CHAPTER 6

"Twenty-five thousand in unmarked tens and twenties by noon tomorrow. Wait at the pay phone outside Ben's Burger Barn for more instructions."

"I don't have that kind of cash lying around," protested Gray. He paced back and forth in the living room of his high-rise condo in the tony Buckhead section of Atlanta.

"Noon tomorrow, or you might be taking that blonde to a plastic surgeon."

Gray's right fist clenched and his voice rose. "Leave Nikita out of this, you bastard. What if I can get . . ."

The garbled mechanical voice cut him off. "Do you need a hearing aid? Noon." Then there was silence. Gray cursed and hurled the phone against the wall. A nice dent appeared below a Degas painting of jockeys at a race. It was a reproduction, of course, but one day he hoped to own the real deal. He straightened the painting and ran a finger across the top of the frame to check for dust.

Good. Mamie's been doing her job.

The kitchen phone rang, jolting him back to the problem at hand. He almost went to answer it, but then he heard Nikita's voice reminding him of his birthday tomorrow. He laughed bitterly. If he didn't pay off his gambling debt, tomorrow might turn out to be his funeral instead.


FBI Field Office, Atlanta

"You're late and I have a meeting in 15 minutes," barked Paul Wolfe, Special-Agent-in-Charge. He made a show of checking his Tag Heuer watch as Birkoff and Michael entered the office.

Michael stifled a laugh as he thought about the irate man standing behind the desk waltzing around a dance studio. Or maybe he did the tango with a red rose between his teeth.

"And you're bleeding." Wolfe looked with disgust at Michael's shoulder. He reached behind him, snatched up the box of tissues from the credenza and handed it to Michael.

"Sorry. Couldn't be helped." Michael dropped into one of the chairs in front of Wolfe's large, cluttered desk without waiting to be invited. "Ran into a friend from Miami at the airport. When I'm through with him tomorrow, he's gonna roll over on some big players."

Wolfe picked up a file and slid it across to Michael. "Drugs are Miami's problem; I have white-collar crime to deal with here. That's your new assignment. Read it and be ready to go in the morning. Birkoff will drive you to the apartment you'll be using."

Michael slowly nodded. "I'll try to be more presentable tomorrow."

Wolfe picked up his briefcase and gave Michael one final perusal. "Don't bother. That look goes better with the profile."

As soon as Wolfe left, Michael hopped up and scooted around the desk to sit at the computer. "I need to check out a name Manny mentioned."

"You can't use his computer," gasped Birkoff. "There's an empty office down the hall." He looked anxiously at the door, lest Wolfe should return.

"Why not?" asked Michael, hands flying across the keyboard. "Aren't we all on the same team?

"Yes, but . . ." stammered Birkoff.

"Hey, kid. See if you can scare up an icepack. My shoulder hurts like a mother."

Birkoff released a weary sigh. "Fine." As he went out the door, he mumbled, "Miami was right. You are a badass."


Gray pulled his Mercedes into the parking lot at Protozoa, the hottest new club in Atlanta. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and glanced around. There it was. The owner's white Rolls-Royce. Ostentatious, just like the man himself.

He'd met the owner, Mick Schtoppel, eight months ago at a co-worker's bachelor party. If anyone had extra cash on hand, it would be Mick. Gray had no idea if he could get a loan from the Englishman, but he had no other resources. He was mortgaged to the hilt with the condo and his grandmother's trust fund was down to almost nothing.

He stared through the windshield. A group of scantily-clad women in periously high heels arrived, laughing and talking with abandon. He barely noticed them. Instead, he wondered again how his life had spiraled so out of control.

The divorce two years ago.

Heavy drinking.

Heavier gambling.

A wild weekend in Las Vegas. The advertising executives were wrong. What happened there did not always stay there. Oh no, it followed him back to Atlanta with a vengeance.

Finally, he snapped out of his morose thoughts and got out of the car. As soon as he entered the club the loud music and flashing lights swamped him. After a few seconds, he noticed Mick at the end of the bar, talking to a tall redhead.

Mick saw him immediately, dismissed the girl, and walked toward him. "Gray! How's it going, mate?"

"Not good." Gray's eyes darted around the room. For all he knew, the person who threatened him earlier could be here. "Is there someplace we can talk? I need a huge favor."

Mick frowned and signaled the bartender. "Sure thing, mate. This way. Danny will bring us a couple of beers." Mick led the way down a corridor to his locked office. The volume of the music was only slightly diminished here.

Once they were settled in overstuffed chairs, Gray's story spilled out. He ran a hand through his hair, causing it stand up in unruly spikes. "Can you help me, Mick?"

Mick let out a low whistle. "I'm in a bit of a jam at the moment meself. You see, I'm being audited by your IRS."

Gray jumped up and began pacing. "What am I gonna do? I gotta get my hands on some cash, and quick. They're gonna hurt Nikita if I don't!"

"Ah, yes. The lovely Nikita," sighed Mick. A malevolent thought occurred to him. If Gray were out of the picture, perhaps he would have a chance with the blond goddess. He knew how to show a lady a good time. He smiled in satisfaction.

"Don't you know, you know, people, who could help me?" Gray planted his hands on the desk and leaned toward Mick.

"Actually, I might know someone. He's a friend of a friend of an enemy." Mick paused to laugh at his own joke. "I'll ring him." He picked up his cell phone and went into the hall.

He returned ten minutes later with a scrap of paper. "Woody lives on a farm about fifty miles east of here. He's expecting you. Pull around to the back of the house." Mick shuddered. "He raises pigs and other disgusting livestock."

Gray frowned and looked at the directions. "A pig farmer? You're sure he can help me?"

"Positive. You might have to help him unload some feed or whatever farmers do," laughed Mick. The sound prickled along Gray's spine and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Suddenly, he wondered if it had been a mistake to come here.

He sighed and went back to his car. It was already half past ten. He didn't relish driving out to the middle of nowhere tonight, but what choice did he have?

CHAPTER 7

Gray exited the interstate onto a quiet two-lane road. Away from the city lights, the inky darkness enveloped him and gave the countryside a sinister feel. He had gone only a short distance when a large SUV came flying around the curve, narrowly missing the Mercedes. Gray gripped the steering wheel and managed to stay out of the ditch that ran beside the road. He broke out in a sweat, even though the air conditioning was going full-blast.

What if Mick was setting him up? He really didn't know the man that well. Could he be involved in something illegal? His gut spasmed and not because of the Chinese takeout he'd eaten earlier. He drove on as he dragged in some shaky breaths. Around the next curve, a house came into view.

He paused at the end of the driveway. Why hadn't he brought the pistol he kept in his home office? His cell phone rang, but Gray turned it off and tossed it into the back seat. He didn't need Nikita or anyone else distracting him at the moment. Taking a deep breath, he slowly drove down the driveway to the back of the house. A shiny black Lamborghini parked there presented a sharp contrast to the modest ranch-style house. A pair of dogs rushed the fence just beyond the garage and began barking.

A shirtless, jeans-clad man appeared at the screen door. "Hey! Charles, Diana . . . shut the hell up!" he yelled to the dogs. To Gray he yelled, "You coming in, man? I ain't got all night." Then he laughed raucously and took a long swig of his beer. "Or maybe I do."

Gray cut the engine and got out of the car. "You're Woody?"

"Yeah, that's me. Woody, goody Woody."

Woody staggered back into the kitchen and Gray followed. The guy must have been on a binge for hours. Empty beer bottles, broken dishes, and trash littered the kitchen. When Woody opened the refrigerator to peer inside, Gray grabbed a knife from a block on the counter and held it loosely at his side. This guy might go berserk at any time.

"Want one?" Woody waved a bottle at Gray.

"Maybe later. Mick said you could help me."

"Yeah, Mick. He's my buddy," slurred Woody. He stumbled into the living room, slipped on a throw rug, and crashed into a mahogany end table. A lamp and china figurines rained down on the unconscious Woody. Gray stared in disbelief as a pool of blood formed under Woody's head.

"Holy Mother of God!" gasped Gray. He dropped the knife and looked around frantically. Where would he keep his cash? He pulled open the drawers of an antique desk that stood in the corner, but found no money.

He ran down the hall toward the bedrooms. For all he knew, someone could be asleep or passed out back here. He searched the first bedroom, then the second one, but came up empty-handed. Finally, in the third bedroom, which had been converted to an office, he found a cashbox and some ledgers. At a quick glance, Gray knew it was nowhere near the amount he needed.

He turned to search the walk-in closet. Coats and clothing jammed the rods with shoes and more clothes thrown on the floor. There were also boxes of books, dishes, and Christmas decorations. Gray emptied each box and pawed through the items. Just as he was about to give up, he spotted something out of place among the snow globes and colored lights – a long, cylindrical mailing tube.

He pulled out the papers and unrolled them. Sandwiched between several sheets of plain brown paper was a painting. Gray was dumbfounded. Since he had minored in art history in college and worked one summer for a prominent Philadelphia gallery, he knew this was no fake.

A Vermeer landscape from the 1600s.

He recalled a recent article he'd read about this very painting and several others. Ten years ago, they were stolen in the middle of the night from the Greenfield Museum in Boston. The trail had long since gone cold. However, a few days ago, on the anniversary of the theft, several newspapers recounted the story again. It never hurt to remind the public once more. You never knew when some new clue might emerge, when someone's tongue might be loosened.

Gray's hands shook uncontrollably as he returned the painting to the tube. This one alone was probably worth several million dollars. Would his creditors accept a hot painting in lieu of cold, hard cash? He had no idea, but he knew he needed to get out of here. He found an old pillowcase on the top shelf and stuffed the tube and the cashbox in it.

He ran out to his car and jumped in. As he drove away, he vaguely wondered if he should call 911 for Woody.

The Next Morning

"I did some stupid stuff when I was younger, too. But once I got in the Army, well, Uncle Sam straightened my ass out," said Walter, the produce manager. "So, I'm all in favor of giving a man a second chance."

"Thanks, I appreciate that," said Michael. He was starting his new undercover assignment at this large, suburban grocery store. His cover – the best ones contained a little bit of truth – was an ex-con starting over in the "Prison to Prosperity" program of the county.

Walter looked at his clipboard. "Says here you were in the Marines."

"Yes, sir. Did two tours in Iraq. But when you see your buddies get blown to bits, it's time to get the hell out." That part was true at least. "I was out drinking one night with my cousin Eddie. We got crazy and stole a car. Then we tried to outrun the cops and blew through a red light. We t-boned a car and put a woman in the hospital for six weeks."

Walter nodded soberly. "Well, that was in the past. You've paid your debt so now you need to think about your future. You got a family, son?"

"Divorced."

"Yeah, been down that road myself," chuckled Walter. "Anyway, what I need for you to do first is unload those pallets over there."

"Yes, sir. I appreciate this opportunity."

A stock boy called out to Walter to sign for a shipment of peaches. Michael headed for the loading dock. He hoped someone soon would tell him how the hell unloading cabbages would solve white-collar crime.

CHAPTER 8

FBI Field Office, Atlanta – 6:10 a.m.

"Listen up, people. Overnight, there was a major break in a case that's been open for the past ten years. A truck driver on I-20 East came upon a wrecked car down an embankment, white male driver unconscious. When the State Patrol investigated, they discovered approximately eight thousand dollars in cash and this little beauty in the car. An image of the Vermeer landscape appeared on the screen at the front of the conference room.

"Isn't that from the Greenfield heist?" asked Birkoff, leaning forward. Beside him, Michael struggled to suppress a yawn. It was way too early to be talking about art. He gulped down a mouthful of the crap that masqueraded for coffee in this place.

"Exactly." Another image popped up. "This is the driver – Gray Wellman. He's an architect with a gambling problem. Currently, he's in surgery for internal injuries and numerous broken bones. He'll be under 24-hour guard. When he's released, he'll be transferred to jail."

Wolfe next brought up a picture of Wellman and a stunning blonde at some fancy-dress event. Michael almost spit out his coffee. Birkoff shot him a look. "You okay?"

"Burned my tongue."

"This is his girlfriend, Nikita Wirth," continued Wolfe. "They've been together for about eighteen months. She works as a wedding planner at Scarlett's Dream. It's uncertain at this point if she has any connection to the painting."

Michael straightened in his chair. It was the woman who had been on his flight from Miami. So, blondie has a name . . . and a stupid boyfriend. His interest in the meeting kicked up a notch. He hoped she was not involved in the theft. He could think of a dozen other things he would like to do to her rather than slap cuffs on her.

"What about searching his house and office?" asked another agent.

"APD will execute search warrants this morning at his Midtown office and Buckhead condo. They will also question the girlfriend."

A babble of speculation broke out among the agents. "It's been four years since the last tip came in about this case," Bikoff said. His eyes danced and he tapped his fingers on the table.

"Before you get carried away, there's more," said Wolfe. He paused while the room settled down and the agents gave him their attention again. "The son of a prestigious Atlanta family was found dead on his farm east of here. Woodruff Everett Rollins, III." An image of a clean-cut young man at a wedding reception flashed up on the screen, followed by a slovenly mug shot from a year ago.

"Also known as Woody Rollins or Woody Everett. He was kicked out of the University of Georgia when his organic chemistry experiments turned out to be crystal meth. His family is big in real estate and owns a large chain of grocery stores in Georgia and Alabama. Wellman's wrecked Mercedes was found two exits from the Rollins farm. CSI is processing the scene now."

"We received tips two months ago that Woody's farm was really a front for an identity theft ring. Also, that trucks owned or leased by the grocery stores were being used to transport merchandise obtained with stolen credit cards across state lines."

The agents looked at each other in shock. This could be one of the biggest cases the Atlanta office had handled in recent memory.

Some of the snippets of conversation Michael overheard yesterday at the store now made sense. Something about a truck not coming in from the farm as expected and a spoiled rich kid.

Suddenly, Michael realized Wolfe was addressing him. "Samuelle, anything to report?"

Tension and anticipation hung in the air. "Bananas are on sale today for 49 cents a pound."

Birkoff snorted. Some agents cracked smiles, but Wolfe glared intently at Michael.

"Sorry. Walter, the produce manager, was worried about a truck that didn't show up from the Rollins farm. But all other trucks arrived on time and with their expected loads. I was able to have a brief look in his office, but nothing appeared out of order."

"What about the old guy? Could he be involved?" asked Wolfe.

No doubt Walter would bristle at that remark, thought Michael. "He only looks old. My gut says that he's exactly what he seems – an honest, hard-working man trying to motivate a bunch of slacker employees."

"Hey, isn't that your cover, Samuelle?" called a smart-ass from the back of the room. A few giggles erupted. Michael would have given him the finger, but there were a couple of female agents present.

"I'm a reformed ex-con and I'm about to be late for work." He pushed to his feet. "Are we done here?"

"For the moment," said Wolfe. He picked up his coffee mug. It was already his fourth of the morning. "I have to give a statement to the press."


Is this day over yet? wondered Nikita. Two detectives knocked on her door at the crack of dawn and dropped the bomb about Gray. Then she'd spent hours being interviewed by the police and FBI. Different people would come in the small room and ask the same questions, but in different ways. I don't know where he got the money. I don't know why he had the painting. How any times did she say that today?

Finally, they seemed to believe her and she was released. Or maybe they were tired of asking the same questions, too. She called the hospital to check on Gray. He was in ICU in a medically-induced coma and no visitors were allowed. Now after all this drama, she still had to meet a new client.

However, she could not do so with this big fat run in her hose. She saw a grocery store ahead on the right and pulled into the parking lot.


All day long the image of Nikita Wirth with Gray Wellman intruded on Michael's thoughts. He knew better than to be taken in by a pretty face, but he felt sure she was an innocent.

As he was bent over restocking in aisle six, a familiar voice and scent reached him. "Sir, excuse me. Do you have 'Caribbean Nude' hose?"

For a split second, Michael thought he was dreaming. He turned and his eyes connected with endless legs. Slowly, his gaze drifted upward over a black-and-turquoise skirt, a black top, and finally came to the face that had haunted him throughout the day.

He gave her a sexy grin. "Honey, I wouldn't mind getting nude with you in the Caribbean." The words slipped out before he knew it.

Nikita stepped back with a gasp. "What are you doing here?" A flush crept up her neck.

Michael stood up and loomed over her. "I'm sorry. That was totally uncalled for. What you need is on aisle ten . . . ma'am. I can show you, if you like."

Nikita knew she should move, but her feet would not cooperate. "You work here? I thought you were . . ."

"Were what?"

"Never mind. It's nothing."

Michael stepped closer. "Tell me. I'm curious."

An old man came shuffling down the aisle. Nikita held her breath and waited until he passed. "You had a gun. I, uh, I thought you were an air marshal," she whispered.

Before he could answer, an announcement came over the PA. "Michael, call on line two."

Michael frowned. "Look, I have to get that. It's almost time for my break. Can I buy you a cup of coffee to apologize? There's a little place next door."

As crazy as it seemed, Nikita almost wanted to accept. Maybe she just wanted someone to talk to after her disturbing day. "I can't. I have an appointment in 15 minutes."

CHAPTER 9

"Nikita Wirth is in the store. Do you see her?" asked Birkoff from his car at the edge of the parking lot.

"See her? I was chatting her up just now. Why didn't you call my cell?" demanded Michael. He craned his neck out the office door in time to see a blur of turquoise and black flying through the front door.

"Tried to. Your battery must be low."

Michael stifled a curse. "She's headed your way. Don't lose her."

"I have a visual."

Michael slammed the receiver down and headed to the rear of the store. By inviting her for coffee he hoped to glean information from her about Wellman, her life, whatever. But the moment was thwarted by Birkoff's ill-timed call.

No matter. His priority right now was to have a more thorough look in Walter's office. He'd have to leave the surveillance of blondie to other members of the team. He grabbed a broom and started sweeping. From here he could see when Walter left.

It was slow for an early Thursday evening. Michael swept, straightened some shelves, and directed a clueless new father to the baby aisle. After two days, Michael was well-versed in diapers, pull-ups, and formula. It was ironic considering he had no children. None that he knew of anyway.

Did blondie want to have kids with Wellman? The thought hit him out of left field. Whether she wanted to or not was irrelevant now. CSI had found Wellman's prints all over the Rollins house and on a large kitchen knife near Woody's body. While the cause of death was attributed to the head wound, the cops speculated that Wellman may have threatened Woody with the knife. If Wellman recovered from his injuries, his life was toast.

The light in Walter's office flicked off and the door closed with a snap. "Calling it a night, boss?" called out Michael, throwing up his hand.

Walter gripped a bucket of fried chicken and a newspaper in one arm. "The wife didn't feel like cooking."

A loud crash was followed by a yelp of surprise. Several cans rolled out from behind a pyramid of toilet tissue. Walter shook his head. "Keep an eye on that Hillinger kid, will ya? I have my doubts about him."

"Will do." That was another reason Michael volunteered to work the evening shift. There was more doing on with part-time college student Greg Hillinger than met the eye.


Nikita slid the key into the ignition and paused. The day from hell was finally over, but she was too agitated to go home. Her new clients were already proving to be a handful. The bride wanted ecru napkins while the groom insisted on ivory. A wedding was supposed to be a happy thing, but too often it only brought out the worst in people.

She massaged her forehead. Twin jackhammers were going off above her eyes. She knew she would not be able to sleep right now and it was too late to work off the tension in the gym.

An image of Michael popped into her head. He was intriguing, and yes, even sexy, in a rough-and-tumble sort of way. Not the kind of man she would have looked at twice in the past. But she'd been mistaken about Gray, too. Her gut told her this business with Gray wasn't over yet. Was she always destined to pick Mr. Wrong?

Her face heated when she remembered Michael's flip remark. Why hadn't she slapped him or reported him to store management? He probably expected her to fall at his feet. Instead, she stood there like some silly teenager and seriously considered accepting his offer.

Nikita cranked the car and decided to drive around for a while. Then she thought of the 24-hour Walmart nearby. Nothing like a little aimless shopping to de-stress a girl. Maybe she'd even get a banana split at the Dairy Queen next door.


Michael watched as Hillinger made his way toward the loading dock. He kept glancing over his shoulder to see if anyone noticed him, but the other clerks were either busy at the front of the store or on a dinner break.

Michael flattened himself against one of the darkened walls. A tall stack of pallets provided cover. He had to lean only slightly to keep Hillinger in sight. Maybe the kid was going for a smoke or to shoot up some dope.

Hillinger shrugged out of his plaid work shirt and tossed it aside. Then he pulled a brown envelope from underneath his ripped Van Halen tee shirt. His cell phone rang, startling him, and the envelope slipped to the floor.

Michael ventured a bit closer to hear since Hillinger's back was to him. "Hello. Yeah, I got it. I'm loading it now."

Hillinger paced back and forth. "It'll go out tomorrow. Now when do I get my money? You better not screw me over! I did everything you asked."

Hillinger halted in front of a large crate of canned goods. "Yeah, I heard you the first time. Okay, sure." He closed the phone and jammed it back in his pocket. He checked his watch and looked around furtively.

Michael pulled back into the shadows. What the hell? Some high-grade drugs maybe?

Grabbing a crowbar, Hillinger proceeded to open a false panel along the side of the crate. He wrapped the envelope in the plaid shirt and slipped it into the space. Next, he replaced the panel and with a permanent marker from his pocket made a small mark on the side.

He left the loading dock and headed straight to where the timecards were kept. Michael followed and casually picked up a clipboard and pretended to check something. Hillinger kept looking around as if he expected a boogeyman to jump out. He rubbed his hands down the side of his jeans. He punched out and left through the front door. Michael kept him in sight until the taillights of his battered Toyota pickup disappeared.

Michael hurried back to the loading dock. He used the same crowbar and opened the false panel. He withdrew the envelope and held it by the edges. Manila envelope, eight by ten, no writing on the front or back. The kind you could buy at any office supply store. He laid it down on the shirt while he pulled on a pair of latex gloves he kept in his back pocket.

He used the knife from his boot to slit the top. The package was lightweight so perhaps there were stolen credit cards in it. When he pulled out the contents, he did a double take.


After aimlessly pushing a cart through Walmart for over an hour, Nikita decided it was time to go home. When she stopped in front of her apartment, she released a long weary sigh. She was way beyond tired at this point. Could she lean her head back and sleep in the car tonight? It sounded a lot easier than trudging up the stairs to the apartment and having to undress.

No, one of the neighbors might call the cops thinking she was drunk or even dead out here. She giggled at the thought and got out of the car. She hauled herself up to the second-floor apartment and unlocked the door. The living room light was on a timer since she often returned home after dark.

Nikita snapped to attention. Something was not right. The sliding glass door to the patio was ajar with the breeze fluttering the drapes. She knew it was locked when she left this morning. Her heart jumped up into her throat. Fury and determination ripped through her. After all she'd been through today, she was not about to let some intruder have the last word.

She eased out of her heels and let her purse slide off her shoulder. There was a small brass lamp on the table in the foyer. She reached down, unplugged it, and slowly removed the shade. She balanced it in her hand. The base was heavy. It would give somebody one hell of a concussion.

CHAPTER 10

Sofa cushions on the floor; books and DVDs scattered; kitchen cabinets and drawers gaping open.

Nikita resisted the urge to scream at this violation and crept down the hall toward the bedroom. Her heart hammered in her chest. The room was dark. Maybe the intruder was long gone.

She hesitated. There was no sound of movement anywhere. She reached around the corner with her left hand and flipped the switch.

A loud gasp. A tornado could not have done more damage. The mattress was halfway off the bed and every last stitch of clothing she owned was tossed about. Even her luggage was pulled from the closet and the lining slashed.

Someone was looking for something. Probably not her collection of PEZ dispensers.

Advancing to the bathroom, she found cosmetics overturned and lying on the floor. A warning was scrawled on the mirror with her brand-new lipstick: GIVE IT UP BITCH.

The shower curtain snapped back and a man in head-to-toe black leapt out. Nikita screamed and dropped the lamp. Her foot slid over a shampoo bottle and she fell backwards.

The perpetrator latched onto her upper arm and jerked her upright. A mean-looking knife was thrust under her quivering chin.

"Where is it?"

"Wh . . . what?"

"Don't play dumb, goldilocks. The other painting."

"I don't know about any painting," said Nikita through clenched teeth.

His grip tightened and Nikita whimpered. "The painting that your sorry prick of a boyfriend stole, bitch!"

"I'm telling you I don't . . ."

He teased the blade along her neck. "I can cut you real bad. Mess up this pretty face. Now start talking!" His breath was hot and stale against her cheek. Nikita felt like she might wet her pants at any moment.

Focus! Only his eyes and nose were not covered by the black mask. Over his shoulder, she noticed a can of hair spray on the vanity. She went limp and slumped to the floor.

"What the . . . "

Springing to her feet, Nikita grabbed the hair spray and blasted the guy in the face. "AAARRRHH! Dammit!"

The knife clattered to the floor as he swiped at his eyes. Nikita ran to the front door just as her elderly neighbor, Mr. Rigatoni, was poking his head in. "Is there a problem? I saw your door was standing open."

"Hurry! Call 911," she yelled.


A woman and small child seated on a garden bench.

Michael stared at the small painting. The various colors were as brilliant as the day they were applied to the canvas some four hundred years earlier.

Talk about a curveball. How did Hillinger get this? Was he connected with Wellman? And most disturbing of all, was blondie involved?

Michael's fists balled at his side. He had to get close to her and pump her for information. But first, he had to get this to headquarters. Wolfe would be ecstatic.

A plan began to take shape. He laid the painting aside while he picked the lock on Walter's office. He turned on the copier and carefully made a copy of the painting. Then he ran out into the store and snatched up a box of plastic baggies, a manila envelope, and packing tape.

He slid the photocopy into the new envelope and secured it with tape. It looked just like the original. The painting and the envelope with Hillinger's prints went into separate plastic bags for transport to the FBI lab.

Michael wrapped the envelope back in the plaid shirt and inserted it into the crate, replacing the side panel. He grinned as he stood and dusted off his hands. Somebody would get a big surprise when they opened that crate.

He secured Walter's office and went to punch out. Another clerk motioned for him to come to the front office for a call.

"Samuelle."

"It's Birkoff. There have been some developments. Wellman took a turn for the worse and was rushed back into surgery. Then five minutes ago, APD got a call about a burglary at Nikita Wirth's apartment. Said the place was trashed."

"How did this happen? Weren't you following her?"

Birkoff sighed. "I was until I had a flat."

"What's the address?"

Birkoff rattled off the address and cross streets.

"Meet me there," snapped Michael. He disconnected and ran out of the store. Thank goodness the crappy old car they'd assigned him had GPS.