Emmy’s camera hooked up wirelessly to her phone, and Alaric kept up a mostly one-sided conversation about local attractions while she sent the photo of Hegler to Richmond. Five minutes later, they had their answer.
“Sky says it’s the same guy she saw collect the painting in London.”
A finger of tension uncurled in Alaric’s gut. They’d been almost certain this particular Stéphane Hegler was their man, but until that moment, there’d been a modicum of doubt. With Sky’s confirmation, they could move on to phase two—interrogation.
“Good. That’s good. How do we want to play this?” he asked, almost to himself.
“Hegler’s most likely just a pawn. We need to scare him a little, but I’d vote against steaming in there with all guns blazing.”
“Agreed. Go in too soft, and we risk them moving the painting again, but you catch more flies with honey.”
As an FBI agent, Alaric had been expected to cultivate his own sources. In every interview he did, he’d wanted the subject to feel comfortable but just the tiniest bit intimidated at the start, and if he played his cards right, by the end of the chat, they’d want to help him. He employed the same philosophy with Sirius. Today’s witness or even a suspect could become tomorrow’s informant.
“If they’ve got the painting, then ten to one it’s at Carnes’s place,” Emmy said. “He’s coveted it for years, right? So he’ll want to look at it, not hide it away in a vault somewhere, especially if he’s on his last legs.”
She was right. And back in the old days, it would’ve been easy to get answers. People tended to respect the FBI. Show a shiny gold badge, and… Hmm…
“Did Bradley pack you a pantsuit?”
“Knowing Bradley, he packed me everything from a bikini to a ballgown. Why? What are you thinking?”
“I still have my FBI shield.”
In between defending his name and fleeing the country, Alaric had omitted to hand it back. They also had guns and a Ford Explorer. Of course, most agents didn’t actually drive black SUVs, but thanks to the movies, the public thought they did.
“Oh, cool. I have a shield too.”
“A fake one?”
“No, it’s real.”
“Where the hell did you get that?”
“I found it.”
“Found it where?”
Emmy grinned behind her chocolate muffin. “In an FBI agent’s pocket.”
Alaric took a steadying breath. This was the Emmy who’d driven him crazy in both good ways and bad ways.
“You realise how wrong that is?”
“Stop being so pious, dude. You were the one who just suggested impersonating FBI agents. Oh, target’s on the move.” Emmy spread a tourist brochure out on the table and raised her voice slightly. “Hey, look, there’s a candy factory we can visit. They make bourbon balls—chocolate mixed with whisky. Someone should try that with gin.”
Hegler swallowed the last dregs of his coffee and stood, still engrossed in his phone as he headed for the door. What was so important? Was he running all of Irvine’s communications? As he reached for the door handle, the screen tilted up and Alaric saw a telltale collection of coloured dots. Candy Crush. Rune had tried playing it last summer when a bunch of her school friends set up a league, but after a day or so, she’d gone back to reading science journals instead.
Emmy and Alaric didn’t need to follow. They had Hegler’s address—he both lived and worked at the Carnes property—and when he’d stopped at the gas station earlier, Emmy had stuck a tracker on his car. A good thing too. No way would Emmy have abandoned half a chocolate muffin in favour of a surveillance op.
Mid-morning on Monday, and Emmy slipped on a pair of aviators despite the cloudy sky. If the need arose, she’d play bad cop to Alaric’s Agent Nice-Guy.
Fifty yards along the street, Stéphane Hegler strolled out of the pharmacy carrying the mother of all carrier bags. Prescription drugs? What state was Irvine Carnes in? Little information had leaked out about his condition in recent weeks. Somebody—Hegler?—was still posting to his Twitter account, but apart from a link to Friday’s bombshell video, he’d been sticking to retweets of local news and the occasional arty photo of the Kentucky countryside. Seemed Carnes bred Arabian horses in his spare time. He certainly had plenty of space on the family ranch.
The origin of the video itself was hazy—several journalists had broken the story simultaneously, but all refused to reveal their sources. Rumour said they’d received flash drives in the mail. Who had sent them?
Alaric had stationed himself between Hegler and his car, and as the smaller man approached, he fell into step beside him.
“Mr. Hegler? Do you have a moment?”
Hegler didn’t break stride.
“Who are you?” Did the supercilious attitude come with the job, or had he been born with it? His accent didn’t help. There was a hint of French under the American, the remnant of a childhood spent in Switzerland.
Alaric pushed his suit jacket back just far enough to reveal the gold badge clipped to his belt. “FBI. I’m Special Agent Alec Lane with the Louisville field office, and this is—”
The guy stopped dead in his tracks. Dead. Emmy nearly walked into the back of Alaric, and her hand landed on his ass as she steadied herself. Perk of the job.
“It’s about the painting, isn’t it? I swear I didn’t know what it was when I picked it up. I mean, yes, I knew it was a painting, but not that painting. I thought it was a portrait of Azira.”
Well, this was unexpected. Alaric had never had a suspect confess to the crime in his opening sentence.
“How about we get a coffee? The street isn’t really the place for this conversation.”
“Are you going to arrest me?”
“At the moment, I’m more
