Illicit Artifacts Page 12

  “Anxiety?”

  “I hope so, because I don’t like the alternative.”

  The doctor frowned and unwound her stethoscope from her neck. “Can you get up on the platform?”

  Jess climbed on the stool and maneuvered herself awkwardly onto the crackling sheet.

  Dr. Rosenfeld snaked the cool disc down her top and stood listening. Then she strapped the blood pressure cuff around her upper arm and blew it up.

  Jess winced as the material bit into her elbow, closing her eyes as the pressure valve released and the metal disc made contact with her inner arm.

  After a few moments of silence, the doctor asked, “Has your new prescription been working?”

  Jess breathed through the pain and shook her head. “Not at all. I went back to the old stuff.”

  Dr. Rosenfeld squeezed Jess’s arm. “Hey.”

  Jess opened her eyes and tried to smile, but couldn’t muster the energy.

  “We’re going to figure this out, okay?”

  “Could you make it quick?” This time, she did manage to smile a little. “I have a life you know.”

  Dr. Rosenfeld narrowed her eyes. “About that. I’m prescribing time off work, first of all.”

  Jess absorbed her words. Time off work?

  She started to protest but noticed that the knot that had been crushing her stomach had begun to unclench a little. As she considered not having to get in the car tomorrow, not having to cross the atrium, through the heavy doors to her office, not having to hold staff meetings and pretend like she gave a shit about renovations to the science wing, her hammering heart began to slow down.

  “I know you’re going to fight me tooth and nail, but I insist.”

  Jess met her gaze. “I’m not going to argue. It’s probably a good idea.”

  The doctor leaned in. “Okay, that’s it. Now I know there’s something really wrong with you. Is work getting to you? Personal issues? Is it Mitch’s situation?”

  Jess breathed out through her teeth. “All of the above.”

  “And more, I’d imagine. Not that you’d tell me.”

  She got down from the platform and returned to her chair. “Don’t take it personally, Doctor. I’m this difficult with everyone.”

  “You are not. But I will admit that for a patient I’ve had for twenty years, sometimes I feel like I’m barely scratching the surface with you.”

  Her words struck Jess far more harshly than the doctor had probably intended. “I don’t mean to be so aloof,” she whispered. “It’s just…”

  “Hey, that’s not what I meant. Not at all. Your independence is what keeps you strong. Keep it. But”—she sat down—“you don’t have to do everything by yourself. It helps to have someone to swap war stories with at night. Whatever your war happens to be. You might consider some company, considering…”

  “Considering my husband’s been in a persistent vegetative state for the past five years? It’s okay to say it.”

  “Well, since you put it that way.” Dr. Rosenfeld laughed. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to have a life, Jess.”

  For a second, she wanted to tell her everything. About Lily, Jil. Hitting the wall at work. Wondering what the hell she’d signed up for as a lesbian in a Catholic school.

  But secrecy had become so ingrained to her, she couldn’t do it.

  Besides, confessions were for priests, not doctors.

  She left the office and limped the twenty yards out the door to the accessible parking, staring hard at the blue emblem flipped down on her visor. Disabled. Handicapped. Crippled. The words flipped through her mind until she got into the car and slammed the visor up.

  Never had she used the accessible parking spot. Other people had always needed it far more than she had. She’d parked close, but never in that spot. Even when her knees and hips were screaming, she’d rested, taken a few moments, and walked on.

  But today, she physically couldn’t navigate the distance between the back of the lot and the office.

  She’d had to search for the sticker, buried in the back of the glove box, and for a second, she panicked, sure she wouldn’t be able to find it and would have to cross the lot—possibly get trapped halfway, not able to push on, or retreat. But she’d found it. She’d used it. She’d hated it, of course.

  But the visit had been worth it.

  She had a new treatment option and time off work—something she’d never wished for in her life.

  *

  Later that night, Jil got in the car and returned to the warehouse. She didn’t know what to expect, but something about that place had bugged her. Did Anastasia have any connection to it at all—is that why she’d chosen it for her alias address—or was it just a random number and street she borrowed for the purpose?

  She turned her headlights off and released the seat so she could lean back. The coffee in her mug still steamed through the hole in the lid, and she took a long sip. She’d stay as long as her bladder could hold out. Maybe she’d get a sense of the neighborhood and the inhabitants—find a reason why Anastasia might pick it. After all, everything looked different in the dark.

  Zeus had whined to come with her tonight, but she’d left him at home. An alarm system was great, but a dog was even better. It seemed like a better idea to leave the dragon in the lair tonight.

  Across the street from the warehouse-cum-loft, residents of a fully finished mid-rise had begun to come home. Lights gleamed from most of the windows. The silhouette of a Christmas tree filled one pane, balls of red and silver glinting off the glass.

  The building next door had only a small light glowing from the basement window. Jil squinted at the grimy glass, wondering who would be working so late in the basement of an abandoned building.

  That didn’t smack of an above-board activity.

  She decided to wait and watch—not that she could really see anything. Maybe if she got closer…

  She left the door slightly ajar and crept toward the window. From a few feet away, she spotted the bars on the window and the crisscross mesh inside the glass itself. No wonder she couldn’t see anything inside.

  Even now, she’d have to press her face almost against the bars to get a good look. Was it worth it? What if the person inside saw her?

  She crouched down to the side of the window and waited to see if a shadow would pass. Nothing. After a deep breath and counting to ten, she decided to risk it. Slowly, she moved her face in front of the bars and peeked in.

  Through the dirt and scratches, she saw a long hallway, and at the end, a large vault.

  What would you keep in a vault in the basement of an old warehouse?

  A guy walked down the hall and she pulled back a little—not that he could see her, probably, unless he looked directly at her. She watched him carry a flat, rectangular object wrapped in brown paper. He stopped at the door of the vault and punched in a code.

  Something of that size and weight could only be a painting.

  When the door swung open, she looked inside. Dozens of brown paper packages lined the room.

  Back in the car, she sat for a long moment before starting the engine. She should tell Fraser what she’d seen at the warehouse. Certainly, this was an underground operation of some sort. A counterfeiting ring, possibly, or a depot to house stolen items. But if she told him, and he raided it, that might be the last chance she’d have to stake out Anastasia. For the time being, she had no other way to find her.

  For the thousandth time, she wished she could talk to Jess.

  But that door had closed.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “It feels like a long time since I didn’t arrest you for carrying a loaded gun into a high school.” Morgan wrapped his arms tightly around Jil and she squeezed him back, the light scent of his cologne transferring to the collar of her jean jacket.

  Jil groaned. “Don’t remind me of that day.”

  She thought of Jess’s face—drawn and tight—when she’d realized Jil was an undercover
PI sent to investigate her, and not a first-year teacher named Julia Kinness.

  “I really thought you two were gonna make it.” Morgan pulled Jil’s seat out for her before sitting down across the table. In the middle of the room, two pianists began warming up their instruments.

  “Dueling pianos tonight?” She loved the push/pull tension of the pianos and would try her best tonight not to compare that to her relationship with Jess: beautiful, intricate, the combined effort of two distinct opposites making gorgeous harmonies.

  If they didn’t clash horribly.

  Jil ordered a plate of potato skins and a whiskey sour from the server, and Morgan asked for a Manhattan with three cherries.

  She grinned at him. Those extra cherries were for her. She didn’t like the drink, but the liquor-infused maraschinos were fantastic.

  “Too bad you wouldn’t marry me,” Morgan said. “Could have had them a few times a week.”

  She sighed dramatically. “If only. You’re a big man to still be my friend, despite your heartbreaking crush on me.”

  “All right, come on now. It was only for a semester.”

  She gave him a look.

  “Okay, a year.” He accepted his drink from the server and took a sip. “But it’s better to be friends than nothing at all, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Not everyone can get to the friend stage.” He looked into his glass and swirled the ice.

  Jil’s thoughts strayed to Jess. No surprise. She constantly hovered around the corners of her conscious thoughts—infused into every dream.

  They could never be friends. It just wasn’t possible. They were too charged, too in sync with each other’s thoughts and movements. That kind of intensity couldn’t settle into friendship, no matter how much time passed.

  She took a sip of her drink. Time to change the subject. “Listen, what do you know about counterfeiting in Rockford?”

  Morgan leaned in. At first, he didn’t answer. “It’s not really my department,” he said slowly.

  She appraised him. “You’re keeping something from me. What is it?”

  “It’s not something I wanted to tell you. And now that she’s dead, I didn’t think it would make any difference anyway.”

  “Elise? You know something about Elise that’s connected to counterfeiting?”

  Morgan sighed. “She was on our watch list for a while.”

  “Why?”

  Morgan leaned back and kept quiet as the server laid down their plate of potato skins. He smiled at her but waited until she moved away before answering.

  “It doesn’t matter now. We were wrong.”

  Jil stirred her drink. Her stomach felt queasy.

  “So who’s on your radar now?”

  “Well, I know Fraser’s unit has been keeping an eye on Duncan McLeod. He was the only reason they were looking into her in the first place.”

  “Duncan McLeod? Seriously? I think he’s too smart to get caught.”

  “Everybody knows what he’s doing and nobody can catch him. But he’s Fraser’s white whale.”

  Something in Jil’s gut clenched. He’d never mentioned that. “How long has he been after him?”

  “Ever since he made detective, I’m pretty sure. He’s come close a few times, but never actually had enough on him to pin him.”

  Fraser had lied to her. He knew way more about Elise than he’d ever admitted. Why keep it to himself? What was he hiding?

  “Does this…vendetta…have anything to do with his father? Joseph Fraser?”

  Morgan frowned. “That name sounds familiar.”

  “Arrested in the nineties for a heist at the Toronto Art Gallery.”

  Morgan’s eyes lit up. “Yes. And later died in prison. That’s right. He was recently cleared of that, though, right?”

  Cleared? Now why did that sound like something less than a coincidence?

  “You think MacLeod is tied up in that somehow?” she asked.

  “Wouldn’t surprise me at all.”

  “So why not just tell me all this? Why keep me in the dark? Lie to me?”

  “Maybe he was just trying to protect you.” Morgan shrugged. “He didn’t want to tarnish your memories of Elise.”

  “Morgan, he didn’t just obfuscate—he’s hiding something.”

  “Whoa, wait. What are you suggesting?”

  “I don’t know.” Jil put her head in her hands and closed her eyes. “I feel like I’m going a little nuts, Morgan. But I can’t trust anyone. Every time I turn around, something else is getting added to this pile of things that don’t add up. Elise wasn’t sick enough to die of natural causes. Period. The home health care aide was a fraud and had access to our home. She’s been impersonating me at the funeral home and at the bank—both places Elise went before she died.”

  Morgan frowned. “Go on.”

  “The funeral director gave Elise’s ring to the imposter. Fraser knew the ring had been stolen, but I never told him about it. How did he know?”

  “Maybe the funeral home reported it to the police?”

  Jil shook her head. “No. I told Karrie I would handle it.”

  Morgan finished his drink and steepled his fingers on the table. “Jil, have you thought…have you considered…taking a step back from this?”

  She fixed him with a stare. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you? You think I’m seeing motives that aren’t there?”

  “No. No, not entirely. Just…is it possible that you’re just taking this too personally? That Fraser is just doing his job and keeping confidentiality like he should?”

  Jil sighed and drained her glass. “I don’t know anymore. I seriously don’t know.”

  Morgan took a potato skin, which had cooled enough to eat. “Is this what you wanted to talk about?”

  She put down the potato she’d just picked up. “No, actually.”

  He grinned. “How did I guess? Something to do with hacking, am I right?”

  “You don’t hack, do you, Morgan? You investigate.” Forging, replicating, hacking, researching. So many gray lines.

  He shrugged. “I like your version better. What do you need?” He looked relieved to be able to help her with something after all.

  She looked behind her. It was ridiculous to think that someone was looking over her shoulder, listening to her, but being impersonated had her more rattled than she’d admit—even to Morgan. She dropped her voice. “It’s Elise’s student roster at the university. I want access to it.”

  “How far back?”

  “I don’t know—five years?”

  Morgan whistled. “How many names are we looking at?”

  Jil considered. “I don’t think that many. In her later years, she only taught graduate seminars, and those have—what—fifteen students per class? So forty-five a semester if she taught three classes in both fall and winter term.”

  Morgan raised his eyebrows. “That’s still almost five hundred names, Jil.”

  “Yeah. Well, I’ve got to start somewhere.” She picked the cheese off the potato skin and put it in her mouth.

  He drained his drink, then handed her the cherries. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  She would only do it once, Jil promised herself.

  Just to quiet that little voice in her brain. If she saw no evidence, she would never do this again. She’d concede to Morgan that she was paranoid, confess to Fraser about the warehouse, and let him handle his investigation.

  A full block down from the police station, she parked the car. She didn’t have to wait long before she saw Fraser exit the building and get into his own vehicle.

  Her heart sped up. What would he do if he caught her tailing him? It may not have been a crime, exactly, but it had to break some sort of code of honor.

  Unless she found something.

  She followed him ten kilometers, through traffic on the highway, and got off near downtown. Downtown? Not exactly in his neighborhood.

  He mer
ged left, and she followed three cars back.

  They crawled down the inner city streets and he pulled into a tiny parking space.

  Damn.

  She had no choice but to pass him.

  He was busy reversing and didn’t see her. She watched him in the rearview mirror as he headed to John A. MacDonald park—a large open-spaced park in the middle of the downtown core.

  Luck sat on her shoulder. She found a second parking spot and pulled in just in time to see Fraser head through the park’s iron gates.

  She followed at a distance, but he looked over his shoulder, as if he were nervous. Did he suspect he was being followed? She reached a group of trees and hid behind them, taking out her binoculars.

  When she looked out again, he’d disappeared.

  Damn.

  She was about to duck out of her hiding spot when she saw something that made her stop. The fountain in the middle of the courtyard had been turned off for the winter but still seemed to be a popular gathering spot.

  A woman walked by—blond with long wavy hair and a navy trench coat cinched at her waist. She wore large chic sunglasses, and flawless makeup, but Jil studied her walk. The gait, even in high heels, was familiar.

  Her stomach lurched. Nic must be here because of her. Did he plan to arrest her? Who had tipped him off?

  Jil wanted to rush the fountain and tackle the woman, but she had to let Nic handle his own business. She didn’t have the power to arrest her or detain her. That was a police officer’s job, and she had to let him do it.

  The woman stopped at the fountain with her large handbag, sat down, and lit a cigarette.

  Jil watched her, manipulating the binoculars to get a better look at her face. The red lipstick was distracting. As she watched, the woman fished something from her handbag and held it in her lap. She looked discreetly over her shoulder before brushing the object into the basin of the fountain. She waited a moment, then got up with her lit cigarette, and moved on through the park.

  What had she dropped?