“Please promise me you won’t mention to anyone you saw me.”
“Absolutely, Dr. Ellis.”
“Thank you.” Cassie pressed numbers on the keypad to her office and opened her file drawers. There it was. Proof of the crimes, all in her name. Customs certificates documenting the importation of stolen art. Mark Devereaux betrayed her father, and he betrayed her. She shoved a few files in her bag and fled the building.
Next, she headed to the Washington Highlands section of DC. Betty’s family owned an old warehouse near Fourth Street and Atlantic. Garett had tried to get her to invest in one of Robby’s business schemes, but Cassie declined.
She remembered Robby telling her, “You don’t have to be such a stick in the mud. You think you’re smarter than anyone else. What do you have to lose? You can afford it.”
The dark warehouse was in an unsafe neighborhood. Cassie scouted the perimeter, and once she found a door, it didn’t take long to break in. The hot, musty first floor of the building did not help her nausea. She breathed through her mouth while she searched with the flashlight she found in the Jeep, small sips of Sprite keeping her going.
Finding nothing of interest on the first floor, she took the flight of hard steel steps upstairs. The sound echoed—they were the same steps she was carried up six years earlier. The door at the top was steel and secured with a double lock.
The Jeep owner was mechanical and kept a full toolbox in the back seat. Cassie returned to the car and pocketed a variety of tools she could use. These locks took more finesse to pick. She needed to sit and rest a few times. Desperate, she closed her eyes, head pounding, but she fought until the tumblers fell.
The second floor was a different sight from the first, with bright lights illuminating everything. Rooms were spaced out on both sides of a long, carpeted corridor. Cassie attempted to stem her violent reaction to the embedded smell of clove cigarettes, taking another pill with some more of the soda.
The first room was an office where a ceiling fan rotated in lazy circles. A large metal desk was positioned in the center with two huge four-drawer file cabinets on either side.
When she pulled open the first drawer, she found more than a hundred numbered files. Opening up a random one, she grimaced. It contained a woman’s driver’s license, a lock of hair, a detailed description of a sexual encounter, and a bill of sale. Human trafficking.You would fetch a good price.
In the back of the bottom drawer, she found a red book with lists of numbers and dates. The three other drawers held similar items. The second file cabinet had pictures of paintings, a price, date, time, address, and the distributor’s name. The records all bore customs certificates and proof of ownership through Ellis Art Finds.
Buried under the files, a ledger book held another horrible truth: records of priceless stolen artwork laundered to be used as payment for traffic in drugs, women, and votes. The ledger also held a list of the locations of tampered voting machines throughout Virginia.
Cassie’s breath caught in her chest. “My God,” she gasped as she held on to the ledger. A search of the desk revealed a map with blue dots corresponding to a legend, listing voting booths across the nation. Senator Bynum was planning on stealing the election. She needed to figure out how. The bottom drawer held office supplies and a set of keys, which she pocketed.
Proceeding down the corridor, she found the second room was furnished sparsely and neatly, with a made bed and a chair. A closet and dresser were full of men’s clothing, with a bottle of Clive Christian #1 and an ashtray overloaded with clove cigarette butts on top. The combined smells were too much for her. She rushed to open a window, but the hot predawn air was stagnant. Her body revolted, and she vomited. Though she left the room as fast as she could, Cassie collapsed in the hallway.
After a few minutes, she entered the third room. A bed with an ugly floral spread centered the room, with restraints extending from each corner and the ceiling. The memories became as clear as a photograph. A cry sounded from her lips, and her legs felt like rubber. It all flooded back. She crawled on the floor to rest under the window, where her body dry-heaved. She placed the cold soda cup against her forehead. Closing her eyes, she focused on trying to breathe.Calm down, Cassie.
When she was able to open her eyes, a grate in the ceiling caught her attention. Pushing herself to her feet, she stood on the bed and pried it from its housing. A small camera fell into her hands. The type of wiring told her the server was nearby. Cassie found the strength to leave the room and continue her search.
At the end of the hall, she found a secured door. After a few tries, one of the keys unlocked it, and cool air wrapped around her. Leaving her drink, map, and ledgers by the door, she walked up and down rows of industrial shelving. One full wall was filled with VHS tapes, DVDs, and binders filled with SD discs, each labeled with only a number. The numbers matched the ones in the red book.
She inserted a random DVD into a computer terminal. Disgust ravaged her depleted body at the sight of a young brunette tied to the floral bed. She recognized all five attackers. Unable to continue viewing, she pocketed a handful of SD discs.
In the back of the room were two large easels, each holding a canvas in production. The subjects were all perfect copies of popular fine art. A few steps over, she found several large trolleys filled with framed paintings.
Cassie gasped. In between two beautiful pieces by new modern artists, she found a painting long thought to be destroyed: Van Gogh’sThe Lovers, Poets Garden IV.She examined it as carefully as she could. It was the original; she was sure of it. She grabbed the map, ledgers, and her soda, intending to return to the stolen Jeep.
Chapter Fifty
Despite the late hour, Houseman’s buzzed with the sounds of happy bar patrons. Martin and Mike—dressed like professionals out for a drink, moved toward their targets. Kevin Tyler and Burt Marshall were sitting in a rear booth when the Eagle’s Talon men took seats next to them, preventing any egress.
“These seats are taken,” Burt said.
“Yeah, by us.” Mike Johnson signaled the waitress for four more beers.
“Who are you? What do you want?” Kevin asked.
“Friends of Cassie Ellis. We have a few questions,” Mike said.
“The first one is for you, Burt. Your mom and dad like art, don’t they?”
“How do you know my name?” Burt glared at him.
“Don’t worry how—answer my question.” Mike raised a brow.
