Jeff Abbott - No Rest for the Dead

And so Peter Heusen, the tipsy socialite, and Christopher Thomas, the former curator with an eye for the art market and connections, made a perfect team. They despised each other, of course. But so did half the Allied commanders during World War II (Thomas loved his history). Over the past decade they’d stolen hundreds of millions’ worth of art and artifacts and placed them privately overseas-generally one or two pieces at a time: a Renoir from a university museum in upstate New York, a jewel-encrusted medieval chalice from a fashion magnate in Milan, a Picasso from a foundation in Barcelona, a Manet from the secret pied-à-terre that a philanthropist kept for his mistress (no police reports on that one, unsurprisingly).

And there were more to come.

But right now he had one thing on his mind: escape. As fast as he could. Jon Nunn was no longer a cop, but he was still nosing around. After the botched heist it was only a matter of time before Nunn learned of Heusen’s involvement, and the path would lead to Thomas himself, if it hadn’t already.

Then there was the phone call.

A fast, clean escape wasn’t as difficult, or unanticipated, as it seemed. Christopher Thomas had always known that he risked being found out and that he might have to bail at any moment. He had an escape plan, millions in cash, gold in international banks, his safe house in Brazil.

He placed a call to his private charter service and had them stand by.

Thomas now strode into his bedroom and pulled the American Touristers out from under the bed. (Vuitton? He didn’t even own any. What is somebody going to steal, a suitcase from Macy’s or a $1,000 one? Why are people such idiots? )

In five minutes he’d packed all his clothes. He’d drive himself to the Oakland airport, leave the rental car in long-term parking, where it wouldn’t be noticed for two or three months.

Thomas looked around the hotel room. Where was that other suitcase?

The doorbell rang.

He looked through the peephole. Grimacing, he opened the door.

Artie Ruby stood there, hip cocked, looking… jaunty was the word that came to mind. The man was wearing a rumpled suit that he might’ve owned when they’d first met more than a decade ago. He blinked uncertainly as he gazed at Thomas. Then his eyes took in the deformed hand. “Chris! It is you!”

A sigh. “And you’re the one who called, Artie.”

“Holy moley. I never saw the new face. You look… Jesus, what’d they do, move bones around or something?”

Thomas looked over the man’s shoulder.

“Don’t worry. I wasn’t followed. Took me hours ’cause I doubled back three times.”

Satisfied, Thomas muttered, “How did you find me?”

“Little bird sang.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“I went to see Peter. He was drunk and he let slip where he thought you were. Relax! I see that look. I didn’t tell nobody! I’ve kept everything a secret all these years.” Artie snickered. “That Peter, just can’t keep his mouth shut.”

“No, he can’t. That’s true.”

Artie was looking around, impressed. The hotel room was twice the size of Artie’s entire apartment. His shabby shoes left mud stains on the carpet.

“So?” Thomas asked because the script called for it.

“We’re adults, right, Chris? Businessmen?”

“No. I am, and you’re nothing. Now get to the point.”

“Ha. Funny. Okay, I know that some shit is going to hit the fan pretty soon. I want to get out of the country.”

“And you want the number for the airport shuttle.”

Artie’s face hardened. “You know what I’m here about.”

“Money, of course. So you’re blackmailing me.”

Artie paused, as if offended. “I just want to be compensated, like everybody else.”

“You already have been.”

“But not enough.” Artie grinned, cocky.

“How much?”

“Enough to live on for the rest of my life.”

“That could be pocket change.”

Artie’s eyes widened and he blurted, “If you hurt me, there’s a letter I’ve written and given to… to somebody. If anything happens, it gets delivered. It’s got everything in it, Chris-faking your death, getting the body into the iron maiden, shipping it off to Germany.”

“Well, I’m not in the mood to argue with you. How much are you talking?”

People invariably underbid themselves.

“Five million.”

Thomas adamantly shook his head. “You’re crazy. I could do one, maybe.”

“Three.”

“Two.”

Artie grumbled, “Okay. But cash.”

“I can get it.”

“No way, José. I mean now .”

“Why do you use all those clichés? ‘José’?”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. Um, Artie, I mean, I can get the money from the other room. Now.”

The man blinked.

Thomas added, “But the problem is this letter you were mentioning. You spend the two million and you’re going to come back for more.”

“No, I won’t.”

“You say that but of course you would.” A frown. “Wait. Here’s a thought. I’ll pay you two million now. Then when you’re safe somewhere, I’ll meet this guy who has the letter-your brother-in-law or lawyer or… whoever-”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s… a lawyer I know.”

“I’ll meet him, and if he gives me the letter unopened, I’ll give him another million for you. How’s that sound?”

“Yeah?” Artie rubbed his face and looked like a kid who’d just been told school was canceled for the day. “Deal.” He stuck out an unclean hand.

Thomas ignored the gesture. Walking into the bedroom, he heard Artie say, “Man, that’s one kick-ass bar. You mind if I help myself to a short one?”

“Go right ahead.”

Christopher Thomas did have several million dollars in the bedroom-an amount that probably weighed more than scrawny Artie was able to lift, let alone cart off. But instead of the money, Thomas walked to his dresser and withdrew a Colt Python.357 Magnum. Though the diameter of the bullet was smaller than a.38,.44, or.45, the load was massive, and the hollow-point slug would mushroom instantly upon hitting human flesh and fling the victim to the floor as if struck by a car.

Hand at his side, he returned to the living room, where he found Artie not with a “short one” but with a glass full to the rim with single-malt scotch that cost $800 a bottle. He was slavering like a spaniel.

“For a dead man, you got some nice shit here-” Artie gasped as he saw the gun. The glass crashed to the floor. “No! Don’t shoot me!”

“I’ve often said people should die just because they’re stupid… Blackmailing me , Artie?”

“The letter! I’m not kidding. It tells everything!”

Thomas could only laugh. A minute ago Artie had told him how to find the letter-if there even was a letter. And later in the night, before anybody noticed Artie was missing and Thomas was long gone, he would have some of his minders comb through Artie’s apartment and get the name of every lawyer he’d ever had contact with. The muscle would make sure the letter, if it existed, was recovered unopened.

Or maybe they’d just kill the shyster.

Either way…

Thomas drew back the hammer of the weapon with a click and aimed.

“No! Please!”

He began to pull the trigger.

The gathering last night had felt haunted by the restless ghosts of Rosemary and Christopher Thomas. Now the forensic anthropologist’s words had shoved one of those ghosts from shadow into light, dissolving him. Because Christopher Thomas might well still walk the earth.

Jon Nunn felt breath surge back into his chest. The numbness that had clutched him since he’d realized Rosemary could well have been innocent began to ease its awful grip.