CHAPTER 17
Birkoff shut off his computer and reached for the desk phone. "Naomi, are you ready?"
"Give me ten minutes to finish up."
"Okay, but hurry. We're already late and your father will be glaring at me. I don't trust that man when he has a steak knife in his hand. Not to mention those Hulk Hogan-like brothers of yours. They don't like me."
"Oh, Seymour," giggled Naomi. "Daddy is really fond of you. He's just testing you."
Birkoff sighed. "Wouldn't arm-wrestling be more direct?"
"And the boys are very protective of their little sister."
"Hmmph. I don't know why they're worried. You can drop a two-hundred-pound man in three seconds flat."
"True," said Naomi. "And I might even arm-wrestle you for the last piece of Oreo cheesecake, if it comes to that."
Birkoff laughed. "You're on. See you downstairs."
Walter sat stunned in his car for several minutes after Michael drove away. FBI, stolen paintings, criminals operating right under his nose. He didn't know what to make of it all. The more he thought about it, the angrier he got. How could something like this be going on in the store where he'd worked for 36 years?
He got out of the car and returned to his office. No time like the present to check out things. He rooted around in his desk until he found the master key and went straight to the locker assigned to Hillinger and opened it.
No surprises here. Cigarettes, fast-food wrappers, iPOD, old pay stubs, a couple of porn magazines, and a black hoodie with a torn pocket. Walter frowned. All rather mundane items until he stuck his hand in the other pocket and found a crumpled piece of paper.
The name, date, and two phone numbers on it meant nothing to Walter, but it might to the authorities. He opened his cell phone and pulled out Michael's card.
Louie's Steakhouse, 8:30 p.m.
"Happy birthday, dear Grandma. Happy birthday to you!"
Naomi's grandmother blew out the candles on the Oreo cheesecake and everyone clapped and whistled. "Way to go, Grandma!" called out one of the grandsons.
Birkoff's mouth was watering at the delicious sight when Naomi elbowed him sharply. "Look at that waiter over there. Doesn't he look familiar?" she whispered.
"Good grief! That's Manny, the guy Michael nabbed at the airport. APD screwed up and released him by mistake."
"We need to grab him," said Naomi. "Do you have your cuffs?"
"They're in the car. But I have a zip tie in my pocket."
"Okay, when he heads to the kitchen, I'll distract him and you can sneak up behind him."
"Good idea."
Fifteen minutes later, Manny was face-down on the kitchen floor, cuffed, and mumbling in Spanish. Birkoff alerted Michael, who came straight from his meeting with Walter. The restaurant manager was wringing his hands and fuming. "If there's any other riff-raff you need to round up, do it pronto. I've got a business to run and customers are screaming for their meals out there!"
A young server rushed in, her ponytail swinging. "The Torlucchi party is ready for dessert and coffee."
Michael and Birkoff exchanged a look. "Benny 'Two Toes' Torlucchi?" asked Michael.
"There could only be one. He has business interests here, but usually stays under the radar."
"As long as we're here we should check out the situation," nodded Michael. "For all we know, Manny could be one of his soldiers."
Two Atlanta cops arrived to escort Manny back to jail. "Why don't you two go back to the birthday party and I'll eavesdrop on our friend Benny. I wouldn't want Granny to get upset."
Michael flung a white towel over his forearm and commandeered the dessert trolley. "Sweetheart, you can take a break. I'll take care of the Torlucchi party," he said to the young waitress. She gawked as Michael headed for the private room at the back of the restaurant.
"What happened to that waiter?" snapped David Fanning. "I need my caffeine."
Benny Torlucchi narrowed his eyes at the man on his right side. Arrogant, impulsive, uncouth. Those were some terms that he applied to David Fanning. He didn't like the man, but had to admit he was a financial wizard.
Michael rolled into the room with the trolley heaped with slices of cake and pie and a fresh carafe of hot coffee. He quickly observed the scene without appearing to do so. Eight well-dressed men sat at the table, four on either side. Benny Torlucchi anchored the head of the table in his position as mob boss. Michael recognized about half of them from old mug shots.
"Where's the other guy?" demanded Fanning.
"His diarrhea returned," said Michael. "Crapped his pants and had to go home."
Fanning grimaced. "Ugh. Don't need to hear anymore." The others nodded around the table.
Torlucchi smiled at Michael. "Leave that. We can serve ourselves." To the group he said, "Gentlemen, we have some pressing business to discuss tonight."
"Of course," said Michael. He picked up some empty serving dishes and left the room, pulling the door almost closed behind him. He jumped around the corner when Fanning got up and peered into the hall before slamming the door.
Michael laughed to himself. The guy was paranoid, but it didn't matter. A powerful transmitter was now sitting under one edge of the table and Michael could monitor every word that was said.
From the conversation, it was obvious that this group was involved in credit card and ID theft. Not surprisingly, Mick Schtoppel's name came up and Fanning seemed anxious to "lean" on him some more.
Then the talks took a more sinister turn. Torlucchi lost all semblance of civility. His voice rose and fists slammed down on the table, rattling the dishes. "What about that Wirth woman? She has to know something. Do you think Wellman would share his bed with her and not share his secrets? If she doesn't have the painting, then she must know where it is! I want her squeezed until we find that painting. Our friends in the Middle East are not going to wait much longer."
"But we tossed her place and didn't find anything," said one guy.
Fists again slammed the table. "NO MORE EXCUSES! Do you hear me? Do whatever it takes to get that information out of her!"
Michael had heard enough. A knot formed in the pit of his stomach as he whipped out his cell phone to check in with the new surveillance team watching her apartment. He would never forgive himself if something happened to her.
CHAPTER 18
Birkoff was hovering over the printer as Michael strode in. "Take a look at this." He thrust a handful of pages at Michael.
Michael quickly scanned the information and looked up. "Are you kidding me?"
"I found the connection this morning," said Birkoff, his voice rising in excitement. "Things are falling into place."
"Maybe, or maybe it's only gonna get deeper. But this might explain why cousin Richard was so anxious to get back to Boston. Good job, Birkoff."
"Thanks."
Michael turned to leave, then stopped. "Hey, I didn't know your girlfriend was FBI."
Birkoff grinned. "Yeah, this is where we met. Isn't she awesome? She works bank robbery and kidnapping cases."
"Granny's party wasn't ruined?"
"Nah, Naomi comes from a long line of cops. They're used to interruptions at dinner and violence." Birkoff's grin faded when he saw Wolfe heading down the hall toward the interview rooms. "This is not going to be a fun morning."
"No," agreed Michael. "But we can't postpone it forever."
Nikita arrived at the FBI office at precisely 9:20 a.m., ten minutes prior to her appointment. She passed through the metal detectors and opened her purse for inspection. Hopefully, this would not take too long. She planned to go by the Scarlett's Dream office and check on the arrangements for the Anderson-Silvano wedding.
Take as much time as you need. You've been traumatized. We have everything under control. Vivian can handle the final preparations, her boss said. But what would Nikita do if she didn't go to work? Sit at home looking at the four walls and channel-surfing? That would get old real quick. Better to get back to her regular routine, she decided.
The receptionist, a grey-haired woman in her sixties, smiled and asked her to take a seat. She then picked up the phone and mumbled a few words into it. "Special Agent Birkoff will be out shortly," she said as she replaced the receiver.
Birkoff? Where's Michael?
Twenty minutes passed. Men and women in dark suits came and went, but there was no sign of Michael. Nikita contemplated her manicure, counted the ceiling tiles, and cleaned out her purse. Apparently, the FBI did not believe in leaving magazines, even old ones, around for casual reading.
Finally, a door to the right of the reception desk opened and Birkoff appeared. "Niki . . . uh, Ms. Wirth. Hi. Please come this way."
"Hello, Birkoff. How are you?"
"Uh . . . fine."
He doesn't sound fine, thought Nikita as she followed him down the corridor. They turned right and at the end of this corridor Nikita saw a group of agents standing around. All were wearing dark suits and white shirts, save one.
Michael.
Their eyes connected for a split-second before Michael turned back to the other agents. Everyone seemed tense. Nikita briefly took in his appearance: black jacket, black tee shirt, jeans snug in some interesting places, and black boots.
Birkoff stopped in front of a door labeled 'Interview 1' and unlocked it. "Wait here."
The room was small, windowless, and had a surveillance camera mounted high in the corner. Nikita sat down at the battered metal table.
Ten more minutes passed. Nikita felt a headache developing. She took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. Nothing to worry about, right? They probably just want to clarify some details.
The door creaked open, Birkoff entered, and closed it behind him. He sat down across from Nikita and flipped open a file. He cleared his throat and tugged at his shirt collar. "Thank you for coming in today, Ms. Wirth. I'd like to ask you some questions and have you look at some pictures."
Nikita nodded. "Okay."
"How long did you know Gray Wellman?"
Nikita resisted the urge to roll her eyes. How many times are they going to ask these same, boring questions?
"Over a year."
"How did you meet him?"
"He was a guest at a wedding I planned. I'm a wedding planner, you know."
"Uh yes, we're aware of that. Did you know he was divorced?"
"He told me."
"Did he ever talk about his ex-wife and why they divorced?"
"Only once. He said she was bad news. Her family, too."
"Did you ask him to elaborate on that statement?"
"No, he was quite adamant that he didn't want to discuss it. Said he had moved on."
"Did Wellman have any financial problems? Work-related problems?"
"He never mentioned any money problems. But his firm was involved in a lawsuit over a condominium project in Boston. He was very worried about that since he was one of the principal designers."
Birkoff rifled through the file. "A check of his bank statements shows that Wellman was several months behind on his mortgage and had withdrawn almost all the money in the trust fund left to him by his maternal grandmother. Yet three months ago he purchased an expensive diamond bracelet. I have the credit card receipt here." He glanced at Nikita's right wrist.
"It was my birthday present!" gasped Nikita. "I would never have accepted it if I'd known he was in such a predicament." She unclasped the bracelet and pushed it toward Birkoff. "Here. Take it. I'm beginning to wish I'd never met Gray Wellman."
Birkoff studied her for a moment, then pushed a photograph across the table. "Look carefully at these people. See if you recognize them."
There were two men and a woman in the picture. They were in evening clothes and holding champagne flutes. Nikita pointed to one man. "That's Richard, Gray's cousin. No clue about the others."
"You're sure?"
Nikita took one last look. It was obvious the people were at a reception or fundraiser of some sort. "Positive. Who are they?"
Birkoff gathered the file together, except the photograph, and stood. "Wait here."
Nikita leaned forward in the chair. "When can I go? I need to go to my office today."
When Nikita arrived this morning, the temperature was already in the nineties. Now it felt twice that hot in this miniscule room. She shrugged out of her jacket and hung it on the back of the chair. Are they trying to sweat information out of me? Information I don't have? She sighed and picked up the photograph to fan herself. Several long minutes crept by before the door opened again.
"Michael!"
"Nikita." His face betrayed no emotion as he sat down. He had his own file that he placed on the table.
"Can we get some more air in here?" he said to the camera in the corner. Nikita's flushed skin and parted lips dragged his mind from the investigation for an instant. After a moment, he stood and removed his jacket, revealing a holstered gun under his left arm.
Nikita sucked in an unsteady breath and swallowed. "Can we get on with this? I'd like to get some work done today."
"Of course." Michael opened his file and shoved another photograph at Nikita. "Do you know these men?"
"They're my neighbors. Kevin and Greg Hillinger."
"Do you socialize with them?"
"No, I barely know them. They moved in a few months back. They had a big party and invited everyone in the building, but I didn't go."
"Why not?"
"I was working."
"Maybe Gray went."
"Not likely. He was going up to Boston a lot around that time."
"Recently, we learned that Greg Hillinger was in possession of a stolen painting."
There was a moment of silence. Michael stared at Nikita.
"So?" Nikita returned his stare. She refused to be intimidated.
"Your boyfriend had a stolen painting from the Greenfield Museum. Your neighbor had a stolen painting from the Greenfield Museum. Don't you find that a little odd?"
Nikita's lips compressed into a thin line. "What I find odd is that you're asking me about this. Why don't you bring the Hillinger boys in and give them the third degree? I'm a victim here. First, Gray turns out to be a scoundrel and now you're treating me like a criminal!" Nikita slouched back in the chair and crossed her arms over her chest.
Michael picked up the diamond bracelet and turned it over in his hand. "Yes, Gray had his secrets. Surely, he let something slip at some time or other? Maybe some pillow talk in that enormous bedroom in his condo? Maybe you're still protecting him even though he's dead. Maybe you know how he got that painting."
Nikita's chair pushed back with a loud scrape on the worn linoleum and she leapt up, leaning over the table. "HOW DARE YOU? You're a bastard! I don't know anything about those damn paintings. Just because I dated Gray doesn't mean I knew all his business. Or his friends."
Michael stood and got in her face. Their lips were mere inches apart. He smiled and his voice was smooth as silk. "Come on, Nikita. Do you expect me to believe that Gray kept you in the dark about everything?"
SMACK! Michael's head jerked as Nikita's right palm whacked him.
"You shouldn't have done that. I'm a federal agent. I could arrest you right now for assault."
"Deal with it, jerk!" she smirked. "Do I look like someone who would knowingly, uh, what's that term you law enforcement types use?"
Michael arched an eyebrow. " 'Aid and abet'?" He felt the corners of his mouth trying to lift into a grin at her outrage.
"Yeah, that's it. Do you really think I would knowingly 'aid and abet' a criminal, even if he was my boyfriend?" she said sarcastically.
Michael said nothing, but continued to stare at Nikita. Her passionate denials were a turn-on. He was tempted to capture those pouty lips in a searing kiss, but Wolfe, Birkoff and other agents were in the next room watching the video feed. Time to turn the tables, keep her off-balance.
"Who's Theresa Giordano?"
Nikita's eyes narrowed. "Let me guess. Your third-grade teacher? Oh, wait! Your first girlfriend?"
Michael turned and left the room. Nikita stuck out her tongue at his departing back.
In the adjoining room, Birkoff clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a snort. "She's a live one."
Wolfe's iron grip clamped onto his shoulder. "Focus, Birkoff."
Michael rubbed his cheek. It was still stinging.
"Your assessment, Michael," said Wolfe.
"She's an innocent. Pushing her further would serve no purpose."
All eyes darted to the monitor when they heard Nikita speaking again.
"I know you're out there talking about me. Why don't you go ahead and arrest me if you think I'm guilty of something!" She glared directly at the camera before giving the chair a shove.
Nikita paced back and forth. What had come over her? Her mother would be appalled. What happened to the former Palm Beach debutante who spoke with a soft voice and observed the highest standards of decorum?
Gray Wellman happened. It was his fault she was here today and it was his fault she was acting like a street urchin. She picked up the diamond bracelet and flung it against the wall.
Suddenly feeling deflated, she asked the camera, "Can I get a bottle of water? Please?"
CHAPTER 19
Nikita paced back and forth for several minutes, too agitated to sit down. Finally, the door opened. Birkoff entered and passed her a bottle of water.
"You're free to go," he said.
"I am?" She took a long drink of the water.
"Yes, we don't have any further questions for you."
"You're sure?" Nikita asked with a hint of skepticism.
"At least until we get new information."
"Okay, great." She gathered up her jacket and purse and headed for the door.
"Niki . . uh, Ms. Wirth, be careful out there."
She paused with her hand on the doorknob. "Careful?"
"Yeah, you know, alert. Traffic's really bad this morning."
A frown crossed Nikita's face. "Like it's not a pain every morning in this town?"
Whatever that was, it was not about Atlanta traffic, thought Nikita. She stared as Birkoff headed down the hallway to the right before she turned and went the opposite direction.
And where is that Michael Samuelle? she wondered with a flash of irritation as she passed other agents. Typical annoying man. Stir up trouble, then vanish. It wasn't just the interrogation techniques that grated on her nerves, it was the interrogator himself. But as she'd admitted to Carla, Michael was hot! No doubt about it. The tight black tee shirt emphasized his chest and biceps while the gun gave him a definite lethal edge, but in a sexy way. And the jeans. Don't even go there!
Mentally, she berated herself. I really, really don't need to notice stuff like that right now. Stop it! Think about work. Weddings to plan; clients to meet; bridezillas to coddle.
She marched out the front door and instantly felt her irritation ratchet up a notch. Her car was not where she'd parked it over two hours ago. A quick scan of the parking lot revealed no white Toyotas anywhere.
"Where is my car?" she asked aloud. The temperature must be close to a hundred and her headache had reached epic proportions. She whirled around to stomp back into the lobby and demand an answer from the grey-haired receptionist when she collided with Michael's granite-hard chest. He grabbed her by the shoulders.
"Take it easy, Nikita. Is there a problem?"
"Yes! An unbelievable one. My car was stolen right out from under the FBI's nose!" She pointed to the empty parking space.
Michael pulled out his cell phone. "That's right. White 2005 Camry, tag number XRB-0402, small scratch on the right quarter panel." He listened for a few moments and snapped the phone shut.
Nikita glared at him with her hands on her hips. "You seem to know a lot about me."
"I'm a fed. It's my job." His eyes slowly raked over her from head to toe and back up. He took in the gleaming blond hair in its loose ponytail, the blue-flowered sundress, and the matching strappy sandals. "I do know a lot about you, but not everything."
Nikita shivered involuntarily at his emphasis on that one word. She tried to glare even harder at him. "What about my car?"
Michael held her gaze a beat longer. "There's good news and there's bad news."
Nikita's foot tapped impatiently. "Lay it on me."
"The good news is that your Camry was not stolen."
"And?"
"The bad news is that Forensics was expecting a white Camry for processing from a murder scene. The interior of your car is in a lot of little sections around back."
"WHAT?"
"Don't worry. They're putting it back together, but it'll take some time."
"Can this day get any worse? I need to get to my office. Now I'll have to call a cab," she huffed and began fumbling in her purse for her phone.
Nikita's head jerked up as Michael's hand closed over hers. "Don't. I'll drive you."
"Not necessary. I can . . ."
"No arguing." Michael grasped her elbow firmly and led her to the side of the building where agents parked behind a security fence.
He opened the passenger door of a black sedan and ushered her in. After Michael was buckled in, Nikita piped up. "I don't know why you're doing this. Aren't there other private citizens you need to be torturing?"
Michael was quiet as he negotiated the heavy traffic and kept checking the rear-view mirror.
"I suppose you already know where Scarlett's Dream is?"
Without warning, Michael cut across two lanes of traffic and executed a fast u-turn. Horns blared, brakes squealed, and angry drivers threw up their hands in disgust.
"What are you doing?" shrieked Nikita, latching onto the armrest with white knuckles.
"We picked up a tail. If I tell you to duck down, just do it and don't argue." Michael's tone was quiet, but serious.
"Okay." Nikita started to look over her shoulder.
"And don't look back!" he snapped.
Michael cut through side streets until he saw Lenox Square, a large upscale shopping mall ahead on the right. He whipped into the underground parking lot, slid into an empty space, and cut the engine.
"Who's following us?" Nikita whispered. Her heart rate had doubled during their wild ride.
Michael watched the myriad cars coming and going. "Large black SUV with tinted windows."
"No, I mean who?"
"Probably some of Benny Torlucchi's goons."
"Torlucchi? That name sounds familiar."
Michael cut a quick glance at Nikita. "You know him?"
Nikita frowned. "Not him, but there was somebody by that . . . Oh, now I remember. Cassandra Torlucchi, April of last year. She wasn't my client, thank goodness. She was a real high-maintenance bride."
"Your life gets more interesting by the minute," said Michael. "Get down!"
Nikita slid down in the seat as a large black SUV drove slowly past them. Michael was on his cell phone relaying the tag number to Birkoff the instant they passed.
"Are they gone?"
"Not yet." The SUV cruised up and down the rows and doubled back. "Persistent bastards." Michael slouched down as they made another pass by them. Fortunately, the lot was crowded and their sedan was unremarkable.
The SUV finally turned and drove up the ramp to the next level as Michael peered over the steering wheel. "Coast is clear."
Nikita jumped when Michael's cell rang. She gulped in several large breaths and tried to get a grip on her nerves while he had a short, cryptic conversation.
When he finished, he turned and studied her. "There's some intel we withheld. Mob boss Benny Torlucchi is looking for you because he thinks you know something about the stolen painting. We haven't connected all the dots yet, but somehow Mick Schtoppel is also involved. We believe the two paintings were to be used as currency in a Middle Eastern arms deal. And for good measure throw in some ID and credit card theft."
Nikita's eyes widened, but she was too shocked to comment.
"What I'm telling you stays between us. And for what it's worth, I believe you're innocent. You just happened to get involved with the wrong man at the wrong time. I know you're pissed at me for being so hard on you this morning, but I was only doing my job. You do know that, don't you?"
Nikita sighed in frustration. "I understand. But it doesn't mean I have to like it."
"Of course not." Michael rubbed the back of his neck to ease the tension. "Some days this job is in the toilet."
They sat in silence for twenty minutes, each in their own world. Nikita's floral perfume filled the small space and only added to the turmoil of Michael's thoughts. The SUV did not return and Michael figured they'd abandoned the search. For now.
"Do you still want to go to work?"
"Yeah, I need to do something useful and not dwell on what you told me."
Michael drove quickly out of the garage, but kept an eye open for the SUV. He took a long, winding route to the Scarlett's Dream office, just in case.
He stopped in front of the building and Nikita was opening her door when the back windshield shattered. "NIKITA! GET DOWN!" yelled Michael. He reached across her and grabbed the door handle as she screamed.
PING! PING! More bullets hit the side of the car. Michael tossed Nikita his cell phone. "Call Birkoff for backup!" He shoved the car into reverse and sped away from the building.
"Oh, my God! What is happening?" shrieked Nikita.
Michael headed toward the expressway and a safe house the FBI maintained just outside the city. "Until I figure it out, I'm not letting you out of my sight."
