Ruthless Cross Read online

  Callie lifted her face to the sun. "It feels good out here, cold but nice. Arthur loved the desert air. He said there was something magical about it. The weekend I was here, we spent all our time on this patio, swimming in the pool, barbecuing every meal, and having a lot of drinks. Of course, it was much warmer in September."

  "Was anyone else here but you and your mother?"

  "No; it was just the three of us." She glanced at him. "What do we do now? Head back to LA? Fly to Maui and check that place out?"

  He smiled. "I probably need to stick closer to the crime scene."

  "But the paintings could be in Hawaii."

  "I'll get someone on Maui to check that out for me." He looked at his watch. "It's four now. We might as well go home."

  "I suppose, but if we want to make this trip worth something, we could make a stop before we leave and get one of those gigantic ice cream cones—you know, those big waffle cones that hold like three scoops. There's a place nearby I went to with my mom." She gave him a hopeful look. "It's really good."

  He smiled at the sparkle in her eyes. "You're an ice cream girl."

  "Guilty. Nothing better than ice cream, even on a cold day in January. It solves so many problems."

  "We can stop on the way out. I could eat some ice cream." As his gaze moved around the backyard once more, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was missing something that was right in front of him.

  "What's wrong?" Callie asked, giving him a thoughtful look.

  "I don't know. My gut says there's something here, but I don't know what it is or where it might be." He paused, thinking about what Callie had said earlier. "You told me that Arthur bought the house six months ago, but that your mother didn't really like coming down here."

  "No, she wasn't a fan of the desert. She thought it was boring, but Arthur insisted this would be a great getaway place for them."

  "How often would you say they came down?"

  "Together? Maybe three times. However, Arthur came down a lot on his own. My mother often ran events at the museum on weekends, so she wasn't as free as he was to make the trip." She gave him a disgruntled look. "This must be his love nest."

  "It's a long way to come for an affair when there are plenty of hotels in LA or the surrounding suburbs."

  "He's well known in Los Angeles. Maybe he wanted to get farther away."

  "Maybe," he muttered. "How did he find this place? Did the idea just come out of the blue? Does he have friends who vacation down here?"

  "He brought my mother to a big tennis tournament here last March. Arthur loved tennis."

  "I remember. He was a very competitive player; he hated to lose."

  "It was after that tournament that he started talking about getting a place down here. He kept saying how the dry air was good for him. He felt like he could breathe better. He must have said that a dozen times, and I couldn't figure out why he needed to be in dry air. It's not like he had a lot of allergies or anything. It's also not like Pacific Palisades is extremely humid, although they are close to the ocean. I guess that might make the air wetter."

  His mind began to spin with her words.

  Why had Arthur been so consumed with the air quality? And why did all that sound familiar?

  His dad had always worried about humidity, too. He was always trying to lower the humidity level in his gallery to protect the art. "You know what else does well in areas with low humidity?" he muttered. "Paintings, especially oil paintings."

  Callie gave him a confused look. "But you said the art down here isn't valuable or important."

  "It's not."

  He turned and strode back into the house.

  "What are you thinking?" she asked, following him inside.

  "Is there a basement?"

  "I don't believe so."

  He walked through the kitchen, the laundry room, back into the garage, looking for any entry point to a basement, but he couldn't find anything.

  "Where did Arthur spend his time the weekend you were here?" he asked Callie, who had been dogging his steps.

  "He was all over—the living room, the patio, his bedroom, the den. Oh, and he sometimes took calls in the bedroom at the end of the hall. He said he got better reception in there."

  Flynn jogged quickly down the hall, following his gut like a dog sniffing out drugs. There was something about this house that had been important to Arthur, and his raving about the humidity level made him think the paintings they were looking for were somewhere in the home.

  Entering the guest room that Callie had pointed out, he went straight to the closet. There were men's clothes hanging on the rails.

  "I'm surprised Arthur kept clothes in this bedroom," Callie murmured. "He always called it the guest room."

  "Did anyone sleep in here the weekend you were here?"

  "No. We were all upstairs."

  He shoved the clothes to one side and looked at a piece of decorative brick tile along the back wall of the closet. Why the hell would anyone tile the back wall of a closet? As he pressed his fingers along the tiles, something clicked, and a door in the wall suddenly swung open.

  "Oh, my God," Callie murmured, peering over his shoulder. "There's a door."

  "And stairs." He moved forward using the light on his phone to see the steps. When he got to the bottom, he saw a light switch and flipped it on.

  His heart skipped a beat as Callie gasped in shock.

  He'd expected to find a few paintings stashed away, but Arthur had set up what looked like his own private gallery. There were paintings on every wall, with individual lights over them, and in the middle of the room was a round dais upon which one could sit and view the paintings from any angle.

  "It's like a museum," she murmured.

  "Arthur's own private art world," he said, moving over to the first painting. "This is the Vega." He matched the photograph in his hand to the art on the wall. "And the one over there is a Monet. They're all here—all six of them, all stolen." A knot formed in his throat as his worst fears came true. Just like his father, Arthur was not the man he'd appeared to be. He'd stood for what was right, what was just. He'd punished people for breaking the law. He'd taken righteous delight in sentencing them for their crimes when he was a criminal, too. What a hypocrite.

  "I'm sorry, Flynn." Callie put a hand on his arm, her eyes filled with understanding and emotion.

  "What are you sorry about? You didn’t know this was here."

  "I'm sorry he disappointed you."

  "I should be used to it," he said harshly.

  "You never get used to being disappointed by the people you love."

  "Who did I love, Callie? Arthur was just an illusion."

  He walked away from her, because her kindness was almost too much. As he moved around the room, he saw a large open crate leaning against the wall and inside were two paintings that had yet to be hung. One was by Gerard Bissette. Was it stolen, too? He was still thinking about that when he looked at the other smaller oil painting. The sight of it stole what was left of the breath in his chest.

  "My God," he murmured, pulling out the painting of what appeared to be a beautiful flower, but he knew better. "Damn. Now I know why Arthur got spooked."

  "Why?" Callie asked in confusion.

  "Because he got this in his shipment." He held up the painting so she could see it.

  "What is it about this painting that would spook Arthur? It's a gorgeous picture of a flower. I don't get it."

  "This flower is an atropa belladonna, which is more popularly known as deadly nightshade," he explained. "It appears harmless with its green leaves, shiny blackberries, and reddish-brown flowers that look like little bells. But it's also lethal. It contains a toxin called atropine, which when used medically keeps muscles paralyzed during surgery and regulates heartbeat."

  "Okay," she said slowly, as she processed that piece of information. "And you think this flower has something to do with Arthur's death?"

  "There was a broken champagne g
lass found in the hallway where Arthur went over the rail. It tested positive for traces of atropine."

  "You said he was incapacitated. That's why."

  "It's believed that Arthur ingested the atropine and suffered paralysis, which would have made it easier for someone to push him over the railing."

  "Like a woman."

  "Yes," he said, meeting her now troubled gaze. "But there's more to the story."

  "Then please share, because I want to understand."

  "The name atropa belladonna means pretty lady. It's also tied to Atropos, one of the three Greek female fates, who were goddesses of destiny, sometimes known as Daughters of the Night."

  "We're talking Greek mythology now?"

  "Yes. The fates controlled the threads of each mortal's life. It was Atropos who cut the thread of life and brought death."

  "How do you know all this, Flynn?"

  "Because this is an infamous painting, Callie. It has been used as a calling card, a precursor to at least four known murders that the FBI refers to as the Belladonna murders. When someone receives the painting, they're marked for death."

  Her eyes widened. "Are you serious? Arthur was marked for death?"

  "I believe he thought so. That's why he contacted me. He must have gotten the painting in the shipment of stolen art—maybe when he came down here on Wednesday. That's why he was upset."

  "Why he didn't want to meet with Layana," she put in.

  "And why he thought someone was watching him. He wanted me to protect him."

  "This all sounds kind of wild."

  "I know. But that doesn't mean it isn't true."

  "You said there are four known murders. Who were those people?"

  "The first was an artist who ran his own gallery in Paris—Rafael Linderman. Not only did he display his own brilliant pieces of art, but every year he chose two or three young and emerging artists to feature. Anyone who got into that gallery became an instant success."

  "How did he die?"

  "He threw himself out the third-story window of his lover's house on the Rue du Bac, landing on the awning for a chocolate shop, then rolling onto the sidewalk, where he died instantly. That happened five years ago."

  "What happened to his lover? Was she killed as well?" Callie asked, an eager light in her eyes.

  "No. She had gone out to buy pastries. When she returned, she found him on the sidewalk. She later told the police that he had received a painting by special delivery at his home, two hours earlier, and that he had been very upset by it. He'd told her he'd thought the artist was crazy. When the investigators searched her home, they were unable to find the painting. But they did discover a photo of the painting that was left in its place. There was a message scrawled across the front: You deserve to be punished."

  "That's fascinating. What happened next?"

  "A year later, an art dealer in Colorado was rock climbing in the Rockies. His harness broke and he fell a hundred feet to his death. His wife told the police that he had gone up to the mountains to meet a friend, but she had no name, and no one was able to discover who else he'd been climbing with. The wife also said he'd been upset by a painting he'd received the day before. He'd showed it to her, and it was a painting of the deadly nightshade. Upon searching the house and the gallery, the painting was not discovered. But they found a similar photo with the same disturbing message."

  "Crazy," she murmured. "So the painting shows up, and the person dies. And they always fall. Is that what happened in the other two cases?"

  "Yes. The third was three years ago in New York City. An elevator malfunctioned, and Chuck Hernan plunged thirty-seven stories to his death. He was a private collector. He lived in a penthouse on the top floor. His housekeeper said she had seen the painting earlier that day and that Chuck had seemed upset. He'd told her he was leaving town for a business trip. His suitcases were also in the elevator."

  "And the fourth?"

  "That was about eighteen months ago. It was a woman."

  "Interesting—a twist."

  He smiled at her rapt gaze. "She ran a gallery in New Orleans. Her assistant took photos of every art piece that was delivered to the gallery. As you might have guessed, the picture had arrived a day earlier."

  "How did she die?"

  "She was found dead, floating in her swimming pool. The third-floor railing above the pool was broken. It looked like she was shoved over the rail."

  "Just like Arthur. And all four were involved with art in some way."

  "And in every case the painting disappeared, replaced by the photo."

  "Except now." Her gaze moved to the painting. "That's why they broke into Arthur's house last night. They were looking for the painting."

  "I think so."

  "But the painting was here, in a house no one knew about."

  "The home must be in the name of a sham corporation, something that can't be traced to him."

  "But it wasn't that big of a secret. I knew about it, and so did my mom. Layana and Moira at the very least knew that Arthur came to Palm Springs. But even if they had come here, they never would have found his secret room. I certainly didn't, and I was here for three days."

  "Arthur was clever," he said, feeling a pit of anger and disappointment deep in his soul. "Another liar."

  "It sounds like the killer of all these people believes they are handing out a deserved punishment. Why would Arthur have to be punished?"

  "He was dealing in stolen art. He was having an affair. Who knows what else he was doing?"

  "Well, the murderer has to be someone in the art world, someone who knew the legend. Frankly, it sounds like a mad, evil artist. Maybe Layana is the killer."

  "You mean the woman you confronted all by yourself?" he asked pointedly.

  "I'm beginning to realize the stupidity of that move."

  "Good. Maybe that will stop you from being so impulsive again."

  Callie started as her phone buzzed. She pulled it out of her purse. "It's Dr. Clarke. I need to take this."

  "Go ahead."

  "Hello?" she said. "Hello? Can you hear me?" She frowned, moving around the room. "Hello? Hold on, I'm going to move to another location. There's no reception down here."

  "I'll meet you upstairs," he told her. "I want to take a few photos before we go."

  She gave a quick nod and hurried upstairs. He turned his gaze back on the painting. He couldn't believe he was holding it in his hands. It looked so innocuous. Its size alone was barely bigger than a laptop. To the ordinary observer, it was just a run-of-the-mill flower painting, but it was so much more.

  Positioning his phone, he snapped photos of it as well as the paintings on the walls. He'd have his team secure the house and the art, but he was taking the belladonna painting with him.

  As he moved up the steps and through the closet, an uneasy feeling ran down his spine. It was very quiet. He couldn't hear Callie on the phone. Had she gone outside?

  He took out his gun as he neared the door to the guest room. Setting down the painting, he stepped into the hallway. His heart stopped at the sight of Callie facedown on the floor fifteen feet away.

  He rushed forward, but he hadn't taken more than two steps, when he heard someone behind him. He whirled around, gun drawn, but the man was on him before he could fire a shot. He was slammed into the wall, his weapon flying out of his hand and sliding down the slick hallway floor. There was no time to go for it. He needed to disarm his assailant.

  He grabbed the man's arm, at the same time knocking his feet out from under him. His weapon clattered as it hit the floor. And then it was hand-to-hand combat, a fight for not only his life but also Callie's. The man was tall and stocky with a ski mask that covered his hair and face, but his eyes were dark and mean.

  Blow after blow fell, as they each strove to control the situation. Their fight went into the living room, knocking over chairs and vases. Every time he thought he'd gained the advantage, the man bounced back.

  And then Flynn made
a critical mistake. He heard Callie moan and call his name. In that split second of distraction, his attacker knocked him against the wall.

  His head bounced off the wood and he struggled to stay on his feet, but he was going down.

  As soon as he hit the floor, he rolled to one side, getting ready to fight again, but his assailant was running out of the room. He staggered to his feet, then raced down the hall.

  When he got to the front of the house, he was just in time to see a gray sedan speed down the street. He couldn't see the license plate, but hopefully Arthur's cameras were working in this house. If not, maybe the car would be caught by another camera in the area.

  He ran back into the house to find Callie struggling to sit up, her face white, her eyes glazed with pain. "What—what happened?" She put a hand to the back of her head, then stared at her bloody fingers in horror. "Someone hit me."

  He squatted down next to her, pulling out his phone. "Don't move. I'm calling an ambulance."

  "I don't need an ambulance. Do I?" She paused in confusion. "Am I dying?"

  "No, you are not dying," he told her firmly, praying he was telling the truth. "You can't die. You hear me?"

  "My head hurts."

  "Don't close your eyes."

  Panic ran through him as her eyes closed in spite of his order.

  He punched in 911 and told them he needed an ambulance right away. Then he put his arms around her. "You have to stay with me, Callie. I need you to be all right. You're a fighter, babe, and now's the time to fight like hell. Don't quit on me."

  He wanted her to open her eyes and tell him she was going to be fine, but she didn't, and a terrifying fear ran through him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Callie floated in and out of painful consciousness on the way to the hospital. The pain in her head felt like it was ripping her in two, and when she got to the ER, she could barely speak. Thankfully, she was seen quickly and given something to take the edge off the pain. Then there were doctors and tests and waiting for results. She didn't know how much time had passed, but eventually Flynn showed up in the ER, with worry darkening his beautiful blue eyes.