The Devil's Chord

“No, please don’t leave. I’ll— I’m sorry. Perhaps some other time we can continue this discussion. I do have something else of hers I value. It came from D’Anjou. I traded a sketch for it, a piece. It is one of my prized possessions.”

“A piece?” Roux asked.

“Yes. Of Jeanne d’Arc’s sword.”

* * *

Venice, sixteen months ago

THE GONDOLA GLIDED through gentle waves. Here in the northernmost sestiere of the city, the canals glistened as moonlight added the appropriate silver highlights.

Everything should have been perfect for a romantic cruise through the city before they headed to the mainland to catch a flight home to the States. Once at JFK Airport, they would shake hands, perhaps even share a lingering kiss and then go their separate ways.

“I expected more,” the woman said, pulling away from the embrace her partner assumed she had wanted. “You lied to me.”

“Sweetie.” The man caught the gondolier’s sad look and subtle headshake. Been there, done that, buddy. “I never actually said we’d get married after the heist. I said I’d consider it. And I’ve done that. I have given it as much thought as I have our escape plans. I don’t think it’s the right time.”

“The right time?”

He always worried about her temper—it could flare at a moment’s notice. Now her agitation sent a chilling prickle along the back of his neck. Off-putting and yet so familiar. These days he should have sensed it before it hit him.

“Can we not get into this here?” he tried. “Look around. The city is beautiful. The lights are—”

“I do nothing for you until you apologize.”

He sighed and pushed away from her on the padded bench. Another gondola approached, a red-and-white-striped canopy shading the happy couple who couldn’t seem to take their eyes off one another. The woman was clutching a bunch of roses. Hey, look, a romantic couple, he wanted to point out.

Romance and roses? Hell, he’d forgotten the roses, too. That was the first thing she’d said when they’d boarded the gondola. No flowers? The woman had an exquisite bead on what buttons to push to make him feel lacking.

And when the marriage proposal she was expecting had actually been his suggestion for a two-week vacation apart while he plotted their next robbery? Her upper lip had disappeared and her mouth tightened. Her silence made him worry more than her usual anger.

Bending forward, he cracked open the cooler cover. They’d brought it along with the steel attaché case. The attaché they’d not let out of their sight for two days. The cooler he’d filled with beer, not wine. And he was pretty sure he’d be reprimanded for that oversight, as well. Did it matter anymore? There was no saving this night.

“I want to get off at that landing up there,” she said. “Tell the gondolier. I’ll walk to the hotel.”

“But we have reservations at that fancy restaurant, sweetie. You insisted.”

“Don’t sweetie me. I’m done with you. No more of this.” She shoved the cooler with a foot. “Get another safe cracker. I’m going out on my own.”

“Would you keep your voice down?” He suspected the gondolier could speak English, even though he’d shrugged and shook his head when they’d initially asked him. “Sweetie,” he said in a harsh whisper, “you know you are a terrible planner. You need me to plot the details of the job and manage the getaway. We’re a perfect team.”

The gondola slowed near the landing.

“Not this one,” the man said over his shoulder to the gondolier.

“Yes, this one,” the woman insisted. She stood as they neared the dock. “Ciao, sweetie.”

He reached for her leg as she stepped up onto shore, but it slipped through his grasp. She was an expert at folding her body into tight spots, which came in handy during a heist. And she could glide under a security laser with ease. He always marveled at how she could squeeze those generous breasts under a few inches of clearance.

“Do not call me. Ever,” she said with a definite finality. She marched into the crowded outdoor café half-filled with patrons.

Perfect escape, he thought. With people around, she wouldn’t expect him to cause a scene. Not that he was a scene causer. She didn’t want to work with him? Fine. He had the goods from their recent heist. He didn’t need her.

Bowing his head over the beer bottle, he slapped his hand onto the hard metal surface of the attaché—but his palm landed on the floor of the gondola. He checked under the padded bench seat where he’d told her to stash the case when they’d boarded.

“We go now?” the gondolier asked.

“Uh, wait. Sweetie!” he called. Even in his panic he was considerate of their rule never to use names in public. “What did you do with the case?”

She was already several yards away, walking the path that hugged the historic canal. But she’d heard him. Turning, she smirked and called out to him, “Dumped it!”

“Wh-what?” He scrambled about the floor of the wide-bottomed boat, thinking he might find a little cubby where the case might be, but there were only life vests stuffed under the seat and the cooler. “It’s not here!”

“Because it’s in the canal!”

Laughing that bold, spectacular laugh he’d always loved to listen to because it usually followed some great sex, she strolled off and disappeared into the night.

“The canal?”

He peered over the edge of the boat and frowned at the rippling water. She’d dumped the case over the side of the gondola? When had she— It must have been when he’d been digging around in the cooler for a beer, trying to avoid her disappointed gaze.

“We have to go back that way,” he directed the gondolier. “I know you understand me. North.” He thumbed the direction over his shoulder.

But despite the gondolier’s nodding agreement and his patient navigation over their previous route, the thief spotted nothing floating in the canal. The attaché had been relatively heavy, around six to eight pounds. Hell, it must have sunk the instant it had hit the water.

Taking note of the buildings in the immediate area and where they were in the canal, he directed the gondolier to his hotel.

He left Venice that night because he didn’t want to miss his flight, and by extension his one shot to maybe repair the damage he’d done to his partnership. He was still hopeful even after he’d found his airplane ticket lying on their bed. She’d bought the tickets because she had always managed their finances. Foolish move on his part.

Equally foolish was his thinking that he might have had eight or nine hours on a flight to convince her not to dump him. She hadn’t been in the seat next to him on the plane home. Must have stayed behind?

His bad luck continued when he arrived at the apartment they’d shared in Manhattan, and found his bank account emptied and all the keys and combinations to their secret hiding spots gone or empty.

A knock on the door had been followed by the flash of an NYPD badge. Accompanying the cop had been a man from Interpol.

A woman scorned knew how to inflict revenge on a man’s soul. Maybe he should have proposed after all.

Chapter 2 (#ulink_261c4883-ced5-5118-b671-d2d6672406ca)

Annja Creed checked the cell phone’s screen. She had the phone set to vibrate only because she was conducting an interview. A name appeared above the long-distance number. What did that man want with her now? He’d have to wait. She put the phone aside on the laminated table.

The woman sitting across from Annja in the bistro twisted the end of her napkin nervously. She was called Sirena. That was it—no last name. Doug Morrell, Annja’s producer, had made contact with her online. A segment for another episode of Chasing History’s Monsters.

Beside Annja in the booth sat Ian Tate, her cameraman. He worked freelance and was based in Scotland, but was fond of traveling the world. He was short of stature yet filled with the adventurous spirit required for the job, and she had gotten along with him as soon as they’d shaken hands and he’d teased her about this assignment.

They’d met up yesterday afternoon to film shots of the scenic shoreline here at Isola delle Femmine, a town in Palermo, Italy. The translation of the town’s name was the Island of Women. Annja hadn’t done any research on that before arriving, but she seemed to recall there had once been a women’s prison on a nearby unoccupied island.

Sirena’s hair spilled to her elbows in pale brownish-green waves. Annja wondered if it was a dye job gone wrong or if the woman had purposely chosen the muddy tones. She hoped Serena hadn’t paid for it. It wasn’t well done, and she needed a retouch.