31. Chapter Twenty-Six George Devereaux
Chapter Twenty-Six: George Devereaux
A s I watched Georgia depart and pulled my suitcase off the baggage carousel, a frisson of anxiety raced through me. I wasn’t sure why I felt that way—perhaps it was the rushed, tense atmosphere of the airport—but as I began rolling my bag toward the customs line, three security officers stopped me.
The burly, black-uniformed men formed a wall in front of me, tanking my hopes of making it to my meeting on time.
“Excuse me, officers,” I said, noting their badges. These weren’t the typical customs officers’ uniforms; there was something different about them. “Could I squeeze by you?”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Devereaux,” the one in the middle, who had a patchy, half-grown-in moustache on his upper lip. “You see, we’re taking you in for questioning. ”
“Questioning?” My palms grew slick with sweat as they wrapped around the straps of my backpack. “By whom?”
“We’re with the FBI.” The man on the right, a bulky bodybuilder-wannabe with a blond buzzcut, pulled out a badge. He flipped it open long enough for me to discern that he was in fact with the FBI, if what I’d seen in crime shows was to be believed.
“You’ll be coming with us,” said the officer on the left, the shortest of the three—though still only an inch shorter than me—with an incongruous floral tattoo snaking up his neck next to his earpiece.
“Can each of you only speak one sentence at a time?” I said, as sweat pooled around my runners.
“This isn’t a joking matter,” Officer Patchy Moustache said. “We’ve been instructed to take you with us for an interview, Mr. Devereaux. And while we’d like for you to cooperate with us, any resistance will be noted on your file.”
“Ooh, paperwork, spooky,” I muttered under my breath even as my pulse spiked. “Very well, you have my cooperation. Lead me away, officers.”
My heart raced as the officers exchanged looks. One of them moved to stand behind me, the other two flanking me. I wondered if this was how celebrities felt when they had bodyguards. Then again, these men were more of the involuntary bodyguard type. They were probably more likely to snap my neck than to save it.
They led me out of a different exit than the main automatic sliding doors, bypassing the customs line. I adjusted my bags so my backpack was on top of my suitcase, and raked a hand through my hair. “Can I know why I’m being taken in for questioning?”
“Your activities in Italy,” said Officer Blond Buzzcut.
That was vague enough that I wanted to ask more questions, but I didn’t dare. Finally, they led me through a long, narrow corridor that barely seemed big enough for one man to squeeze through—much less three oversized officers and me. We stopped outside a metal, unmarked door. My heart squeezed in my chest. “Please don’t throw me down a flight of stairs.”
Officer Blond Buzzcut gave me a strange look. “We brought you here for questioning, not to hurt you.”
Yet seemed to be implied as the three of them exchanged an inscrutable look.
One of them opened the door with a key from the keyring at their belt. “Here you are. Agent Lucas Black is waiting for you.”
The name nagged at my memory, prying out a brick from the wall I’d built to block out the past.
As I took my bags with me, about to walk through the door, Officer Patchy Moustache held out a hand to stop me. “Phone, please.”
“You’re taking my cell phone from me? I’m pretty sure at least two parts of this whole situation have violated the Charter. You’ll be hearing from my lawyers.”
None of them seemed impressed or even the least bit threatened by my words.
“Phone,” Officer Patchy Moustache repeated.
I fished it out of my jacket pocket and handed it to him. “Will I get this back?”
“Of course. When your interview is completed. We also need to check you for any dangerous items.”
I wanted to retort that I had just gotten off a plane, so security already would have taken care of that. Instead, I just let them pat down my arms and legs, and empty my pockets. When the officers seemed satisfied with their discoveries—a euro and a museum ticket stub—they let me into the room.
I walked through the unmarked door with my luggage. Plunking down on the metal folding chair—could this room be any more of a cliché?—I faced my interrogator. Only to find I was facing an empty seat. I wished I hadn’t so easily surrendered my phone.
Half an hour later, the FBI agent finally came in.
“George Devereaux,” Lucas Black said. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
“I wish I could say the same.” I surveyed Lucas; he was a relatively unimpressive man of average stature, with brown eyes and straight black hair. He didn’t look like the intimidating cop I’d expected to find here, but I didn’t say that out loud.
“Let’s get down to business. What were you doing in Italy?”
“I was taking some students on an art tour—”
“No, I know what you were doing in Italy for the past week. I’m referring to your time in Italy two years ago. When you were working with a suspect known to the FBI, Sebastian Cavalli.” Lucas ran his hands over a manila file folder.
“What is Sebastian Cavalli a known suspect for?” I eyed the folder uneasily.
Opening the file, he scanned the contents. Important government agents haven’t upgraded to digital devices in interrogations yet? “He’s been accused of working with organized crime groups such as the Cavalli family mafia in New York and Rome to launder money.”
“I see.” Sweat trickled down the back of my neck. He didn’t suspect me of being part of those money-laundering operations. Did he?
Lucas didn’t seem trigger-happy or like he was going to throw me in prison if I said the wrong thing. But he was also part of the FBI. Which meant he was going to use ‘just doing his job’ as an excuse if I said anything incriminating .
Pastor Tony had been wrong about me. I would never escape my past or fix my mistakes. I would only be punished for them. Even if God forgave me, the law wouldn’t.
“Why did you leave Canada for Europe, Mr. Devereaux?” Lucas glanced down at the stack of papers in front of him.
“I left to pursue my dreams of becoming an artist.” That wasn’t a lie, though it felt like one as my heart bruised my ribs.
“Yes, but according to cell phone records, you also left at the behest of Sebastian Cavalli, who had promised he would use his connections to get your art into museums, correct?”
Shoulders tensing, I answered. “Sebastian and I were friends at the time. He was the one who brought up the idea of going to Europe when I told him that I didn’t want to stay in Canada.”
“Why did you want to leave Canada, Mr. Devereaux?”
“My father wanted me to run his company, and that wasn’t the life I wanted to live.” They were black and white statements of what had happened. Yet I knew if I pried beneath them just a little, I would see the pain that still simmered beneath.
“So you ran away from your father’s expectations for you and went to Italy with your friend,” he said.
“Yep.”
“And when you got to Europe, where did you go first?”
“We went to Rome because Sebastian told me he could use his connections there to find us places in art exhibitions. He also had family there. We stayed with them for a few weeks while we were getting on our feet.” I recalled the days when everything was simple. When the exhilaration of fleeing Canada and my family to explore a world I’d never known had been enough to mask the shame of abandoning them and lying to them .
“And did you ever suspect that Sebastian was involved in something illegal or criminal?”
I racked my brain. “No. He was an artist, too. We spent almost all our time together in the studio.”
“What kind of art do you make? And what kind of art did he make?”
“I paint, mostly. He made papier-maché sculptures.” He’d once made a particularly hideous sculpture of a cat, which I shuddered to think about, but the rest of them had been sculptures of different flowers.
“And were his sculptures ever exhibited anywhere?”
“I—” Now that I thought about it, none of his works had ever been put on display, except in the Cavalli villa in Rome. Yet he had gotten all of my paintings into exhibitions and museums. “Not that I know of.”
“Hmm.” Lucas made a note on the file with a ballpoint pen. “And how long did the two of you stay in Italy before you moved to Los Angeles?”
“I lived in Europe for three years before moving to L.A.”
“Why did you move?”
Should I tell him the truth? That I’d left after finding out about Sebastian’s involvement? “I just thought it was time for a change of scenery.”
“It didn’t have anything to do with meeting Georgia Philips?”
I frowned. “How did you know about that?”
“It’s in your file.”
“You’ve been keeping tabs on me?” I should have expected that with all the other facts he had listed.
“We have tabloid reports of you and Georgia together,” he explained. “And we have files on all members of the Steele family. Georgia’ s connection to them could have explained your moving to California.”
“Except it doesn’t. Why would I move to California to be with her when she lives in New York?”
He shook his head. “Not to be with her. Perhaps because she warned you about the Cavallis.”
“Georgia didn’t know anything about the Cavallis.” Sure, she had seemed uncomfortable around Sebastian, but I assumed that was because he gave off a sleazy vibe around women.
“Okay, no need to get defensive, Mr. Devereaux.” He held up both hands as if to show he wasn’t a threat. The gun he wore didn’t help that image.
“I wasn’t being defensive.” Was I? I hadn’t realized how high the volume of my voice had gotten. “Georgia doesn’t know anything about the Cavallis. Don’t get her involved in this.”
“Very well. Moving on to the next question: why did you go back to Italy now? You’ve been in America for two years.”
“I went back to take some of my students on a tour of Italian art,” I said.
“Did you know Sebastian was involved in money-laundering in the art world? You didn’t seem surprised when I told you he was a suspect in our money-laundering investigation.” Lucas’ brown eyes studied me.
I shrugged. “I didn’t know anything about his money-laundering business. But he is a Cavalli.”
“You knew he was part of the Cavalli crime family?”
“After I left Europe for L.A., we lost touch. During that time, I heard many rumours about his family’s… activities.” And saw them first hand when Antonio Cavalli kidnapped my sister , but I didn’t say that.
“He was involved in an extensive money-laundering operation that spanned Italy, England, France, and Spain. He would artificially inflate the prices of artwork created by him or his friends and sell them to gangsters who paid in exorbitant amounts of cash. Illegally-acquired cash, of course, which he would receive a share of as a purported art dealer. Now, he’s mysteriously disappeared from the art scene. Hasn’t been seen in months. We’re out of guesses as to where he could be. Do you have any ideas?”
Taking a deep breath, I sighed. I should have known better to think I would get away from my criminal associations so easily. “Did you bring me here to ask if I was involved in his money-laundering operation, or to ask if I’ve seen him?”
“Both, but since I’ve deduced the answer to the first question is no, I just want you to answer the second one. Then you can go.”
“I don’t know where he is. Like I said, we lost touch when I moved to California. The last thing I heard in the news is that he now runs a restaurant.”
“You’re sure you haven’t seen or heard from him at all?” Lucas’s pen hovered over the page, ready to scribble down all my confessions.
“No.” I sighed. “Now can I please go? I have a work meeting after this.”
“One more thing, actually.” Lucas flipped a few pages in his file. “Why did you punch Sergio Cavalli in the face?”
I blinked. “What?”
“Sebastian’s cousin, Sergio. It says in your file you were once accused of drunk and disorderly conduct but were released without charges after punching him in the face at his engagement party.”
“He dumped Georgia,” I responded.
“It wasn’t related to the money laundering thing—”
“For the last time, I don’t know anything about the money-laundering!” I said. I cursed Sebastian for dragging me into this mess—then myself for letting him.
He sighed. “Very well.” Static and an indecipherable voice crackled in his earpiece. Lucas winced. “You may go.”
I wasn’t about to question their sudden change of heart, so I didn’t ask any more questions. Instead, he got up and unlocked the door for me, letting me out of the interrogation room.
After I’d retrieved my phone, I sprinted through the halls. I was going to be horribly late for my meeting. I darted past a group of travellers with suitcases.
Then, I came face-to-face with the one man I had thought I would never see again.
Sebastian Cavalli.