She sighed. “I can’t tell you, Zeke. I’m sorry.”
“Not even for a bottle of whiskey?”
“No.” Her tone was firm. “But I’ll do you the courtesy of pretending you didn’t just try to bribe a police officer.”
I grinned to myself. I’d known the offer wouldn’t get me anywhere, but Joanna was painfully straitlaced and it was fun to rile her. “Thanks anyway, Jo.”
I hung up before she could instruct me to address her by her title, then I pushed my chair back and headed for Ronan’s office. He, Kade, and I were the directors and founders of King’s Security, but while we each held a stake in the business, Ronan was the chief executive because it had been his brainchild and he was best suited to the job.
I knocked on his door and pushed it open. Usually, Fiona would be seated at her desk near the entrance, ready to grill me about why I wanted to interrupt her boss’s precious time, but of course she wasn’t there now.
“Zeke.” Ronan was standing behind his massive wooden desk, a briefcase in his hand and his suit jacket folded neatly over his shoulder. “I wondered how long it would take for you to turn up.”
“What’s happening?” I asked, knowing he’d know what I was talking about.
“I’m not sure, but Fiona asked me to call her attorney and have her go to the police station. My best guess is it’s something to do with those paintings.”
“But that was years ago.” Before Fiona started working for us, she’d lost her job as the assistant to the manager of an art gallery because they suspected she’d used her access to the gallery to steal three expensive paintings. She’d never been charged, but they’d put her through the wringer.
He shrugged. “I don’t know what else it could be.” He stepped out from behind the desk. “I’m going down there too. She’ll need support.”
I winked. “Will you throw your weight around?”
Ronan’s name meant something in law enforcement circles and the ten zeros following the number on his bank balance didn’t hurt either.
“For however much good it will do.”
“I’ll have my guys see what they can dig up,” I said. “I’ll call you if I find anything.”
“Thanks.”
I returned to the quadrant of the office where my tech security superstars—AKA hackers who tried really hard to toe the line of what’s legal—were housed, while Ronan went the other way. I stopped in the center of the open-plan area and clapped to get my staff’s attention.
“Urgent task,” I called. “The police just took Fiona Ryan in—potentially for questioning—and I want to know why. Put aside everything else until you’ve got me an answer. If any clients call, patch them through to Benson to take a message.”
Benson was my personal assistant, as efficient as Fiona and just as sassy, but fortunately, unlike her, he didn’t hate my guts. There were several confused glances, and a few people’s eyes lit up—either because of the new challenge or the possibility of getting their hands on gossip. My guys were the best in their field, but they absolutely loved sticking their noses into other people’s business. It was part of what made them so good. Honestly, it was a trait that I shared.
I strode past Benson into my office, and flopped onto my chair. I opened a new search bar on my computer and started with the obvious: articles about the missing paintings from four years ago. There was nothing new on that front, so I checked for any thefts or big news in the art world in general, but except for a missing idol from a museum in Cairo, all seemed quiet.
I ran a few more searches, my frown deepening. The absence of information either meant the police were keeping a tight lid on whatever new information they had, or that they wanted to talk to Fiona about something else entirely. That seemed unlikely, but I knew from hard-earned experience that the obvious answer wasn’t always the right one, so I dug into Fiona instead.
When Howard, one of my best former hackers, knocked on the door, I sat up straight at his expression.
“What is it?” I demanded.
“I think a Monet has been stolen.” The words tumbled from his mouth excitedly. “The Windy City Gallery was supposed to be opening an exhibition of impressionist paintings last night, with a work calledDaisiesby Monet as the centerpiece. The exhibition was canceled at the last minute and chatter on the dark net is that it’s because of a theft.”
“Monet.” I rubbed my chin, my fingers rasping over stubble. “How much do you think the painting would be worth?”
“Millions of dollars.” He came closer, a gleam in his dark eyes. “Maybe tens of millions.”
“Shit. And you think this has something to do with Fiona?” My mind worked quickly. The paintings Fiona had been accused of stealing were worth significantly less than that. A paltry ten thousand dollars per item. It would be a stretch for the police to believe she’d gone from that to a multimillion-dollar heist, but if they thought they’d found a connection between the crimes, it was certainly within the realm of possibility that they’d take her in for questioning.
“Find out as much as you can about it and email it to me,” I told him. “Get Jonah to see if he can find any electronic evidence to show where Fiona was last night in casewe need an alibi for her.” I stood and grabbed my leather jacket. “I’m going to catch up with Ronan.”
If this was about a stolen Monet, it was a hundred times more serious than we’d originally thought, and I needed to share as much information as I could with Ronan in person. I wanted to be there for Fiona too, even if it wouldn’t necessarily put her mind at ease. What kind of mess had that difficult woman gotten herself into?
