Fatal Cover-Up

“Okay.” He grabbed his phone and pulled up a photo of the three paintings the museum curator had given him, then handing the phone to her. “They were stolen from a museum in Boston four years ago. A trio of paintings worth somewhere around half a million each.”

“They’re beautiful,” she said, studying the seacoast scenes.

“Do you recognize them?”

She turned the phone sideways. “You said they’re small?”

“Yes.”

“Then maybe. I just never made the connection. When I received the text message, I imagined paintings that hung on the wall, but you said Thomas’s list of personal items returned to me included three postcards. It’s strange...he used to send me postcards when he traveled.”

“So you do remember them.”

“I think so, but like I said, I didn’t pay much attention at the time to what the department gave me. I just thought they were postcards from one of his trips.” She took one last look at the photos, then handed him back the phone. “And apparently whoever passed them on to me assumed the same thing, as well.”

“Do you know where they are now?”

“I only wish I did. Because then I’d be standing on the Spanish Steps right now, handing them over to whoever wants them and putting an end to all of this.” She shoved her empty cup toward the middle of the table. “You said they use art as collateral.”

“Art has the unique advantage of having an international value without the hassle of money laundering and currency conversion.”

Talia shook her head. “Meaning?”

“Over the past decade there has been a huge push to regulate money laundering. Organized crime has adapted by using artwork instead of cash, sometimes in everything from drug deals, to tobacco trafficking, to gunrunning. And while the value of a piece of art that is used as currency is far less than its estimated legitimate value, it can still be worth millions.”

“So I understand how they ended up in the middle of a cartel meth lab, but here’s something that doesn’t add up—why now? Why are these paintings being connected to me three years after Thomas’s death?”

“I’m not sure, but it seems to have happened after I started looking in to the connection with your husband’s case and started asking questions.”

“So what are you saying? Someone inside the department is involved in this? Another dirty cop like my husband?” Her eyes widened at the thought. “Maybe even someone who worked with my husband. I mean, who else would know the case has been reopened? Who else would be looking for those paintings?”

“All of that could be true,” he said, wishing he had more answers for her. “He might have been working with someone else, or had connections inside, someone who’s been waiting all this time for a lead that would uncover the location of the paintings.”

“But almost three years have passed.” She shook her head. “And you don’t know if the gun that killed my husband was sold or stolen.”

“True.” He hesitated, but he needed to know more from her perspective. “I know this is hard for you, but what do you know about that night? Were there any discrepancies that bothered you after his death?”

“Other than the fact that he was accused of stealing over two hundred thousand dollars in cash and drugs from previous drug raids?” She shook her head. “I never could justify that.”

“So you never suspected he was involved in something illegal?” he asked.

“Never. I’d noticed he was distracted, but he’d been working long hours on a couple of tough cases. What I never imagined was that he was stealing evidence. Thomas was good at his job, and I’d always believed he was an honest man, as well.” A shadow crossed her face. “But I quickly learned that even those closest to you can hide the darkest secrets.”

“So no other inconsistencies?” he asked, not missing the ache in her voice.

“I’m not sure. What are you looking for?”

Joe tapped his foot, knowing he needed to tread carefully. “I’m not sure, actually. I spoke to the chief of police and read the case file. There were things that didn’t add up. Holes in the case. And while there had been a number of other instances where drug money had gone missing over the previous year, they were never linked conclusively to Thomas. The only solid evidence against him was what was found on him that night and a bank account with ten thousand dollars in it.”

Which meant even though they only had circumstantial evidence, the previous thefts had also been pinned on her husband. How it all related now to his FBI case, he still wasn’t sure, but the more information he had, the better the chances of finding what he was looking for.

Talia ran her finger along the edge of the table. “The case was closed quickly. At the time I was grateful, but now...”

“It makes sense. The department would have wanted to keep an internal scandal quiet and make it go away as quickly as possible.”

“Are you implying there’s a chance Thomas might have been innocent?”

“I wouldn’t jump to any conclusions, and in all honesty, your husband’s death isn’t my case.” He tried to backtrack, but it was already too late. The seed had been planted in her mind. “My job is to find the stolen artwork, return it to the rightful owners and in the process help keep it out of the cartel’s hands.”

She leaned forward. “But from what you know—with the inconsistencies of the case—is it possible someone was covering something up and framed Thomas?”

“I can’t answer that.”

Joe finished the last sip of his espresso. He couldn’t blame her for grabbing on to the slightest thread of hope that her husband was innocent. That wasn’t why he was here. But still...

“Tell me what you were told about the day your husband was murdered.”

“His boss came to me the day after Thomas’s death with the details. He told me that Thomas and his partner had been called to check on a possible meth house with two other officers.” As she spoke, he caught the lack of emotion in her voice. It was as if she was simply a reporter spewing out the news. Not the grieving widow of the victim. “The officers swept the house. No one was there, but it was full of equipment for cooking meth along with a large amount of cash and other stolen goods. Apparently Thomas heard something in the back of the house while they were busy securing the property. The other officers heard a shot. Thomas was dead by the time they found his body. The bullet had gone through his temple, killing him instantly. The back door was open, but they never found who’d killed him. But they did find ten thousand dollars in cash stuffed under his bulletproof vest. Later they discovered other stolen evidence hidden in the trunk of his car, and a bank account that pointed to the fact that this hadn’t been the first time.”

“I can’t imagine what you went through,” he said, not missing the pain in her voice.

“They brought me in, wanting to prove I knew what he was doing, which I didn’t. They tore our apartment apart from top to bottom, but never found anything.”

“You said you gave some of your husband’s personal things to your mother-in-law?” If she’d seen the paintings, there had to be a way to trace where they’d gone.

“Yes.”

“Do you think she might have them?”

Talia shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. I never asked her what she did with his things. Thomas’s family lives in Venice, but his parents are out of the country on a cruise right now. I could try to get a hold of them and ask her if she remembers.”

He caught the doubt surfacing in her eyes, as if she was trying to decide if she could trust him. And he couldn’t blame her.

“Talia, I—”

Her phone went off. She pulled it out of her pocket and clicked on the incoming message. He watched her face go pale as she stared at the screen. She shoved the phone across the table for him to read.

You really should have done what you were told.

He read the message, then scrolled through the two photos that were attached. One was of Thomas’s body at the crime scene from the night he’d been murdered. The second was a photo of them sitting at the café.

Every fiber of his being was on alert as he glanced around the open café. But looking for someone with a camera was like looking for a specific piece of hay in a haystack. Almost everyone around them was a tourist with either a camera or a cell phone.

“Do you recognize anyone?” he asked. “Maybe the man who tried to swipe your bag.”

“I don’t know... I don’t think so.” She shoved back her chair, and slung her bag across her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I need to go.”

“Talia, please wait. You don’t understand what you’re up against—”