He'd been a Catholic, once, a long time ago. Had gone to confession each Saturday to offer up his pitiful sins to God and dutifully if mechanically make his penance. Life, the job, and the disillusionment inflicted by both had erased most of the prayers from his memory. All he remembered now was the very beginning of confession.
Forgive me, Father.
For his sins, Norman DeLuca put the barrel of his service pistol in his mouth, angled it up against his palate, closed his eyes, and put an end to everything.
Chapter Two
"Hey there, pretty lady."
Chris Renshaw looked into the mirrored wall behind the bar. A florid, fleshy man stood just behind her, his bulk diverting the flow of people walking to and from the hotel elevators. This forced one waitress to quickly jack up her heavily loaded tray before it smashed into the back of his head.
First the auction, now the meat market. Chris had already had her fill of being hit on by desperate middle-aged Viagrathons. This is turning out to be a great night.
Once he saw that he had Chris's attention, the big man leaned in, staggering a step and catching himself before fanning her with his rum-and-Coke-scented breath. "You know what? You got the prettiest red hair I've ever seen in my life."
Chris didn't turn around or respond. In his condition he probably would interpret either as an invitation to have sex with her on the bar.
Undiscouraged, the big man hitched up his belt and began moving his hips in a pelvic thrust that almost kept time with the Village People hit pounding out of the bar's overhead speakers.
Chris's rusty sense of humor kicked in as she watched him gyrate in the mirror—air-humping attack of the macho, macho man—while her training created a more professional mental snapshot: White, mid-thirties, six foot one, two thirty, silver-brown hair cut in a crew, close-set light blue eyes, trimmed reddish brown mustache, quarter-inch vertical keloid under left jaw. Ocher off-the-rack suit, pale green shirt, stainless sports watch, tan belt.
Thanks to her excellent visual memory, Chris could pick him from a lineup or, six months from now, positively identify him in court.
Here's hoping I don't have to. She picked up her drink and took a sip.
"I'm Dave." Without waiting for an invitation, he dragged the nearest empty stool too close to hers and sat. His butt missed most of the dark brown cushion, making him lurch sideways, but he shifted in time to keep from landing on the floor. "Rickety damn things."
Tension knotted in Chris's shoulders and neck, and once more she debated the wisdom of coming to the bar this late at night. Six other men had approached her since she'd arrived, and she doubted Dave would be the last. That, combined with the attention she'd received during the art auction, only made her feel like nothing more than a dangling hunk of bait.
Which, naturally, she was.
Going for a run tonight before coming here might have improved her mood, but she didn't like jogging in a strange city, especially at night. She had access to a state-of-the-art workout room back at the field office; Ray Hutchins mentioned it the day Chris had arrived. An hour or two on a treadmill would have burned off some stress. It would have also given Chris too much time to think, and second-guess, and blame herself.
She'd done enough of that back in Chicago.
She didn't need Dave harassing her while she checked out the place. This was her op; she had to evaluate the setup and decide how to continue the on-site surveillance. But the bar, which Ray had insisted was a regular meeting place and drop point for some of the less reputable local dealers, simply didn't feel right. She couldn't imagine the Magician coming here to broker deals for the art he stole. Interpol estimated that her target was at least in his seventies—far too old to blend in with this forty-and-under crowd.
Chris knew he'd hate the cheesy atmosphere of the place, too. You wouldn't be caught dead in an out-of-towner sleaze pit like this, would you, Magic Man?
Although she almost felt Dave's eyes crawling up and down her body, two inchworms racing to measure her assets, Chris felt no inclination to leave. She could handle the Daves of the world better than the hollowness of the tasteful, expensively furnished apartment they'd set up for her cover during the operation, She knew when she went back there she'd spend the rest of the night sitting by one of the arched windows and staring down at the empty streets of Atlanta, alone with the if-onlys.
If only I hadn't left him alone.
If only he'd stayed in Chicago.
If only I'd realized how desperate he was.
If only he hadn't written that note.
"You're not from around here, are you?" Tired of being ignored, Dave brushed shoulders with her and flagged the busy bartender, engulfing her in a cloud of his pungent aftershave.
"No." She faced him, tacking ten more years to his age for using Old Spice and the Jurassic-era pickup line. The broken capillaries around his nostrils and eyes indicated his long-term fondness for rum-and-Cokes, but Chris noted the high color and damp condition of his skin. She also caught a faint, acrid scent that his aftershave didn't quite mask.
Not an antiquities smuggler or an international art thief, but borderline plastered and hitting the meds daily.
"Me either." Dave smiled, showing off expensive porcelain caps framed by food fragments. From the appearance of the detritus, he'd snacked heavily on nacho chips and salsa. "I've got an executive suite all to myself one floor down. So what do you say? Want to join me for"—his eyebrows went up and down precisely three times—"a private drink?"
The cagey eyebrow action decided Chris's next move.
"Not tonight, thank you. Excuse me." Before he could protest, she slid off the bar stool and went around him.
Dave turned and peered after Chris as she made a tactful retreat to a deserted, dark corner. As soon as she sat down she saw him take a step in her direction, as if to join her again and press the issue.
Don't make me throw you to the ground and read you your rights.
Fortunately a sultry brunette in a turquoise blue dress chose that moment to occupy Chris's abandoned bar stool. Dave stopped in midstalk, and once he inspected the brunette's neckline and how it showcased her generous breasts, his expression changed to that of a lover scorned to one who'd just been clubbed over the head by a Playboy Bunny.
Red hair might have its privileges, Chris thought, but killer cleavage grinds it into the dirt every time.
"It'll never work," a man's mellow voice said on her left.
Not another one.
She turned her head and for the first time saw the outlines of a tall, lean form sitting in a deeper well of shadows. Male, dark business suit, British accent—that was all she could put together on him.
There was no one else sitting in the immediate area around them, so she assumed he had spoken to her. "I'm sorry; what did you say?"
"This stratagem of yours." He sat forward. Soft light from an overhead spot gilded the straight black hair brushing his shoulders, but only skimmed down the imperial line of his nose to jump to the rim of his wineglass. "It won't work."
Stratagem. Chris couldn't remember ever hearing another person actually use that word in conversation. "I don't know what you mean."
"Using that large, friendly fellow at the bar as an excuse to change seats was utter genius." the stranger told her. "Anyone would think that you moved here simply to escape him."
Chris caught the scent of something like citrus and dark, sweet violets, and guessed it came from the red wine he was drinking. "Anyone but you."
White teeth flashed briefly before he picked up his drink and merged back into the shadows.
Chris watched Nacho Man lead Killer Cleavage out of the bar and toward the nearest elevator. "Am I that obvious?"
"You're a quiet, beautiful woman in a loud, ugly place. An orchid among weeds. You define obvious." He placed his empty wineglass back on the table. "Men have been besieging you since the moment you arrived, yet each time you've politely declined their attentions and sent them on their way. One must draw from that certain conclusions."
Usually Chris picked up right away on other people watching her—an occupational hazard—so she felt mildly annoyed not to have noticed his interest. "What have you concluded?"
"You came here for me."
He was either deadly serious, or simply having fun with her. Even with her ten years of experience evaluating what people said, and why, the elegant accent made it hard to judge.
Chris waited to hear more, but he didn't expand on the outrageous statement. Instead he lifted a narrow, long-fingered hand and with a single, sinuous gesture conjured up a cocktail waitress.
He might have the voice, the class and the moves to be the Magician, Chris thought, but he was too young. The fact that he was British also didn't fit. They knew the Magician had helped himself to rare art collections and museums in seventeen countries, but he'd never pulled a job or sold his goods in the U.K.
Magic Man didn't seem to like the Brits, so it was a safe bet that he wasn't one himself.
"Yes, sir?" The waitress's grin stretched so wide it distorted the shape of her nostrils. "Would you like another glass of wine?"
He shook his head. "A ginger ale for the lady, if you would, please."
The waitress trotted to the bar, ignoring three other patrons trying to flag her down, and returned in thirty seconds with the soda, which she plopped in front of Chris without a glance in her direction.
"Thank you." Chris waited until the waitress reluctantly withdrew to attend to another table before she asked the stranger, "How did you know what I was drinking?"
He answered with only a deep, velvet-soft laugh. The resonance of it danced across her skin, as intimate and warm as a lover's whispered secrets.
Slightly unnerved by her physical reaction, Chris drew back. You're here to work, she reminded herself, not to flirt with mysterious foreign strangers in the dark.
Across from the main bar, the three-piece band returned from their dinner break and positioned themselves behind their instruments. After a short sound test and tuning, the eldest member of the trio switched on the microphone overhanging his keyboard.