Cleopatra's Necklace (Devlin Security Force Book 3) (3 page)

“Good. Call my secure mobile when you have carried out both orders. Then I’ll tell you what to do next.” He recited the number before ending the call.

The prestige of the deal and the exorbitant amount he was charging Yousef would cement his position at the top of the art-theft world. And allow him to add to his own collections. The Picasso lost for years and recently discovered in Rouen would be his next acquisition. He knew just the space for it in his villa.

Zervas poured that scotch and drained the glass. Worthless, his old man had called him. Told him he’d never make anything of himself. “You were wrong, old man. Fuck you.” Too bad his voice didn’t carry to the depths of hell.

He could not allow Interpol or Devlin Security Force to get their hands on the Cleopatra necklace. Or its copy. If that happened, he would find safe haven nowhere. He would lose everything.

***

Arlington, Virginia

Why the hell hadn’t he heard from Lucas? Was the Centaur Task Force tracking Z’s syndicate or were they in a cozy office suite sitting on their asses?

Thomas longed to punch something, except air made an unsatisfactory target and the paved surface of the jogging trail a painful one. Absorbing the green coolness of the trees and the lazy flow of the Potomac, he strived for calm. Running two miles beyond his usual five had relieved none of his frustration.

Sweat dripped from his chin and soaked his favorite old Go Army T-shirt. He slowed to a walk and entered the Arlington National Cemetery.

“How was your run, Captain?” The guard at the Memorial Drive gate saluted him.

“Not bad, Winston.”

He returned the salute before hanging a left to Visitor Parking. Other than guards, only the groundskeepers were here this early. The scent of freshly cut grass and the hum of a mower drifted across the rows of white crosses. Breathing in the peace and solemnity, he set off down a path to pay his respects. A walk through the grounds would cool his body and maybe his mind. A few turns took him past the graves of five men he’d known. He paused to salute each one. They’d all served with honor.

One who still lived had not.

Lucas had been with the task force for nearly a month and they’d turned up damn little. Was the Centaur leader Marco Zervas? Not that it mattered in the grand scheme of stopping them, but it made a hell of a difference to him. What was Lucas doing?

Dammit, tension still knotted his shoulders and he puffed like a steam engine. He turned back toward the parking lot and his Ford Escape. No escape for him from the source of his frustration. Running his company meant hunkering down in Crystal City instead of seeing action.

His cell jangled. He noted the caller’s ID and returned the phone to his pocket. Without breaking his cool-down stride, he activated the tiny headset. “Good morning, Del Rio. Or is it afternoon there?”

Lucas Del Rio’s rich chuckle vibrated in his ear. “Early afternoon, and I’m in Paris now. Nice view of the Arc de Triomphe from this café.”

“Swilling wine and sightseeing?” He dug out his key ring as he reached his vehicle. “That all you’re doing over there?”

“Mostly I’ve been hanging out in places tourists don’t dare go. But you’re winded. I can catch you later.”

He bent over, hands on his knees, and dragged in a deep breath. “Winded, hell. When you return to the States, we’ll see who’s winded on this run. Talk to me.”

“Yes, sir.” Lucas’s tone flipped into serious briefing mode. “Word in the
quartiers
here is that until recently Centaur sent guys chasing all over Europe. Seems they had the necklace, and then it vanished.”

Thomas snatched a small towel from the backseat and mopped his face as he surveyed the parking lot. A few other vehicles were parked now, families visiting a parent’s or grandparent’s gravesite, tourists paying homage to the fallen. Solemn voices mingled above the heating pavement. No one paying attention to his conversation. “One of their thieves stole from them?”

“One possibility. All I hear on the street is speculation.”

“Right. And what changed?”

“Yesterday everything shut down. A guy I know in Montmartre told me the only activity now is in Italy.”

“Your source think the Mafia’s involved?”

“That would make them the ones who filched the necklace from Centaur. Doubtful. Not the Mafia’s gig. More likely Centaur has located the necklace.”

“Nothing on Z?” Thomas tossed the towel inside his vehicle.

“Intel says he might be headquartered in a London townhouse. Hard to get anything. None of the creeps who’ve been arrested know much.”

Thomas slammed his palm on the metal roof. “Insulation isn’t just what you put in the walls.” He thanked Lucas and ended the call.

Two different directions. London to nail Z or Italy to recover Cleopatra’s necklace. Both based only on untrustworthy sources. Lucas was the best. He was doing exactly what Thomas would if he were there. Damn, if only he could get in the game.

When his cell rang again, it was his admin.

“Mr. Devlin, I apologize for bothering you so early,” Francine began, “but I have a call you may want to take.”

“I trust your judgment. Who is it?”

“A Rear Admiral Horace Chandler. He says he’s an old family friend and he needs your help. It’s an emergency.”

THOMAS SQUARED HIS
shoulders and leaned away from the SUV. No lie that Horace Chandler was an old family friend. Thomas knew every harrowing detail about the Mekong Delta river-patrol operation when “Hoot” Chandler had saved his dad’s life. And he remembered the emotional warm blanket Hoot and Irene wrapped around Andie and him when their mother died. Yeah, Chandler was a friend.

He adjusted the headset. “Put the admiral through, Francine.”

A moment later the patch connected and he heard the familiar commanding tone. “Thomas, it’s been a long time.”

“Yes, sir. It’s good to hear your voice. My dad tells me you’re at the academy now.”

“Couldn’t just retire and do nothing. Whipping those youngsters into officers suits me just fine. I’d love to get caught up with you. Another time though. I need your help.”

Curiosity piqued, Thomas ducked into the Escape to grab a pen and notepad. “I’ll do whatever I can, sir.”

“It’s Cleo.” Chandler’s voice cracked on his daughter’s name.

Cleo Chandler
. Years since he’d last seen her—he knew to the day—just before his deployment to Iraq, but he could never erase her pixie features and free-spirit sass from his mind. A cookout at the Chandlers’. The last time the two families had been together. His gut clenched at the idea anything bad could happen to the youngest Chandler.

A jet screaming overhead jerked him from his memories before the pause became awkward. “What is it, Admiral?”

Thomas heard throat clearing sounds as the older man gathered himself. “She’s been shot. Is unconscious, maybe in a coma.”

Shot. Coma. Jesus.

He sucked in a breath against the anvil thrown against his chest. “Where? How?”

“Venice.”

His mind raced. He knew she’d gone to Europe. But
Italy
? Had to be a coincidence. “What happened?”

“She’s been bumming around over there for the last few years. You know Cleo. Can’t tie her down, never had any self-discipline. She—” A long pause as the other man seemed to draw inward. After a shaky breath, he continued. “Here’s what I have. The Venice police telephoned me late last night. They found Cleo just after twenty-three hundred their time. Bleeding from a gunshot wound to the head.” The admiral recited the details in a matter-of-fact manner as if reading. Maybe he was, to keep his emotions in check.

“How did they find her?” Thomas clenched his jaw against a curse.

“An unidentified woman called it in. Gone when the emergency crew arrived. My girl was bleeding on the street, or whatever they call it in that damn floating city.”

“You have any more?”

A sniff and brief throat clearing before Cleo’s father continued, calmer. “Happened outside the jewelry shop where she worked. Her phone and purse lay beside her with her passport and wallet but no money. The ambulance took her to the largest hospital in the city. They have her in intensive care. But dammit, she’s not responsive. My baby...”

“A terrible crime. Pickpockets are to be expected in tourist spots, but Venice is usually a safe city. Robbery at gunpoint even that time of night is highly unusual,” Thomas said, giving the man—and himself—time to settle. “When do you leave? What can I do to help?”

“I’m anchored to a hospital bed,” Chandler said. “Fell down the rotunda steps to Memorial Hall the other day and broke bones in my left leg and hip. I’m asking you to go to Venice for me.”

His gut tightened. See Cleo again? When she woke up, she wouldn’t welcome his presence. Even under these circumstances. He could say none of that to Hoot. “Wouldn’t family be better? What about your wife? Or the boys?”

More throat clearing. “Irene’s in Florida. Keith’s wife’s in labor with their second baby. Irene doesn’t even know about this yet. I want to get help nailed down first. And Greg’s out. I trust you to do whatever’s needed.”

Out of the question. He had a company to run, and he couldn’t leave Andie on her own. His sister needed him. “Sir, you know I’d do anything for you. For Cleo. One of my best men is in Europe. Lucas Del Rio speaks Italian. He can fly to Venice today.”

“He can assist you when you get there. But Cleo doesn’t know him. Your father said if I ever needed him, he’d be there for me. I don’t need his help. I need yours.”

Dirty pool. Chandler knew Thomas couldn’t refuse now. “Sir, there’s more to this. What aren’t you telling me?”

“Good instincts. That’s one reason I came to you.”

“Thank you, but...”

“I’m afraid there’s a great deal more to this matter. Another murder, in fact. Greg called me last night too, a little after eight.”

“Before the police.”

“That’s right. The marines have sent Greg somewhere in the Far East. Location classified. Cleo hasn’t spoken to me since she left the States but every so often she calls her mother and emails Greg. This time she left her brother a message. When he called back, he got her voicemail.” The admiral’s voice faltered and he swallowed hard.

Thomas’s breathing rasped. He massaged his nape. “Take your time, sir.”

“I’m okay. You need to know the rest. It’s why you’re the man for the job. I wrote down Cleo’s message.
‘René is dead. Shot by some gang. He said no police. Oh, Greg, I’m scared. I don’t know what’s going on, except it’s about a necklace. I have to get away. I’ll call when I’m somewhere safe. Love you.’ ”

***

Venice, Italy

Lucas Del Rio tried to compose his features into a non-threatening smile but in his present mood, all he could manage was a grimace.

After Thomas’s urgent call, he’d left Paris on the next plane. Arrived at the Ospedale Civile early in the evening. But for two hours they’d made him wait.

At the hospital quay, another debarking passenger guided him to an imposing white-marble building that had been a monastery in the fifteenth century. Its façade struck him as more of a palace than a holy place for monks in brown robes. He had misgivings about the hospital as he entered between marble columns with carved scrollwork. But inside he found a modern facility.

He’d expected to have no trouble carrying out Admiral Chandler’s request. But no, the stick-up-her ass neurosurgeon didn’t care if the father had sent his and Thomas’s names as his agents. She didn’t care if he had an e-mail to that effect. She wouldn’t have cared if His Holiness had ordered her to let him see the injured woman. Her white-jacketed haughtiness looked as if she wanted to kick him into the adjacent canal.

“No information about
Signorina
Chandler’s medical condition or care, no entrance to the room,
signore
, until I talk to
Commissario
Castelli of the Venice
polizia
.”

Castelli.
He brightened. Here was his in.

“Si, si, dottoressa.”
He used the respectful title to demonstrate his knowledge of Italian customs. “I will also phone the detective.”

After his phone call, he’d parked his butt on a lumpy upholstered chair in the hospital’s lobby. He endured whispers from the reception desk and, until the hour became too late for visiting, anxious looks from visiting families. Hell, a shave, dark pants and a collared shirt still didn’t render him inconspicuous. They probably thought he was mafia.

The most he accomplished was surveillance, in case some suspicious-looking dude came looking to finish off the Chandler woman. The Centaur Task Force head honcho, an FBI agent nearly as tight-assed as the neurosurgeon, had snarled at his bugging out, so the sooner he returned, the sooner he’d help nail the Centaur leader.

When the reception desk clerk’s bored expression morphed into sultry, he knew Bruno Castelli had arrived.

Damn, he’d missed the sound of the door opening. He’d removed the damned hearing aid in the noisy airport and forgot about it. He checked his breast pocket for the gadget. Still there but he’d put it in later.

“Old friend, you’re the image of guard duty. All that is missing is the uniform and a weapon.” Castelli strode from the double doors, hand outstretched.

Lucas levered out of the deep chair and took the other man’s hand before pulling him into a bro hug. “Feels like guard duty, Castelli. I’m about to fall asleep. Good to see your ugly mug.”

Castelli smiled at the reverse compliment. “A few years since Afghanistan and you haven’t changed. I’m surprised you’re not still in the army.”

“Yeah, me too,” Lucas replied. “An IED booted me out on medical discharge, or I’d still be humping it. Private security’s my gig now. I’m hoping you can work your charm on the
dottoressa
.”

“Guaranteed, my friend. I’ll persuade her to stop playing Cerberus and cooperate.” He strolled across the marble floor as if on the Oscars’ red carpet.

Lucas had met Castelli when his Special Forces team coordinated with an Italian unit in an op outside Kabul. During long nights of patrol, he and the Venetian had traded insults, and Castelli had taught him Italian, including assorted rude phrases he avoided firing at the fanged doctor. After the army, he’d improved his language fluency during various security jobs in Europe. Until Thomas had recruited him.

Castelli schmoozed the receptionist, who simpered like a fourteen-year-old at his white smile and pretty face. In moments the neurosurgeon appeared, as damned fluttery as the young clerk. Lucas couldn’t hear her clearly, but she nodded her agreement, eyeing him—the gorilla in the room—with suspicion.

Castelli beckoned and Lucas followed him through pastel-painted halls to the stairs.

“Did you find the lover dead like the admiral said?” Lucas moved smoothly to the man’s left side.

“René Moreau. In the flat the two shared. He took a bullet to the chest. Found a trail of blood on the stairs. Someone, likely the
signorina
, covered him with a sheet. Probably shot elsewhere, maybe by the same gun as her. We recovered the other bullet from the jewelry shop wall. Nine millimeter. I will know more when I receive the ballistics report.”

“Any leads?”

“Not yet. Once we discover what necklace she referred to, perhaps. Perhaps not.” Castelli angled his head and twisted his mouth in a typical Italian dismissal.

Lucas made no reply. Thomas had advised him not to mention the Cleopatra necklace until they knew if that was the piece in question.

“I understand
Signorina
Chandler awoke briefly,” Castelli said as they reached the correct floor, “but she was so distraught the surgeon feared she would further injure herself. There was also danger of a blood clot and brain swelling. They have her in a medical coma.”

They stepped into the intensive care unit, hushed except for the hum of equipment and the squeak of soft soles. Lucas wrinkled his nose at the medicinal and antiseptic cleanser smells.

“And the damage? The bullet?” he asked.

“The bullet grazed the side of her head a few millimeters above her left ear.” He pulled a small notebook from inside his jacket and flipped pages. “She has a depressed skull fracture. Bone fragments were removed. She is receiving antibiotics and steroids. The surgeon says she will not know the extent of damage until the swelling goes down and
Signorina
Chandler awakens.”

If
she awakens.
Lucas had a bad feeling about her chances. War had taught him only a small percentage of victims survived gunshots to the head.

A middle-aged nurse beamed at the detective as she ushered them into Cleo Chandler’s room. Castelli thanked her and she left, reluctantly, with a swoosh of the door.

Monitors surrounded the bed and tubes draped the slim, covered form. Thomas had said Cleo was twenty-eight. Lucas shook his head, struck by the tragic unfairness as he and the detective approached.

He left Castelli at the foot of the bed. He moved around to the side not snaked with tubes or hidden by bandages so he could get a better look. Castelli’s details about the dead lover faded into the background. Everything faded away except the woman.

Dark red hair the color of autumn leaves. Heart-shaped face. Long eyelashes curling against sculpted cheekbones. Light freckles across her pale skin.

His pulse kicked into a hectic beat.

Protect Cleo Chandler? No shit. Lucas wasn’t leaving her side.