Carla Neggers: Liar's Key

Gordy figured if he was supposed to have come out of this thing dead, he’d be dead.

The warning meant he wasn’t grasping at straws. He was on to something.

He tossed the cup and candy wrapper into the trash. He’d have to tough out the pain from his bruises. He got a collared shirt out of his bag. He’d opted against a suit and tie, but he did have a navy sport coat. He wouldn’t be dressed as if he were off to play golf, at least.

He hadn’t planned to change his slacks despite having slept in them, but he noticed blood on his right hip, visible and obvious against the light gray flannel. He must have touched the blood on his face and then his pants. He dug out fresh trousers. He saw he had a scrape on his right hand, probably from breaking his fall, but it didn’t bother him.

Getting dressed hurt. Walking would hurt, too. Hell, thinking hurt. The attack hadn’t been a coincidence. He’d asked for it, sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. But who all knew he was in Boston?

Once he was dressed, he checked his reflection in the mirror above the small desk in the corner. Better. He looked as if he’d had a bad night, but he didn’t see any visible sign of blood or bruises.

He took the elevator three floors down to the lobby. After a moment’s deliberation, he checked out and left his bag with the bellman, a different one from last night.

He went outside, the sunlight making his head hurt worse. It was a warm spring morning, at least by Boston standards. He walked past the wharf where the New England Aquarium was located, a crowd assembled at the entrance. Parents, toddlers, students and teachers on spring field trips. A few retirees. Not many. Gordy figured he sort of blended in and people could think he was meeting his grandkids, but he’d chosen his hotel for its proximity to his ten o’clock meeting with the FBI. A little late to cover his tracks, anyway. Whoever had attacked him had obviously known where to find him. Followed him from the airport, then waited for him to come out for a smoke? What if he hadn’t? Maybe his attacker had nailed the wrong guy. But Gordy didn’t think so.

He dug out the pack of cigarettes he’d bought after arriving at Logan, tapped one out and lit it with the disposable lighter he’d bought at the same time. If he hadn’t been sneaking a cigarette, would he have been blindsided last night?

Moot point now.

He took two puffs and tossed the cigarette onto the sidewalk. He ground it out under his foot, scooped up the butt and pitched it into a trash can. Never mind someone assaulting him. If the local cops saw him litter, they’d be all over him.

Gordy chuckled to himself, feeling better. Now that he was awake and the caffeine and chocolate were taking effect, the warning and his tumble last night had fired up his adrenaline. He was tuned in, confident he was back in the game. Almost a year playing golf and hanging out with his wife and the kids and grandkids in North Carolina hadn’t softened him up too much. He wouldn’t be caught off guard another time.

A chilly gust blew off the harbor. A stab of pain seemed to go through his eyeball, but he shook it off. Hell, he might even survive May in Boston. He thought he’d never get used to living in North Carolina again, but here he was, shivering.

He glanced at his watch. He’d have to hoof it not to be late for his meeting with the FBI, specifically Special Agent Emma Sharpe.

The hell with that.

He’d take his time. He was an FBI legend. Emma could wait.

2

At first Emma didn’t recognize the man standing in her office doorway. Gordy Wheelock? Had to be. People didn’t just walk into her small FBI building on the Boston waterfront, and she was expecting him. He’d called her last night to set up their meeting. “Ten o’clock sharp, Emma. Funny, huh? Sharp, Emma. Emma Sharpe. Ha.”

That was Gordy, always with the lame humor.

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking pained. “I know. I look like Yank’s drunken uncle these days. Sorry. I should have warned you.”

Yank—Matt Yankowski—was the senior agent in charge of HIT, the specialized FBI team of which Emma was a handpicked member. She doubted he had a drunken uncle.

Yank and Gordy weren’t friends.

“No problem,” Emma said. “Come in, please. It’s good to see you.”

He stepped into her small office. She did her best to hide her shock at seeing him. Gordon Wheelock was an FBI legend who’d taken the investigation of art crimes to a new level during his thirty-year career, but he didn’t look like a legend this morning. He had dark circles and puffy bags under his eyes, and he’d put on weight—at least fifteen pounds. His hair was sparse and totally gray now, not the salt-and-pepper of just a year ago when she’d flown back to DC to attend his retirement party. He wore a collared ice-blue shirt without a tie, a navy sport jacket, tan trousers and scuffed leather walking shoes. The clothes were wrinkled, as if he’d pulled them out of a suitcase or a laundry basket.

Before joining HIT and moving to Boston last March, Emma had worked with Gordy in Washington for several months. Like her, his area of expertise was art crimes. He understood as a law enforcement professional the intersection of major art crimes with other major crimes—embezzlement, extortion, kidnapping, money laundering, drug smuggling, illegal weapons trafficking, murder and even terrorism. He didn’t have a background in art but considered that a strength. She had a degree in art history, and she was a Sharpe—her grandfather was a world-renowned private art detective. Matt Yankowski had urged her to join the FBI and then had chosen her for HIT specifically because of her expertise, but Gordy had warned her not to get distracted by her knowledge and interests. We don’t investigate protocols, controversies and cool stuff going on in the art world, Agent Sharpe. We investigate potential and actual federal crimes.

Word was he’d been ready to retire, but Emma had never asked him for his reasons.

He nodded to the papers, index cards and Post-it notes she’d arranged on the inexpensive sofa against the wall opposite her desk. “Anything interesting?”

“No, unfortunately. I’m sorting through the contents of some physical files.”

“Anything interesting, you wouldn’t let me near it.”

She forced a smile. She noticed a nick on his jaw where he must have cut himself shaving. He’d always been so crisp and professional when she’d worked with him.

He gave her a frank once-over. She was dressed professionally in slim-cut dark pants and a cream-colored shirt, with a lightweight leather jacket hanging on a peg behind the door. She had good walking shoes, no visible sign of wear. Her hair, fair and shoulder-length, was neatly pulled back. “You look good, Emma. Kick-ass and pretty as a picture.” He grinned. “You’re blushing. It’s okay. I can say whatever I want now that I’m retired.”

“One of the perks, I guess. Did you just get into town?”

“Last night. I flew in from London. I used to fly all the time, all over the country—all over the world. Jet lag never bothered me. These days a pop fly from London to Boston knocks me on my ass.”

“What were you doing in London?”

“Whim.”

It was obviously an incomplete answer, but he didn’t seem to care. She decided not to push him. “Did your wife go with you?”

He shook his head. “Joan’s home in North Carolina with the gang. Our youngest is having another baby. We have four grandkids now. Two boys, two girls. This next one will tip the scales back to the girls. Joan’s excited. Loves babies.”

“That’s great, Gordy. Congratulations.” Emma paused, a hand on the back of her desk chair. “If this is a personal visit, why don’t we wait and have lunch?”