Sandra Orchard - Perilous Waters

He shook away the thought. He shouldn’t be noticing a suspect’s ocean-blue eyes, except to be able to identify her in a lineup.

“She goes to church,” his brother said, with a hint of amusement. “Has been going for a while.”

“Good to know,” Sam acknowledged, letting Jake have his fun if it meant diverting him from Sam’s true interest in the women. But the backhanded reference to Ms. Jezebel stung. She’d orchestrated their acquaintance at his church, and because she hadn’t seemed to have any affiliation to any of his cases, he’d trusted her far too easily. A mistake he never planned to repeat. “And you know this how?” Sam asked, suddenly curious how Jake happened to know so much about the women who were supposed to be out of their league.

Jake leaned back and took a long draw of his ginger ale before answering. “She goes to the same church as the fire chief.”

Sam steeled himself against a spark of doubt about the woman’s guilt. Jennifer might not work at the gallery like her sister, but as part owner, she’d have some inkling of their illegal dealings. Why else would her computer’s IP address and cell phone have logged as many as six searches of the FBI’s National Stolen Art Information Registry in the past week and a half—the last one while she was in the gallery earlier this evening?

According to the Anchorage office, the tip that a stolen Native American painting had surfaced in a Skagway gallery came from a reliable source. A wiretap on the gallery’s phone had logged several suspicious calls from the Robbins Gallery. Two days later, Cassandra and Jennifer were booked on an Alaskan cruise.

Across the bistro, the women asked for their bill.

Sam pushed aside his half-finished dessert. “You done?”

Jake shoveled tiramisu into his mouth and shook his head.

The women stood, and Jake must’ve guessed at Sam’s real reason for asking. Well, hopefully not the real, real reason.

Reginald Michaels’s suspiciously worded conversations with the Skagway gallery had convinced Sam the twins’ roles would be pivotal in smuggling the pieces south. He needed to know for sure.

In his six years on the FBI’s art crime team, Sam had specialized in recovering stolen art, usually by posing as an unscrupulous private collector willing to overlook a masterpiece’s provenance for the opportunity to own it. First he’d cultivate the seller’s trust, then he’d set up the buy, and a combined team of FBI agents and local law enforcement would have his back. But time hadn’t been on his side in this case.

Jake shoveled in another mouthful then quickly wiped his face. “Okay. I’m good.”

By the time Sam paid the bill, the women had just about made it to their car, which was perfect because Sam could say bye to Jake and quietly tail the pair to their next destination. The late-June sun was sinking fast, which would make it easier to follow unobserved.

A scream split the air. One of the twins.

Jake hoofed across the parking lot with Sam on his heels, more than a little uneasy about meeting the twins this way. When he was close enough to see they were unharmed, he slowed and let his brother take the lead. The last thing he needed on this case was more complications.

“Are you two okay?” Jake asked.

The women, clearly shaken, both nodded.

Keeping his distance, Sam rounded behind them, taking in the slashed tires and the smashed driver-side window of the Ford Focus. An economy car. Another of the heiresses’ anomalies.

Jake pulled out his cell phone. “Did you see who did this?”

“No, but—” Jennifer’s voice wobbled as she reached through her shattered car window “—he left this.”

“Don’t touch it!” Moving in quickly to intervene, Sam caught her arm. The sheer panic in her eyes sliced off his breath. That and the ivory-handled knife pinning a torn note to the driver’s seat headrest. On the paper, blood-red letters said You’ll pay.

A chill skittered down his neck. Oh, this was a big complication.

* * *

“Let go of me.” Jennifer tried to jerk free of the man who’d appeared out of nowhere in the secluded parking lot. But he held her arm fast while Cassandra just stood and stared.

“Hold still. You’re bleeding.” The man pressed a tissue against her palm.

“What?” Jen glanced down at his hand holding hers so determinedly. Oh. He meant to help her. Heat rushed to her cheeks as she stopped resisting.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” he said in a rumbly voice that soothed her frayed nerves. “The police might be able to get fingerprints off the knife and note.”

“Of course, I wasn’t thinking.” All she’d been thinking about was the A Duel After the Masked Ball painting she’d spotted squirreled away in the gallery’s back room tonight.

She tamped down her panic at the sight of the knife and the thought that it must be connected to the painting. A painting of a stabbing.

She shuddered at the memory of the image. She hadn’t wanted to believe Uncle Reginald could be mixed up in anything illegal. She’d actually convinced herself that the person who’d told her as much—the man she hoped to soon sell her share of the gallery to—was just trying to scare her out of soliciting other offers. But then she’d spotted the Duel painting where it shouldn’t have been.

It wasn’t wildly valuable by art standards, but it was listed as stolen on the FBI’s online database.

And for all she knew this threat could be some kind of revenge.

Her rescuer squeezed her hand, mercifully disrupting her spiraling suspicions. He had a bump on his nose like maybe it had once been broken. His sandy-brown hair curled over his ears, grazing his collar, and his three-day beard growth made him look like a rugged cowboy, except for the sports jacket. He searched her face. “Or do you already know who did this?”

At the apprehension shadowing his coffee-brown eyes, butterflies fluttered through her stomach. “I—”

“It’s got to be one of those nutcase grant applicants!” her sister shrieked. “She assesses them for a charitable foundation. They’re always threatening her when she turns down their applications.” Cassandra waved her arms at Jennifer. “Tell them.”

“Calm down.” Jen fought to keep her tone low and even. “These gentlemen don’t need to know that.”

“Do you see the size of that knife?” Cassandra wailed, louder than before, thrusting her finger at it. “The guy’s a whack job!” Her gaze darted to the bushes that edged the parking lot, and she finally lowered her voice. “For all we know, if these guys hadn’t shown up, the creep might’ve jumped us, too.”

Jennifer shivered. Maybe her sister was right. Maybe this didn’t have anything to do with Reginald or the painting. When she broke the news to Lester this morning that his proposal hadn’t met the foundation’s grant qualifications, he’d been irate.

But he had to know that this was no way to change her mind. Threats like this would only land him in jail.

Her rescuer’s grip tightened, drawing her from her thoughts, and she realized he was trying to still her trembling.

“If someone has threatened you, you need to tell the police when they arrive,” he said, although he looked as though he wanted to press for those details himself.

Her gaze skittered from the endearing concern in his eyes to the small frown curving his lips. She swallowed, not sure what had her feeling more off kilter, the note in her car or the man comforting her. She slipped her hand free of his hold. “Yes, thank you. I’ll do that.”

Turning away, she winced at the curious gazes of people spilling out of the restaurant. She hated being the center of attention at the best of times. If the press caught wind of this, they’d be haunting her for weeks.