Ring of Truth (Devlin Security Force Book 2) (2 page)

“It’s been awhile, Kaplan,” Cort said, noting the requisite Feeb dark suit as usual looked like the agent had slept in it. “I figured since Leon’s gone, you’d leave me alone.” He marched to the mini-fridge and grabbed a bottle of green tea.

Someone who didn’t know Kaplan might not notice anything, but the blank look in his drooping eyes shifted a fraction at Cort’s lack of hospitality. Too damn bad.

“You figured wrong, Jones. And that’s
Special Agent
Kaplan.”

Kaplan had caught the case eleven years ago as a new agent. Because of the man’s sagging features, Cort thought of him as a human basset hound, and like a hound dog on a scent, Kaplan never let go.

Cort downed a long gulp of tea before returning his attention to his nemesis. “If you’re here to offer your condolences, get on with it so I can get back to work.”

“Condolences? Yeah, I’m sorry as shit about the old Jeweler. I was at his funeral Saturday. Didn’t see you.”

“I said my good-byes two days before he died.” A phony service in the medical-center chapel? Not for him. They’d be sending him Leon’s ashes. What the hell was he supposed to do with them? Trash them with the ashes from the wood stove maybe. He finished the tea while he waited for the agent to get down to business.

“Tell me about that conversation.” Kaplan hitched a hip onto the table and leaned back against the wall, making himself comfortable. “He must’ve bragged about how he put one over on the government.”

Cort tossed the empty bottle into the recycle bin. “No deathbed confession, if that’s what you mean.”

“If you insist on not sharing,” Kaplan said, “you could be charged with withholding information. Or your boss might find official visitors at the school again. Soon. Augusta’s close enough the local special agent can pop in nearly every day.”

Kaplan was full of crap about the withholding thing. But he’d make good on his threat to have the local agent show up on a regular basis. Sue for harassment? Before Cort could even dial Leon’s attorney’s number, the school would boot him out on his ass. He wrapped his hands around a clamp to keep them steady. Here was his opportunity to turn everything over to the FBI. His chance to dig out from under.

He reached in his jeans pocket as he crossed the room. He placed the ring piece on the draft table and pushed it toward Kaplan. “Leon directed me to this.”

“Gramornia royal family in turmoil.”

Mara should’ve known the Jeweler’s death would revive media interest in the case and in her father, the insurance investigator. And now this online article.

Today’s gossipy piece covered the principality’s distress over not having the royal paraphernalia on June first to crown the new prince. The legendary crown and scepter symbolized the royal family’s legitimacy. Rumor had it that the ambitious prime minister would use the issue to eliminate the royals altogether and consolidate his growing power, seen by many as a danger to the tiny democracy.

Head pounding from the incessant barrage about the old robbery, Mara exited the e-zine and reached in the desk drawer for ibuprofen. A few moments later, her headache subsiding, she returned to her research report and clicked the printer icon. While the pages slid onto the printer tray, she leaned back in her desk chair and read an earlier printout—her research on Cortez Jones—one more time.

After their encounter she’d had to stop the car a block down Crystal Drive until her tears dried. Tears of fear at being face to face with the Jeweler’s son. Tears of anguish at believing her father would never be cleared. Tears of frustration at wanting to trust what Jones said and knowing she shouldn’t.

Her sister Cassie accused her of always trusting everyone. She’d rather trust people than live behind a wall of distance and distrust like her father. But trust Cortez Jones? No. There lay too much danger.

“Mara, you’re here late.”

Straightening at the familiar voice, she stood to greet Thomas Devlin. “I wanted to finish this report on the Chinese horse. The authenticator’s analysis took longer than usual. No excuse. Sir.” She’d been a bit off lately but he didn’t need to know that. She tamped down the swell of emotion.

The head of Devlin Security Force stood in the doorway of her cubicle. A formidable man, Devlin had started the high-end art-and-artifact security and investigation firm with a few former Special Forces buddies. Today DSF had museum and gallery clients all over the world. Trim and fit in a gray hand-tailored suit, he leaned one muscled shoulder against the cubicle support in a pose that appeared casual, even lazy. Mara had seen him go from languid to deadly in a nanosecond in defense of one of his people.

She gathered the report, fastened the pages with a banker’s clip, and handed it across. “I’m afraid this bronze horse is a copy. A very good copy. The composition and the measurements are only slightly off, like the one from the British collector.”

Devlin’s dark brow lowered. “Another. That’s three. Damn! At this rate, we’ll be years tracking down the original.”

Two years ago thieves had stolen the second-century sculpture from the Tate Museum in London. Since then, copies kept turning up, sold to private collectors as the real thing. The Tate director and Lloyd’s wanted results, not more mystery.

“I could ask Ivan to go over the data again, in case there’s a mistake,” she said.

“No need. You’re always thorough and methodical. If you think he’s accurate, I’m satisfied. No data left unturned.” He grinned.

“Thank you, Mr. Devlin.” She relaxed, warmed. And relieved at the high compliment rather than a reprimand.

“The death of Leon Jones must be upsetting. Must bring it all back.” His eyes crinkled with sympathy before his gaze settled on the unofficial report beside her keyboard. “I see you’re researching his son.”

Her stomach tightened and she crossed her arms as she followed his gaze. If he reprimanded her for using company resources for private reasons, so be it. She’d suppressed her anxiety so she could complete her official report. She suddenly felt too tired to stand.

Nodding, she sank into her chair. “He contacted me. He says he can help clear my father. Claims he has new information but needs to see Dad’s working files.” Telling Devlin seemed to lift the burden weighing on the nape of her neck, where the muscles kinked into walnut-sized knots.

He bent toward the printout. “May I?”

“I have no secrets from you.” Devlin knew her past. Her father’s past. He’d hired her anyway. He’d even put a man on the case then, but found no proof of her dad’s innocence or guilt. When the investigation served only to upset her mom and sister, she’d asked him to drop the matter.

She handed him her report on Cortez Jones.

Devlin read the half page before his laser stare settled again on her. “Released from prison eight years ago. Steady job in Maine. Keeps his nose clean. Is this all?”

“Everything I could find.” On a sigh, she added, “Maybe I should just put it all behind me and move on.”

“The truth will come out someday. But if you want to pursue this lead, go ahead but be careful you don’t get in over your head.” He set the paper on her desk and turned to leave.

Mara thanked him and swiveled her chair away, too moved to say more. Whoa. Not only didn’t he rap her knuckles, his warning included the implication she could continue to use DSF resources.

If there was a chance to prove once and for all that her father didn’t conspire with Leon Jones, she ought to take it. The authorities, including Global Insurance, looked only at the surface, at how his seemingly friendly relationship with Leon Jones implicated him in a cover-up after the actual robbery.

They hadn’t grown up in a household with him instilling integrity into the very corn kernels he used to pop for family movie night. This was the man who never cheated at solitaire even when Mara secretly watched. The man who pored through every receipt to make sure he was absolutely honest with his taxes. The man whose disappointment at her youthful lapses had cut her to the bone. And the man who doted on his wife and daughters even when his wife didn’t love him. That little fact, Mara had gradually realized, was the source of unhappiness and increasing distance in their marriage.

She shook away her mother’s calculating view. Not the sort of marriage she intended to have. True love between her and her future mate, that was for her.

She owed her dad. Her love for him demanded she prove his innocence. She’d let it go too long. To hell with her sister’s sensitivities. And Mom? Well, she’d deal. Clearing her dad could force Global Insurance to reinstate the pension Mom needed. Finding the truth was worth risking more hurt.

She picked up her cell from the desk, hesitated, her finger hovering over the keypad. To hell with caution. She tapped in the number Jones had left on her voice mail.

***

On Friday night Cort left his truck in a garage on New Hampshire Avenue and walked from Dupont Circle to the bar where he was meeting Mara. Neutral territory.

She wanted to talk to him. Wherever she wanted to meet worked for him. He rolled one shoulder, then the other to dislodge the tension. And exhaustion. He’d driven straight through—twelve hours.

Inside Sean and Tony’s Pub, the sounds and scents of a neighborhood establishment washed over him—conversation punctuated with laughter and argument, aromas of ale and wine and fried food. Over the bar the TV showed a silent pre-season baseball game while stereo speakers played “Glory Days.” The walls were lined with souvenirs from Ireland along with autographed sports posters—Orioles and Nationals banners hung beside Blarney Castle and the Ring of Kerry.

In spite of his tension, Cort smiled as he surveyed the packed room. A slender woman sat in a back booth. Her dark hair draped her face as her thumbs skated across her cell phone, but he knew her instantly. Mara Marton.

When she saw him, she scooped her hair back. It fell around her shoulders like a curtain. Would it feel like silk? She dropped the phone in her sweater pocket and lifted one hand in a tentative wave.

“Thanks for meeting with me,” he said, caught by her unexpected soft smile and the keen intelligence in her eyes. He seated himself opposite her. Felt calmer already. “Why the change of heart?”

“Mr. Fox called to vouch for you.” Color matching her hot pink blouse bloomed in her cheeks. “And I checked up on you. Where you live, your job. Research is what I do.”

No big surprise. He’d expected as much. Hoped for it. “So you decided I’m clean?”

“Clean enough for more questions.”

He liked her voice, low and husky, now that she wasn’t yelling at him. The oil lanterns on the tables and the low lighting set a romantic stage.
Don’t even think it.

When a white-aproned waiter hustled over, Cort ordered a Sam Adams. Mara had an untouched goblet of red wine. Either she hadn’t waited long or she was so nervous the glass was her second. The alert look in her gaze made him opt for the former.

He shrugged off his windbreaker and stuffed it into the corner. He glanced at the sandwich menu in the stand by the lantern. When he looked up, she was staring over her wine at his forearms.

The sleeves on his knit shirt had gotten pushed up some. Pulling them down to his wrists, he shrugged. “Prison tattoos.”

She shook her head. “Lots of people have tattoos. I didn’t mean to stare.”

But his black scrolling lines and spider webs weren’t civilian tats. His were thick and chunky, intimidating. “Some prison tats are artistic, but most are for protection.”

“What do you mean?”

“Medium security at Allenwood isn’t as tight as max. More freedom inside means more chances for other guys to hurt you.” If a guy let himself get beat up, stabbed, or raped, he lost all respect. Cort had protected himself and bloodied a few guys with his fists in the process. He wasn’t about to give details. “To be safe I needed respect. Show I was tough, sit still for tattoos.”

“My God, you were only nineteen.” Her eyes grew huge as the implications sank in.

“I survived. I’d get rid of the ink but laser surgery costs money I don’t have.”

She made no response but he was ready to change the subject anyway. “If you haven’t eaten, we can order dinner. My treat.”

“We’ll see.”

Ah, she was still skittish. Wanted to be able to walk away at any moment. The robbery had devastated her family as well as his. He wanted to reassure her that she wouldn’t be hurt again. But he couldn’t promise that. He couldn’t promise a damn thing.

She lowered her gaze to the menu.

Good. She was considering his offer.

He already knew from seeing her in the harshly lit garage she was gorgeous. The restaurant’s soft light gave him a chance to view the details—fine-boned features, dark-chocolate cat-eyes, warm-honey skin. And hints of both strength and vulnerability that tugged at him.

Curb it, Jones.
He hadn’t been that long without a woman. He shifted on the bench seat and studied the menu.

When the waiter brought his brew, Cort suggested they order. He awarded himself a virtual high-five when Mara relented. They chose—the corned beef for him and a chicken-salad wrap for her.

After another sip of wine, she said, “You said before the FBI won’t help you. But if you have some sort of lead, shouldn’t you try?”

He lifted one shoulder noncommittally as he took a drink of beer. “I did try. Every year since he went inside, Leon concocted elaborate scenarios for where he hid the jewels. As far as the FBI’s concerned, my story was another of his hoaxes. They might take notice if I walk in wearing the Gramornia crown and carrying the scepter.”

“A joke. You surprise me.” She chuckled, an infectious sound that resonated deep inside him. “I’m trying to imagine you wearing a jeweled crown.”

He couldn’t help a grin. “Not a pretty picture.”

“Their resistance makes no sense. You say the FBI harasses you often, yet they won’t listen to you now.”

He shrugged. “My lead comes from an untrustworthy source, the Jeweler.”

When he’d laid out Leon’s strategy for protecting the loot’s hiding place, Special Fucking Agent Kaplan had laughed at him. Laughed at the puzzle ring piece and walked out. His skepticism matched Cort’s, but the rejection and derision rankled.

A small bowl of snack mix and their silverware arrived.

Mara picked out a sesame stick. The corners of her mouth ticked downward, and the warm humor in her eyes cooled. “I didn’t meet you here because I wanted to chat. I might consider helping you, but I need some answers first.”

“Shoot.” He sipped his beer as he helped himself to pretzels and peanuts.

“I gather you’re searching for the jewels because of something your father told you. Why do you need to find the other accomplices, if they exist?” She popped the sesame stick into her mouth and watched him with wary curiosity.

Cort chewed over how much to tell her. Fox had said her father’s reputation was for thoroughness. Looked like she inherited that trait. Good. He might have to spill everything. But he couldn’t afford to trust her any more than she trusted him.

A quick survey of the room reassured him of their privacy. “Leon didn’t give me much but I’ll tell you what I know.”

The waiter whisked over with their meals. Cole slaw and curly fries smelling of salt and spices surrounded the thick sandwiches. When Cort asked if Mara wanted more to drink, she shook her head, indicating her half-full goblet. He ordered another draft.

They ate in silence until the beer arrived. “Leon was a complex man. His cryptic brain suited his professional distrust. He made a puzzle ring.”