“Nice work,” she said before returning to the first floor.
On the staircase leading to the upper level, she checked out every painting that cluttered the wall.
She continued on to the bedrooms. No paintings hung in Honor’s room, but the office walls were covered with more art.Like the basement, rows of framed mundane art leaned against the walls.
Rebel didn’t want to interrupt, but he wasn’t sure how the artwork mattered. Rather than say anything, he gave her space.
“His taste is all over the place,” she said, breaking her silence. “Nothing matches or complements anything else. Not only that, the art is mass produced. It’s worthless.”
“Maybe it’s stolen, and he sells it.”
Brit moved on to the primary bedroom. A large print hung over the dresser. A sunrise bursting over a forest and rolling hills. After eyeing it for several seconds, she said, “Check out the symbol above the signature.”
When he did, his heart jumped into his throat. “No fucking way.”
The insignia matched the one on his ring, the one his dad had worn years ago, when he’d worked the drug case.
Brit strode back into the home office, Rebel fast on her heels. All of the artwork had the logo stamped on the lower right. A surge of adrenaline had him powering to the top of the staircase. As they made their way down, he eyed each painting. Half had the insignia, the other half nothing.
“Are you thinking—” he asked.
“I sure am,” she replied.
He pulled a painting off the living room wall thatdidn’thave the marking, set it face down on the kitchen table and sliced through the brown paper on the back.
Working around the hanging wire, Brit tore away the paper. Nothing, but the backside of the painting.
Rebel repeated the process on a paintingwiththe logo. Brit tore open the backing. A few seconds passed while they stared at their find.
They’d hit the mother lode.
Twenty plastic baggies filled with hundreds of small, bright blue pills had been taped to the back of the painting. Several broken pills and a chunk of powder had escaped from one of the bags when he sliced through the backing.
“Fentanyl,” they both blurted.
“We gotta fly,” he said.
She bolted toward the front door.
Rebel took off down the basement stairs. “Possible fentanyl contamination! Clear out!”
Within seconds, everyone stood on the front lawn.
“Talk to me,” Rebel said. “Everyone okay?”
Both officers confirmed they were.
“I’m fine.” Brit replied “Lose the gloves. They could have fentanyl dust on them.” She removed hers and bagged them, then asked how he was.
“I’m good,” he replied, adding his gloves to the contaminated bag.
“Where were the drugs?” asked one of the officers.
“Hidden in the frames of the paintings.” Brit unearthed her phone. “I’m calling Detective Cardoso.”
“I’ll call for crime techs,” said one of the cops.
Rebel called Cooper Grant.
