Part II

Theo—

My shoulder was throbbing. The blood rushing to the injury was like a roar in my ears. So loud, I could almost convince myself it was possible to hear the blood in my veins. I shook my head, placing the boxed coffee and two boxes of doughnuts on the table in the middle of the breakroom.

The table was swarmed by underpaid workaholics, and I attempted to manoeuvre out of the way. Holding in the grunt of pain as I received several pats on the back until I finally made it to the doorway. I grinned at the stereotype in action. Even if Interpol agents were several steps away from the cops usually associated with the cliché, it was still an entertaining sight.

"Theo West– best damn intern we've ever had." An analyst pointed at me as she took a bite of a chocolate sprinkle doughnut. "Don't worry about Roberts, kid. He'll run his mouth, but no one gives a damn."

Garrett Roberts was the type of man who enjoyed the glory that James Bond films brought to his profession. But he had none of the skills to back up the Hollywood image, which is why he was currently gloating about having minorly injured an intern's shoulder in a practice session, which would have been disturbing if I hadn't been the one leading the session. Plus, he framed the story better.

The original incident had been embarrassing, and it continued to follow me when I'd walk into the breakroom, and he'd start telling the story all over again. After the fourth day, the embarrassment traded itself in for exasperation for the entire department. Apparently, he would seek out the praise wherever he could.

The shift supervisor had tried to send me home and hopefully avoid a lawsuit in case my shoulder got worse. I reminded her that I'd signed the release forms necessary, and she let me return to my temporary desk in the corner of the office.

That desk was where Roberts found me today.

"You speak Croatian?"

I frowned, but gave in to my curiosity, "Serbian."

"Close enough." It wasn't, but I got the impression he wouldn't appreciate the correction. "Come on. We've got a case."

Eight hours later, I was sitting in a flight hangar casually observing the bustle of activity as Roberts stood above me, glaring at every innocent bystander. He was less than subtle and was certainly drawing attention from others. There were more workers than travellers around us. Anyone not wearing a uniform or without a clipboard stuck out like a sore thumb, including us.

"We caught her face on the cameras in France and again in Croatia," he continued to fill me in on the case. A painting by Edgar Degas had gone missing from a museum in France and was then attempted to be sold at an auction. It would have been a moronic move on the thief's part, except that an identical painting had been forged and submitted. It took three experts to confirm the original. The bids for the fake promptly skyrocketed.

Roberts continued, "the same card that bought her tickets made a payment for their regular plane taking off from this hangar."

He handed over the photograph in his hands. A young girl was smiling brightly into the camera, her short, curly brown hair was untamed, and despite a large bandage on her chin, she beamed at the person taking the picture. Her eyes caught my attention – an unmistakable, undeniable green that put the Wizard of Oz's Emerald City to shame. "This kid can't be more than 7 or 8. You think she helped steal the Degas?"

The older man snatched the photo back. "I think she made the forgery and passed it off in France." He flipped it over and mumbled, "it's an old photo. She'd be a teenager now."

I skipped the more obvious questions, moving to our current work. "What is she doing with someone who regularly uses a private plane?"

Roberts made a sound, signaling his annoyance with me asking the questions he couldn't answer himself. "Trafficking? Or she's like her daddy, and she conned some old billionaire. It's not important." I was pretty sure it was. "I need you to watch her reaction when I mention him. That's your one job. Can you do that?" I sighed patiently at his apish hyper-masculine display and nodded.

"Another thing. That nun we keep making you talk to?"

"What about her?" A woman from a nunnery in Spain called the department to check in every once in a while, asking if we'd found a girl she supposedly reported missing. Ever since I started, they'd chosen me to give her the bad news and to remind her that our department wasn't the one she was supposed to call. She needed Missing Persons. But she insisted.

"It's the same girl." I jumped up, questions whirling in my head before he exclaimed, "there! That's her." I frowned at the group he indicated. They had no bags, but they certainly stuck out, moving strategically through the hangar.

"Are you sure?"

He shoved the photograph back into my hands. I glanced up just as the group came closer.

The only girl in the group looked petrified. The boy beside her had an arm wound securely around her waist. He wore dark sunglasses, despite the fact that the sun hadn't made an appearance all day. Two men, one with a slighter frame compared to the one beside him, walked only steps behind them.

It was the men that had heads turning. The attention that the hangar had devoted to them was some kind of momentary spellwork. The time it took for our brains to register the surprise of a surprise party. I blinked myself out of it as the burly man said something I couldn't make out, but it made the girl's fear melt away. She turned around to grin at him, and that's when I saw them. Her eyes were an unmistakable green.

"Confirmed," I said to Roberts, who moved immediately, mumbling something about interns being useless. I was quick to follow, not taking it personally but eager to prove him wrong.

The inspector weaved through the workers, rushing to keep up with the target. Finally, he landed in front of them as they turned, and they were forced to stop. The boy (at least when compared to the only slightly older men behind him) immediately and smoothly slid the girl behind him.

All three men were extremely pale, a stark contrast to the girl that stood in the middle of them. The initial shock value of their, for lack of a better word, beauty had hardly worn off, so I tried to concentrate on their nonverbal actions rather than their appearance.

The arrogance and possessive nature of the men with this girl led me to assume that Roberts's first theory that she was a victim of human trafficking might be correct. She would be a perfect target. She'd been travelling alone, not to mention young and vulnerable. With her father gone, she might have found a figure in one of them. Most likely the youngest man, who hadn't released her since we'd spotted them. Though she too, had a hand on his arm, so maybe she wasn't terrified of him. Her rare condition would make it difficult to control her, at least the way most traffickers did, so I kept my theories open.

Roberts held his badge up, "Garrett Roberts, Interpol." He made no attempt to introduce me. "We need to speak with the girl."

Her eyes widened, but the bodyguard behind the boy actually laughed, and the other rolled his eyes.

Ignoring the demand, the boy placed his arm back around her and walked around us, putting his body between her and us.

We watched them leave, and I was almost as stunned as Roberts, whose jaw had dropped at the audacity of the guy's disregard for a law enforcement organisation.

The thick man in front of me crossed his arms. "That's not going to happen."

She glanced back at us, but the boy continued to pull her along.

Roberts pivoted around and followed them onto the tarmac, ignoring the bodyguards who followed us at a leisurely pace, though still only a few steps behind.

As we got closer to what I assumed was their plane, I tried something else, stopping in my tracks behind Roberts, instinct pumping adrenaline into my veins. Even with the little I knew, I was sure that we couldn't lose this girl. "Saffiya?" I had to raise my voice to make sure she could hear. She faltered in her steps, her head turning up to the boy. He shook his head, keeping them on their track, but she said something back. Good. We had her attention.

Until two more men, I hadn't noticed before, blocked Roberts, and the man nearly stumbled into them.

"Like he said, not going to happen." If this were a trafficking operation, they would be putting a lot of weight into this one girl.

"Come on, boys." Roberts, likely seeing little ways around our current situation, changed his tune. He crossed his arms, trying to match the dominance of the other men and assuming his badge did most of the work. "I don't want to, but I can ground your plane until we get some time with that girl. We're not going away."

They didn't seem phased, so I tried to appeal to the girl again. I stepped forward, but an arm came down in front of me. "Please, we just need to talk to you."

She had already stopped, and ignoring the boy's objections, she pulled away from him. She tried to come back towards us when the boy put his arm around her once more. He didn't force her away, just kept her a safe distance from us. She demanded, "about what?"

I let out a breath of air, her acknowledgement of our requests giving me hope. It would annoy my superior, but I tried the only thing I could think of. "About your dad," I said, hoping it would secure her attention.

It did. She seemed to stumble, standing still, in the boy's arms, quickly looking at me and then up at him. Even behind the sunglasses, I could feel the fire of his glare. The distrust radiated off of him. Her hand went to his arm, "Alec, please." His lips fell into a hard line, but his head looked down to her.

"Five minutes," I prompted, praying that what I was seeing was a softened resolve. If he was her jailer, he'd broken the number one rule. He almost seemed to genuinely care about her. "Please."

The boy's head moved from her to us, and the intensity of his response was a bit unnerving. He was definitely the one in charge. But he was so young…even closer, I was sure he couldn't be older than I was. What were these kids doing in a situation like this?

"Not here," the boy, Alec, decided.

Roberts clapped me on the back and smiled smugly at the bodyguards as we passed through them. We followed the pair towards a large plane. Their four bodyguards had resumed a circle around them. Which now included us.

The first two men climbed the stairs, one going into the empty cockpit and the other turning around as if he were a flight attendant. The girl went up first, followed by the boy and then us.

As I ducked onto the plane, my jaw dropped. I'd never actually been in a private plane before. The white leather seats and bright surfaces caught me off guard. I only realized it when Saffiya giggled, looking at me. I received a glare directly after from the boy – Alec.

One of the guards directed us to a booth. We squished in next to each other, and Saffiya sat across the table. I couldn't believe this was the same girl I'd been repeatedly asked about for the last few months. It was surreal and almost too good to be true. I might finally have an answer for the lamenting voice on the other end of the phone.

She smiled, much calmer now that we were inside the plane. She no longer looked at the boy as timidly as she did before, and my trafficking theory went out the window when she snapped at him.

"Alec, seriously cut it out. Go sit with 'Metri and Felix." He started to say something back, but she cut him off again with a quieter tone, "you'll hear it all anyways."

Which meant she hadn't been afraid of him outside but that the mens' body language had been more protective than possessive. But why would she need such intense protection?

The tinted glasses did nothing to disrupt the warning in Alec's voice. "Five minutes." Then, he followed after the last two bodyguards and harshly shut the divider curtain.

"You're Saffiya Civello. Saffiya Arsinoe Civello?"

Her demeanour changed with her full name. And where we were previously new exciting acquaintances, we had become potential threats. I glanced at Roberts, perplexed as to why he would take the risk, but he ignored me.

She confirmed, "yes."

"Daughter of Thomas and–"

She cut him off. "What were your names again?" She very politely asked for my pen, then took my notebook, writing our names down on it and tearing the paper off for herself. She thanked me.

"I thought an Inspector Tutlo was on my father's case." Her knowledge caught Roberts off guard. I recognized the name, not from the office but from a plaque outside of it.

"He was." He cleared his throat, trying to recover his false glory. "But, I think the question you really want to ask is, what do we know? Is it not?"

She gave no inkling that that was her actual question, so he continued. "My team uncovered one of your father's storage units about three weeks ago," she blinked, her eyes staying closed for just an instant longer than necessary, but she said nothing. "He sure went to a lot of trouble to keep you off our radar."

"Your point?"

"I wonder how many 10-year-olds were painting Renoir, Manet, and all, in their spare time. The same paintings. Over and over and over again."

Saffiya's lips tilted up gently, and in a higher voice, she teased him. "No, I don't imagine many kids have their version hanging in a museum somewhere either. Allegedly."

Roberts's hand landed on the table in glee with fake laughter. "See. This is why I love forgers. When they get a chance to brag about their work, they take it. Every damn time. Anything else you want to admit so we can arrest you." My eyes wandered to him, wondering what he thought he had on this girl to make such a threat. He was playing a game, but he was playing it alone.

She glanced over her shoulder. "Somehow, I don't see that working out for you." Neither did I. "How did you find me?"

"You've been on our radar for a few months, ever since you left that nunnery of yours."

"Yet, you discovered my existence three weeks ago? Which is it?"

She caught him, and she knew it as he stumbled to talk his way through. I decided to go for the truth. "You were reported missing by the sisters of St. Augustine. A woman named Misha calls every now and then for an update."

Now, I'd turned the tables and caught her. Her face fell as she breathed out the name, "Misha?"

My stomach churned at the idea of using it against her, but I encouraged the emotion, "she's really worried about you."

I thought I had her a second later, but she quickly sobered up. Saffiya straightened her posture and set us with a blank stare. As if she'd grown bored of the conversation. "You both seem good enough to know I won't tell you anything about my father's work – dead or alive. So, what do you want?" Roberts glanced at me, a smirk rising on his face.

I, on the other hand, frowned and went to correct her. He cut me off.

"Listen, sweetcheeks–"

There was a loud bump behind the curtains. "Let's stick with proper names, shall we, gentlemen?"

Roberts rolled his eyes, but a glimmer led me to believe he might have been worried for a second. "We don't give a damn about any code of honour among thieves. What do you know about this?" He looked at me expectantly, annoyed, and I pulled the photocopy of the painting and slid it over to her.

She snorted, unladylike and yet another slip into her true, lighter personality. "You work in art crimes and don't know a Degas when you see one?"

The man stuttered, not expecting her charmed wit. "You know what we mean."

She sighed woefully, tracing the image with a delicate hand. "I never did Degas. Too subtle handed." Somehow, I doubted that.

"I don't believe you." Roberts's rudeness unnerved me, and it wasn't getting us very far with Saffiya.

"My father didn't need me for forgeries. As I'm sure, you're aware."

"Maybe not. But we found more than childhood drawings in those boxes, and it looks like he sure as hell got away with it more when he did use you." She smirked with a practiced expertise, sliding the paper back to me.

"If that's what you think after only three weeks, I'd be delighted to know what you have after three months." Her insinuation was directly in line with the arrogance she'd demonstrated earlier. She watched Roberts expectantly, seeming to enjoy the effect of her unstable responses on his hubristic attitude.

"How about without your daddy? Freelance, much?"

"If I did, do you really think I'd tell you?"

They stared at each other, and somehow, she stole the dominance when she broke eye contact first. That strong green met my eyes. "You want to tell me what this is about?"

I didn't give Roberts a chance to respond or tell me not to. I just did. "The original and a forgery were offered to an auction house. The donor was anonymous, but the painting was stolen from a museum only five days prior."

"And how did my father come into this?" This time, I had to look at Roberts for my cue. She smirked, though she seemed disappointed. Not that I should trust anything about her responses at this point. "I think it's been five minutes."

As soon as the words left her mouth, the cabin door swung open, the breeze from outside wafting over us.

She watched us go, biting her lip in another turn of emotion, and I thought that was it until she called after us. "Wait" and "Alec?" As if he'd been standing right behind the curtain, the boy returned to her side. Sunglasses, oddly still on. She held her hand out. "Phone?" But he seemed reluctant to hand it over, so she did it herself, moving his jacket aside and collecting it from the inside pocket with an exasperated exhale.

Definitely not a victim.

She pressed a few buttons, then reclaimed my pen and wrote a number on the space left in the paper she'd taken from me before. She tore it off.

"Please, if you find anything about my father." She eyed Roberts distrustfully before choosing to give the slip of paper to me.

"This is your number?" I tried to clarify, wondering what she expected us to find.

"Alec's. He'll get your message to me." From the way he looked at us, I doubted her words.

We turned to leave, Roberts was already on the stairs when I turned again to ask, "and if the sisters of St. Augustine call?"

She glanced up at the boy, who pursed his lips but nodded. "Better now then after," he murmured to her, his hand moving to her back as her face fell. The action was natural, familiar, and without recognizing why, she regained the courage to answer me.

Even so, she hesitated, biting her lip. "Use your discretion. Yours. Not his," she eyed Roberts, who scoffed. It was the most genuine she'd been with us, so I tucked the paper in my pocket. She smiled softly at the decision.

One of the guards placed a hand on my uninjured shoulder, and I tried not to jerk away at the shock from the ice of his touch. "If you don't mind. We have a schedule to stick to."

"One more question," her companions grew anxious the more questions she asked. "How did you know it was me? Really?"

I reached into the back of the file, careful not to let anything else show, and handed over the reference photo. "No matter how old you get, you can't change these eyes."

She accepted the picture of her younger self, and after a few seconds, the boy took it from her. His eyebrows seemed to soften as he examined it, but she regained my attention before I could deduce more about her unusual partner. Saffiya smiled at me, almost as if she had a secret.

"I can try."

"You think people like her are just born lucky or taught lucky?"

Roberts thrust open his car door as we watched their plane take off twenty minutes later. We'd made it to the carport with his bruised ego limping behind us all the way through the hangar. I copied him, sliding into the old car and placing the file on my lap.

"Lucky?" I asked, astounded. "Why didn't you tell her?"

She didn't even try to deny...anything. What if she just told us what we wanted to hear? While we were trying to build rapport, she was getting answers. We gave more than we got. And I couldn't help but feel that Roberts had sabotaged us from start to finish. His investment in the case was almost too intense and the experienced detective had lost his head.

"She was lying. Ain't no way she's not involved." I glanced back up the plane, only to see it disappearing behind the clouds. "She was playing you that whole time, kid. Asking for information on her daddy." His tone was unnecessarily mocking, and I felt offended on her behalf. A girl I hardly knew. "That's why you're the intern, and I'm the one with a badge."

He continued, despite my lack of commitment to the conversation.

"Her daddy sure trained the hell out of her. Inconsistent. Edgy. Predictive reactions. Asking for our names – like she could report us, ha! Yeah, right!" He continued prattling on, criticizing her behaviour so intently it started to sound like admiration. He really was a chump.

I opened the case folder to study the security image of the theft once more. The thief had stopped in the middle of his heist to send a smug look into the security cameras. Seconds before he walked out of the frame and disappeared from the world over a month ago. I compared the image with the headshot beside it.

There was no doubt. Thomas Civello was alive.

And I was convinced; his daughter had no idea.

~•~•~•~

Next chapter is not an update. Only an author's note.