Triple Threat E-Book

Jan Coffey

• Herausgeber: Book Duo Creative
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 542

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

From USA Today Bestselling Author May McGoldrick writing as Jan Coffey...   Countdown to the Fourth of July…  Just weeks before Independence Day, the President is targeted for assassination by a powerful financial cartel intent on stealing the American dream. Only two people stand between national disaster and a celebration—and time is running out. FBI Special Agent Nate Murtaugh has just ten days to find a missing Betsy Ross flag. His search leads him to the Philadelphia art world and Ellie Littlefield, the daughter of a notorious art forger. With her connections in the art underworld, Ellie becomes Nate's only hope. As the countdown to Independence Day ticks away, they must navigate a treacherous landscape where truth and lies blur, and murder is just a means to an end. With corporate power brokers willing to eliminate anyone who threatens their profits, will Nate and Ellie expose the conspiracy in time, or will they find themselves the next targets in a deadly game? The nation's fate hangs in the balance.

Leseprobe

TRIPLE THREAT

JAN COFFEY

withMAY MCGOLDRICK

Book Duo Creative

Thank you for reading this novel. In the event that you appreciate Triple Threat, please consider sharing the good word(s) by leaving a review, or connect with the authors.

Triple Threat. Copyright © 2014 by Nikoo K. and James A. McGoldrick

First Published by Mira books, 2003

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher: Book Duo Creative.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used factiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Epilogue

Edition Note

Authors’ Note

Preview of FOURTH VICTIM

Also by May McGoldrick, Jan Coffey & Nik James

About the Author

To Larry and Gail

You are loved.

CHAPTERONE

Fort Ticonderoga, New York

Friday, June 18, 2003

A field trip in the last week of a weather-extended school year had sounded good when they’d planned it back in April, but after a full day of loud shrieks, complaints, and tireless bursts of energy, the adults accompanying the second graders were now questioning the sanity of the decision.

Chris Weaver separated himself from the line of other noisy eight-year-olds and started toward the back of the waiting area, where his teacher was talking with one of the museum guides.

“Stay in line,” one of the chaperones said wearily, reaching for him. The boy skipped wide of her and rushed to Miss Leoni’s side.

“And when are they taking the flag?”

“Tomorrow morning, as I understand it. In fact, we’re closing the museum early this afternoon for security reasons. You were lucky to get your class in.”

“Miss Leoni?”

“Just a minute, Chris.”

The guide glared at Chris when he reached up and tugged on the teacher’s sleeve.

“Wait.” She placed a firm hand on his shoulder and returned her attention to the museum worker. “You were saying?”

“You and your class may just be the last group to see the Schuyler Flag here. The way things look, we’re not even a pit stop on President Kent’s “Spirit of America” celebration tour.”

“Have they already told you as much?”

Chris watched the fat guide push his thick glasses up on his nose and glance quickly at the reception desk. “The truth is that we can’t get an answer. All we know is that the tour starts next month, and at present we’re not on the itinerary.”

“But how about when this whole thing is over?”

“You mean after the election.” The man’s bushy brows went up meaningfully.

Chris crossed his legs and tugged harder on his teacher’s sleeve. “Miss Leoni?”

“What is it?” She glared down at him.

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

The young teacher bent down until she was at eye-level with him. Her voice was reprimanding and low. “Christopher, you were given a chance to go not even fifteen minutes ago. Now we’re ready to get on the bus. There is no time. You can wait until we get back to school.”

“But I can’t wait,” he whined.

“Yes, you can. Now get back to your place in the line,” she ordered, straightening up and turning back to the museum guide. “Sorry.”

“There’s one like this in every group.”

“Not like this one.”

As he backed away, Chris saw his teacher say something behind her hand to the guy. He didn’t have to hang around to know what she was saying. Foster kid. Mother’s a drunk. Father’s in jail. Living in a car for a month before they found him the last time. He’d heard it all before. The teachers talked about it. The kids and their parents pointed at him like he was a zit ready to pop. But he didn’t care what they said. Summer vacation was coming. He could take care of himself.

But right now he had to go to the bathroom.

The waiting area by the glass doors was packed. Kids from one of the other schools were filing onto a bus outside. Glancing toward the doors, Chris figured that their bus would be a while. He looked behind him at the two hallways that came into the waiting area. He tried to remember which one of them led to the small lunchroom. The bathrooms they’d used before were right next to it.

The problem was they’d been in and out of too many darn rooms. After the scavenger hunt in the Fort, they’d looked at old newspapers and books and paintings in the Museum until he was ready to puke. There’d been some cool swords and guns in one of the rooms, but they wouldn’t let him touch anything. And in another one, there was this flag framed inside a glass case. Named after some General Schuyler who used it in the war. Possibly the oldest American flag still around, Chris remembered the fat guide telling them. One of the first ones made by Betsy Ross. Chris had heard about her.

He squirmed and crossed his legs and looked again at the glass doors, hoping it was their turn to go outside. The other school was sending another of their classes ahead of them. He wanted to yell and complain. But none of the chaperones or Miss Leoni seemed to care.

He didn’t want to think how embarrassing it would be if he wet his pants here. No kid ever dared to make fun of him face to face just because nobody wanted to keep him. But peeing in his pants would be something else.

Chris was getting a wicked sharp pain in his side. He knew he wouldn’t make it. He decided that the hallway on the left was where they’d seen the room with the flag. Chris thought he’d seen a bathroom near the flag room, and it had to be closer than the lunch area.

He slipped to the back of the waiting area. Miss Leoni was still yapping with the guide. Seeing his chance, Chris turned and ran down the hall. No one called after him, and the voices faded behind him like the end of a TV show.

Halfway down the hall, another corridor joined in on the right. Everything looked the same. Gray flooring, white walls, all kinds of framed pictures and display cases, rooms opening up on either side. Suddenly, he wasn’t sure which way it was to where the flag was.

Panic gripped him as he started to go in his pants a little. Chris grabbed himself and ran down another hall. By an emergency exit door at the far end, there was another smaller sign that he couldn’t see. The school nurse had given him a note to take home about needing glasses, but Chris had lost it. It might be a bathroom, he thought, running toward it.

Just then, a woman hurried out of a room on the left, and Chris had to let go of his crotch. She looked quickly up and down the hallway before focusing on him. Chris slowed down and glanced over his shoulder at the empty hallway. She wasn’t wearing one of those badges that people who worked here wore. As she came toward him, though, Chris told himself he hadn’t done anything wrong.

She was young and kind of pretty with short dark hair but had that uptight look about her that Miss Leoni had a couple minutes ago when she’d been scolding him. Just then, the bag she was carrying over one shoulder started to ring, and she reached in and pulled out her phone.

Chris stuffed his hands in his pants pockets and moved quickly toward the sign, hoping it was a bathroom.

As he approached her, he could hear the woman talking fast.

“Yes. No. Three o’clock. Can’t talk. Bye.”

They were right next to each other, and he hugged the wall as he hurried past her.

“Are you lost?”

She was talking to him, but he pretended she wasn’t and quickened his steps. His underwear was starting to stick in certain places. If he stopped, he was a goner.

“Where are you going?”

He started to run when she reached out for him. But the stupid stick figure picture on the door to his right came too late. By the time Chris threw himself against it and rushed in, the pee was running down his leg. His face burned with embarrassment, and he rushed into a stall. He didn’t want someone coming in seeing him like this at a urinal.

His pants smelled wicked. Even his socks were wet. Pulling down his briefs, Chris sat on the toilet and finished. He felt sick, and his chin started to quiver. He didn’t want to cry though. Only babies cried.

This wasn’t his fault. He never waited to the last minute. But there was this astronaut food Allison had bought at the gift shop, and when everyone else was using the bathroom, she’d been showing it to him. Chris didn’t know how it tasted, but he’d been thinking how perfect this stuff would have been for his mother and him when they were living in the backseat of the old Dodge Dart. No need to cook it or put it in the fridge, Allison said. It didn’t take much space, and you could keep it for a hundred years.

Chris plunked his head of dirty blond hair on his hands and tried to swallow the knot in his throat. He was eight years old, and he couldn’t remember when the last time he’d peed in his pants. There were no portable johns near the Dodge Dart. He’d learned to do his business from nine in the morning to nine at night in the old railroad station, two streets away from the lot where the car was parked. If he’d had to go anytime after that, then it was tough luck.

His pants were wet now, though, and he knew he was going to have a hard time explaining it to Mrs. Green, his latest foster mother.

The P.A. speaker on the ceiling crackled to life, startling him. “The museum is now closed. Remaining visitors must exit by way of the main lobby.”

Chris jumped to his feet. Taking fistfuls of toilet paper, he wiped his legs. His underwear was a mess. Peeling off his pants and underpants, he tried to flush the briefs down the toilet. When he pushed down the lever a second time, the water backed up in the toilet fast and flowed over.

“Jeez!”

Standing in the running water, he pulled his wet pants back on, opened the stall door, and carefully tiptoed through the flood.

The kids would laugh at him. No one would want to sit next to him on the bus going back. Chris went to the sink. Using a few sheets of paper towel, he tried to dry the front of his pants the best he could. If he could only get rid of the smell, maybe they’d believe him if he said he got water on it when he was washing his hands.

He came out of the bathroom feeling beaten. The hallway was quiet, and they’d shut off every other light. The woman was gone. His shoes made funny squishing sounds on the tile floor.

Lies bounced around in Chris’s head. He could say he slipped and fell in a puddle in the washroom. Or the sink faucet was busted and soaked the front of his pants when he turned it on. Chris stuck his hands in his pockets, ballooning them out, hoping they’d dry out a little by the time the bus showed up.

As he passed the opening to the room on his right—the one the lady had come out of—he thought he heard a sound from inside. He paused in the doorway. The room with the old flag. He remembered what the guide had been telling Miss Leoni about their class being the last one to see this thing here. He looked at the faded red and white stripes. He stared at the circle of stars and moved closer to count them.

That was when he saw it. A small, funny looking gadget stuck to the bottom edge of the wooden frame around the flag. He moved closer and stared at it. A little box of some shiny things and a tiny digital watch held together with black tape. The whole thing was stuck to the frame with something that looked like chewed up gum. Chris was sure it wasn’t here the first time they’d come through. He’d been standing in the same place he was standing now. It definitely wasn’t there before.

It looked like something from a spy movie, and he reached up to pull it off.

“Don’t touch it.”

CHAPTERTWO

Saturday, June 19, 2003

“The flag is totally destroyed and there’s nothing we can do about it. What’s important now is to put the rest of this situation in context.”

Sanford Hawes planted his mitt-sized hands on the conference table. His shoulders were hunched. The FBI Assistant Director’s broken nose, easily the dominant feature of his rugged face, was beet red. Piercing dark eyes peered through bifocal lenses at individual faces around the table. He had their attention.

“This recession has been dogging us all for some time now. The unemployment rate is at a ten-year high. People are out of jobs, and a lot of folks who still have jobs feel disgruntled with their own situation. Added to that, we’ve got cable and network news shows flashing pictures of ten thousand American flags being burned all over the world this past Tuesday.” His heavy frame leaned forward. “As a country we cannot afford this disaster with Schuyler flag to get out. That’s the bottom line.”

A dozen people—firefighters, police officers, and Department of Interior museum employees—sat around the oblong table. The door was closed. The Venetian blinds on the long windows were shut.

As Hawes finished talking, Nate Murtaugh leaned over and spread one of the blinds with his fingers. He peered at the news camera crews from Albany waiting on the sidewalk outside. Still here. Instincts like pack wolves. Turning his back to the window, Nate tried to settle his six foot three frame more comfortably in the swivel chair. He jotted down some notes on a pad of paper he was balancing on his bum knee.

Eric Wilcox, Director of Artifacts at the National Museum, sat forward in his chair. “Gentlemen and ladies, this could be the stick that breaks the camel’s back when it comes to the nation’s morale.” Wilcox tapped the table nervously with his pen and looked up at Hawes. Receiving a curt nod from the Assistant Director, he charged on. “The Spirit of America celebration is a huge undertaking, unlike anything ever attempted by any past U.S. President. In the scope of its planning, this celebration far exceeds the Bicentennial celebration, in fact. What President Kent wishes to accomplish in bringing so many of our country’s national artifacts together is to unite this country once again with a common purpose. He is trying to reinforce that bond that we share as Americans, the sense of purpose that overarches all differences of race, class, or ethnic heritage. Regardless of restlessness and hostility elsewhere, he refuses to allow us to become a country divided against ourselves. We are all Americans, and we need to rededicate ourselves to the ideals these artifacts represent.”

Nate cursed silently as he banged his knee for a second time against the chair next to him. Downing the last of his coffee, he tossed the Styrofoam cup into the nearby wastebasket.

Wilcox continued to quote from the president’s speech from last fall. Nate had heard it first hand on the September 11th anniversary last year in New York, and too often in media clips since then. The government would spend a billion or so and bring things like the Schuyler flag, the Liberty Bell, the Declaration of Independence, George Washington’s sword, Abe Lincoln’s law book, Martin Luther King Jr.’s Bible, and tons of other stuff together in Philadelphia on July 4th and then send it all on a month-long national tour, with the President leading the parade.

Nice. The concept was darn good. Even the patriotic underpinnings had value. But Nate was too jaded to overlook the coincidence that this was all happening in an election year. He glanced up at the hatchet-faced Director of Artifacts. Those on the inside knew that Wilcox had been the originator of the idea. But the White House was taking the full credit for it. It was just the responsibility of the bookworm to put the collection together. Nate’s feeling was that they should have gotten Steven Spielberg or the guys from Disney to do it. But what did he know? He was just an FBI agent.

The air conditioning made the conference room feel like about ten above. Still, when Wilcox stopped talking, he took out a handkerchief and wiped the beads of sweat from his bony forehead.

Hawes stood up again. “From our preliminary investigations, it’s clear that the fire that occurred here yesterday was a professional job. The remnants of the incendiary device on the flag’s case and the disabling of the security cameras in the room both point to this. What we don’t know at this point is whether the incident was the act of a terrorist organization, though we have notified Homeland Security.”

Nate was relieved to have the Assistant Director take charge again. Thirty-two open cases had been wiped off his New York desk with one quick sweep yesterday, and he was ready to get down to business. In spite of the fact that they had been ready to spring the trap on a high-profile brokerage firm’s CEO who was trying to hide income through some foreign art transactions, Nate had left behind the four special agents in his group and flown out of LaGuardia last night on an hour’s notice. Sanford Hawes acknowledged the well-groomed man sitting beside him at the head of the table.

“Chief Buckley and your police department are diligently working on the case, and they might even have a witness,” Hawes explained. “The decision regarding how to proceed with the press, though, has been issued from the top. That is why we have brought you in here. We cannot afford, at this time, to admit that the Schuyler flag has been burned. We cannot let the perpetrators know that they have succeeded. The world is watching, and if it becomes public that this artifact—a focal item in this Spirit of America celebration—has been damaged, we will be seeing not only the group responsible for this attack, but similar terrorist groups, as well, targeting other items.”

Police Chief Buckley leaned forward, stabbing the table with his index finger as he addressed the police officers and firefighters who had been directly involved with the flag room fire. “This is a Presidential gag order. When these reporters ask, you put out a fire in a trash can. Some smoke damage to the ceilings, but there was no damage to anything else in the room. Understood? This is the same thing that I said in the press conference last night, and you will simply refer any more questions to my office. That’s all.”

Nate looked at the faces of those around the table. None seemed adversely affected by the directive.

The director of the Fort Ticonderoga Museum raised her hand, looking at Wilcox. “The Schuyler flag was to be the backdrop of the entire ceremony. How are you going to explain it when it’s missing?”

“That is a separate matter that we’ll remedy before the start of the celebration.”

A heavyset museum guide snorted. “Since President Kent made the announcement last fall about this patriotic road show, we’ve had a dozen guys, experts and pseudo experts, coming in here and poring over that flag. You won’t be able to stick in some forgery. And if the press got hold of that.”

“We have no intention,” Wilcox sputtered, “of anything so underhanded as to use a forgery in a celebration of our heritage.”

Hawes held up his hand, cutting off the National Museum director. “We have nothing of the sort in mind, sir. Do you really think we would try anything so lacking in integrity?”

The museum guide flushed. “Well, no.”

“I am obliged to tell you, however, that the legal consequences of anyone failing to comply with this security directive are severe.” Hawes smiled, baring tiger’s teeth. “But I know that it’s unnecessary even bringing up such matters. Working with such a group as this, I am certain we will prevail in our efforts to comply with the President’s wishes. And on behalf of the President, I can say that the nation thanks you all for your loyalty and professionalism.”

Hawes looked around the table before fixing his gaze on the local museum director. “As far as what the replacement flag will be and where it will come from, that’s something Dr. Wilcox and the FBI are working on. We have already taken what is left of your flag into our custody. All you need to tell any reporter who asks is that the Schuyler flag has been handed over, as scheduled, to Dr. Wilcox at the Smithsonian in preparation for the celebration on the Fourth of July.”

The words and the tone were convincing enough. Nate watched the portly museum worker laugh self-consciously at some crack by one of the firefighters about what they could really say to the reporters.

Nate knew finding another flag was where he came in. He and Wilcox and Hawes were supposed to meet after this call-for-solidarity meeting and go over the specifics. Apparently, the Artifacts Director had something up his sleeve.

There were no other questions, so the non-law enforcement personnel were dismissed. The handful of police officers stayed behind to discuss the possible witness. A young police officer handed out a fact sheet and a photo.

Nate leafed through the manila folder beneath his writing pad and found the additional information he’d been given before the meeting.

Christopher Weaver. Eight years old. Male Caucasian. Forty-four inches tall. Sixty-five pounds. Light brown hair. Brown eyes. A second grader at Washington Elementary School. Reported missing after the class field trip to the fort and museum yesterday afternoon. The museum security cameras’ timed shots of the hallway outside the flag room were a positive match with the boy’s pictures on file with the Department of Child Services. Nate thumbed through the attached pages. Domestic disaster. Foster homes. Runaway. Tons of history.

The report read that after separating from his classmates yesterday, Christopher had apparently gone on a destructive rampage. After doing some damage in the bathroom across the hall, he’d walked across the hall to the flag room and then run off by way of a back exit door.

Nate looked closely at the school picture of the boy. A good imitation of a tough look, but there was vulnerability behind the brown eyes.

The officer who’d passed out the fact sheet spoke. “We’ve already checked all his usual hangouts. We have a cruiser sitting by the trailer park where the mother dropped anchor a couple of weeks ago with a new boyfriend. There’s been no sign of him.”

“As you requested,” Chief Buckley said to Hawes, “publicly we’re treating these incidents as separate. There’s been no connection made with the fire. As far as the school and the teachers are concerned, he left the museum but never boarded the bus. And he’s a chronic runaway. Everyone figures he’ll probably show up in a day or two. A week tops. Like he always does.”

Nate thumbed through the manila folder and checked Christopher’s age again.

“You’re dealing with an eight-year-old,” he said. Everyone turned around and looked at him as if noticing his presence for the first time. The chair creaked when Nate shifted his weight in it to face the police chief. “This is still a missing child. The perps responsible for the fire could very well have grabbed the boy. Are we considering the possibility of this Christopher Weaver might be at risk?”

“Of course we are,” Buckley answered immediately. “But as you can see for yourself, Agent Murtaugh, his footprints show him leaving the room, and we have his fingerprints on the door where he exited the building. Naturally, we want to know if he saw anything that could shed some light, but there is also the strong possibility that the device was planted much earlier.” The chief looked at Hawes for support as he continued. “And you have to remember that this kid has a record of delinquent behavior. He runs away all the time.”

“But what if this time is different?” Nate asked, staring at the man’s perfectly groomed hair and crisp uniform. Buckley obviously came ready for a press conference. “What if there is foul play involved here? I mentioned the possibility of abduction by the perpetrators, but let’s forget about the flag and the fire for minute. How about parental abduction? Hasn’t the state declared both of them unfit? Has anyone checked to see if the father is still in prison? Isn’t there a possibility that after he left the building some deviate off the state highway picked him up and⁠—”

“We know the drill, Agent Murtaugh,” Chief Buckley snapped. “And yes, we’ve gone through all of it.”

Nate was ready to press the police chief for more, but he caught the “let-the-damn-thing-go” look Hawes was fixing him with. Clearly, he was stepping on the chief’s toes, and the fire and the boy were not specifically part of the task he had been assigned. Nate shrugged, letting the subject drop—for now.

Eleven years ago, Sanford Hawes had been Nate’s first Special Agent in Charge when he’d started with FBI. If there were any good old days that he could recall of his years with the Bureau, those first four years of reporting to Sanford had been it. Tough as reinforced concrete, the big guy also had that touch of humanity and loyalty that you rarely found in the guys on the fast track. As a SAC, Hawes worked his guys to the bone, but he had common sense, too. Nate and the others trusted his judgment and would have followed him to the gates of hell, if he’d asked. It was the memory of those days that shut Nate up now.

A quick summation followed, and Hawes ended the meeting.

Nate remained in his seat while Buckley’s people pushed out of the room. From the folder, he jotted down the name and address of Mrs. Green, identified as Christopher’s current foster mother. As he was writing, the same police officer who’d passed out the fact sheets approached him.

“I’m leaning your way, Agent Murtaugh,” he said in a hushed voice. At the head of the conference table, Hawes and Buckley were doing a postmortem on the meeting. “I don’t think things are as cut and dry as we’d like them to be.”

Nate looked at the young man’s nametag. “If you could use some help, Officer McGill, just let me know. That’s what we’re here for.”

“Call me Tom.” He threw a hesitant glance over his shoulder at his superior. “I’m still fairly new at the job, and I don’t want to shoot myself in the foot. If you happen to drop by the station, though, I’d like to show you what I’ve got on the boy and see if any of it makes any sense.”

Nate rose stiffly to his feet and shook the officer’s hand. “I’ll do that. Hold on a second,” he said, scribbling his cell phone number on his pad. He tore the piece off the page and handed it to the young cop. “In case you need to get hold of me.”

As McGill left, Nate saw that Hawes was watching him. His left knee was rusty as an old gate hinge, but he refused to let the Assistant Director see him hobbling around. Making sure he didn’t favor his bum leg, Nate turned to the window and looked through the blinds again at the reporters that appeared to be camped out permanently on the sidewalk. They were more like vultures than wolves, and they all clearly smelled something nasty. He glanced over his shoulder at Eric Wilcox. The Artifacts Director was talking into his cell phone and taking notes furiously in the corner of the room. He sure as hell hoped the man had an ace of trumps up his sleeve.

Hawes closed the conference room door behind the police chief. Seeing Wilcox still on the phone, he crossed the room to Nate. “How’s the knee?”

“Good as new. Coffee?” Nate walked to the table in the corner to get himself another cup.

“Still looks stiff to me,” the older man said, joining him there and pouring a cup for himself.

Nate refused to talk about it. Two knee surgeries and four months of physical therapy after being shot, he’d ended up with a bum leg and a promotion that had taken him out of the field and shoved him behind a desk.

“How’s the new job?”

“Stinks.”

“I thought so.” Hawes took a sip of the scalding coffee.

“How do you do it, Sanford?” Nate asked. “How do you deal with all the bureaucratic bullshit and ass kissing that goes along with it?”

“Mouthwash.” Hawes flashed his big teeth. “Thought you’d like a break. Are you up for the job?”

“What’s to be up for?”

Hawes shot an impatient glance at the direction of the Artifacts Director. “Dr. Smithsonian over there has identified another flag made about the same time as the one that was burned.”

“Private collection?”

“Yeah. And more closely linked to George Washington than this one.”

“How’s that?”

“There was a guy named Robert Morris who practically financed the whole American Revolution. Signed the Declaration of Independence and everything. Story is that Washington gave this other flag to Morris after the revolution. Wilcox claims this flag may be the first one that Betsy Ross delivered.”

“I thought that Betsy Ross stuff was all a myth.” Nate cast an incredulous look at the tall thin man with the phone growing out of his ear. “How come nobody knows about this other flag then?”

“Apparently, quite a few collector types do know and have known about it for some time.” He gestured to the museum director to cut it short. “We can both hear all the particulars as soon as he gets off the goddamn phone.”

From the tone of the conversation, it sounded like Wilcox was wrapping up the call. Nate sat down next to his superior at the conference table. “How about the weave and wear of the two flags? That museum guide had a point. How is Wilcox going to substitute one flag for the other?”

“I don’t know yet, but I don’t think there’ll be any need. We come up with the original Betsy Ross flag, and nobody will care about this one.”

“Do we know who has the flag?”

“No. That’s where you come in. Wilcox is supposed to get us some leads on who had it last and where they kept it.” Hawes’s voice turned low and confidential. “This operation has to be discreet. No publicity. Your job is to find the flag. I don’t care if you buy or steal it, but you will bring it back in under fifteen days. This thing’s got to be in Philadelphia on the Fourth of July for President Kent’s kickoff of this Spirit of America thing.”

“So this might be as simple as approaching the present owners and convincing them to loan it to us for the length of the President’s tour.” Nate swiveled his chair toward Wilcox, who had just joined them. “This doesn’t look like a Bureau job. Sounds to me like you’d be much better off using some artsy society diplomat type.”

“I’m afraid things aren’t as simple as they look, Agent Murtaugh.” Wilcox opened his briefcase and took out a file over three inches thick, held together by a couple of thick rubber bands. “This is only a sampling of the work special agents at the Department of Interior have done over the past ten years chasing this flag. You’ve told him the details?”

“As much I know,” Hawes said.

“How do we know this is the real thing?” Nate asked.

“The authenticity of the claim is supported by one entry in a letter from Robert Morris’s personal manservant. The letter refers to the flag as George Washington’s gift to the financier,” Wilcox explained.

“Why has this never made the news?”

“Because the flag immediately disappeared after it was found on one of the Morris descendants’ properties back in the late eighties. Apparently, it was sold to a private collector.” Wilcox slid the file across the width of the conference table to Nate. “I had just joined the Department of Interior at the time of the find. We got wind of it then, but the decision was made to keep it out of the news since we had nothing to show for the discovery anyway.”

Nate opened the file. “How can you be sure that the whole thing wasn’t a hoax? You said there was no verification of its authenticity.”

“We have a report of the flag changing hands six years ago for twenty-five million dollars.” Wilcox reached across the table and pointed to a tab on the folder. “Serious collectors don’t put that many zeros on their checks for a fake.”

Nate opened up to the marked page and looked at the name. “Does this guy have it now?”

“Unfortunately not. What we’ve found out is that the flag has changed hands at least twice since then, but as to identity of the buyers or how much they paid for it...” Wilcox shrugged.

Nate didn’t even bother to ask why the ball was dropped. The flag wasn’t stolen property, and after the September 11th disaster in 2001 all the federal agencies had gone through some serious overhaul, especially the FBI. In that climate, keeping an eye on something merely for the sake of its potential historical interest definitely took a back seat to tracking down terrorists.

“This flag could be anywhere in the world,” Hawes snapped at the Artifacts Director. “And we have barely two weeks left. How the hell could you promise the President that we’d find the thing when we have no leads?”

“But we do have leads, or I think we do.” Wilcox took a small pad of paper out of his pocket. “My contacts in the private sector tell me that there’s been a rumor going around for a week or so about an original Betsy Ross flag coming up for auction again. Soon.”

“Well, that simplifies things anyway,” Hawes grumbled. “We’re authorized to pay whatever is necessary to get it. When and where is the auction?”

Wilcox pushed the wire-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his long thin nose and reached into his pocket again, this time for the handkerchief. “This is the sticky part, I’m afraid. These private auctions are only attended by invitation. Certainly, you know how the art world works, Agent Murtaugh. Because of the…ah, shady backgrounds of some of these collectors, a representative of the U.S. government would definitely be persona non grata.”

Nate leaned back in the chair and listened without interest to Hawes chewing Wilcox’s ass over how the museum director was going to get Nate on the list of bidders for this auction. Going undercover had its appeal, but acting like some rich art collector just to buy a flag wasn’t exactly Nate’s idea of going back in the field. Still, remembering the piles of paperwork and reports on his desk, he told himself it was a start anyway.

Wilcox was thumbing through his notes and successfully avoiding eye contact with the FBI Assistant Director. When Hawes took a breath, Wilcox jumped in.

“The only way to go about this is to have the right people recommend him. There is a network of dealers involved here, and it is not a large community. Everyone knows everyone. The whole business—that is, collecting in the private sector—is about So-and-so knowing So-and-so, who tells their cousin or therapist who tells a dealer about some guy with money who is looking for a certain property. There are corporate buyers who occasionally work their way into the network, but they too need a reference.” Wilcox paused. “Of course, most artifacts of American history with any significant value are bought and sold only by members of the ‘good old boys’ network.”

“We need names, Wilcox,” Hawes barked. “Someone we can squeeze. We need a place where Nate can start.”

“I know that.” Eric looked at his notes again. “My people have come up with a name of a former art dealer who has served time in prison for her involvement in her late husband’s fraudulent operations. She’s back on the street again and, as far as we can tell, is very well connected and respected in the community.”

“What’s the name?” Hawes asked.

“You should know,” Wilcox answered quietly. “You were the one who put her behind bars.”

Hawes thought for a moment. “Helen Doyle. The last time I saw her, she’d become a nun. She was out of that business.”

“She is out of the business, and she’s still a nun. But she’s still connected. Sister Helen is the only person we have right now who might be able to refer us to the right people.”

CHAPTERTHREE

Philadelphia. Sunday, June 20th

The grillwork and wrought iron railings effectively set off the solid façade of red brick and white trim. The classical doorway with its graceful arch and fan-shaped glasswork above added an air of distinction to the colonial look. Like a lot of the houses and shops along Pine Street, the building dated back to around 1770.

Ellie Littlefield had her early Americana antique shop on the street level. The second floor consisted of an art studio with separate spaces that she rented out to struggling artists and friends. On the third level, she had her apartment beneath the sloping eaves. A large balcony, shaded by the top branches of a century old oak, looked out over the tiny back yard of her building and that of a home being renovated on the next street.

The house had all the quirky annoyances that an eighteenth-century building would normally have—plumbing that could be downright ornery, drafty windows, and the occasional rat in the basement—but Ellie worshipped this little gem of a home that she’d been the proud owner of for almost six years. To her, everything about the place was perfect except for the steep, narrow stairs.

“The bitch is too wide. Go back up a step. Wait, I’m stuck.”

“Relax, Victor. Just follow my lead. We’re almost to the bottom. Lift this side off the railing,” Ellie ordered from five steps up. She put a slim shoulder under the upper end of the mirror’s frame and lifted.

“Wait. Christ!” Victor complained when the entire weight of the mahogany-framed monster slid down across his sculpted biceps and muscled chest. “You just scratched the wall.”

“Don’t worry about the wall, Vic. Lift your end.” Ellie gasped, resting the frame partially on top of her head and trying to not collapse under the weight. “I can’t hold on to this thing much longer. Come on, back down a step.”

Victor inched the frame up onto his chest and went back down a step. “Wait, it’s still scratching the wall.”

The bell inside the shop door rang.

“Then tilt it. Come on, another step.”

“Somebody’s at the door.”

“We’re closed. They’ll see the sign and go away.”

The bell rang again.

“Maybe they can’t read.”

“Another step. We’re almost there.” Ellie felt the sweat trickling down her face and arms as Victor lifted the massive thing and followed her direction. “Great. Don’t forget, at the bottom of the stairs turn right.”

“It’s a he.”

Ellie groaned painfully when Vic turned left toward the door instead of right and ended up wedging her painfully between the mirror and the wall with the railing digging sharply into her hip. “I said turn right. Right.”

“Your right or my right? He’s a hunk. A suit hunk!”

“Vic!” she cried painfully. Her fingers couldn’t hold onto the weight anymore, and she let the corner of the mirror rest on the hand railing. The fifteen-foot stretch of railing gave only a slight groan before popping out of the wall and crashing down on the steps. The mirror and Ellie crashed right down next to it.

The bell rang again.

“You let it go.” Victor complained from around the corner. “It’s bad luck breaking a mirror. Did you break it?”

“No, I didn’t break it,” Ellie snapped, fisting and unfisting her fingers, thankful that none of them had been crushed under the weight of the thing.

“Look at what you’ve done.” Victor’s horrified face appeared over the mirror after he put his end down. Despite the exertion, the young man had not broken a sweat, and Ellie wondered how was it that she was covered with dust and dirt, and he looked like he’d just stepped out of some calendar centerfold. “Now if you’d listened to me and waited until this afternoon, then I would’ve had Brian here.”

The sound of persistent knocking tore his attention away. She saw him wave at someone. “Who’s there?”

“The same one. The suit. He wants to come in.”

“Too bad. We’re closed.” She stood up in the cramped space and wiped her dirty hands on the butt of her jeans. “Help me get this down, will you?”

“He’s motioning to me.”

“Victor!” Ellie called louder. “It’s nine in the morning on a Sunday. We don’t open before noon. Ignore him. He’ll go away.”

She knew her words were landing on deaf ears when he bit the end of one gloved hand and then the next. Victor put the gloves on the top ledge of the mirror.

“Damn.” He looked from his fingers back toward the door. “He probably got lost on his way to church. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Ellie let out a deep sigh of frustration. Putting her shoulder to the edge of the mirror, she made a weak attempt to push the mirror down the stairs on her own. It wouldn’t move an inch.

She sat back down on the stair. She’d have to wait for Vic. A third generation Italian with a sculpted face and the body of a model, at five foot five Victor Desposito had been told he was too short to make it in the fashion business, but he was a treasured friend and an invaluable employee. In addition to having plenty of brain and brawn, he also did an excellent job of running Ellie’s business and even, sometimes, her life.

Victor’s only flaw was that he was helpless when it came to tall hunks in suits.

Some motorcycle driver on Pine Street, deciding on that moment to test the decibel level of his or her engine, drowned out the intruder’s conversation with Victor. Ellie wiped at a scratch mark on the frame and leaned down to make sure there was no damage to the thick beveled glass.

She’d asked Victor to come over early this morning to help her with some rearranging in the shop. When it came to tourists and spending money, this year’s Fourth of July was supposed to see the largest crowds Philadelphia had ever seen. To gear up for it, Ellie had gone farther afield for inventory, and she’d definitely hit more than her share of auctions these past couple of months. The collections in her packed front and rear showrooms were a testimony to her efforts. The problem was, though, that there was no room left to breathe, never mind to walk around the shop. Opening up her back storage room to the customers was the only solution Ellie had been able to come up with. But with no windows, she had to rely on temporary track lights and this monster of a mirror to brighten the space.

The four by six mirror had been hanging in the second-floor studio when she’d bought the house. Beveled glass, steel backing, mahogany frame. Now she understood why the last owner had been so generous in leaving the pricey item behind. The damn thing weighed a ton.

Ellie caught her reflection in the mirror and cringed. No shower, no makeup. A smudge of dust staining her left cheek. At least she was thankful for the baseball cap covering her short mop of black hair. Taking a second look, she decided that in the sleeveless tee and jean shorts, she could pass for a twelve-year-old at a Philly game, though she’d have a hard time proving she was the same sophisticated antique dealer who had been invited to co-chair—alongside Main Line socialite Augusta Biddle—the Children’s Hospital Celebrity Auction next Thursday night. The thought of moving in those circles sent a small tingle of pleasure up her arms, and she let herself bask in the glow of everything that had been going right in her life these past few months.

The ringing of Victor’s cell phone jarred Ellie out of her reverie. She remembered him putting it next to his keys on a side table at the bottom of the stairs. A second later, he appeared and snatched it up.

“He wants to talk to you!” he whispered, shaking one hand and mouthing hot before going toward the rear of the shop.

“Victor, get me out of here,” Ellie called after him. Getting no response, she pushed herself to her feet and made another futile attempt at shoving the mirror out of her way. From what she could hear, Victor had already started another one of his ongoing arguments with his mother. Mrs. Desposito, after a recent trip to Rome, had elevated her denial of her son being gay to wanting to find him a wife.

Ellie remembered the person by the open front door. She pressed her back against the wall and was about to attempt climbing over the mirror when a dark gray suit filled the bottom of the staircase.

The sensation of hackles rising on the back of her neck was old and familiar, and it left her with no doubt what she was dealing with. If this guy wasn’t a cop, then she couldn’t tell the pope from a potato. Instinctively Ellie retreated, climbing up a step to where she was at eye-level with him.

“Need a hand?”

She stared down at the large hand extended in her direction. She shook her head. “What can I do for you, officer?”

The hand slowly withdrew. She forced herself to look up past the wide shoulders into his face. Intense blue eyes. Short brown hair, brushed back. A bump on his nose where it must have been broken at one time. A small scar on the cleft chin. The button-down white shirt and a dark tie and suit completed the effect. All in all, a nicely weathered and conservative package. To anyone else, he could have been an insurance salesman or a political lobbyist. For her, his looks only reaffirmed what her instincts had told her right off. She was looking at an intelligent, macho, former athlete turned cop. Taller than the usual flatfoot, though. Definitely Victor’s style.

“I’m not a police officer.”

“If you say so.”

He ignored her, turning a critical eye on the demolition site on the stairs. “Doing a little remodeling here?”

“Looks that way.” Her instincts were never wrong, and she wasn’t about to make small talk. “Listen, we’re running a little behind, so if you aren’t here on some official capacity, then I’m going to have to ask you to leave. The store is closed. You can come back at noon.”

His blue eyes turned hard when he looked into her face. “Are you this friendly with all your potential customers, or is it just me?”

Ellie wasn’t going to make this personal. She had good reason to distrust the police—her history was full of good reasons—and this guy was not giving her any cause to be nice to him.

“I’m afraid my charm school training doesn’t kick in until 12:00 noon. That’s when the store will open. You can come back then if you want.” She looked over at Vic, who was still talking on his phone. Ellie moved down a step and started to climb over the mirror.

He didn’t ask this time but took hold of her elbow and helped her over. “Are you sure you don’t need a hand in moving the mirror?”

“No, thanks. This is exactly where I wanted it.” His grip was like steel, and she pulled her arm away, trying to not rely on his help, but only managing to stumble against him at the bottom of stairs.

“It’ll be one hell of a show watching you maneuver up and down the stairs a couple times a day.”

He was even taller and broader now that she was on his level. And she wasn’t about to be taken in by the crooked half-smile. Ellie couldn’t wait to get rid of him.

“Well, it can only get easier from now on. So if you don’t mind?” She motioned toward the door, expecting him to go. He turned and sauntered to one of the glass cases.

“You have an impressive collection here.” He bent over and looked at some of her rare early Americana books.

“They look a lot better with the lights on. We turn them on at noon.”

“America’s First Conscientious Objectors.” He read the tag on one of the books. “Isn’t this one about the Philadelphia Quakers that were held in the Mason’s Lodge before being exiled to Virginia?”

“First edition, second issue, and the price is five hundred fifty dollars.” She crossed her arms, leaning a shoulder against the open door, not wanting to be impressed with the fact that he’d recognized the book.

“Can I see it?”

“Yes, at noon.”

“I won’t be available then.”

“We’re open until five.”

“That’s not good for me either.”

“We have extended hours during the week.”

“I’m afraid not.” He gave her a cool glance and moved down the glass case. “You know, I’m pretty sure your attitude can’t do much good for your business.”

“Actually, I have no problem attracting customers. In fact, business is very good,” she said arrogantly.

“Then it must be me.”

“You said it, not me.”

“Okay. Tell me how to do it right.”

“I suggest that you call in ahead and make an appointment for a mutually convenient time with my assistant, Victor Desposito, whom you met when you came barging in here.” Ellie glanced at Vic, who was standing with his back to them, the phone still attached to his ear. “Victor will be more than happy to spend whatever⁠—”

“I’d like to make that appointment with you”

Ellie bit back her immediate urge to refuse. “Whatever. If there is something that Victor can’t help you with, we could always arrange a time when you can meet with me and my attitude. Now, if you don’t mind.”

“Is your collection limited to what is in these show rooms, Ms. Littlefield?”

“How is it that you know my name, Officer…? By the way, may I see some identification?”

He straightened, but instead of looking at her, he went around another glass display case. “My name is Nate Murtaugh. And I know your name from this.” He picked up one of her business cards from the top of the glass case. “And do you ask for an ID from all your customers?”

“Only the ones who insist on coming in when we’re closed.”

“Fair enough.” He reached into his pocket, took out his wallet, and opened it. He placed it on the glass case. Even without picking it up, she could see it contained a New York driver’s license. “I assume you also want to check the limit on my credit card before we go any further.”

A middle-aged couple walking down the street appeared in the open door and started inside. Ellie made some quick excuses and told them to come back at noon, closing the door and reluctantly entrapping herself inside.

“Look, Mr. Murtaugh, I’m very busy,” she said in as controlled a tone as she could manage. “Why don’t we just cut the nonsense and get down to why you’re here and what you want?”

“Do you ever do any consulting work, Ms. Littlefield?”

Finally they were getting somewhere. She walked to the other side of the glass case and took a good look at the address on his license. She pushed the wallet toward him.

“What kind of consulting?” she asked cautiously. “Appraising?”

“No, what I’m looking for is your expertise and your connections. I need to find a specific item that falls within the area of Americana.”

She planted her elbows on the glass and leaned toward him. “Do you mean specific like a certain edition of some book, or specific like the only copy of it left?”

“The only copy left. But I’m not talking about a book.”

“One of a kind items have a way of finding a home and being perfectly happy in them. And unless the present owner has made known that he or she is willing to part with this specific item, then you’re wasting your time.”

“But you will be able to identify the who and where.”

That prickly feeling on her neck became more distinct. “I’m afraid not.”

Many priceless antiques, including stolen or smuggled artifacts, were held by collectors who preferred to remain nameless and faceless. These people believed that laws against the antiquities trade were designed to be violated rather than enforced. And there were many different government and insurance agencies that existed solely to prove this privileged lot wrong. Ellie considered involvement with either group an occupational hazard she would rather do without.

“Mr. Murtaugh,” she said in a low voice, looking up into the man’s steely blue eyes. “I’m not an informant, and I am certainly not as connected in the collectors’ universe as you seem to think. I’m just a shop owner like the other dozen or so lining this block. I don’t break any laws. I don’t trade in stolen goods. In terms of expertise, I’m afraid my knowledge is limited to what I regularly buy and sell in the shop. In so many words, what you see is what I’ve got.” She took a breath, told herself to stay calm and sound rational. She could not push him out with force, but maybe reason would work. “I don’t know what or who convinced you to come in here as opposed to any of the other shops on Pine Street, but the fact remains I may be the least qualified to help you with your problems. If you’d like, I can refer you to someone else.”

“Ms. Littlefield.”

Ellie held up a hand. “That’s the best I can do. I have a lot to do before we open at noon, so you’re going to have to leave.”

The wallet disappeared inside his pocket. Ellie busied herself straightening the stack of business cards as he came around the display case and headed toward the door. Vic was sitting in a Windsor chair by the window, listening to his mother on the phone. Ellie was very relieved that Murtaugh was leaving. He stopped with his hand on the door and turned around.

“Maybe you would answer one last question.” He didn’t wait for her to speak. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t ask you to give away any of your friends.”

Ellie wasn’t rising to his bait. She watched him reach inside the pocket of his jacket and take out a picture.

“Would you just tell me if you’ve seen this boy?”

“Who is he?” She approached him and took the small photo he held out to her.

“A missing eight-year-old.”

Ellie stared at the picture. “Missing as in the system lost him, or missing as in his family is looking for him?”

“The system is all he’s got. And he’s been reported missing.”

She handed him back the picture. “Can’t help you.”

“You and that boy were two of the last people to leave Fort Ticonderoga Museum on Friday afternoon.”

Ellie immediately bristled. “I was also one of the first people in line at Independence Hall yesterday morning, along with a few hundred tourists. Do you expect me to remember all those faces, too, Mr. Murtaugh?”

“You know, Ms. Littlefield, I would have thought you of all people would have a little more empathy for this little boy and the trouble he could be in right now.”

“So now we get down to it. What are you, Social Services or FBI? Well, if you’re Social Services, think about this. Maybe I, of all people, think that being missing is a blessing for a kid like him. Maybe I think it’s better than being a file-tab in some state office drawer identifying children who are too much to handle.” She reached around him and yanked open the door. “Good day to you, officer.”

She was angry enough to shove him out the door, but he saved her the trouble and stepped out himself. She slammed the door and felt great satisfaction at the solid sound of it.

Ellie leaned her back against the door and looked at Victor, who was staring at her openmouthed from the rear of the shop, the phone still in his hand. No matter how many years passed, these authorities never forgot. But Ellie Littlefield had come a long way from the motherless twelve-year-old constantly being shoved from one foster home to the next while her father served his time at Graterford Prison. And she was done going hungry.

Waving off Victor’s questioning look, she went to the phone beside the cash register and dialed a number in upstate New York. Her past was part of the person she’d become. The days of lying and stealing, the nights sleeping on cold floors and in stairwells of empty buildings, were behind her, but they had also pointed her toward where she was now. It took six rings before the phone was picked up.

“It’s Ellie. They’re looking for the boy.”

CHAPTERFOUR

Nate Murtaugh drove slowly