Chapter Seven
Food was the solution to almost any problem.
Spiker had known this for most of his life, but it had taken a homemade chicken-and-rice casserole to remind him.
They ate quietly. The meal was nothing if not comfortable, and afterward, they cleaned up as though they were on any other assignment.
Dishes in the sink. He scraped and sprayed; she set them in the dishwasher.
Their work routine helped him navigate the unknown real world he’d stumbled into.
By the time they’d moved to the living room and Vanka produced Buck’s paperwork, Spiker had almost forgotten where he should be at that moment. Then his buddy, who was overseeing renovations at his home base, sent a picture of his living room, which was missing a wall, and quick update.
Looking good over here. Have a tequila shot for me.
Grumbling, he pocketed his phone and peered at everything Vanka had unfolded.
He repositioned to better see the files, but only noticed the faint hint of something flowery.
Lotion or perfume, he didn’t know. It was a familiar scent, and usually, if he noticed it at all, Vanka was wearing it for the part of their job that didn’t involve sniper rifles. “What do we know?”
“One second,” she said. “Still organizing Buck’s mess.”
She hadn’t taken a shower. The scent must be from a lotion. Did she use the same personal items at work as she did at home? He hadn’t expected her to—no, actually, he hadn’t thought about it before, and it was weird to think of now.
For the hundredth time today, he couldn’t explain his thoughts.
Spiker grumbled and reached for the files. “What’d they give—”
Vanka swatted his hand. “Give me a second.”
He crossed his arms and pushed against the couch, watching and waiting until she had everything the way she liked it.
Her organizational skills made his look like the space underneath a kindergartener’s bed.
Everything was there, exactly where it was supposed to be, but in a crumpled, crowded display.
Reports were the same thing. He lorded his minuscule seniority over her and made sure she always ended up with the paperwork.
Vanka could type up a report faster than he could type their names.
At one time, he wondered if his motives were unintentionally sexist. Then he’d gone on a six-month report-writing bender, much to Vanka’s annoyance.
The day came when she’d had enough. “If Buck makes one more snide comment about our reports again, I will kill you.” Her sweet smile punctuated the death threat, promising the warning wasn’t hyperbole.
That was about the same time he noticed she had an extremely specific way of handling administrative tasks. Vanka exuded the same discreet perfection as when she skimmed dossiers or sighted targets.
“This assignment is ridiculous.” She scowled at the legal pads and printed intelligence reports. “A waste of time.”
“True.” Carefully, he reached for the analysts’ reports. “Especially since I’m here and not on a private beach with a drink in my hand.”
“Oh, shove it up your bloody piehole.”
That was exactly what he needed to hear. “How’d a guy get this lucky?”
She laughed, and he guessed that she’d deciphered what he’d meant. More or less.
Ten minutes later, they agreed. Nothing Buck had given them had been remotely helpful. The descriptions of Robin Hood weren’t helpful. Generic build. Generic height.
The recovered items were extremely valuable, but their importance lay in their significance to the people or places to which they had been returned. All in all, working against Robin Hood made Spiker feel like a dick.
Even more infuriating were the assholes who’d had the stolen art before it had been re-stolen—was that even the right word? Spiker sighed and gestured toward the papers she’d meticulously sorted and piled. “There isn’t a single person on this list who is worth our time.”
“I know,” she agreed.
It wasn’t as if GSI’s contacts were unreproachable, but the people they were supposedly now working on behalf of?
They could all drink bleach and die; Spiker didn’t particularly care.
He grabbed a paperclipped stack. The initial reports spanned decades and continents.
He didn’t know how to read most of them, so he had to rely on the accompanying translations.
“Why are we starting with the list of assets instead of owners?”
She bristled as though questioning her process was tantamount to asking her to drink coffee over tea. “The who can’t be that important.”
That made no sense. “The why?”
She pursed her lips and ignored his question. “The answer will be in the assets, and that’s where we’ll find a pattern. So, we start there.”
“In the middle of a maze,” he groused. “Fun.”
Spiker ignored the asset list and continued to glare at the owner’s list.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. You’re not going to pay attention, are you?” She snatched the inventory report and read aloud, “According to this, Wilbur P. Cohen—” She cocked her head at an angle. “What’s that look?”
He didn’t think he’d had enough time to come up with a look. Nonetheless, she read his mind. “Who the hell is Wilbur P. Cohen?”
“Exactly, Spiker. We don’t need to go over the list of who. We need the list of what.”
Fair—he conceded her the point. “Wilbur P. Cohen doesn’t have the same ring as our usual targets.” The snake. El Jefe the Gigantor. Bobby Big Balls of Queens. “I mean, Wilbur? This whole thing’s gotta be a joke.”
Her expression changed; clearly, she agreed with his assessment. Vanka skimmed the report and turned the page before beginning again, “Wilbur was a hedge fund manager who”—she snorted—“not once, but twice, slipped through the US court system with a slap on his mega-wealthy knuckles.”
“Of course. What’s an art heist without a billionaire?”
She nodded and read to herself, then gagged. “Oh, this arse is a real piece of work. He bilked hundreds of millions of US dollars from teacher retirement accounts.”
Spiker lifted his arms. “And this guy is our guy?”
Tersely, she nodded. “Doesn’t help us find Robin Hood.”
“Do we want to?” he countered.
Vanka scoffed. “Versus what? We could sit here and pretend to be on your holiday? I’ll whip up some margaritas and—”
“Yes!”
“Ha, no.”
He crossed his arms and knew it was going to be a long night. “This is why I have a problem with this.” Spiker waited for Vanka to agree, but she didn’t. He reframed his argument. “Look, you love art and stuff. Right?”
She eyed him. “Art and stuff? Yes.”
Her annoyance was proof that his argument had merit. “You love it. How things look and smell and fit together. That’s all you.”
“Make your point, Spiker. We have a lot to do.”
Well, he wasn’t entirely sure of his point. He just didn’t want to do this assignment. “These people don’t like art.”
“Says who?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Hell, I don’t know. You.”
“Sorry?”
“God, when you lean into that British accent and say sorry like, ‘Hey, you blimey, bloody fuckwit, are you a pissed-head idiot,’ it really gets under my skin. You know that, princess?”
She pressed her lips together for a dangerously long moment. “What are you talking about? Why wouldn’t a billionaire hedge fund sleaze like art?”
“People like art because they feel something. You feel something, right?” He gestured at the thing in the corner and the pictures on her wall. “Something made you want that in your house. It spoke to you.”
“And?”
“Assholes who skim from investment accounts like those—” Spiker vaguely gestured to the paperwork. “They don’t have souls. Why would they want art?”
Her lips softened, and her eyes widened. Spiker had nailed his point, and damn, he worried she might cry. “Look, what I’m trying to say is—”
“I think you’re right.” She held up a hand to quell his building victory whoop. “But, simply because someone possesses an item doesn’t mean they understand or appreciate it.”
The air fell flat out of his sails. She was correct.
“Collecting to curate is one thing. Collecting to possess is entirely different.”
The words applied to every facet of life, and the truth hit him in the chest. At least they explained why he’d wanted to renovate his house from the ground up and didn’t feel a single ray of excitement. Spiker was merely killing time and money to mask a weightier problem. “What do we do now?”
Vanka gestured to the table. “Same thing, but maybe we look at it another way.”
“What’s that?”
“Instead of searching for what we can find, let’s see what we can learn.”
She still wanted to work on this project. His disappointment grew. “Worth a shot.”
“Alright, I give up.” She leaned against the couch. “That obviously wasn’t the right answer. Why don’t we go back to twenty questions? Is this my house? Yes. Is that my food? Yes. Is this my table? Yes—”
“Are you married?” Spiker asked, just as surprised by what he’d said as she must’ve been.
Her laughter erupted like an earthquake. “Am I bloody married?” Her arms wrapped around her stomach, and she folded over in hysterics. “Have you lost your mind?”
Wasn’t that the question of the day. Spiker shrugged. “I wanted to know what other big surprises you’ve kept from me.”
“Like a husband?” she cackled. “Like I have the poor sod chained in the basement while we titter away over dinner?”
When she put it like that… He laughed. Sort of. “I don’t know what else you’re hiding. Cute house. Flower gardens. Maybe a secret job as a preschool teacher?”
She lifted her chin. “I’m not the one with secrets.”
“Me?” An internal alarm clanged. Years of learning to listen to its warning evaporated like smoke. He’d live to regret another word, but he couldn’t stop. “I’m an open book, princess.”
“You told HR about your sabbatical before you told me.”
Well hell. He’d had a bull’s-eye painted on his forehead for hours and still walked into that one. Fantastic. “I didn’t realize bureaucratic paperwork would get your knickers in a knot.”
“Don’t be cute,” she warned.
“I’m not.”
“Why now?” she demanded. “Because of the plane crash?”
The accusation stung like she’d taken a swipe at his manhood. “Excuse me?”
“Why else would you drop your entire life and run away?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, I don’t run from shit.” He jumped from his chair and paced in a tight circle around the glass table. If only he weren’t trapped in her un-Vanka-like house or had brought his own set of wheels, then he could actually hightail it out of this place.
“Literally.” She pointed his way. “You’re running in circles in my living room.”
The record player screeched in his head when he stopped. “Give me a break.”
Vanka arched her brows and waited for another answer.
He clamped a hand at the back of his neck.
His heartbeat was as steady as a rollercoaster on the Jersey Shore.
“You want to know why I need a break?” He strode toward the glass table and smashed his hand onto their paperwork.
“Because we’re hunting down the good guy.
Because our boss is—” Spiker bit his tongue.
“Because I don’t want to spend my time working on a job focused on some la-dee-da artwork and the criminal sect who can’t secure their valuables. Stolen or not.”
As always, Vanka was cool as a cucumber on a frosty spring morning and ignored the discontentment she saw in GSI’s ranks.
“Yes, I’m chuffed to pieces to work on this. Can’t you tell?” She crossed her arms. “But it’s our job to at least learn what we can. Then we can figure out our next move. Alright?”
He said nothing.
“Alright?” She stood. “Never mind. We need a break.”
Yeah, they did. He had to remember she was a machine.