“Do you think it’s a real Tiffany?” Ben asked.
Erik shrugged. “Without doing actual forensic tests, I can’t say for sure. But based on my experience, I think so.”
“Your experience counts for a lot,” Ben replied. Most of Erik’s background dealt with revealing frauds or recovering stolen treasures, but Erik had shared stories about pieces that came with a supernatural resonance.
“I’ve got a lot of questions.” Erik took his empty coffee cup to the sink and rinsed it. “That window isn’t one that I recognize from the main Tiffany catalogue. Granted, they made thousands of windows, and private commissions might have remained secret, but I’d like to know where the guy who sold it to Peter got it. Tiffanys don’t usually show up in the odd lot bin.”
“Maybe someone was eager to clean out a house and didn’t know what they had,” Ben pointed out. “There are whole TV series about that sort of thing.”
Most of which Erik scrupulously avoided watching, since they were too close to what he did in the store, with an added dose of breathless hype.
“Those shows work because most of the time, the people who buy up abandoned storage units or the pickers who go to auctions and garage sales are lucky to break even. Finding a missing Picasso painting or a rare first edition book is like winning the lottery,” Erik said.
They turned out the lights downstairs, set the security alarm, and headed to the apartment. The rain picked up again, and thunder rumbled in the distance. Erik knew that the window was magically locked down in the safe, and that those spells, in turn, protected them. But he couldn’t forget the spooky motion he had seen or the dark energy he sensed, and he vowed to let his contact know as quickly as possible.
“Come on,” Ben said, likely sensing Erik’s mood. “Let’s watch a movie and make popcorn. Perfect for a rainy night. Maybe tomorrow will be boring.”
“We should be so lucky,” Erik said.
An hour later, the apartment smelled like popcorn, and the action movie’s gunfire and explosions rivaled the crash of thunder and the sound of hard rain outside. Erik and Ben sat close together on the couch, enjoying the downtime since they had seen the movie many times.
“You taste good with all that salt and butter.” Ben leaned in for a kiss after they finished the popcorn and the movie credits rolled. Ben clicked the remote, turning off the television.
“So do you.” Erik returned the kiss and deepened it, adding a sweep of tongue. He loved making out with Ben, whether it led to more or not. After his last disastrous relationship, Erik valued the level of trust between him and Ben, as well as the combustible attraction.
“Ready for bed?” Ben asked as he came up for air. “Because whether we make love or just fall asleep, it’ll be better there than on the couch.”
“Lead the way.” Erik stretched as he rose. His shirt lifted, exposing a strip of skin above his pants, and Ben’s gaze heated.
“So sexy,” Ben murmured. “Leave the popcorn bucket for tomorrow. I’ve got other plans for you.” He took Erik’s hand and led him into their room.
An insistent knock at the door woke them the next morning, long before Alessia and Haley were due to arrive. Erik’s phone buzzed, and he saw a message.
Susan:Cole is trying to reach you about something important.
“That can’t be good.” Erik groaned as he swung his legs over the side of the mattress.
“What can’t be? And who the hell is knocking?” Ben sounded groggy.
“Cape May’s police chief, according to his mother. And it’s never a social call.”
Erik grabbed a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, ran a hand through his hair, and headed downstairs to find a broad-shouldered man in his early thirties at the door. Cole Hendricks looked about as pleased to be there as Erik was to see him.
“Good morning, Chief. What’s up?” It wasn’t Erik’s fault that all of his interactions with the cop involved mobsters and murder. Susan did her best to temper her son’s impression of Erik and help Erik see a softer side to the chief. The two men weren’t openly hostile, but there was a fair amount of well-deserved skepticism between them.
“Mitchell. Do you know a guy named Peter Randolph?”
Erik stared at him, surprised. He hoped this didn’t mean the window had been stolen property. “A man by that name came by the store in the storm last night to sell me a stained-glass window he purchased in an odd-lots sale. I bought it and put it in the safe. It’s damaged and can’t be resold, so I paid him a finder’s fee. Why?”
“He’s dead,” Hendricks replied. “Murdered. And it has all the hallmarks of a Mob hit.”
TWO
BEN
“Murdered?” Ben came downstairs behind Erik and heard Hendricks’s announcement. “What happened?”
“May I come in?” Hendricks glanced at Erik, who nodded and stepped aside, shutting the door behind the chief. “We’re not putting out details publicly just yet, for a lot of reasons. But someone broke into where he was staying and shot him. Double tap to the back of the head, Mob style.”
