Lost and Found Read online

  “Sonofabitch, Sandler. The van. You stupid bastard, you didn’t set the brake.”

  The furious burglar burst through the doorway. He crossed the small deck and jumped the three steps to the ground. An instant later, he lurched violently as if he had tripped over an invisible object in his path. He stumbled and went down without making a sound. His body flopped out of sight in the darkness below the deck.

  The second man loomed in the doorway. “What the hell—?”

  He took a step forward and came to an abrupt halt. Unlike his partner, he did not drop like a stunned steer. He froze.

  In the glow of the doorway, light glinted malevolently on the steel poised at his throat. Not a small pocketknife.

  Cady sucked in her breath at the sight of the ancient sword. She realized that Mack must have found it in the back of the van.

  Sandler was paralyzed by the blade. “What?”

  “Drop the gun,” Mack said from behind him. “Do it now.”

  “What?” the burglar said again, sounding bewildered.

  “You’ve got three seconds.”

  Sandler did not say “what” again. Apparently having grasped the enormity of the change that had taken place in the situation, he gingerly removed the weapon from his belt and stooped to set it down on the deck.

  Mack shifted slightly, gliding around Sandler. He did not take the tip of the blade away from the man’s throat. When he got near the gun, he used the toe of one running shoe to nudge it out of reach.

  “Cady,” he said loudly into the darkness. “Come here.”

  She needed no second urging. She hurried out of the cover of the trees and rushed toward the open door.

  “Pick up the gun.” Mack did not take his attention off Sandler. “Hand it to me.”

  She scooped up the weapon without a word and gave it to him. He checked it swiftly with obvious expertise before he lowered the sword point. Then he took a step back to the open door and glanced briefly into the interior of the cabin.

  “You’d better see to your friend,” he said to Cady.

  “Oh, lord, Mr. Vandyke.” She went to the doorway and peered inside. “Are you okay, Mr. Vandyke?”

  “Over here.”

  She whirled and saw a young angular man with dark brown hair sitting in the corner. He was bound hand and foot with duct tape. A colorful surfboard hung on the wall beside him. His brown eyes welled with relief at the sight of her.

  “Scissors on the table,” he said. “Next to the computer.”

  She dashed across the wooden floor, seized the scissors and rushed back to free Ambrose from the tape.

  “I’ve been so worried about you, Mr. Vandyke,” she said as she gently cut the tape. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah.” Ambrose groaned and rubbed his reddened wrists. “Thanks to you and your friend. I assume you’re Cady Briggs?”

  “Yes, and I was scared to death.”

  “You and me both,” Ambrose said. “I was afraid you would walk into the middle of this and they’d get you, too.”

  “They almost did get her,” Mack said in a very even voice.

  Ambrose blinked owlishly. “Who are you?”

  “The name is Easton. Mack Easton.”

  Ambrose nodded. “Good thing she brought you along.”

  “You want to give me a hand here?” Mack said. “The guy on the ground is still unconscious. We need to get this one secured first.”

  “You bet.” Ambrose grimaced and caught his breath as he scrambled awkwardly to his feet. “Don’t worry, there’s plenty of duct tape.”

  Outside there was a dull, clanging thud. Cady realized the van had finally come to rest.

  “Good grief,” she whispered. “The armor.”

  “Relax,” Ambrose said, “that stuff was built to withstand a lot of impact, remember?”

  She went to the door and looked out at the vehicle. It was scrunched at an angle against a large boulder.

  “I don’t think that being bounced around in the back of a van is quite what the original designers had in mind for that armor,” she said.

  “Yeah, well, I’m not nearly as worried about the condition of that steel right now as I might have been before these two bastards showed up.” Ambrose finished his task and stood back to examine Mack. “Who exactly are you, besides being Cady’s friend?”

  “I’m her boss,” Mack said.

  Eight

  She hadn’t tried to screw him, after all.

  Two hours later, after the cops had left with the two burglars in custody, Mack stood in front of the blazing fire. He listened to Cady and Ambrose Vandyke discuss the old armor that had been dragged out of the van and piled in the corner. He did not trust himself to join in the conversation. It was all he could do to just stand there and look civilized.

  At least he hoped he looked civilized. He’d been running on adrenaline for several hours now. Large doses of the stuff had unpredictable effects.

  “A friend of mine named Tim Masters specializes in arms and armor. He told me about your collection, Ambrose,” Cady said. She looked up from where she sat cross-legged, with the missing helmet in her lap. “He said that he had done some consulting for you and that you were focusing on rare pieces produced by the best northern Italian armorers. He mentioned that you were trying to acquire a complete garniture…”

  Mack tuned out the discussion and swallowed some tea Ambrose had made for his guests. The taste of the stuff irritated him. He had never been a fan of tea. He liked coffee. Strong coffee.

  Okay, so he had made a miscalculation based on the evidence he’d had in hand. He had leaped to what had seemed a logical conclusion. But he had been wrong. She had simply been doing her job as she’d understood it, tracing the missing helmet. The fact that she hadn’t followed procedure and had taken a terrible risk that could have gotten her killed was a major problem, but he would deal with that later.

  Right now he just wanted to savor the enormous relief that came with knowing she was safe and that she hadn’t tried to cross him.

  The satisfaction he felt was out of all proportion to the situation. It was not the professional relief that should have accompanied the realization that he hadn’t made a major business miscalculation. Once again, he was reacting as if the whole damn thing had been personal. Hell, you’d think he’d just discovered that his lover hadn’t been cheating on him with another man. That kind of personal.

  Definitely over the top, given that until tonight he’d spent less than an hour and a half in her company. That had been the meeting in Vegas, and it had been one-hundred-percent business.

  An hour and a half spent together discussing a job hardly qualified as a personal relationship. Of course, there had been the phone calls during the past two months. But you couldn’t really count those.

  All right, so I’m counting the phone calls. So sue me.

  Somewhere inside he was poised on the fine line between control and a testosterone-driven euphoria. On an intellectual level, he knew what was happening to him. The threat of danger and violence left a chemical aftermath as potent as sexual desire. Took a while to work it off. But he could deal with that angle. It was Cady who complicated the mess. Every time he looked at her, the intellectual thing went out the window.

  He had arrived here tonight in the grip of an icy rage that had been directed as much at himself as it was at Cady. The sight of her rental car parked outside the gate at the foot of the fog-bound drive had changed everything in an instant. Some part of him had known immediately that something was terribly wrong. That was when the fear kicked in.

  “Incredible.” Ambrose studied the helmet Cady held. “Absolutely incredible. Hard to believe that all these years it was just stashed in a box in the back room of that little museum in Vegas.”

  “Ignorance was bliss in this case.” Cady examined the engraved steel piece with an expression of reluctant appreciation. “Just look at the workmanship on this helmet. The shape is so elegant. The gilding on the
tracery motifs is exquisite. See how it makes the design stand out against the background? Imagine spending so much time and artistic vision on an object made for the practice of warfare.”

  “Cool, huh?” Ambrose said cheerfully. “Wonder how it ended up in the Military World collection.”

  “I found a record of it in an early twentieth-century military museum catalog. There was a note that it had been removed to be sold at auction in New York in 1925. No record of the buyer, however. It simply disappeared.”

  “Maybe that guy Belford, the one you said opened Military World, bought it and just kept it in storage all those years.”

  Cady shrugged. “Possible. We’ll probably never know for sure. How did it get into your collection, Ambrose?”

  The inquiry attracted Mack’s attention. He roused himself from his reverie long enough to look at Ambrose. “Good question. How did you get it, Vandyke? I’ve got a program that, among other things, tracks on-line auctions and sales, public and private, legal and not-so-legal. I didn’t see any trace of that helmet.”

  “Which is why he called me in to consult,” Cady explained. “I specialize in the rumor mills of the art world, the kind his program can’t track. Given your background in the software business, I’d expect you to be an on-line kind of collector, Ambrose.”

  “I didn’t locate the helmet through an on-line contact,” he said. “I was approached by a private dealer who told me he knew someone who wanted to broker a very quiet sale. I told him I was interested. He brought the helmet here and I paid for it in cash.”

  “You didn’t question the provenance?” Mack asked.

  Ambrose looked abashed. “I admit that I didn’t ask too many questions.”

  “Right,” Mack said. “And now we know where that gets you.”

  Ambrose turned red. “Okay, okay. But as it happened, the paperwork that I did see actually looked clean.”

  “Aside from the fact that the auction receipts were phony,” Cady murmured.

  “Yeah.” Ambrose made a face. “Aside from that. But how was I to know the papers were fake?”

  “You should have checked with Tim or someone else who knows arms and armor before you acquired the piece,” Cady said.

  “You’re right.” He gazed sadly at the helmet. “But I wanted it really bad and I didn’t want there to be a problem, if you know what I mean.”

  Mack was surprised to feel a pang of genuine sympathy for Ambrose. Vandyke might be a retired software multimillionaire, but he was only twenty-three years old.

  “Speaking of problems,” Mack said, “how did you meet that pair that you ended up entertaining here tonight?”

  “They just appeared on my doorstep. I don’t know how they found out that I had the helmet.”

  “You were probably set up the day you bought the piece,” Mack said. “I think it’s a safe bet that those two were working with the so-called art consultant who arranged for the theft of the helmet and then sold it to you. When I get back to my computer, I may be able to pull up some names for the cops.”

  “I don’t get it. Why sell the helmet to me and then steal it?”

  Mack smiled humorlessly. “So that they can resell it to another collector. And steal it from him and sell it again. And again.”

  “You’ve got to hand it to them,” Cady said. “It’s certainly a creative way to ensure repeat business.”

  Mack flexed the fingers of one hand, remembering the feel of the old sword in his palm. “Like you said, collectors are paying sky-high prices for armor at the moment. Whenever one area of the art market gets hot, there’s a rise in art theft in that area. The old law of supply and demand.”

  “Yeah, I know all about that law.” Ambrose studied the helmet for a long moment. Then he raised earnest, remorseful eyes to Cady. “I’m really sorry about all this.”

  “I figure it’s sort of like a plane crash,” Cady said. “Could have been worse. We got lucky and walked away from it, thanks to Mack.”

  She smiled at him with serious, intent eyes. He realized that she considered him a hero for the moment. He wondered how long that would last.

  “She’s right,” Ambrose said. “Man, I really owe you. If there’s ever anything I can do to repay you—”

  “I’ll let you know,” Mack said.

  “I mean it,” Ambrose insisted.

  Mack raised a brow. “So do I.”

  Ambrose got to his feet. “What’s this program you use? The one you said allows you to follow private art auctions on-line?”

  “A friend designed it for me a couple of years ago.” Mack turned back to the fire. “It allows me to retrieve information related to the movement of art and antiquities in the underground markets. Sales, thefts, private auctions. I’m building a specialized database that tracks a lot of the regular players who do business in those markets, good guys and bad guys. It stores the names of known forgers, dealer habits, methods of operation. Trends and patterns.”

  Ambrose frowned with professional concern. “Must take constant updating.”

  “Yes.” Mack moved his shoulders slightly to loosen the prowling tension. “Unfortunately, the friend who designed it for me has set up his own on-line business and no longer has time to work on my program. There are still a lot of holes in my database.”

  “What kind of holes?”

  Mack regarded him thoughtfully. “Do you really want to talk about this or are you just curious?”

  “Are you kidding? I’ve got a very personal interest here. I am now officially the victim of attempted art theft. Tell me about the holes in your program, Mack.”

  Mack glanced at Cady. The strain of the evening showed in her eyes. “It’s a little late to go into detail, but maybe we can discuss it some other time.”

  “Anytime, man. Anytime. After what you did for me, I am like totally at your service. Besides, this art tracing stuff sounds kind of intriguing.”

  “I’ll call you.” He made a mental note to give the idea some serious consideration. It wasn’t often that he got the opportunity to pick up a freelance consultant with Ambrose Vandyke’s unique skills. He glanced at his watch. “Cady, we’d better get out of here. We need to find a motel. Neither one of us is in any shape to drive far tonight.”

  “You’re welcome to stay here,” Ambrose said quickly. “I know it’s a little grotty, but I think I can find some clean towels.”

  “Thanks,” Cady said. “But I think a motel would simplify everyone’s life. Where’s the nearest one? Santa Cruz?”

  “Nah, you don’t have to go that far. There’s a little lodge less than a mile from here. Dude who runs it is a friend of mine.” Ambrose reached for the phone. “I’ll give him a call and set things up for you.”

  “That sounds great.” Cady picked up the helmet and got to her feet. “By the way—”

  Ambrose slanted her a speculative gaze as he held the phone to his ear. “Yeah?”

  “I know you’ve already paid once for this piece and there’s a good chance you’ll never recover the money. But if you decide that you really do want it, I believe Mack’s clients would be interested in talking to you. Right, Mack?”

  He smiled wryly. “I don’t think there’s much doubt about it. My clients view that helmet as the equivalent of a winning lottery ticket. They can’t wait to cash in on it.”

  “It’s a deal,” Ambrose said immediately.

  “You haven’t heard the price yet,” Mack said.

  Ambrose grinned good-naturedly. “I think I can afford it.”

  “In addition to buying the helmet, you may want to invest in a good security system for your expanding collection.”

  “You know, that thought crossed my mind more than once tonight while I watched those two dudes load my stuff into that van.”

  He turned back to his phone call and spoke rapidly to someone on the other end.

  Mack glanced at Cady and saw that she was watching him. He could almost read the words “My Hero” scrawled in glowing neon le
tters in her eyes. It was getting harder and harder to ignore the deep, heavy tug of desire. He wondered if nature had arranged things so that the male stopped thinking clearly when the female smiled the way Cady was smiling now. As a method of ensuring the reproduction and continuation of the species, it had a lot going for it.

  He reminded himself that he had already reproduced once in this lifetime. He had the college tuition bills to prove it. At his age a man was supposed to start thinking of long-range retirement plans.

  Nine

  AN hour later Cady turned onto her back, folded her arms behind her head and stared up at the low-beamed ceiling. She was exhausted, but sleep was proving impossible. She was on edge and overstimulated. Not surprising given the events of the evening, she decided.

  She concentrated, trying to sort out impressions. She had every reason to be teetering on the precipice of a panic attack, but this didn’t feel like the onset of one. She knew what that felt like and this wasn’t it.

  Nevertheless, her nerve endings were pulsing with enough bio-electricity to power a small town.

  She turned her head on the pillow to look at the clock. Three in the morning. Unfortunately, it would be quite a while yet before she could legitimately abandon the attempt to sleep and go out for breakfast.

  She shoved aside the covers, got to her feet and went to the sliding glass door that opened onto the narrow balcony that wrapped around the second story of the small lodge. The darkness outside was absolute. The trees loomed over the peaked roof. It had started to rain in a serious fashion an hour ago. The overhanging eaves dripped steadily.

  The need for fresh air, even if it was damp and chilly, was suddenly overwhelming. She turned and scooped up the light dressing gown she had left on the foot of the bed. It was a good thing that she had taken the precaution of packing for an overnight stay, she mused. The thought of facing Mack tomorrow morning with unbrushed teeth was not to be borne. She cinched the sash of the dressing gown, slid her bare feet into the loafers she had worn earlier and unlocked the glass slider.