Lost Legacy

He was surprised to find that his hands were shaking, so he stuffed them into his pockets as the officer began to ask him questions. He retold the strange interview with Brooke and her assertion that someone was following her. With a start, Victor remembered why he’d gone to the lobby in the first place.

“Someone called my office looking for Ms. Ramsey, pretending to be her sister.”

The officer raised an eyebrow and dutifully recorded the information. “Why don’t you sit down here while we look into some things, Mr. Gage?” The officer moved off and Victor caught sight of Brooke talking to another cop, the freckles standing out strikingly against the paleness of her skin.

He wished he could settle on one feeling, but a stream of conflicting emotions surged through him. Post-traumatic shock, he figured. He’d just witnessed a murder, and if he hadn’t been there it would have been Brooke on the floor. The thought sickened him.

Stephanie appeared, eyes wide and scared. She took hold of his arms, squeezing hard. “Are you all right?”

He reassured her, bringing her briefly up to speed. Stephanie shook her head. “Drive-by shooting? Gang related, maybe?”

He shrugged, and he read in her face that she didn’t believe it was a random shooting any more than he did. He glanced over at Brooke.

Brooke nodded at some question from the officer and looked as though she might cry.

Was this related to the phone call? Or was this a random shooting? He should help her figure it out, dive into the situation with all the zeal he possessed, isolate the problem, cure the ailment.

He looked again at Brooke as the officer led her to a chair. “It was the woman…the woman I thought was following me back in San Diego.”

The same woman?

She avoided looking at him.

It was just as well.

Brooke needed help, but he was not the man to give it to her, or to anyone else.

* * *

Brooke had to force herself to remain in the chair. She had the insane desire to run, to plow through the ruined front doors and sprint all the way back to San Diego to her father. She’d heard the front desk man say something about gangs and drive-by shootings but she knew in her soul, deep down in the instinctive part, that the bullet had been intended for her, not the black-haired lady who had been wheeled out on a stretcher to the waiting ambulance. She could tell by the expression on Victor’s face when the medics arrived that the lady would not survive. Had the woman been trying to help her? To warn her? Of what? Of whom? Brooke’s head spun.

After an hour of questioning, waiting and more questioning, she was spent. Blinking back tears, she pulled the phone out of her purse and dialed. It rang once, twice, until someone picked up.

“Dad,” she breathed, trying to keep her voice steady.

A woman’s voice answered. “Brooke, it’s Denise. Your father’s taking a nap. Are you okay? You sound funny.”

Brooke relayed the events as simply as she could to her father’s cousin.

Denise gasped into the phone. “What? Are you hurt? Who was shot?”

Brooke reassured her, “A lady I don’t know was killed. I wasn’t hurt, thanks to—” she shot a look at Victor, who had closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall behind him “—the man I was meeting, to look into the situation. He kept me out of the line of fire.”

“Brooke, this is crazy. You need to come home right now. Tell that man you don’t care about the painting anymore and head home before something worse happens.”

She sighed. “He didn’t take the case anyway.”

Denise exhaled loudly. “Then you’ve got no reason to stay. Come home where you’ll be safe.”

Brooke glanced at Victor, who was now gazing at her with haunted eyes. She wondered for a moment what it would be like to bring someone back from the brink of death. Or fail to. She blinked away the thoughts. “I’m going to stay the night, try to plead my case with Dean Lock myself.”

“It’s a lost cause. You know that. Way too much past history there.”

“I know but I’ve got to try. How’s…how’s Dad?”

“It was a good day. He was very together. We finished up another chapter and he even remembered where he’d put some of the notes he took from our trip to Cambria.”

Brooke smiled, remembering how excited her father had been, researching Tarkenton’s time in Cambria. It was there, six months ago, that he had purchased the unsigned painting at an estate sale, a painting he was absolutely convinced was the work of Tarkenton. For months he’d been studying it, fussing over it, she thought uncomfortably. She sighed, wondering for a moment if it wouldn’t have been better for him never to have discovered the thing. It seemed to be the root of the strange trouble she found herself in now.

But recalling the sheer joy on his face when he showed it to her, the clarity of his mind as he took her through each aspect of the painting, the application of color, the emotionally controlled realism, the perfect execution only possible from a master. She would not trade those moments for anything. She tuned back in.

“Brooke,” Denise was saying, “your father would not want you to put yourself in danger to find out what happened to his painting. You’re more valuable to him that any work of art.”

“I know, and I’m just going to give it one more try and then I’m on my way home. Don’t tell Dad about the shooting, please. It will just upset him.”

“I don’t like keeping things from your father. He’s not a child, Brooke.”

I know that, she wanted to snap. He’s my father, isn’t he? Instead she bit back the frustration. Donald Ramsey was not a child; he was a man of ferocious intellect and voracious curiosity, but more and more the genetic condition was turning him into someone she didn’t know. Each day brought him deeper into that mental fog from which someday he would not be able to escape.

Denise was helping, too, keeping his mind active, engaging him in finishing his book, making sure he had contact with Tad. Patience, Brooke. “I understand. Maybe you could not mention it unless he asks about me.” She paused. “Has he? Asked about me?”

She could sense Denise struggling with the truth. “Well…we’ve been really busy here, honey. We visited Tad today, and you know that’s hard on your father.”

Brooke blinked hard at a sudden wash of tears. It’s hard on everyone. “No problem. I’ll call you soon.”

She hung up before the emotion got the best of her. Phone gripped in her hand, she tried to take some calming breaths.

Gotta help Dad. Gotta make things right. Time is running out.

Victor’s voice made her jump.

“Are you okay?”

There was sympathy in his face, probably the kind he gave to any crazy person he came across. “Yes. Okay. Thank you for…what you did.”

He didn’t respond, just looked at her with those piercing green-gold eyes until she couldn’t stand it anymore. She walked to the nearest officer, feeling as though she’d been in that lobby for a lifetime instead of an hour and a half. “Can I go now?”

He asked her a few more questions, got her cell phone number and the name of her hotel and offered to call her a taxi.

“I’ll drive her.”

Brooke was startled to find Victor standing at her elbow. “I can take a taxi.”

“My car is around back.”

Stephanie walked over. “Stay here,” she said to Victor. “We’ve got some things to look into.”

“No, Steph. I’ll be back soon. I need to take Brooke to her hotel.”

Stephanie looked unhappy, but she did not attempt to persuade her brother. “Okay. I’ll be waiting for you.” She paused a moment next to Brooke. Her eyes were guarded, but Brooke could see concern buried deep down. “I’m sorry this happened, Ms. Ramsey. Be careful.”

Brooke felt suddenly exhausted. She only wanted to get to her hotel room, sink into a hot bath and forget the past few hours. Maybe if she tried really hard, she could convince herself it was all a dream, a very bad dream. “Thank you.”

Victor led the way to the parking lot, where he opened the door to a spotlessly clean Mercedes. She leaned her head back on the leather seat and closed her eyes as Victor eased them through the crush of the San Francisco financial district, suited men and women, bicycle messengers and the constant supply of taxis weaving through the lanes. He didn’t say a word, and that was just fine with her. The sun was low in the sky now, outlining the tall buildings in harsh shadow.

She shot a peek at his profile, dark hair cut short on the sides, bangs long enough to show the slightest tendency to curl. Thick brows and a strong chin that sported the shadow of the beard that would no doubt emerge if he wasn’t impeccably shaved.

“I overheard you talking on the phone to your mother.”

Brooke stiffened. “My mom is gone. That was my father’s cousin. My unofficial aunt.”

“Is your father ill?”

The question might have been rude if it hadn’t resonated with a certain compassion. Or was it clinical curiosity? She sighed. “Yes, he’s…he’s not well.”

“And you’re trying to find the painting because you think time is running out for him?”

She shoved her hands under her thighs. “Isn’t that kind of a personal question after you washed your hands of my case?”

A ghost of a smile danced on his lips. “You’re right. Poor bedside manner. I apologize.”

“Why aren’t you a doctor anymore?” she blurted out, aghast at her own forwardness. What had come over her?

He didn’t look at her, but she saw his grip tighten on the steering wheel. “I needed a break.”

“So you went from being a doctor to a treasure hunter?”

He offered a small smile. “Luca’s idea. He’s always been part Indiana Jones.”

She brightened. “Do you think he would take my case, then?”

Victor laughed. “We usually stick together on these decisions. Treasure Seekers is really important to all of us.”

“Indiana Jones would have done it.” They exchanged a look and both of them laughed until Brooke flopped her head back against the seat. “Well, you did save my life, so I guess I can forgive you for turning me down.”

“I’m glad,” he said.

“I think I’ve heard your name before somewhere. Are you an art aficionado?”

“No, but my wife was.” He cleared his throat. “I took up treasure hunting after she was killed.”

Brooke felt herself flush. “I’m sorry.”

He nodded, not looking at her. “Me, too.”

They pulled up at the hotel and Brooke got out quickly, hoping Victor wouldn’t offer to walk her in. He did anyway, in spite of her protests. Something about him made her stomach flutter.

The hotel carpet was plush, the lobby tasteful with graceful indoor trees and richly upholstered chairs arranged in cozy groups. It all looked so normal, so unbelievably calm compared to the anxiety storming inside her.

He walked with her to the elevator and they got inside, the silence thickening between them. Brooke could not figure out what to think about the man next to her. She wanted to be angry with him for brushing her off, but those feelings were outweighed by his heroic effort in the lobby and the shadow in his eyes when he spoke of his wife.

She would have shaken her head to ward off the thoughts if he wasn’t standing so close, close enough for her to catch the faint musky aftershave and see the tiny cut on his cheek, no doubt caused by his dive into the glass.

A big man wearing dark glasses got into the elevator. She jumped as he dropped the clipboard he was carrying, which fell to the floor with a sharp crack. Victor gave her a reassuring look as the man apologized, and she offered him a shaky smile.

Victor saw her up to the fifth floor and waited until she slid her key card and opened the door. She turned to thank him again.

He held up a hand to stop her. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

He’d turned and walked away before she could answer.

I hope you do, too.

Brooke closed the door with a deep sigh and leaned her forehead against the cool panel before she turned around to find a man standing next to the bed.

THREE

Victor checked his iPhone.

Message from his brother.

Steph told me what happened. Don’t take that case. You’re not getting the whole story.

Victor could picture his little brother’s determined face. He’d seen Luca’s same ferocious resolve to help after Jen died. It was the reason, he suspected, his brother had come up with the Treasure Seekers idea in the first place, a way for Luca to exercise his own constant need for adventure and give his big brother a purpose again.

Four years later, it had only partially worked.

Yes, it had kept his mind busy, passionately absorbed in the next prize waiting to be found, but it had not healed his heart. That was still a lump of cold lead, untouchable and numb.

He was about to dial his brother’s number when he heard Brooke scream.

He bolted back to her room just as she tore open the door and hurtled out into his arms, nearly knocking him down.

Eyes wide with terror, she gasped, “There’s someone in my room.”

He guided her behind him. “Stay here.”

In spite of his order, he felt her hand on his back as he eased the door open. She edged in behind him as he slowly pushed the door wider.

The man with close-cropped silver hair and a face that spoke of hard living sat on the bed, arms folded. He showed no sign of agitation at being discovered.

“What are you doing here?” Victor said. Brooke stepped up to get a closer look, one hand still resting on Victor’s back.

The man looked closely at both of them with expressionless blue eyes before he answered. “Hello, Doc.”

Brooke jerked, eyes shifting from Victor to the man on the bed. “You know each other?”

“Yes.” Tuney stood. “Dr. Gage hired me to do some investigation for him four years ago. How are you, Ms. Ramsey?”

“Who are you?” Brooke said warily.

“A detective. I’m working on a case that started with a theft at a certain museum.”

Brooke sagged and went to the nearest chair, dropping heavily onto the upholstered seat.

Victor eyed Tuney carefully, the muscles in his stomach knotted. “Why are you following her?”

Brooke gazed at the carpet as she spoke. “I recognize him now. You came to my house and asked all kinds of questions after the robbery, didn’t you, Mr. Tuney?” When she lifted her head, he noticed the smudges under her eyes and the fatigue that seemed to permeate her body. “Four years ago my father was the assistant curator at the Museum of Culture here in San Francisco. There was a theft—three pieces were stolen from the delivery truck just outside the museum.” She shot a harsh look at Tuney. “My father had nothing to do with it. He tried to call for help once he realized what was happening, but it was too late.”

“That’s one version,” Tuney said. “Another is your father leaked the information to someone who arranged for the theft. That’s why he lost his job, isn’t it?”

Anger flared in Brooke’s face. “He lost his job because the museum needed a scapegoat, and Jeffrey Lock, the head curator, made sure my father took the fall.”

The disbelief on Tuney’s face was clear along with an inexplicable current of anger. “Lock lost his job, too. That’s why he works at Bayside now. The art was probably sold on the black market, and someone made a fortune. Any idea who?”

“It wasn’t the Ramsey family,” Brooke snapped. “We’re not exactly swimming in money, in case you haven’t noticed. We left San Francisco because we couldn’t afford to stay here anymore after the incident. My father owns a fifteen-year-old car and a run-down house in San Diego.”

“Sometimes art freaks steal for the sake of owning what they can’t buy. And the thing about art freaks is, they constantly need to collect more and more. It’s a sickness, see. So why are you using the name Ramsey? Your father’s name is Andrews, isn’t it?”

She slumped. “He forced us to use my mother’s maiden name. Too many people hate us now.”

Victor felt his stomach shrink. Brooke Ramsey, formerly Brooke Andrews, daughter of Donald Andrews, the one man he abhorred more than any other person on the planet.

Tuney raised an eyebrow. “I understand your father is now in possession of a painting that might be a Tarkenton.”

Brooke gaped. “How did you know that?”

Tuney shrugged, his mouth drawn, eyes flashing. “Your father contacted Professor Colda at the university. Funny thing. Professor Colda went missing, shortly after. Found a note in his office. An address. Guess whose?”

Brooke shrugged in exasperation. “Ours, no doubt. That makes sense, since my father sent him the painting to appraise.”

“Yes, your father contacted Colda and then the guy disappeared. Could be your father and the good professor had a falling out? Maybe the learned professor started to ask questions about how your father acquired the Tarkenton? Reasonable, since Dad already has a black mark on his reputation. Maybe he had to make Colda disappear.”

Brooke lifted her chin and Victor thought he saw her lips tremble before she glared at Tuney. “In spite of the news reports, my father’s character is impeccable. Can you say the same for yours?”

Victor collected himself and corralled his shock. “Mr. Tuney, none of this gives you the right to break into her room.”

“I didn’t break in. Gave the maid a happy story that I was her father looking to surprise his daughter.” His lips quirked. “Besides, you didn’t mind my methods when I was working for you.”

Brooke stood. “You hired him?”

Victor shook his head. “Not this time. Four years ago, after the robbery.”

Brooke was pacing the floor now, strides long and graceful, her cheeks flushed. “Because of what happened at the museum? Why would you care about that? What’s your interest in the theft?”

“I have no interest whatsoever,” Victor said, voice low.

“I don’t understand,” she said.

“One thing I’ve learned in this business. If something smells fishy, it usually is,” Tuney said. “I’ve got a personal reason to be involved.”

“Who are you working for now?” Victor said, turning back to Tuney.

Tuney shrugged. “That’s not your concern.”

Brooke crossed her arms. “Whatever you two think you know about my father is wrong. He’s a good man. He didn’t steal anything back then and he hasn’t stolen anything now.”

“So why are you here in San Francisco?” Tuney said, jerking a thumb at Victor. “Talking to him? Going to do a little treasure hunting?”

Victor held up a hand. “I don’t think that’s any of your business, Mr. Tuney. The lady can talk with whomever she wants.”

“Oh, I think it’s my business, all right.”

“How’s that?”

“One thing you should both know. I’m a busy man, so sometimes I hire people to do freelancing for me. In this case, I had someone keeping tabs on you in San Diego and on your trip up here.”

Victor felt a tingle of unease in his spine. “Who?”

“Gal by the name of Fran.” He looked at Brooke, a flash of emotion crossing his face. “I was scheduled to meet her but things didn’t work out. Maybe you saw her.”

“Saw her?” Brooke echoed.

“Yeah,” Tuney said, his eyes shifting from hers to Victor’s. His voice trembled slightly, and he cleared his throat. “She was shot in your lobby a few hours ago.”

* * *

The walls seemed to blur before Brooke’s eyes. She staggered back and felt Victor’s arm around her waist, steadying her, before she pulled away. “The black-haired woman worked for you?”

“Yes. Off the books, of course. She’s the one who found your father’s address in Colda’s office, so she started tailing you. Followed you to San Francisco, to Gage’s office building. I went to meet her. Got there just in time to join the crowd of bystanders who collected after the shooting.” He cleared his throat again. “It was clear she wasn’t going to make it, even with Dr. Gage’s help, so I decided to come to meet with you personally.”

“Did you tell all this to the police?” Victor asked.

Tuney’s eyes narrowed. “Not yet. I figured I would fill them in right after I talked to you.”

Words failed Brooke. All she could think about was the lady lying on the lobby floor with the life ebbing out of her.

“Brooke’s going back home soon, so there’s no reason for you to continue to pursue her.”

“I want the truth. That’s what I get paid to find out, and now, since Fran’s been killed, I have even more reason to stay on this. She was a good woman and whoever is responsible needs to be punished.” Tuney moved toward Brooke but Victor stepped in between them. Tuney continued, “Get me some time with your father, Brooke. He can come clean, admit to his part in the robbery and cop to whatever he did to Colda and had done to Fran. He’s a sick man, I understand. He’ll want to do the right thing before it’s too late.”

“Stop it,” Brooke screamed, tears pooling in her eyes. “My father is okay. He’s okay.”

“Leave her alone.” Victor drew himself up to his full six feet three. Tuney did not miss the gesture and eased back.

“Or your aunt Denise could talk to me,” Tuney said thoughtfully. “She might have some info that would put the incident to rest.”

Brooke didn’t even ask how Tuney managed to know all the intimate details of her family’s life. “You’re wrong about everything.”

He shrugged. “You should make it easy on your father. Get him to talk to me.”

“What if she doesn’t?” Victor said, voice low.

“Then I stick to Ms. Ramsey like the proverbial glue.”

“You’re no better than a stalker,” Victor snapped.

“I prefer to think of it as determination rather than stalking. Funny how you didn’t mind my tactics when you wanted answers of your own.”

Victor gestured to the door. “I think you’d better leave, Mr. Tuney.”

Tuney hesitated, and Brooke hated the scornful look on his face.

“I’ll go,” he said, “but you’ll be seeing me in your rearview mirror until this thing is solved and Fran’s murderer is caught.” He stopped as he got to the door. “One thing you might consider. Could be that shooting today was random, but it could also be that someone else is interested in your situation.”

“No,” Brooke mumbled, head whirling.

“Better to get it all out in the open before somebody else winds up dead.”

“Get out,” Victor snarled.

Tuney strode out the door, leaving them in silence.

Victor gestured for her to sit on the bed and he took the chair. “We need to contact the police and fill them in on everything Tuney said.”

She tried for a steady tone. “First you need to tell me what’s going on. You know about the robbery and you hired Tuney before. I’m not moving an inch until you tell me the truth.”

“The truth?” he said quietly. “That’s all I’ve been trying to find out for four years.”

Pain surged through her. All the shame, all the humiliation. Her father had never really been able to put it behind him, and now it was all going to be raked up again. Her mind was still spinning from Tuney’s intrusion. “What is happening? It was just supposed to be a meeting. Now there’s been a shooting and this detective shows up. How well do you know him?”

“I hired him to investigate the circumstances of my wife’s death. He wasn’t able to solve the case, so we parted ways.”

Brooke felt a tremor inside, a deep foreboding slithering through her body. “When…when was your wife killed?”

His eyes bored into hers. “September fifth, four years ago.”

“September fifth?” She gaped. “That’s the day my—”

“Father’s museum was robbed, I know.”

She did not understand the expression on his face, a mixture of anguish and burning intensity. “There was an accident,” she whispered. “A few blocks from the museum. I remember reading about it in the paper.”