Dragging herself out from beneath the cotton sheet, Raquelle realized that her silk chemise was wet from perspiration. She wasn’t surprised that her body temperature had risen when being hit with such an awful dream.I’m glad that Landon was there, like in real life, to prevent me from jumping into the fire and perishing, she told herself. She only wished he had been there for her before their marriage went sour. Or was that being totally unfair to him? Neither had necessarily seen what was coming to somehow prevent things from playing out as they had.
After removing the chemise and tossing it into the washer, Raquelle dried herself and slipped into a short, knit nightgown. She padded barefoot down the stairs and grabbed a bottled water from the refrigerator, downing half of it.
She heard the floor creak and thought that someone might be inside the house. Eddie? Or had the man who hovered around her car—and might have set off the bomb on Eddie’s boat—found out where she lived?
“Eddie…?” Raquelle called out tentatively. No response. She tried again. No answer.
Her first instinct was to call Landon and report a possiblebreak-in. But was that really necessary? Was it a smart idea to allow herself to become dependent on her ex-husband, who likely had someone else in his life these days?
There were no more sounds, and Raquelle now suspected that the creaking was nothing more than the typical noise she had grown accustomed to since moving to the house. Couple that with still feeling jittery after the nightmare and she could see how easy it was to be spooked.
She went back upstairs to bed, while wondering if there was any way she could go back to sleep—given the confluence of Eddie and Landon playing with her mind tremulously.
* * *
KATIEKITAGAWA HADno doubt that they could pull this off as she rode alongside Zach Fajardo in his gray Chevy Tahoe SUV. Though she was ten years his junior and they weren’t a match made in heaven—unlike with her real partner in romance, Tony Razo, or for that matter, Zach and his wife, Celeste—they got along well, and Katie saw no reason why they couldn’t walk into that art gallery owned by Ivan Pimentel and convincingly pretend to be a couple fascinated by Native American art. Never mind that undercover work wasn’t exactly either of their forte as FBI special agents—desperate times called for desperate measures. Or at least it felt as though they needed to step up and do their parts to build the case against the suspected international art lawbreaker. Particularly with Landon’s CI, Eddie Jernigan, inaccessible and probably in serious trouble.
With or without Jernigan, we still have a job to do,Katie told herself, while mindful that Landon’s relationship with him through his former marriage made the CI’s disappearance and possible murder personal as well as business.
“Well, here we are,” Zach said concisely as he pulled into the parking lot of the Beaks Art Gallery on State Street in West Columbia.
“Here we are,” Katie mimicked him lightheartedly, though serious in their mission. The gallery was believed to have been used by Pimentel to sell Native American stolen works of art that would need to be repatriated to their rightful owners. “We’ll see if the art gallery has what we’re looking for.”
“Sounds good, girlfriend, wife, or whatever you wish,” he responded playfully.
“Close friends with no benefits,” she joked. “But, yes, looking every bit as a couple, to pull this off.”
“Got it.” He smiled. “And if we spot any of the stolen paintings on our radar, we can take it from there—while watching the federal charges continue to pile up against the crooked art dealer.”
Katie added, “Not to mention any other charges that could be forthcoming as it pertains to the missing Eddie Jernigan.”
“Yeah, there is that,” Zach concurred as they got out of the car.
Dressed in casual attire, the two went inside the art gallery, which was small and cozy. Framed paintings lined the walls with other pieces on display tables.
Katie decided on the spur of the moment to hold Zach’s hand—as if they were a couple on full display rather than undercover FBI agents—when they were approached bya fortysomething, thin woman with silver hair in a finger waves style. Her nametag identified her as Lucille Thiessen, a sales associate.
“Welcome to Beaks Art Gallery,” she spoke cheerfully.
They acknowledged this coolly, and Katie said, “We spotted the gallery while driving by and thought we’d take a look inside.”
“I’m happy you did.” Lucille showed her teeth. “Are you interested in anything in particular?”
“As a matter of fact, we are,” Zach said, releasing his hand from Katie’s. “Can you show us what you have in Native American paintings? It would be great to add a piece to our collection.”
“Sure, I can help you with that,” she said. “We have some magnificent original works of Native American art, both historical and contemporary, by some wonderful artists.”
“That’s great,” Katie told her, sounding excited but actually intrigued at what they might find.
“Follow me,” the sales associate told them.
They did just that, holding hands again for effect, as Katie and Zach were led to a section of the gallery where they were tentatively able to identify at least one stolen painting that they were looking for.
* * *
LANDON GOT WORDfrom Katie that she and Zach had zeroed in on two stolen Native American paintings that Ivan Pimentel had managed to get his hands on, including an early twentieth-century portrait of a woman belonging to the Waccamaw Siouan Indian Tribe of North Carolina and a modern landscape that was painted by renowned Cherokee Nation of Oklahoma artist, Jordana Teehee.Both works of art would be further evidence used against Pimentel when building the case.
While driving to the suspect’s main hub, called the Pimentel Gallery, on Lincoln Street in Columbia, Landon couldn’t help but think that they already had enough dirt on Pimentel to put him away for a very long time. But there was still more to be had to put even more pressure on him and his criminal enterprise and associates.
