East Bound by Nana Malone (best value ebook reader .txt) 📗

His long-suffering sigh was barely audible on the com line. "But this is different. He's dangerous."

"Believe me, I know. Let me do my job."

A maid dressed in uniform opened the door. "Can I help you?"

I took out my badge and flashed it, grateful that I had sucked it up and gone back to Interpol. I didn't like it. It felt terrible, but it let me do this, so... "Hi, I'm Agent Nyla Kincade with Interpol. I need to speak with Lord Jameson please." I used my professional I'm-a-grownup voice.

She had me wait for a second, and then she stepped back and allowed me inside the vestibule. Once inside, my gaze nearly went to two sculptures that hadn’t been in the foyer the last time I'd been there for the party. Maybe they'd been moved to accommodate the guests, but they were there now in the foyer. Metallic and stone intertwined, and they looked like two giant interwoven penises.

I covered a laugh with a cough, and East was immediately on the coms. "Are you okay?"

I muttered a quick, "Mm-hmm," as I walked and tried to control my head. As an Interpol agent, interviewing suspects was part of the job. You pushed and pushed and wheedled and controlled, but that wasn't the difficult part. And I’d had many people watch my interviews. It was one of those things you got over being sensitive about. That's just what it was. Along the way, people were going to be standing over your shoulder watching you.

It was unnerving, of course. But this, this was a whole other thing. I knew Amelia was there too, so that made me feel marginally better. But I didn't like someone else actually in my head. If there’d been a way to turn off the damn earpiece, I would have. But East had mic’d to me himself. He didn't want to leave anything to chance.

Don't give chance a window.

What the hell did he think was going to happen to me? I'd walk in, ask Jameson a few questions, tag him if I could, and see how to get a response out of him about Henry Warlow.

Bonus if he took me into his office so I could see the photo for myself. How hard was that?

But if he didn't take me into the office, I was going to go and use the loo and then sneak in. Which was risky, of course, but I could do it. I could make this happen.

Luckily, I didn't have to employ plan B. The maid led me right through the massive house, past the great room, the kitchen, the dining room, and the glass doors to the outside patio where we turned left toward the back of the house. I recognized it as the slightly narrow hallway where I’d been the last time. More closed doors. Cameras. Every-damn where. I almost felt the need to salute them as I passed.

She knocked gently on the door, and a booming voice said, "Come on, in."

When I opened the door, I found Lord Jameson behind his desk. The whole room was like an explosion of masculinity with dark oak furniture. So much so that it was hyper. And oh, joy. Was that an elk head on his wall? Oh, he was a hunter. Excellent.

"Lord Jameson, thank you for taking the time to speak with me."

"Oh, nonsense. Anything to help Interpol. Did you know I once thought I wanted to be in the Intelligence services?"

I lifted a brow. "Did you? What stopped you then?"

"Art. I loved it more. Over the years, my family has acquired many pieces. I couldn’t leave it behind. I was always a little bit more obsessed with paintings by the masters than I was with actually being James Bond. I think I like the movies better than the discipline."

I forced myself to smile. "Sadly it’s not all martinis and baccarat tables. They make it look fun when in reality," I shrugged as I slowly paced around, inspecting the antiques, "it's quite tedious sometimes. Not just field work, but you know, meticulous paperwork. It’s shocking how many criminals are caught because of paperwork rather than their primary crimes."

He nodded. "Agent Kincade, say it isn’t so.”

“Sadly.”

“Well, I can still pretend. Please, have a seat."

To avoid sitting, I pointed to one of the carvings on his bookshelf. "Ah, this is stunning. Who is it by?"

His face lit up into a grin. "Yes, I picked that up on a trip to China a few years ago. It's priceless, you know. Twelfth century."

My eyes went wide as I gently eased my hand back as if I might have touched it. "Maybe you should put that behind glass. To warn people off from touching it."

He shook his head. "No, no. I believe art is to be enjoyed. I didn’t know you had an interest. You must come to the house next week then. I’m having a birthday celebration. I’m bringing all the pieces out of my vault."

My eyes went wide. “Oh that’s incredibly generous. But you don’t have to—”

He cut me off. “Nonsense. You clearly are curious. Come and see. Have some champagne.”

I would not be coming for a party, but he didn’t need to know that. "Well then, thank you.”

“I’ll make sure you get all the details. You clearly enjoy art.”

“Sure, but you wouldn't want somebody accidentally touching something so priceless. It looks delicate, like I could have broken it."

"No dear, not at all. Have a seat."

But I still didn't, instead choosing to roam around the room, this time keeping my hands in my pockets for safety. When he noticed that I wasn't sitting, he came around his desk, shadowing me. Piece by piece, I asked him about the ones that looked mildly fascinating, like he might be able to speak about them for a moment. And then finally I settled on the photograph that I’d truly come to see. "Where was this taken?"

"Ah," he smiled. "The Aviator Sail in Milan, Italy, in my youth. That was a