Chapter Six
MIGUEL
True to his word, Aston had returned the signed contract and retainer, couriering it over with Mrs. Flores’ address, and the name and number of his investigator. We arranged to meet him at her estate at ten. I figured we could meet with the investigator after that. I hadn’t discussed my plans with Raven, except to relay the message.
I hadn’t spoken to him again after that. I knew my reasons for keeping distance between us was mainly fueled by guilt and I’d never been good at apologizing. It made me seem like an asshole to most people, but Raven wasn’t most people. He was my partner.
I knew I had to suck up my feelings and just do it. The truth was, I felt bad about lashing out but the moment he’d questioned John’s loyalty to the country, I’d seen red. It had never crossed my mind for a second. Then again, Raven didn’t know the man I’d worked with, and bled with, and fallen in love with. When I’d confessed the differences about how I’d felt about John compared with how I’d felt about Raven, I’d meant every bit of it. Perhaps if John and I had time to flesh out our feelings for each other, things would have been different, but then the desert had happened and I’d lost my chance. Then Raven had breezed into my life with a sunshine smile over a decade later and made me feel warm and whole again.
I had some apologizing to do, but I just couldn’t find the right words to say. I had to find them.
As soon as I slid into the truck beside him, I caught his hand before he could start the engine. He turned to look at me wearing the saddest expression I’d ever seen on him and the lump firmly lodged in my throat grew even larger. I swallowed and threaded our fingers together. “I’m sorry, Raven. I—” I cleared my throat. “I shouldn’t have flown off the handle like that. It’s just that when you said you thought John might be a traitor, I guess I saw red.”
He watched me for a few seconds and then shook his head. “I wasn’t really suggesting that, Miguel. And honestly, I only said what I said because I know Stockholm Syndrome is a real thing. Look at all these Americans who grow up here and become radicalized. I’m just saying, it could happen. Under torture or—”
“That couldn’t happen,” I said. Saying it out loud was what I had to do because ever since I’d had my little outburst this morning, I’d been doing my best to keep those thoughts from percolating in my brain. It’s just that I’d known John. I’d known the man he was back then and the man I’d known hated terrorists. He’d killed countless numbers of Taliban soldiers, never giving a second thought to killing men who’d twisted the words of the Quran, warping it to fit their own sick narrative. They’d sacrificed men, women, and children all in the name of their god. “You don’t take a Recon Marine and turn him into a terrorist. John wasn’t sent here with some master plan to blow up buildings, Raven. He loves his country the way I love my country. Is that so hard to understand?”
Raven shook his head and squeezed my hand. “Okay, Miguel. You know him. I don’t. I was just trying to think about how in the world he got back here.”
I wished I could tell him. It was a mystery to me and, though, I didn’t tell Raven, there was a tingling at the back of my brain that was telling me that him showing up here when he did, simply didn’t add up. Raven had been right about one thing. He had survived and gotten out of Afghanistan somehow. The fact that he’d turned up the very same day we went to meet Mrs. Flores, made me suspicious about this whole job.
Raven let go of my hand and reached for the ignition switch, turning on the truck. “I guess…now that he’s here and knows that you’ve seen him…well, maybe now he’ll get in contact with you.”
I could hear the fear lacing every word Raven said, and I understood it. He’d just gotten to know me and now a shadowy man who’d been a huge part of my past, had shown up out of the blue. I wanted to say something to make him feel the way he’d felt yesterday, like we were on solid ground, not like he was in danger of losing what we have.
“I love you, Raven. Whether he’s here or not, nothing will change between us. I don’t feel the way I used to about him. I want you and no one else. I hope you know that.”
He turned to look at me, and I breathed a sigh of relief when the tiniest of smiles curled his lips. He nodded. “I know, baby. I just got scared. Still—and I hope you don’t mind what I’m about to say—but the timing about his reappearance in your life is odd.”
I frowned, nodding because I’d been feeling the same way. The man I knew had never done anything by halves. There was a reason he’d shown up here in Los Angeles all these years later. “Yeah. I agree.”
He leaned in and kissed me before pulling away from the curb. Raven drove west toward an affluent area of L.A. called Bel Air, home to the very rich and famous. As we turned onto Bel Air Crest Road, I whistled. Every mansion on the winding road spoke of unspeakable wealth. This place made James Passantino’s neighborhood pale in comparison. The streets were pristine, the lawns were magnificent…what you could see of them behind privacy gates and fences to keep out the riff raff or maybe just the dreaded poor . Most homes were set way back with long stretches of rolling front lawns. One dude had Grecian white marble statues of Venus de Milo and Michaelangelo’s Statue of David. I almost laughed.
Most Los Angeles millionaires had homes either in Bel Air, Beverly Hills, or some parts of the Malibu coastline…at least that’s what Judy told us when she was researching the origins of Benedict Flores’ wealth. I’d come to respect the woman who ran our work lives. She knew just about everything about L.A. When I’d asked how she knew all these things, she’d told me that she spent a hell of a lot of weekend time at the beauty salon. Apparently, all L.A. gossip came from the beauty shop. Who knew?
As my eyes roamed over the amount of wealth clustered on this street alone, I let out a heavy sigh. A few miles away, homeless tents littered the back alleys of Hollywood, tucked away where the tourists wouldn’t see them…but they were there. Some days, I wondered if there was any justice in the world at all. I almost hoped when the apocalypse came, the hordes of hungry zombies would start with the occupants in these mega mansions. I nearly smiled at the picture of an aging socialite lying prone on her marble floor as her underpaid, overworked domestic servants started eating her brains. I suppressed a chuckle as we drove up to the gate in front of the Flores estate.
Raven turned to me. “What’s so funny?”
I grinned at him. “Do you think zombies like the flavor of BOTOX?”
He cocked his head and frowned, looking at me strangely. “What?”
I waved the thought away, grinning. “I’ll…tell you later.” I pointed out his side window. “I think there’s a button on the call box.” He dragged his eyes away to look. Sure enough, outside the ten-foot wrought iron gates which crossed the wide driveway sat a large pillar made of stacked flagstone. A singular screen was set into a small recess with a red button on the outside. I took note of a camera mounted on top of the pillar. It swiveled downward, following us as Raven drove up so that he could reach the button. The small red eye blinked at us as the feeling of being watched washed over my skin. It stayed on Raven as he pushed the button. The camera swept up, then side to side, scanning the street, before moving back down to look at us. Raven cleared his throat before speaking to the screen. “Hello.”
“Who’s there?” a tinny male voice asked.
I watched as Raven reached into his pocket and pulled out his identification, holding it up to the camera. “I’m Raven Mathis and this is Miguel Huerta. We’re here from the Trackers recovery agency. Mr. Aston and Mrs. Flores are expecting us.”
“Mr. Aston has been expecting you. Pull in and park in the drive.” The voice clicked off and the gates began to swing open on oiled hinges.
“With this kind of security on the premises, they want us to believe that a thief got onto this property, into the house, and then into a locked bedroom vault without being seen?” I asked as he drove away from the speaker.
Raven shrugged. “Yeah, that theory never made much sense to me.” He headed up the long, circular drive, passing by a large fountain positioned in the center of sweeping lawns and beautifully tended flower beds bringing color to the immaculate landscape. He pulled past a three-car garage and parked in front of the mansion. It had a wide porch painted bright white with sculpted columns stretching up two stories.
The house was built solidly, looking almost regal as it sat there sparkling and almost too clean in the morning sunlight. It reminded me of a giant, white plantation house from the old south. Natural brick accented the white paint work along the front facade, broken up only by two wide, double doors inlaid with stained glass on either side and over the top. We were met at the door by a uniformed maid who ushered us into the richly appointed two-story foyer.
Set way back from the front doors, a sweeping, double staircase ran up either side, leading to the top floor. Gilded wrought iron formed the banisters on either side of the stairs and I almost expected Scarlett O’Hara to come sweeping down the stairs in her velvet dress made of curtains. I was reminded of the first time I’d entered James Passantino’s house, but this was on a much grander scale.
We followed the maid across white marble floors through several massive rooms brimming with priceless antiques, carpets, vases, and fresh flowers. I noticed that the walls in every room were covered with what appeared to be original, abstract oil paintings in stark contrast to the antique furnishings. But I supposed there was no accounting for taste. I didn’t recognize any of the artists, but since I knew as much about art as splitting the atom, that was no big surprise. The maid stopped at an open pair of double doors and swept out her hand with a small nod.
“Thank you,” Raven said.
When we stepped inside the library, Mr. Aston was waiting for us, seated on a brown leather couch. I glanced around the room, not seeing Mrs. Flores anywhere. The attorney rose, dressed impeccably again, and straightening his suit, he walked over and greeted us with a smile and a handshake.
“Thank you for coming,” he said.
“We appreciate you taking the time to show us the safe,” Raven said. He glanced around. “Are we waiting on Mrs. Flores?”
“Unfortunately, she apologizes. Another engagement came up this morning…but I’ll be able to show you the safe,” Aston replied.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Will you follow me, please?”
“Of course,” Raven replied. We waited for Aston to lead the way back through the house to the foyer and then up the marble stairs to the landing, turning right to go down a wide hallway. After passing several closed doors, we came to a stop at the end of the hall at a set of double doors. He opened one and led us into a huge sitting room. It was so large; I was certain Raven’s entire house would fit inside. More bookshelves covered the walls on one side while a wall-to-wall abstract oil painting filled another. Couches, tables, lamps, and the largest silk Persian rug I’d ever seen outside of a museum, made up the tasteful furnishings in the room.
“Mrs. Flores’ bedroom is here.” We were led into a massive bedroom with a bed sitting on top of a raised platform. It was decorated in the same muted peach and white tones as the outer sitting room. He continued past the bed to an open door. Inside we found a bedroom sized closet outfitted with custom walnut cabinetry and rows and rows of men’s clothing. There wasn’t a stitch of women’s clothing in the room, and I realized that Mrs. Flores must have had a separate closet from her husband. At the end of one row of suits, was an open space and on the wall was the safe. It was larger than I imagined it would be. The door was open, the interior empty.
Raven and I walked over to it. He peered inside before reaching out and closing the door just far enough that we could get a look at the locking mechanism. Sure enough, it had a fingerprint keypad, just as we’d been told by Tawny Flores. Still, it was easy enough to break into, if a thief was clever enough. I’d done it more than once. It wasn’t the safe itself that was intimidating. It was the security. I exchanged a look with Raven before turning to Mr. Aston.
“Thank you. Would you introduce us to your security? I’d like to talk to them.”
Aston blinked. “We don’t have security here on the premises. It’s…handled off-site.”
“Who answered when we came to the gate?” Raven asked. I’d been thinking the same thing.
“Oh, that’s McNulty. He works for Mr. Flores…well, Mrs. Flores, now. He handles all her security,” Aston replied.
I frowned. “Off-site?”
“Yes, he has an office in Westwood, about fifteen minutes away.”
“ Huh ,” Raven said. “I guess I just assumed if someone gave the Flores’ trouble, they’d want someone here on the property to handle things.”
“Trouble?” Aston snorted. “This is Bel Air, Mr. Mathis, not the city. We don’t get much trouble here.”
I did my best to contain the eyeroll which threatened. The man had asked us whether we carried guns for shit’s sake. I was beginning to dislike the stuffy attorney in his bespoke suit. Why was it that all rich people could speak down to others in that imperiously snobbish “do you know who I am?” tone, when they wanted to?
“Well, I’d call it trouble when a two-million-dollar ruby is stolen in Bel Air, wouldn’t you?” I asked.
Aston glanced at me and lifted a manicured eyebrow. “Touché, Mr. Huerta.”
“If it’s all right with you, we’d like to go and speak to Mr. McNulty,” Raven said.
Aston turned to look at him. “Of course. I’ll write down his office address so that you can drop by. Will you be going today?”
Raven looked at me and I nodded before he turned back to Aston. “We’d like that.”
“Good.” Aston swept out his hand and we preceded him out of the closet and back downstairs. He led us back to the library where he walked over to an antique desk and wrote the security company’s address down, for Henry McNulty. He picked up a sealed envelope and handed it to Raven. “Also, Mrs. Flores asked that I pass this on to you.” The stationery was very nice, our names written on the front in calligraphy.
“What is it?”
“Mrs. Flores is hosting a black-tie event at the Getty for one of her favorite artists. If you’re free, she’d like you to attend as her personal guests. It’s my understanding that a lot of Mr. Flores’ long-time business associates will be there, and she thought it might help you recover the ruby if she introduced you to some of them.” He shrugged and answered my next thought as if he’d read my mind. “Who knows? One of them might turn out to be the thief.”
It was actually a great idea. The thief of the ruby might show himself.
“We appreciate the invitation,” I grunted.
“Please tell Mrs. Flores that we’ll be there,” Raven replied in a nicer tone than I had. Then again, he was a nicer person than I was.
Aston smiled and held out his hand; we took turns shaking it. “Very good. I’ll let her know.” He turned and picked up a little gold bell from the desk, ringing it. The maid came in ten seconds later.
“Yes, Mr. Aston?”
“Maria, will you show Mrs. Flores’ guests out?”
She nodded and smiled. “Of course, Mr. Aston.”
“Thank you again, Mr. Aston,” Raven said before we followed the maid out of the house.
RAVEN
I could feel Miguel practically vibrating all the way out of the mansion, but he remained silent until we got into the car and started to drive over to McNulty’s offices. “What is it? I can feel you ready to jump out of your skin.” I glanced over at him as we idled at the bottom of the driveway, waiting for the gates to open.
“I think going to the party tomorrow night is a good idea,” he said. “In my experience, a lot of high-end art and jewelry thieves love to flaunt themselves right under the noses of the people they’ve stolen from. Some of them are an arrogant bunch.”
“I agree.” I smirked as I started to drive out onto Bel Air Crest. “I gotta say, though…now that I’ve seen that house, I can’t believe it was jewelry that was stolen.”
“Why’s that?” Miguel asked.
“Did you see the paintings in that house? They all looked like originals, and they were hanging on practically every wall. I felt like I was walking through a museum. And didn’t Aston say that they were attending an art gallery opening the night the ruby was stolen?”
“Yeah, come to think of it, you’re right. She said that’s when she’d last seen the ruby before her husband locked it away in the safe.”
“Right,” I said. “But the ruby theft aside, think about it, Miguel. The paintings in that house looked like originals even if they’re not to my taste. Mr. and Mrs. Flores are art collectors. Aston didn’t even mention that.”
Miguel snorted. “So, they collect crappy art…what about it? Is it the fact that the art they collect are abstracts, or the fact that she seems more interested recovering a piece of jewelry which is insured for two million dollars?”
“I’ve had my suspicions about her from the very beginning. Now I’m even more suspicious of her and that Salvatore Mancuso boyfriend/bodyguard she had with her at the restaurant. We know the jewelry is insured. She’s going to get a payout eventually but trust me when I tell you, whoever insured the ruby already has someone working on its recovery.” I had some experience with insurance companies, after all.
“So, if I understand you correctly, you think she snatched the ruby herself, is holding it somewhere until the insurance pays out on it and then plans on selling it herself?” he asked.
“It’s a possibility, Miguel. Think about it, babe. Tomorrow night’s black-tie event might just be a vehicle for her to find a buyer for the ruby or…what if she’s already sold it and plans on delivering to her buyer at the party?”
“Then why hire us at all, Raven?”
I rolled my eyes. “By hiring us, it makes her insurance company think that she’s desperate to get it back…that it actually holds as much sentimental value to her as she says it does. I mean, if you think about it, it does make her seem like she’s just a poor widow who’s trying to recover a precious necklace, not because of its value, but because her poor, dear, departed husband gave it to her.”
“That’s true, Sunshine,” Miguel said as I headed toward the freeway.
“So, let’s go with that idea for a minute,” I went on. “Assuming she’s got it, I don’t think she’ll sell it until the insurance company pays out. If they ever got wind of a sale, they’d make sure she faced jail time for insurance fraud and who knows what else.”
When Miguel got quiet for more than thirty seconds, I glanced over at him, expecting to see him deep in thought. His expression of amusement was a surprise to me.
“What is it?” I asked. “You look like you want to laugh.”
He shot me a glance. His eyes twinkled merrily as he huffed out a laugh. “Sorry, I was just thinking about something else.”
I frowned. “What?”
“Your reaction to the art in the house. It’s just funny, that’s all. Do you have a problem with abstracts?”
“Honey, give me an R.C. Gorman any day,” I said, smiling.
“R.C. Gorman is that Navajo artist, right?”
I smiled, nodding. “Was. He died in 2005.” I glanced over at him as something occurred to me. “Are you familiar with R.C. Gorman’s work?”
“Yeah, I’ve seen a few of his paintings. Cassidy has one of those glossy tabletop art books at his house. He told me Gorman was in the U.S. Navy.”
“ Huh . Now, that , I didn’t know,” I said, smiling. “It figures it would take a Marine to tell me something I didn’t know about my favorite artist in the world.”
“Well, what I learned about Gorman came from a Navy SEAL, so that only makes sense,” Miguel said.
I chuckled. “True.”
“I love his use of color,” Miguel said. “He studied in Mexico, you know.”
I grinned, nodding. “I’m a huge fan, and now, I can honestly say, I know you just a little better, Miguel Huerta.”
He grinned widely. “Back to this case, though. Let’s make the assumption that you’re completely wrong about Tawny Flores and it was stolen—as she swears—by some master thief. Let’s say I’m that thief. If I’m that good, wouldn’t I have enough expertise to know I’m going to be breaking into a house where I know I’ll encounter tight security?”
“Yeah,” I replied.
“Fine. So, why leave any of those paintings behind when taking one of those would be easier than getting to a ruby locked away in a safe?”
“Well, there’s the fact that the ruby is worth two million and also, think about this…maybe the thief stole the jewelry because it was portable,” I said. “Those paintings are huge. Getting one of them out of the house would be a lot harder than a pendant you can put into a pocket while you’re scaling the wall.”
“That’s true,” Miguel said. He got quiet, seeming to consider something as I got back on the freeway and headed for Westwood. “I guess it’s a good thing the security guy is off-site.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to be able to talk to him without that Aston character around. I’ve decided he’s kinda shifty.”
I snorted, glancing over at him as I merged with the fast-moving cars in midmorning freeway traffic. “Why?”
“He’s a total snob. ’This is Bel Air, Mr. Mathis, not the city,’” he said in an exaggerated upper-class drawl, making air quotes.
I laughed. “You’re right.” I reached over and took his hand, giving it a squeeze as I caught sight of the sign for Wilshire Boulevard at the same time my GPS announced it. “Well, in any case, I’ll be interested to find out if this McNulty guy can shed any light on how the thief—assuming there was one at all—breached their security and decided to steal a pendant which was locked away, rather than a stuffy old oil painting by some artist who no one with good taste ever heard of.”
It was Miguel’s turn to laugh.