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The side door opened, and then she felt someone come up behind her.
She was about to turn when an arm came around her waist, and something sickly sweet was pressed against her nose. It made her dizzy. She couldn't breathe. And then she was picked up and tossed into the van.
She bounced around on the hard floor as the van sped out of the parking lot. She struggled to stay conscious, to figure a way out, but her eyes were closing, and darkness settled all around her.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Flynn had walkedthe length of the pier and back several times as he considered whether he could make a deal with his father. He wanted to solve Arthur's murder, but his dad was asking a lot. On the other hand, he and Callie had been targets, and while he had no doubt he could protect himself, the longer this went on, the more vulnerable Callie could be. She wouldn't let him watch her twenty-four seven, and what about when her mother came home?
As he returned to his dad, who had actually tossed his fishing line back into the water, he still wasn't sure what he wanted to do.
"You didn't used to take this long to decide anything," his father said. "You were so confident in your decisions."
"When I was young and stupid. You're asking a lot. You know that."
His father pulled his line back up and leaned his rod against the fence. "Do you think I would have come back, shown my face to you, if I didn't have a good reason?"
"I'm not buying that it's because you want to protect me."
"You don't have to buy it, but it's true."
"You want something else. You have another angle. You're always working a hidden agenda. What is it this time?"
"Someone killed my friend. Someone threatened my son and a woman I think is important to him."
"You're calling Arthur your friend?"
"Yes. And I'm not working an angle, Flynn. So, what's it going to be? You want me to walk away with what I know? Or do you want to make a deal?"
He took a deep breath and then slowly let it out. "All right. Who's the artist?"
His father stared back at him. "I have your word you'll let me go?"
"I already said I was agreeing to your terms. Now it's your turn."
"The artist is Victoria Waltham."
His gut tightened at the unexpected answer. "What? Are you serious? How do you know that?"
"Because I saw the painting in her home six weeks ago."
"How did that happen? She wouldn't have just shown it to you."
"I might have been looking around her house without her knowledge."
He raised a brow in amazement. "You stole from Victoria?"
"She had something a client of mine wanted, something Victoria had acquired by not so legal channels."
"You're telling me that Victoria also deals in stolen art. Is anyone legit?"
"Plenty of people are; plenty of people aren't," he said with a shrug. "Victoria is very ambitious. She started out wanting to be a famous artist, but she wasn't any good. I told her a long time ago that she had a brilliant mind for business, and she could be running the art world if she went in that direction. It took her a while to realize I was right. I thought she had given up her art completely, but it turns out that her obsession was still there, just below the surface."
"You're calling her a serial killer—Victoria Waltham, the director of the Piquard Museum, a beautiful, smart, capable woman."
"I know exactly what I'm saying, Flynn. I also know Victoria better than you do."
"Just because the painting was in her house doesn't mean she painted it."