Dana Mentink - Lost Legacy

“I hired him to investigate the circumstances of my wife’s death. He wasn’t able to solve the case, so we parted ways.”

Brooke felt a tremor inside, a deep foreboding slithering through her body. “When…when was your wife killed?”

His eyes bored into hers. “September fifth, four years ago.”

“September fifth?” She gaped. “That’s the day my—”

“Father’s museum was robbed, I know.”

She did not understand the expression on his face, a mixture of anguish and burning intensity. “There was an accident,” she whispered. “A few blocks from the museum. I remember reading about it in the paper.”

His voice was feverish, brow furrowed, and she could hear a deep current of emotion behind the words. “At three forty-five, September fifth, a man fleeing the scene of the robbery plowed into our car and killed my wife. The driver was never caught. I hired Tuney to find out who was involved in the robbery so I could nail the guy.”

“You hired Tuney to investigate my father?”

“And anyone else who might have been involved.”

She felt sick. “You think…you believe my father is the one? That he robbed his own museum and hired the man who killed your wife?”

“Tuney didn’t find any proof.”

“But that’s what you believe…deep down…isn’t it?”

After a moment, he reached for his phone. “I’m going to call Dean Lock and arrange a meeting for us, tomorrow, if possible.”

“Us?” She looked at him, openmouthed. “You’re taking my case?”

“No,” he said as he dialed. “But I’m going to go with you to meet the dean.”

“Why would you do that?”

He stared at her. “Do you believe in God, Brooke?”

She started at the abruptness of the question, his eyes burning into hers. “Without a doubt.”

“Well, I don’t. My wife did, but I always told her I would never let anyone or anything take charge of my destiny but me. I don’t believe there’s a God that guides us through our daily lives. I don’t believe it for one moment, but there’s something going on here that I can’t explain. The day your life fell apart, mine did, too, and now, all these years later, you walk into my office.”

“Coincidence. It’s got to be. How could the robbery be connected to what’s happening now?”

“I don’t know, but here you are claiming another painting has been stolen from your father.”

“It’s not just a claim. It’s the truth,” she snapped.

“Maybe it has nothing to do with what happened four years ago, but I’m not going to let it go until I know for sure.”

She stared at the granite expression on his face, feeling a wave of anguish wash over her. “I had no idea. I remember hearing that a woman was killed, but I was too wrapped up in what was happening to my father to pay much attention. I never would have come to you if I had… It has to be a crazy coincidence.”

She saw something glittering in his eyes, something hard and unforgiving. A bank of fog rolled across the sun, sending dark shadows skittering across the room. “I don’t believe in coincidences either,” he said. “But I do believe that someone is going to pay for killing my wife.”

“My father wasn’t responsible,” she whispered.

“Then the truth will set us all free, won’t it?” he said.

FOUR

“Absolutely not,” Dean Lock said, lacing his fingers together. One hand was stiff, swollen at the joints, like a withered tree branch. Behind him a set of windows looked out on a courtyard thick with shrubs and a series of wooden benches. The office they now sat in was tucked behind the outer reception area, painted a soothing ivory color, the desk a rich, dark wood. Victor’s feet sank into the plush carpet.

He had the same trim, polished look that Victor remembered from seeing the man two years before. Victor’s father had bestowed a generous endowment to the university at that time. Polished but tired, as if he’d traveled many miles since their last meeting. His brows were drawn together and the furrows on his forehead were pronounced. Victor felt rather than saw Brooke’s body tense in the chair next to him.

“We just need to take a look, to satisfy Ms. Ramsey’s curiosity,” Victor said, keeping his voice light. “There was a police report of a student who witnessed Colda exiting the tunnels just before he disappeared.”

“I’m well aware of that.” Lock’s expression was amused. “Colda was my employee. Based on that one report, you believe Colda stashed a supposedly invaluable painting down there for safekeeping? A Tarkenton?” His words dripped with incredulity.

Victor chuckled. “Stranger things have happened.”

Lock nodded. “True, but a whim isn’t a good enough reason to take on the liability. I’m sorry. The tunnels are in a state of disrepair. Dangerous, to say the least.”

“The university won’t be held liable,” Victor said. “Ms. Ramsey and I will act at our own risk.”

She nodded, the overhead light sparkling in her hair. He could see it was killing her to keep silent during the exchange.

Lock shook his head. “Your reason is too far-fetched to merit the risk. There have never been any undiscovered Tarkentons and there are certainly not any underneath this university.”

Victor shrugged. “Far-fetched, but not impossible. Brooke says Donald Ramsey sent the painting here to Colda. Now both the painting and the professor are missing.”

“The police have searched the tunnels. They found nothing out of place and no sign of any painting.”

Brooke broke in, “Then it won’t do any harm to check again.”

Victor sighed inwardly, wishing she had stayed quiet. As he suspected, Lock took offense.

The dean’s gray eyes narrowed. “Harm? I believe your father has caused enough harm to me to last a lifetime.”

He heard Brooke exhale slowly. “Dean Lock, my father did not engineer that theft at the museum. I am sorry that you lost your position as head curator there but—”

“But heads had to roll and mine was the one that did.” His eyes narrowed. “Someone knew the delivery schedule for those paintings. It was clearly an inside job.”

“So it could have been you,” she answered quietly.

Victor was surprised at her courage to speak even though her lips were trembling.

Lock leaned back as if she’d struck him before he swiveled his eyes to Victor. “I’m disappointed to see you’re throwing in with her. Four years ago you hired an investigator to find evidence that her father was guilty.”

Brooke’s face flushed, and Victor fought an unexpected urge to take her hand. “I hired Tuney to look at every suspect, and that included you.”

The ghost of a smile played across his face as he massaged his bad hand. “You made your father angry doing that.”

“It wasn’t the first time. Your friendship with my father aside, I had to find proof of who might have caused my wife’s death.”

“But you didn’t, because there wasn’t anything to incriminate me. I loved that museum. Why would I engineer a robbery?”

Because you are an art freak. The chance to own a rare piece thrills you like nothing else on earth. Because, as my father said, you love dead artists far more than any living. “We’re not here to imply anything.”

“Good, because I had nothing to do with that robbery.”

Victor held up a hand. “And Tuney found nothing to incriminate Donald either. Tuney’s back, by the way. He’s been following Brooke.”

“Really? Who hired him?”

“He wouldn’t say who hired him, but it can’t be another coincidence.”

The dean sighed, a long, mournful exhale that seemed to shrink him several inches. “Victor, I understand your need for closure on this.” His eyes clouded. “I’ve lost people, too, a woman I loved more than anyone else in the world, as a matter of fact, but getting involved in this ridiculous treasure hunt is not going to bring Jennifer back.”