Chapter 3
Hank’s boat was perfect for Mike’s plan that evening. He’d been looking for a way into Jared Knape’s world, and he’d finally found it. Jared bought an art gallery on neighboring Orcas Island, and tonight, Mike would be an unwelcome, but hopefully unnoticed, guest.
He’d first became aware of Jared months ago, when Amanda recognized him in a picture with Lenny. Jared was the type of guy who was always scheming, but he wasn’t as clumsy as Lenny.
No, his record was almost perfectly clean. His biggest mistake was burning Jade’s house down, but even that charge hadn’t stuck to him. Jared had some powerful friends, and he ran in higher-class circles than Lenny could ever dream of.
Yet, for some reason, they were working together. Mike had no doubt that the art gallery had multiple purposes. Jared was using it to launder money – that was a given – but he also seemed to be using it as a meeting place for the chic and fabulous.
There was more to Jared than greed. He was also vain. He liked to be seen with important people, as though it would rub off on him. He was constantly surrounded by beautiful women, too.
His vanity could be a weakness, and Mike took note. On the other hand, like most of the powerful men he’d dealt with during his career, Jared’s biggest weakness was likely his unadulterated greed.
Oh, how people fell over themselves to trick, manipulate, and swindle their fellow man, inflicting all manner of inconceivable suffering in the name of greed. It was, in Mike’s humble opinion, the worst of the seven deadly sins.
Mike pulled into the dock and cut the boat’s engine. He’d opted to avoid the expansive docks that Jared provided for his guests, deep enough for even the largest of yachts, and instead used a private dock owned by a friend.
It was nice that he didn’t have to worry about making a quick exit from the island if needed. His friend’s property was only half a mile from the gallery, and Mike made sure to roll in casually among the affluent guests.
He wasn’t fazed by any of it. He’d done so many undercover operations over the years, in so many different settings, that he no longer got nervous. On the contrary, he enjoyed the challenge. Though he no longer had the support of the FBI, he was still able to put together a convincing disguise.
He doubted that Lenny would show his face on the San Juan Islands again, but if he did, Mike was confident that they could have a conversation and Lenny wouldn’t even realize who he was talking to.
He was dead, after all.
A chill ran down his back as the memory of his corpse lying on that table floated into his head. No matter how many times he reminded himself that it wasn’t real, it didn’t matter. It still creeped him out.
No time to dwell on that now, though. He straightened out his sport coat and checked his reflection. It was go time.
There was a pretty terrace outside of the gallery, and people were mingling, sipping on drinks and chatting under the twinkling lights. He straightened his shoulders before walking through the front doors, determined to linger at every painting as long as he could, or at least until he saw or heard something useful.
He had to hand it to Jared – the gallery had an appealing atmosphere. Mike spent twenty minutes admiring the handful of paintings near the entrance. Some of them seemed like legitimate artists. He might have recognized them if he kept up with the art scene. There was a time that he did. He’d have to tell Margie that he’d had a hobby, once.
But yes, this was a legitimate operation. Jared was smart. He wasn’t laundering with every sale. He certainly seemed like he was a more long-term thinker than his associate Lenny. Perhaps that was why the mob was using him to launder money for them in the first place. But why, all of a sudden, was the NYC-based family making connections out west? Why did they need Jared? Where was this new money coming from? Mike had to figure it out.
Almost an hour into his ruse, Mike had yet to see anything interesting. And while he thought there was nothing that could surprise him anymore, the person that he saw when he rounded a corner made him stop dead in his tracks.
Lynn Campbell.
He reminded himself not to stare, even though he hadn’t seen her inyears.They’d worked at the New York office together; Lynn was a fellow agent and a talented artist. Her idol was FBI Special Agent Robert Wittman, the one and only agent who went undercover to catch art thieves and black-market antique traders. He’d done everything from saving historic Civil War-era flags to capturing stolen paintings from art heists. He was the reason Mike had started to take an interest in art. Well, that and the fact that Lynn spoke so animatedly about the importance of stolen art.
Unfortunately, though, Lynn never got to follow in Wittman’s footsteps. Her expertise and attention to detail were used by the FBI as a counterfeiter and replicator, mostly. When Wittman retired, he wasn’t even replaced. A shame, since art and antiquity crime never stopped.
Was it possible that it was really Lynn, or was it just his own wishful thinking? Two people blocked his view, so he wasn’t absolutely sure that it was her.
He approached slowly, eavesdropping on the conversation that she was having with the two men.
“Yes,” she said, her voice just as soft and silky as it had been years ago. “I have some of my paintings at Stormy Gallery in Pioneer Square. You might’ve seen them there.”
“Yes! That was it,” the man said. “Lovely work.”
She smiled graciously. “Thank you.”
Once they walked away, Mike spoke, lowering his voice. “That is quite a vista.”
She smiled and nodded. “Thank you.”
She didn’t seem to recognize him, so perhaps his disguisewasgood. Mike decided to up his game.
