here last night. A tall skinny kid, barely legal age, served me the beer. You got a kid like that working here?” I shifted my weight a bit to show my holster enough that the butt of my pistol was visible. 

“Yeah, a new kid, just started a couple of days ago. Benny, I think his name is.”

I pushed the door open further, and he stepped back to let me pass. Standing in the doorway, I looked around and spotted the back corner booth where I’d been. I walked over. “I was in this booth. Benny served me a beer. Where did he come from?”

“Hell, he served a lot of beers last night.”

“Yeah, I know.”

He followed me to the booth and stood off to one side as I slid in and looked around. Trying to remember as much as I could, but most of it was a blur. 

“You want something to drink?”

“Coffee?”

“Yeah, I got that.” He disappeared, leaving me to try to remember more about Benny or Lori.

He returned with two cups of coffee. I nodded at the seat across from me, and he sat down.

“You never said where Benny came from,” I sniped.

“Oh yeah, sorry, He walked in off the street looking for a job, had an ID that said he was over eighteen. I was short a bar hand, so I hired him.”

I sipped the coffee. “What time’s he coming in today?”

“About four, to help open up.”

“He won’t be back.”

“Huh?” 

I let it lie. “You got paper on him?”

“Yeah,”

“Get it.”

He slid out of the booth and returned with an employment record for one Benny Long. I copied all the information on it and handed it back to him.

“What do you mean he won’t be back?”

I didn’t answer him. He’d find out soon enough. Thanking him for the coffee and information, I left.

I figured the address was fake, but I had to check it out anyway. The address was on the far side of town. It took me a while to get there. 

Pulling in the driveway, I noticed the lawns were unkempt, and the entire street appeared abandoned except for a couple of houses. Cars and remains of cars sat in the driveways and lawns were half-buried in weeds.

I loosened the pistol in its holster as I got out of the Ford and focused on the address listed on Benny’s employment record. I eased onto the half-rotted porch, and a familiar aroma greeted me. Great, he was probably as high as a kite by now.

Listening at the door, I slid my pistol from its holster and dropped the safety. After a couple of deep breaths, I banged on the door. 

“Benny!” I yelled over the radio blaring inside. I heard a scuffling noise, and the radio stopped. I banged on the door so hard that it shook the window next to it.

“Benny! Open up, or I’m coming in!” 

The door screeched as it slowly opened, revealing Benny wearing only a set of undershorts. I ignored his lack of clothes and pushed the door the rest of the way open and led with the pistol as I barged in. Lori was on the bed in the corner, covered up only by a sheet. That I didn’t expect.

I motioned for Benny to sit on the bed. He stumbled to the bed and sat down.

“I’m assuming you know me.” They nodded yes.

There was no point in lecturing them, so I cut to the chase. “Who hired you to frame me last night?” 

They looked at each other, and I continued. “Come on, you two didn’t cook this up all by yourselves. Someone put you up to it. Once done with you, you’ll end up as Chambers did. Think, man!” I half-shouted to cut through the fog that was their brains. 

They were too out of it to comprehend anything, so I ignored them and searched the room. A table held a pile of weed and other drug stuff on it. I didn’t touch it at all.

A dresser sat in the corner. In the bottom drawer, I found a pile of bills. Chambers paid them enough to keep them high for quite a while. Along with the cash was a slip of paper with a name and phone number. I copied it down. 
 
Benny and Lori remained on the bed, half-naked as I closed the door. Five minutes from now, they would forget I was there.

The name on the paper was familiar—Larry Pine. He was at the club when I met Chambers and ran drugs and hookers for the last couple of years. I’d run into him a couple of times, and when he sent his goons after me, I beat the crap out of his men. Pine didn’t like me at all because I couldn’t be bullied or bought. 

As for Chambers, I knew his reputation for being mean as hell, and while technically most of his operations were legal, he did put up a good public front. I knew better. I’d cleaned up after a couple of his messes. He’d tried to hire me as a bodyguard six months ago. I don’t usually do that work, and while money was tight, it wasn’t so tight that I wanted to be around him. Word was Pine was trying to move in on Chambers’s operations, likely prompting a mob war. He knew I would be all over him if he started a war, and framing me would get me out of his hair—all the better for him.

Larry Pine’s base of operations was downtown. I parked in front of the commercial building where he had his headquarters. Shoppers wandered in and out of the shops along the tree-lined street, shadows cast by the late morning LA sun. They were unaware that Larry Pine operated a gambling, loansharking, and prostitution business three floors above them. An operation I was about to shut down.

I opened the trunk on the Ford and pulled the shotgun from the rack. I fed twelve-gauge slugs into the bottom loading gate, pumping the slide and chambering a round. I glanced around as I slammed the lid down on the trunk. No one paid any attention. 

I glanced behind me as I heard a car pull up. I’d made a call for backup and to protect myself. A man exited the car and walked toward me. “Ready?”

I nodded yes, and we went inside the building and took an elevator to the third floor. A hard kick opened the door to Pine’s office and surprised the two guards carrying shotguns. I swung my shotgun to the right, catching the first one on the left shoulder, snapping bone, pushing him against the wall. His gun hit the floor as I kicked it away. Another kick with my boot and his face turned red as blood poured from his nose and mouth and he lost consciousness. 

The second guard tried to raise his gun, but I shoved my barrel into his stomach so hard he lost his breath and stumbled back into the hall. Leveling my shotgun at him, I mouthed for him to be quiet. He nodded and dropped his gun. My partner tugged the guard’s tie off, used it to tie his hands behind him, and hung his hands over the fire hose wheel in the hallway. 

I motioned to my accomplice to follow me down the hall toward Larry Pine’s office. We stood on either side of the door, listening as the sound of laughter filtered through the door.

I nodded and leaned in to kick the door open. The door banged against the wall behind it as we stepped inside. A glance around the living room told me we had been right about the drugs. I ignored the girls sitting on the couch. The guard inside tried to charge me, but my shotgun bucked in my hands, and a slug found its way into his gut, sending him falling back to the nearest lounge chair, dead. The girls screamed and fled to the other side of the room.

Larry sat at a small table digging into a heaping plate of spaghetti. He knocked over a glass of wine as we burst into the room. He said something but my ears were still ringing from the shotgun blast. I got the gist of it—Larry was not happy.

I ordered him to stand up, and he did so without a fight. Detective Lindsay pushed Pine into the hallway, yanked his hands behind him, and cuffed him, informing him he was under arrest for the murder of Raymond Chambers and attempting to frame me. 

Officers took Chambers away, and Lindsay turned toward me. “I was sure you were guilty, but after you called, I had Benny and Lori picked up, and recovered the cash and the note you found. That convinced me you were telling the truth, and they admitted they drugged you and gave Pine your gun. Pine returned it after he killed Chambers, and Benny drove your car home. Lori followed and picked him up.”

“Thanks, Lindsay.”

As he walked away, he called out, “Until next time, St. James. Watch yourself.”

I always do.

​A frigid wind blew through the street as I sat watching the line of old sheds along Canal Street. One of them was a dead drop. I waited patiently, sitting in a car as old as the sheds, trying to blend in, in the rough part of town. I watched a man drop a soda can carefully into the bushes in front of the shed with the blue door—a standard drop method. When a blue Mercedes pulled up, I was happy my patience had paid off.
Russell Long exited the car and retrieved the soda can. Russell wasn’t careful. He pulled the can from its hiding place and returned to the car without a glance around. If he’d looked, he would have seen his old partner watching him. I am retired now, but I could still play with the big boys if I had to, especially when the big boys were careless.
Word reached me from anonymous sources that there was a shoot-to-kill order out on me. I expected that. What worried me and lured me back into the country was the word that my former bosses had questioned my mentor and old friend LeAnne Talbot about my retirement and my whereabouts. We had expected that too. However, they had taken it to a new level. Informal questions had become formal, and the government, my former bosses, charged her with treason for aiding and abetting the enemy.
I let my mind briefly wander back over the years as I followed Russell’s car from the dead to the living side of town. We worked together for the Company for over ten years, and both of us had done things we hated in the name of national security. He was now the agent in charge at this station. I’d worked with him in the “Good Ole Days” when it was fun to be a spy, but I also knew Russell’s dark side. The part he kept hidden from the world. I’d seen him go dark and dangerous more times than I cared to remember. The last time was in Russia seven years ago, and it almost cost us our careers and lives. 
We were undercover working on a construction site near the Kremlin, planting bugs to intercept messages from inside the compound. Our cover as construction workers gave us access to the grounds.
But a Russian general’s daughter who worked at the Kremlin had caught Russell’s eye. She drove past the construction site daily, and he became obsessed with her. He stayed after work one night and followed her back to the general’s estate. I trailed him. He cornered her there, and when she refused his advances, he became crazed. What he did not know was that I saw and videotaped his crime.
I should have reported him to our superiors, but the political climate was too volatile, and if our cover were blown, all hell would have broken loose. So, I hid the video where no one could find it. The authorities questioned us as we were on her daily route, but our construction worker covers held. I always suspected the Russians didn’t believe us, but they had no proof. The official report said she’d been raped and strangled by an unknown person. The Russian police had no solid leads and no suspects other than the construction crews working in the area, and there had been no arrest. The Company station director removed us from the country, and we returned to the states.
A year had passed since I abruptly retired from the Company, or more precisely, fled from the Company and disappeared. I had decided that I couldn’t do the work anymore, but one does not retire from this job and disappear completely, but that is what I did. My former employers had issued “shoot to kill” orders, but I had to come. 
The black ops prisons that former operatives disappeared into and never heard from again were common knowledge. We couldn’t tell secrets if there was no one to tell.
However, I kept a few trusted contacts, and the rumors were that LeAnne was scheduled to vanish. She knew too much, and they wanted her out of circulation so that she couldn’t talk to anyone. The people who wanted me dead retained her to question her before she was sent to a black ops prison because they suspected she knew where I was. LeAnne had helped me disappear but did not know where I had fled. 
I followed Russell’s Mercedes until he got to the area of town where there was extensive CTV. I dropped back and let him go because I knew where he was going, and I didn’t want to be recognized.
I spent the next couple of days outside the city to finalize my plans to rescue LeAnne. I had retrieved the information I had hidden and set certain wheels in motion, which would happen regardless of my success. Then I rested and waited.
I watched the comings and goings from my vantage point outside of the city, never daring to enter until now. My contact reported that Russell was alone with LeAnne at the covert location. The trek took longer as I avoided the security cameras around the city. The skills they taught me to keep the country safe served me well to keep myself out of the kind of jail they denied exists.
They held her in a black ops house that I knew well. As I neared the house, I realized this was my last chance to back out, but I couldn’t. I owed her.
Russell opened the door as I stepped on the porch. “I never expected to see you again.”
“You wouldn’t now, would you?”
“How did you find me?”
“I hung out at the sheds in Lower Town. You always hated to find new drop locations. Followed you until I was sure you were headed for this ops house. I heard you had LeAnne and plan to transfer her to a federal prison tomorrow. A prison she will never walk out of, will she?”
He scoffed. “You can’t stop it. Besides, we have what we want now—you.” 
“Not going to happen, Russell, because LeAnne and I are walking out of here right now.”
Russell pulled his gun from its holster and aimed it at me. “You know I can’t let you do that.”
I smiled. “Yes, you can, and you will.” I pulled a manila envelope from inside my jacket. 
“In here are the details of the Russian mission nine years ago—pictures, names, dates, and video of what happened when the general’s daughter died. It proves you raped and strangled her. We all know the official version and that they bought it. Barely. This will put you where you want to send LeAnne.” 
“I can just shoot you.” He stuck the gun barrel against my chest.
“Within five minutes of my death, a copy of this report will go to your superiors and every major news outlet in the world, starting with the Russian press. How long do you think you’d last?”
He started to respond, but I dangled the package in front of him. He crossed the room and unlocked a door. “Get out here.”
LeAnne timidly entered the room and ran to me. “Thank you. I hoped you would come.” 
Russell was still holding the gun on me. “Give me the file.”
“Sure.” I raised my arm as if to toss it to him, but instead, in one quick move, I sent an uppercut to his jaw, and he was out cold. 
I dropped the envelope onto his body and grabbed LeAnne’s hand. As we hurried from the house, she asked why I had given Russell the information. 
“No, there was only blank paper in the envelope. I mailed the real report to his superiors. Russell will pay for what he did.”
                                                                                ~~~ 
The drive out of town seemed to take longer than it did. For an experienced operative, I jumped at every sudden move that any vehicle in my sight made. By the time Russell woke up, the files I’d sent from an anonymous, untraceable email account would be landing on his director’s desk, along with the ones I sent to various news agencies. LeAnne disappearing would be the least of his worries.
Eventually, the Company would get around to LeAnne and me. Russell would tell them I was there, but we would be long gone before they came looking for us. The only way to truly disappear was to die, and that is what LeAnne and I did. I’d faked bodies before, but I never thought I’d be faking my own.
A raid on a cadaver farm provided the bodies, and the staged car wreck burned the bodies beyond recognition. I planted our DNA at the scene, so there was just enough material left to prove it was us.
Six months later, while sitting in a beach cabana with LeAnne, I read the local newspaper. On the back page buried under the local island news about the cockfight ring that had just been broken up was a small piece about a former US spy charged in the rape and murder of a Russian General’s daughter more than nine years ago. 
As for LeAnne and I, we settled down to a quiet beach bum life. No black ops prisons for us. But I never stopped looking over my shoulder. 

​The key for the door to vault eighteen had been missing for centuries. It was the last of the old vault rooms in the castle anyone had explored. The solid wood planks and steel reinforcements had made forcing the door impossible, and no one tried despite the legend that there was a fortune in treasure behind the door. A whispered legend of crown jewels his family had kept safe for the monarchy. 

A nobleman named Lord Jonathon Rice ordered the castle built upon his marriage to Lady Willmont sometime during the late sixteen hundreds. As the current Lord Rice, the Fifth Earl of Riceland, I inherited the castle decades ago. 

When I first inherited the estate, I eagerly explored the castle. A handyman had found a stash of keys buried behind debris and farm equipment in an old barn. After discovering some of the keys opened the vaults, I was confident I would find the long-lost treasure. As confident as I could be with no proof the treasure existed. 

Over the years, I had the vaults opened and explored, only to find wine or foodstuffs such as honey that were long past use. Among the finds were some valuable pieces of armor, but the vaults held nothing of real value for the most part. Although with only one vault left to explore, I gave up. The odds of that vault containing the legendary treasure were unlikely.

I concentrated on the repair and upkeep, which proved more expensive than I could afford. While the sheep herd and sale of raw wool helped some, lack of adequate funds forced me to put off much-needed repairs and cut staff. There was a real danger that I would have to sign the estate over to the government for back taxes or open the estate to the public for tours. 

Opening the estate to visitors wasn’t entirely a bad arrangement as doing so would provide the resources for restoration. Support from the government was available for upkeep and staff, at least concerning the public tours. However, it was an idea that I loathed. If I could, I wanted to keep Rice castle private as long as possible, but each year the prospects looked dimmer and dimmer.

So I fought back the debtors as best I could to try and find funds to keep the estate going. In my quest, I became obsessed with the possibility that perhaps the treasure the family legend spoke of was in vault eighteen, the only vault we couldn’t open. 

There were precisely three thousand seven hundred and fifty-seven books dating back to the seventeenth century in the library. A few were valuable enough that they were on loan to libraries and museums, but most were ordinary books from over the years. Each volume was removed from the shelves, cataloged, and inventoried in the search for the Vault Eighteen key but found no reference. 

I was aware that the likelihood of finding anything of value there was slim and none, but there was little to lose, so I created a plan to open the vault. After the door was open and if I found nothing, I would start the sale of the estate to the government. 

                                                                            ***
The night before we attempted to force the vault door, I went to the dark-paneled library and poured myself a drink from the small bar. As I wandered to my favorite leather chair next to the fireplace and began to sit, I noticed a small gap in a section of paneling that filled the space between the bookcases, one I had never noticed. I used the library as my office, and yet, as many hours as I had spent there, I never saw that crack. 

Tumbler in hand, I examined the crack in the paneling. The gap did not look fresh as if someone had recently tried to pry it open. The edges were aged as the other wood was from decades of exposure. 

Gently I placed a fingertip against the edge and pressed lightly. The panel seemed to move ever so slightly. What? Wiggling my finger into the crack, I pushed with a bit more effort. The panel slid open a bit more, and my skin prickled as I kept pressing, and a tall narrow opening revealed itself. I grabbed a torch from a cabinet and bent to examine the hole more closely. There were no tool marks to indicate someone cut the gap in the panel. It had to be original. 

There were several more of the panels in the frames of the shelves. I tested each, discovering they didn’t move. Only the one panel slid just enough to reveal a small hiding spot. 

I shined my flashlight into the hole and thought I saw a glint in the reflection that seemed to go back to the back wall of the shelves. Yes—there was something in there. A key? 

Poking around in my desk drawers, I found an old T-square ruler. I slid a chair next to the shelves and sat, where I would be at eye level with the gap. Light from the flashlight revealed there was something metallic in there. 

“Okay, here it goes.” I jiggled the ruler around and managed to get the crossed end over the object, and started gently easing it forward toward me. I dropped the torch as the object fell to the floor.

Key eighteen lay bathed in torchlight.

I sank back into the chair and stared at the floor, not moving. My eyes wandered from the key on the floor to the small compartment hidden in the bookcase. How no one had noticed the crack for all these years was a surprise.
 
I realized I wasn’t breathing and forced myself to inhale and exhale until my breathing and pulse returned to normal, and started to think again. I looked over the key in the light of my ancient desk lamp. Comparing it with the other keys, it was indeed one of the original keys from the collection. But this was the missing key.

It was late, but I couldn’t wait. Grabbing the torch, I hurried through the halls until I reached the door to the dungeon stairs. I paused, my heart pounding. All hinged on what was in that vault.

The catacombs were dank, and the narrow torch beam was swallowed in the darkness. I made my way to vault eighteen. The heavy wood and steel-clad door seemed more ominous than before. Holding my breath, I inserted the key. 

It wouldn’t budge. 

I tried and tried, but I couldn’t get the key to turn. After frustrating myself and fearful that I would break the key, I decided to wait for morning. I would call a locksmith to open the lock. I didn’t sleep well that night. 
 
                                                                            ***

At seven a.m. the following day, I called a locksmith from the nearest town, and he arrived by eight o’clock. He was angry at my insistence that he come immediately but happy for the extra money I paid him to get there. I was only hoping I wasn’t spending my dwindling funds on a lost cause.

He examined the lock and the key, cleaning out the door lock of dirt and debris from years of nonuse. He filed rough edges from the key and liberally oiled both. He handed me the key, and I inserted it in the lock. 

I wiggled the key, feeling the pressure in my fingertips. I held my breath as the resistance gave way and, with a metallic click, the door unlocked.

I thanked the locksmith and dismissed him. I was going to see what was in that chamber without other prying eyes.

Alone, it took all of my might to swing the door, with its rusted hinges, open. The smell of three-hundred-year-old stale air hit me, and I gagged. Stepping back to let the room air out, I swung the flashlight around the interior. 

I waited for a few minutes then stepped into the room. The smell of centuries-old stale air was oppressive, but I could breathe. The room was larger than the other vaults had been, and there were no windows in the room—the only light coming from my torch.

Centuries of family lore hinted at a treasure worth a fortune. Stories told of a valuable find by Lord Jonathon Rice during the seventeen hundreds. Now three hundred years later, I was standing in vault eighteen to discover if the legend was real.

There was only one thing in the chamber—a table in the center of the room with a wooden casket sitting on top.

It dawned on me to take pictures, so I pulled my mobile from my pocket and took a flash photo. The amount of dust settled on the casket obscured the top, and I brushed it away only to sneeze and gag for a few minutes until I could get my breath. Once the dust settled a bit, I took more photos. 
 
The box’s lid contained a burled wood inlay and a pattern in what shone like gold-embedded wood. I recognized that pattern as I had seen it many times before in the house. It was the family coat of arms. 

Running my fingers along the top, I realized there were no latches. I tried to raise the cover, but it was too tight. I searched my pocket for the small knife I always carried, and I slid it around the seam until the lid loosened. 

My heart pounded in my chest, my fingers trembling as I touched the lid. I was about to see if the stories of the family hiding a set of crown jewels were true. What if there was a second set? Was the original Lord Rice charged with keeping a reserve set of jewels, a way of keeping them safe from those who would overthrow a king? Or was the legend a fairy tale like Peter Pan or St. Nicholas?

I had my answer when I lifted the lid. The narrow beam of light from my torch shone on a large purple velvet bag, drawn shut with a gold cord—a wax seal with the royal crest securing the cord’s knot. 

***
I rushed upstairs carrying the casket and yelled for my wife. Lady Dinah came running into the library. 

“What is going on?”

“I found the key to vault eighteen. I couldn’t get the lock open last night, so I called a locksmith and,” he removed the cover, “look.”

She peered into the box, and the color drained from her face. “Oh my, that is the royal crest. You found that in the vault?”

“Yes.” My wife breathed quietly as I gently lifted it from the box. Someone slid the box out from under the bag as I lifted it.

“I think so, hon.” I could barely breathe as I set it down. 

“We shouldn’t open it. You should call James. He will know what to do.”

I agreed and placed the call to James Marsan, our attorney, who decided it was best to have someone from the government present. They arrived at three in the afternoon. 

My wife and I escorted our attorney and three representatives from the government and the Queen to the library, where the box sat on the stately family library table. 

As soon as the Queen’s representative saw the royal crest on the wax seal, he smiled. “We have known that in the seventeen hundreds, the then monarch commissioned a duplicate set of the crown jewels, St. Edward’s Crown and the Sovereign's Orb, out of fear that if the monarchy were overthrown, the rightful heir would be king or queen by possessing these crown jewels. It may have been a foolish thought, but if that velvet bag contains those two items, it would be the greatest find in English history.”

After documenting the bag, the crown’s representative instructed me to cut through the cord, leaving the wax seal intact. Carefully, I pulled the bag away from the contents. 

Before us sat the duplicate crown and orb, the Crown Jewels. 

To say that our lives changed forever at that moment is an understatement. Due to public interest, the government placed the estate on the historical places registry and funded all renovations. As the true Crown Jewels were secure, safely tucked in the Tower of London, these jewels were on display for all to see—for a fee, of course. 
To my surprise, I found that I have enjoyed escorting strangers through the estate, especially to my favorite stops, the library and vault eighteen. However, I found my deepest satisfaction when the visitors entered the parlor where the jewels are displayed. As they viewed the crown and orb for the first time, their eyes widened in awe— just as mine did.
Thank goodness, I found that key. 

Footsteps echoed around me. My footsteps.

It crossed my mind someone might have followed me, but it couldn’t have been. My dark-colored sedan blended in with the rest of the cars on the road. And in the dark, it could look like either a dark blue or black or if the light hit it exactly right, even a purple of some sort. 

I tucked my badge safely away in the glove box of the car. If once cared to read the ID that went with it, it would say, Lew Ayres, Detective First Class, the shield was gold. 

She came down the tunnel from the opposite direction that I came in. I knew she’d taken the same pains I had to throw off a tail. 

“You good?”

“Yeah, they don’t suspect a thing.” Detective Linda Malone reported.

“They think you’re an eccentric art collector from out west somewhere and looking to buy a rare painting and don’t much care where you get it.”

“They have it?”

“Yes. and they’re prepared to sell it to you for a million dollars cash.”

“You’re sure it’s real?”

“Yes, they say it is. I can’t question it too much, or they’ll get suspicious. But from what I’ve seen of it, it’s real, or an excellent fake.”

“Good. Set up the meeting.”

“They want to meet you at the Westberry Park south side. They’ll be contacting you tomorrow. Here.” She handed me a paper with the name and address of the park on it.
“OK. I’ll get over there early and check it out.”

“Just don’t get spotted.”

“I know.”

 She turned, headed back where she came from and disappeared.

 I watched her leave, then retraced my steps carefully to stay in the shadows once I was on the street again.
 
My experience last month with the prevention of the theft of several million dollars’ worth of bearer bonds and the potential hostile takeover of a small company gave me some creds and got me selected for this case.

The mission this time was to retrieve a stolen painting and return it to the museum. The thieves didn’t expect anyone would discover the painting missing until they set up the exhibit opening . However, alert security spotted it was missing from storage. The artwork needed to be back at the museum in less than a week for the opening. 

​

 
The museum had two security systems. The public one that everyone saw and heard. And the covert system that no one saw or heard. It was that system that alerted them to the theft of the painting.

The thieves disabled the primary system quickly and gained entry and exit through a secure back entrance. With the ongoing renovation in that part of the building, some cameras were out of service. Perfect set up to get in and out without detection. Almost.

Routine review of the covert security back up system revealed the theft, and the police notified. Art dealers and traders received emails alerting them to the robbery. However, 

Certain other parties found out about the theft. Those that dealt in art that was of questionable provenance. These people didn’t ask questions and rarely got their hands dirty. But in this case, the notoriety of the piece would make it extremely hard to sell, and anyone remotely connected to its sale or theft in any way would have catastrophic consequences to the dealer. At the least, they would end up in prison or, at the worst, dead. Risk versus reward mattered. However, the prize was often too great to pass up.

Detective Linda Malone was the star of the art recovery squad and had spent many months undercover in the “gray market” of art. Her knowledge of art and its players had helped her make several high-profile busts in recent years. When she got word of the theft, she put the word out that she had a buyer for it. 

It didn’t take long for the thieves to contact her. 

We met at the station to coordinate my cover story as a buyer and made sure the details would stand up if they checked me out.

All of this had happened quickly with the museum exhibit scheduled to open the next week and the painting its main attraction and draw. If it weren’t there, it would be an embarrassment to the museum. But more importantly, a theft would ruin the museum’s credibility, and the insurance payout would be astronomical. The recovery of the painting quickly was essential. 

It seemed the thieves were in a hurry to get rid of the painting. Once Linda contacted them, she made the deal.

​

The early morning sun was just breaking over the trees when I arrived the next morning—staying in the shadows. I waited. They had picked a good place as there was no cover to provide proper protection. Linda and I would be in the middle of the park in the open.

The phone call an hour ago told me to be at Westberry Park on the south side just beyond the public restrooms and to bring the money in a large leather messenger bag. It was a heavy bag—a million dollars in small bills. 

I was already there when my cell phone rang, having gotten the location from Linda the night before. The calling number was unlisted, and probably from a burner phone, tracing it was useless. I went through the motions of claiming I had to get the money ready, but I was already near the meeting spot. 

I had cover, but he was too far away to do much good if it went south. I wore two bugs. One they could find and hopefully find and one they wouldn’t. I also carried two guns, hoping for the same find one, not the other. I hoped not to have to use them.

A couple came from the far side of the clearing. The woman was pushing a baby carriage, one of the old ones with the big wheels and a full basket for the wee little one to ride in safety. Also perfect for carrying a million-dollar painting and a million dollars in cash.

 I recognized Linda. The man with her, I didn’t know. I glanced at my watch just before I stepped into the clearing. They were right on time. Always a good sign. I like my criminals' punctual.

Carrying my bag, I strolled into the clearing. I was wearing one of my best suits, and the Panama hat I wore was of the highest quality. I had to look the part of a wealthy art collector.

“Malone?” I asked as we met.

“Yeah, I’m Malone.”

“You have a painting?”

“You have the cash?”

 I held up the bag. “Right here a million dollars. That painting better be real.”

“Oh, it is, I assure you.”

Glancing around, he flipped the blanket back on the carriage. Lying flat in the bottom of the carriage was the painting. 

“How do I know you are telling me the truth that it's real?”

“It's real, all right. I just got it from the museum.”  He reached under the painting and pulled out a duffle bag all folded up. Snapping it open. “Put the money in here.” 

  I heaved the messenger bag up on the side of the carriage. Opening it, I pulled stacks of bills from inside and tossed into the duffle bag.

 “Now, the painting.” I reached for it.

“No, not yet.”

“The deal was I give you money. You give me the painting.”

“You’ll get it when I’m sure the money’s not traceable. Malone will call you. Where to pick up the painting.”

“Hold it. That’s not our deal. I want the picture now!”

“You’ll get when I’m ready.”

 I pulled my gun. At this range, his head would end up all over the nice green grass. I leveled my pistol at him. “You're ready now.” 

“I don’t think so. See that man over there?” He pointed off to the side. 

“If I don’t walk out of here with the money and the picture, he’ll kill her.”

Off to the side was a man holding a gun on a woman. He stood behind her, using her as a shield. One arm pressed across her chest, the other holding a gun barrel against the side of her head. 

“Look, all I want is my painting. I don’t want anyone hurt.”

“Drop the gun, and I walk out, and you’ll get it.”

 I had no choice. I had to lower my gun. Linda and the man backed slowly out of the clearing. I glanced back, and the man was gone. The woman sat in a puddle in the middle of the glade between the trees.

 “Shit! Shit!!” I said more to myself than the man on the other end of the bug.

Officers who were backing me up swamped the park. Two officers attended to the hostage and called an ambulance. She was all right but shaken up badly. She’d been out for her morning walk when he appeared from nowhere and forced her to the clearing. As quickly as he’d appeared, he disappeared. They found no traces of him. We’d all seen him, but it was too late when we did.

I spent the rest of the morning at the station talking to brass and explaining how we not only didn’t have the picture but a million of the taxpayer’s dollars. I kept wishing my phone would ring with Linda on the other end, telling me where to pick up the picture.

The phone never rang.

​

I kept my phone plugged in for fear of the battery going down and my not getting the call. About one p.m., the phone rang. It was Linda. 

“Strong. The picture in a locker at the bus station.”

She’d used my cover name, and she sounded stressed, too stressed. She was a pro, and she didn’t faze easily. She was in trouble. 

“What’s the locker number?”

“478. North side of the building.”

“Where's the key?”

“You’ll find it.” She hung up.

 I called my boss over. Telling him what she'd just told me. He grabbed his phone. “I’ll send someone over to get it.”

“No, I’m going. If they’re watching the locker and don’t see me, who knows what they’ll do.” He agreed. I'd have a tail on me just in case. I wasn’t crazy about the tail, but it made sense and was cover for me.

It didn't take me long to get over to the bus station, but I didn’t go right in. I stayed in the car for a few minutes watching the interior as best I could through the glass doors. The second gunman had been too far away for me to identify again. But I wasn’t taking any chances. I loosened the gun in the shoulder holster before I got out of the car. Glancing around, I spotted the tail. He was sitting across the parking lot from me. I made no indication that I saw him. I usually button the top button on my suit coat, but now I left it open as it would make it that much easier to get my gun out if needed. Standing just inside the lobby, I looked around. 

Everyone seemed to belong there. There were several people at the counters buying tickets and even more waiting near one of the doors leading to the buses. I was looking for anyone who was trying to look like they were supposed to be here. Working too hard at it, that is. 

There were two alcoves with lockers on either side of the main lobby. I resisted the impulse to hurry to lockers. I didn't even have a key for 478. So instead, I sat down on a bench near the north set of lockers. 

Linda had said I’d find the key. But where? The only place to hide a key would be the restrooms. So, I went in. After doing what one does in a public restroom, I stalled at the sink while the other guy that was there left. It took me a few minutes, but I found the key to 478, shoved down behind a toilet. I barely got it without having to get on my knees. The floor here wasn’t something I wanted to see that close.

 Outside the men’s room, I took my time and looked around again. No one seemed to be paying attention to me. I noticed the backup sitting on a bench reading a paper not far from the locker. He was too close to suit me. But I couldn’t do anything to attract attention to either of us.


478 was a top row locker. I opened the locker and found a note inside. I pulled my handkerchief from my pocket and pretended to blow my nose in case someone was watching. With the handkerchief in my hand, I carefully picked it up. I resisted the temptation to look at it now. I folded it into the material of the handkerchief and walked out the door.

This was not a good sign. They were playing games with us now. 

Back in the car, I started breathing again. I hadn’t realized how tense I was until I was outside. I remembered feeling like everyone was looking at me. A few seconds later, my backup came out the same door. He didn't even look at me, going straight to his car.

Back at the office, I opened the handkerchief with my bosses and other top brass watching. The note said, “So Long Sucker.” Finding Jamie Roundhouse’s prints on the note were enough to give us a place to start. We spent the rest of the afternoon tracking him down. He had disappeared from his usual haunts, and no one had seen him in several days.

​

 I also set up another meeting in the subway tunnel with Linda. 

Again, the eerie feeling of being watched followed me into the subway tunnel. 
In the daytime, it looked just as forgotten and forlorn as it had in the early morning hours. As this was a little-used branch of the system, it was relatively safe to meet here.

“What happened this morning?”

“I don’t know. I didn't know anything about the guy with the gun. Never saw him before.”

“Roundhouse. Where is he?”

“He disappeared as soon as we got out of the park. I was afraid he’d shoot me as soon as we got clear. He didn't.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“I know.”

“I’d have shot you. You’re a liability. You know who he is.”

“This is great. We lost a 2-million-dollar painting and another million in cash in the space of 12 hours.”

“I know. Here.”

 I took the paper.

‘It’s a list of the fences I contacted about the painting. Maybe he’ll call one of them.”

 I glanced at the list. Recognizing a few of the names from the list we’d gotten in from the museum. 

​

What I neglected to tell Linda or any of the officers involved with the handoff of the money was that it was fake. Counterfeit. Particularly good counterfeit, but counterfeit, nevertheless. Only a couple of the top brass knew about the switch. No one below me knew. As far as they knew, it was real.

So now it was a waiting game. Eventually, it would show up in circulation. 
Not only was the money counterfeit but marked counterfeit. It was a waiting game. It would show up somewhere.

 A month later, it did.

A convenience store security video showed the man I’d met in the park passing the bogus money, and it didn't take long to Id him. Within a week, we arrested him and his gun-toting partner on the hill and recovered the painting.

I met Linda in the tunnel one last time.

“Why didn't you tell me the money was fake and marked?”

“I figured you figured it was marked. As for the fake money, I had to have everyone believe it was real. If they thought it was fake, they’d be less diligent. Besides, fooling everyone was half the fun.”

​

It was usual to see a red park bench. Much less under some trees next to a stream. 
But there it was.
The park appeared deserted. This was where they said to meet. I pulled the note from my pocket and glanced at it again, then shoved it back in my pocket.
Glancing around, I wandered near the grove of trees, sitting on the bench to wait. The heat from the sun was less intense in the shade covering the bench, and it made it more natural for me to sit here, pretending to read the newspaper.
I realized in my nervousness that I’d almost opened the paper upside down. I would have looked suspicious, not to mention stupid, if anyone had seen me. A glance at my watch told me it was time. I snuck a glance over the top of the paper every few seconds. I felt stupid, why not look the part?
 I spotted her right on time, coming from the other side of the clearing. She sat on the far end of the bench. She didn’t look at me. “You bring the money?”
“Yes... But...?”
“Show me.” 
I reached inside my jacket and pulled a large envelope stuffed full of money from the inside pocket. I held it up where she could see it. 
“Good.” 
“What am I buying for all of this cash?”
“Your freedom.”
“My freedom?”
She pulled a small DVD player from her purse, sliding it on the bench between us. “Play the video.”
I hadn’t seen one of these cheap DVD players in a long time. I hit the play button, and the seven-inch screen came to life.
On the screen was me. From the angle, I could tell the camera was up in the upper right corner of the room. There was a bookshelf on that wall. It would have been easy to hide a small camera in the books. I had disabled the security cameras when I opened the safe. But they were smart and had a second line of cameras as a failsafe. It worked. They now had me dead to rights. 
“Why not show it to the police?”
“We thought about it. But we have another job we want you to do instead.”
“What about the money?”
“That was just to get you here. Keep It. You have something more valuable than that.”
“Yeah, like what?” I turned and looked at her directly. If they dropped that video on the police, they’d have me in jail in no time flat. They had me pretty good. 
“Okay, what is it you want me to do?” 
She squirmed around to face me, taking the DVD player back and sliding it into her purse.
“There's another safe we need you to get into.”
“I’ll bite, what's so important?”
“Bearer Bonds. Worth a fortune.”
“Fortune to who, you or me?”
“To whoever can produce them in a week at the board meeting.”
And you want to produce them?”
“Yes. Will you do It?”
“I don’t see as I have any choice, do I?”
“No not really.” She handed me a large, plain brown envelope. It was letter size and stuffed as full as it could get. “The details are in here. We meet back here tomorrow at noon after you studied the plans and read the information here.”
 I took the envelope and shoved it into my jacket next to the money I didn't need.   Half an hour later I was in my office. Carefully opening the envelope, I kept it intact and carefully removed its contents. I then dusted the envelope for prints. As expected, mine was there along with hers. I was able to isolate the prints from the girl in the park. Scanning them into the computer, I ran them.
Sure enough, she had a record a yard long. From everything from extortion, blackmail, and even a few sex-related offenses. She was a real prize. In fact, when I checked, there were half a dozen felony warrants out for her. 
I made a phone call. “It worked. They bit,” I told the man on the other end.
I studied the plans and paperwork she gave me. It was a good plan, and the information was all right and up to date. Which told us she had an inside man somewhere. 
I did as she asked me to do and worked up a plan to steal the bonds from the safe. It would not be easy, and in fact, it was dangerous. They could kill me, never mind land in jail. I made a few more phone calls to finalize plans. 
The next day I showed up in the grove of trees with the red bench, again pretending to read the paper. She appeared out of nowhere and sat next to me. We didn't bother to pretend that we didn't know each other.
“Well?” Her first words when she sat down. 
She was wearing the same jacket, and I suspected there was a gun under it. I decided not to find out yet.
“Still working on it. A job like this takes time.”
“You don’t have the luxury of time. It needs to be done tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes, they moved the board meeting up to tomorrow.”
I didn’t tell her I had them move it up.
 “Shit... Okay, I can do it, barely.”
She pulled the gun I was certain she had. “You stay with me until tonight.”
We walked together out of the park, pretending we were a couple, her gun hidden when we ran into people. A couple all right, a couple of thieves.
She led me to her car and pushed me into the back seat; she slid in after me. A man was driving, and he started the car the second she closed her door. No one said anything for the entire drive. Since they didn't bother to blindfold me or do anything to keep me from seeing where they were going, I figured it meant they didn't intend for me to come back again. The building we stopped at wasn’t far from the target.
At eight in the evening, along with the girl and her two henchmen companions, I put the plans I’d made into action. After one of her guys bypassed the security system, I jimmied the rear service door. We were in—but not all the way.
The next part was the dangerous part. We had to crawl through the ventilation shafts to the elevator access doors and make our way into the main vault, where the company stored the money and other important papers, and the bearer bonds.
Once we got past the hallway security systems without tripping anything, I still had to get into the vault itself. It took me an hour to get the vault open. Once inside, she went straight for the bonds. Not touching anything else, and there was a lot to touch. Currency was stacked like cordwood, while heavy-duty locks secured the cabinets in the file room of the vault. 
In less than ten minutes, we were out of the vault.
I heard a noise and knew what it was. Waiting until I got to the intersection of two corridors, I held up my hand for us to stop. And we waited. 
Within seconds, bright lights went on, and the doors in the halls opened as an armed swat team appeared out of nowhere. We all froze. Within minutes, officers took the girl and her gang into custody. 
Later in the interrogation room, I sat across from her. My badge hung from its chain around my neck. All she could do was swear and ask how. 
I told them the entire thing had been a setup. The owner of the company came to the police with information that someone was trying to take over his business. He just didn’t know who, but they had discovered the hidden camera. I broke into the office safe, aware of the hidden camera in the bookcase. We were waiting for someone to approach me about the theft in the office. 
I told her I had arranged for the board meeting to be moved ahead, thus forcing her hand. She played right into our plans. We captured her gang along with the money man, an insider who wanted the bonds for a buyout/takeover of the company.
As officers led her away, I thought about that peaceful red bench. It was an excellent place to meet a snitch.
 
​


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