BRONZED BETRAYALS Read online

  Praise for the Bodies of Art Mystery Series

  “Ames, with her great writing and brilliant story, has created a masterpiece of her own in Marked Masters. She leaves her readers doing their own research between the pages. Like Laurel, Ritter keeps the story with its rightful owner—the reader.”

  – Crimespree Magazine

  “Boasting a great cast of characters, good conversations and the global background, this was a very enjoyable read and I look forward to the third book in this exciting series.”

  – Dru’s Book Musing

  “An intricately woven tale with plenty of action and suspense. The story is crafted in such a way to keep readers guessing…characters are well-written with smart and witty dialogue. An enjoyable read.”

  – A Cozy Book Nook

  “Funny, fast paced and just a smidge of romance. What more could you ask for? Bring on the next one!”

  – T. Sue Versteeg,

  Author of My Ex-Boyfriend’s Wedding

  “A high-octane, fast-paced thrill ride of a mystery adventure that will definitely leave you anxious for the next installment.”

  – Girl with Book Lungs

  “Incredible attention to detail. The author creates a world that you truly can get lost in. The book is also a fast-paced, fun read. I’m looking forward to reading book two.”

  – A Girl and Her ebook

  “The book takes you on car chases, shooting, great locations around the world all in the hopes of finding a missing friend and lost artifact. I read the book three times enjoying each time.”

  – Book Him Danno

  “This fast-paced mystery had me reading far past my usual time for bed. I simply couldn’t put it down because I was so drawn into the story. It’s simply wonderful!”

  – Dianne Harman,

  Author of the Cedar Bay Cozy Mysteries

  “Takes off as fast as a speeding locomotive…The twists in this story will keep you reading until the amazing end…Have a great deal of fun while delving into the art trade filled with betrayal, old secrets, greed, and some extremely strange gifts.”

  – Suspense Magazine

  “To save the day, Laurel takes you with her every step of the way on subways, planes, fast cars, and motorcycles all while being in danger. This book is truly a keeper, jump in and go for a ride!”

  – Destiny’s Book Reviews

  “This fast-paced, action-filled whodunit was enjoyable and hard to put down…it was fun to watch the pieces come together in this well-written drama. I’m looking forward to the next book in this series.”

  – Dru’s Book Musings

  “This third book in the Bodies of Art Mystery series is as engaging and entertaining a worldwide romp as the first two books, and I highly recommend the entire series. Ritter Ames has penned a marvelous story with Laurel Beacham continuing to show her cleverness and intuition portraying a strong character…I was thrilled!”

  – King’s River Life Magazine

  “Once again I have to hold on to my hat while we zip around Europe and land in lovely Florence where author Ritter Ames lures me in with her delightful vignette of Italian life seen through the eyes of an art expert.”

  – Maria Grazia Swan,

  Author of the Lella York Mysteries

  The Bodies of Art Mystery Series

  by Ritter Ames

  COUNTERFEIT CONSPIRACIES (#1)

  MARKED MASTERS (#2)

  ABSTRACT ALIASES (#3)

  FATAL FORGERIES (#4)

  BRONZED BETRAYALS (#5)

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  Copyright

  BRONZED BETRAYALS

  A Bodies of Art Mystery

  Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection

  First Edition | June 2018

  Henery Press, LLC

  www.henerypress.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, LLC, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Copyright © 2018 by Ritter Ames

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-354-9

  Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-355-6

  Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-356-3

  Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-357-0

  Printed in the United States of America

  To all the family and friends who consistently believe in me.

  And, of course, the team at Henery Press

  —both past editorial staff and current—as well as the wonderful marketing people and support staff.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  So many people need a spotlight shone on them for helping me and so many authors in our careers. From bloggers like Dru Ann Love, Jenna Czaplewski and Christine Gentes, to super fans like Jeanie Jackson, Gale Sroelov, Eleanor Cawood Jones (who is also an awesome author in her own right, by the way), and all the members of my street team. Seriously, that is only a small sample.

  I could probably fill an entire book with just names of all the wonderful readers who keep us authors going with kind words, early reviews, and the comradery that comes from loving our fictional characters. I applaud each of you.

  They say, “Find a job you love and you’ll never work a day in your life.” I won’t say writing is exactly like that, as some days I almost believe that a job slogging uphill in the mud might be easier. Days when the words won’t come, or when reading revisions points out every redundancy that crept into the work, or when the characters get backed into a corner and there doesn’t appear to be any good way out—those are all challenges, sure. However, when it all comes together, when the final words flow, there isn’t a better career opportunity in the world, and it’s every wonderful reader out there who makes the difference.

  Thank you all.

  One

  The club relied on trendy darkness mixed with strobing colored lights to create an atmosphere I’d tried to avoid since the year after college. Unfortunately, the woman throwing the party for her new husband’s sixtieth birthday was only twenty-three, and if she wanted a loud, drunken Monday night extravaganza with beautiful people decades younger than hubby, he and his checkbook were happy to buy into this wifestyle. Even if he risked a heart attack. I’d put my money on six months.

  Oh well, she’ll look smashing in a black mini and veil, I thought.

  We were using the party invite as a cover. I needed an alibi for later, and this kind of over the top celebration provided such an option. As head of the London office of the Beacham Foundation, I stayed on the party lists for nearly every rich person who dallied in any form of art collection, preservation, philanthropy or as just a hanger-on to the scene. Which meant I tended to save my RSVPing for times when there were fundraisers, or I needed to meet someone in particular who was slated to attend. Neither of those cases fit this Bacchus brouhaha, but the party set a perfect alibi mechanism for leaving people with an impression that I was there later when I…wasn’t. Something essential within the next ho
ur’s timeframe.

  The Russian and his wife left the dance floor and had been holding court at a corner table for most of the evening, his red face showing the effects of too much alcohol and exertion. His flirty trophy wife also seemed to hop in his lap the second his blood pressure appeared to be lowering a smidgeon. I wondered how much she stood to inherit and how hard she’d work to make it happen sooner rather than later.

  Six months might be optimistic, I concluded.

  My right temple throbbed. The impending migraine could easily have had its roots in the techno-house party beat pounding redundantly from the perimeter speakers. Or possibly the potent mix of too many bodies wearing too many competing fragrances. I didn’t know where the maximum capacity level stood for the building, but the number attending likely exceeded the licensed amount.

  Or it could be because I was waiting for my personal assistant and longtime friend, Cassie Dean, to crash the party and be my look-alike so I could break into the home safe of the party boy. Yes, besides an alibi, this party did double duty by letting me know the homeowners would be occupied and away while I slipped into their secured house. This was the first non-art related party I’d attended in some time, and ironically, I did so in connection to a pseudo-art crime. It wasn’t something I allowed to be well known, but I wasn’t a virgin when it came to such reclamation ventures. I wasn’t technically stealing. The objective was to return stolen artwork to its rightful owner. Basically, the plan called for me to steal a stolen art piece from at least an accessory to art crime and possibly the instigator of said crime—if the Russian was the one who commissioned the original theft. The jury remained out on that last part of the equation, but I was still recovering stolen art.

  Jack Hawkes whispered in my ear, “You look like you’re contemplating a trip to the guillotine.” He wasn’t just my partner in crime this evening, but part of my team investigating forgeries and art heist activities over the past six months. He also doubled as our law enforcement tie with his connection to the British government and Home Office. He and I had begun our partnership suspecting each other as this six-month plot unfurled, until we realized it was nearly everyone else we couldn’t trust. Lately, our partnership had turned personal as well.

  “I’m almost wishing someone would cut off my head,” I replied. “It’s starting to pound as steadily as the bass.” I tried to keep from elbowing the couple beside me as we all seemed to be allocated the same square inch on the crowded dance floor. After arriving fashionably late, we’d been at the party less than an hour and I had already been groped three times by drunken strangers. When another man stroked the part of my kicky little black Givenchy cocktail dress that covered my derriere, my elbow slipped, and the stranger’s hand vanished. I raised my chin, motioned to Jack in the direction of a side wall, and said, “Let’s see if we can find someplace marginally less crowded.”

  “But a table—”

  “No table.” Our plan depended on Cassie playing my doppelganger until I returned post-theft. That meant while I was in sight I needed to stay in the crush of the crowd until she arrived, so people could keep thinking they saw me across the room in the time period when they actually saw her. Tables didn’t allow that kind of sleight-of-person trick.

  Jack was a good head taller than I, and I’m no slouch at five-eight without the stilettos I wore for the party, so I let him lead through the path of least resistance. We ebbed with the flow, steadily dancing our way toward the spot I’d indicated. The location was a double winner in that it offered easier access to the hallway I needed to escape through when Cassie sneaked in and was pseudo-me in the short term.

  As we gained the wall, Jack leaned down and kissed my ear, then whispered, “We can reschedule—”

  “Shh.” I put a finger to his lips then moved to straighten his midnight blue silk tie, letting my hand stay a second too long on his chest as I leaned in and replied, “Everything is in place, and we won’t get a better chance. Besides, we have Cassie on board and she’s kind of excited to be a part of this.”

  “I wish I hadn’t had to involve you. I’d rather we were here to enjoy the party, not to toss you into an eleventh-hour art recovery.”

  “Frankly, a risky assignment is preferable to attending this shallow showcase of the rich and drunken. Though I do love that it gives you the opportunity to look so good.” I ran a finger and thumb down the lapel of his fine Tom Ford jacket. “Nice.”

  “Not exactly slumming it yourself.” Jack leaned down and brushed his lips with mine. “When this is all over, we’re going to do some celebrating of our own. Maybe on a beach in Bali.”

  “Sounds exotic.”

  Then he frowned. “Maybe I should go with you in case backup is need—”

  “Stop,” I whispered. “Jack, I’m at my best when I work alone, and you can’t get inside anyway. Don’t try to make me into some Bond girl to follow your lead and has to be rescued. I don’t fit the mold.”

  “Never. I have bigger plans for you—and all of them require that both of us stay out of jail.”

  I stretched as far as my Louboutins would let me tiptoe, kissed his chin, and whispered, “Stop thinking worst-case scenarios. It’s a piece of cake.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t say things like that when we’re talking about something like this,” he replied cryptically, but I knew exactly what he meant.

  “We’ve planned every step. Our only concern was how to get a cover for the night and this party was a godsend. I already had an invite and you’re my date. That’s one of the benefits you get from sleeping with the glamorous Laurel Beacham, head of the Beacham Foundation London office,” I teased. He chuckled.

  Good, I didn’t need an anxious date.

  The birthday boy was a Russian oligarch who possessed a small Rodin bronze bust in his home-office safe. A work of art he’d either purchased illicitly from one of the more unscrupulous art dealers who looked the other way when a piece’s provenance was questionable or missing, or the Russian took possession of the masterwork after hiring the thief himself. Either way, it wasn’t in the English country house of a British noble where it was supposed to be residing and on exhibit to the public. The Russian liked running in art circles, and his new little wifey was cultivating all his money contacts. Officially, the Russian collected Chagalls. At least his Marc Chagall works were the ones with an official provenance to match. Unofficially, he collected everything that struck his fancy, so it wasn’t a stretch for me to believe he sheltered an absconded Rodin.

  To Jack and his coworkers in the Home Office, the problem was how to get back the bust. When six months of careful social and diplomatic channels couldn’t restore the piece to the true owner, Jack was assigned the task of retrieving the masterpiece through unconventional channels before the oligarch and the Rodin left for Russia at the end of the week. No one in the British government said, “steal the damn thing,” but that was the unspoken edict.

  Despite the rushed schedule, Jack investigated every point of ingress and egress, tried every avenue of gaining access through subterfuge, and even consulted my Italian geek extraordinaire, Nico, and myself—because though it’s only known by a limited and very small circle of individuals, Nico and I had quite a lot of experience in these types of challenges. With my tech wizard gathering confidential information and gaining necessary pass codes, and me actually “reclaiming” previously stolen works and returning the art to the true owners. However, because of the particular safeguards this household employed, the only viable channel of escape if the bust was burgled required exit through a small window several inches too narrow to accommodate Jack’s broad shoulders. Strong and steady shoulders I’d leaned on any number of times in previous predicaments, leading me to persuade him to let me return some favors and handle the retrieval myself.

  The only challenge was how to create an alibi without having to wear my Lycra catsuit to the party. Jack became
my plus one for the event, and Cassie my plus one-half alternate.

  Unfortunately, the expression he currently wore on his handsome face looked like he was reconsidering the decision, and the way his dark brows furrowed made him looked thunderous. This would never do. People remembered stormy faces at parties. “Smile, Jack. Relax and flirt with me.”

  Instinct took over, and he flashed that cheeky grin I knew so well. But I recognized concern in his teal eyes. It was that control problem he had. No big deal if he was taking a risk and running a play, but when he had to give up control to…well…me…

  The doppelganger part was probably overkill and wasn’t something I’d ever done before in a retrieval situation. However, I’d recently been caught on a security cam while working a similar operation to this one and wanted extra insurance for reasonable doubt. Not that the earlier video was enough to convict me of anything, but it was confirmation that gave proof to someone who had harbored suspicions for years about my role in many such robbery reversals. Making me wonder how many other people of the criminal and/or law enforcement persuasion suspected I had hidden talents.

  In particular, being on video in the previous project furnished evidence to an art crime mastermind who was known to the world as Devin Moran, real name Phillipe Aubertine, and whom I wanted my secret kept from about my extracurricular activities. Not the best outcome when such intel was revealed to a man I’d been trying to put behind bars for years on art theft charges. I bluffed when Moran tried to out me on one of my previous reclamation projects, but I didn’t want to add to his cache of provable Laurel Beacham activities either. While I wasn’t as concerned about Moran taking such evidence to the police, because too many of his own customers would be compromised, for continued self-preservation tactics it seemed prudent to avoid providing additional ammunition that could quash any upper hand I gained over him. His grandson, Rollie, the heir apparent to Moran’s criminal enterprise, was another wildcard in the mix because of his desire to avoid my gaining a foothold in the family enterprise. Not that I wanted one, or even had the option yet—we’d need a DNA test to know that. But letting Rollie have any leverage over me was out of the question. For now, I was holding to the Beacham name and the mission of the foundation, something my reckless father lost after generations of Beachams kept the torch burning bright.