Page 16 of Wicked Games

“See you around, Ollie.”

When I reached the sidewalk, I pulled out my phone and called my mother. “Hello, darling,” she said cheerfully. “Are you ready for the feast Betty is making for us tomorrow?”

“I am,” I said honestly, “but I wondered if I could come over and speak with you. There’s something bothering me about the heist at the museum.”

“Ryder, you don’t need permission to come home or to speak to me, but I’m wondering if maybe we should do our best to put the heist behind us. I don’t think rehashing everything is in your best interest.”

“I’m determined to prove I’m innocent, Mother, and I’ll go to any lengths to do it.”

She let out a long sigh then said, “Well, your timing is impeccable because I have an appointment to speak with an agent in half an hour.”

“Perfect,” I said. “Where? At the federal building or the museum?”

“He’s coming here.”

“Agent Kiphart is coming there to speak with you?” I asked.

“It isn’t Agent Kiphart this time. It’s Inspector Somers or something from Interpol.” Mother lowered her voice and said, “I’m ashamed to admit how excited I am to see what a real Interpol inspector looks like. He has the most delicious British accent I’ve ever heard.”

My blood chilled, but I managed to keep my voice calm. “Mother, I want to be there when you meet this Inspector Somers,” I said firmly.

“Okay, if you think this inspector can help clear your name, then I’m happy to have you join us.”

“Oh, I think this Inspector Somers will be able to shed some light on many things.” Fury raced through my veins, and the urge to hit something or someone was stronger than I’d ever felt, including the afternoon I went with Lucien to his hotel room. This rage threatened to consume me, and I feared what I would do if I couldn’t get a handle on it. “I’m coming over right now.”

“Wonderful. I’ll put on a pot of coffee and serve the cookies Betty made yesterday afternoon.”

I wanted to tell my mother not to bother with niceties because they wouldn’t be appreciated. I nearly instructed her to guard the fine china and silverware from the fraud who would be walking into our home, but instead, I said, “That sounds lovely, Mother. I’ll see you soon.”

Half an hour was more than enough time to make it to my parents’ home in Indian Hill if there were no accidents on the interstate. Initially, I had worried about my mother’s safety when she told me about her meeting with an Interpol inspector, because no such thing existed, but then she mentioned his British accent. Interpol had agents not inspectors, but that wasn’t my issue. Gun-toting, badge-waving Interpol agents were an example of Hollywood hype that had become a mainstream belief. Interpol is an international organization which acted as a network for law enforcement agencies around the world. While their work is valid and important, they wouldn’t send a British agent to investigate the heist. I knew who had balls big enough to meet with my mother while masquerading as an international law enforcement agent.

Lucien Clarke hadn’t left town after all. The question was: what was I going to do about it?

IHAD TO BE OUTof my fucking mind. There was no other reason to explain me choosing an Interpol inspector as an alias to gain access to Ryder’s mother. The woman had sounded so intrigued and eager to help, and I felt like the horrible human being I was. I just couldn’t see any way around it, because there had to be an insider on the museum staff, the board of directors, or one of the prominent trustees. Celeste Jameson was a trustee,andI’d learned through the interviews I’d discreetly conducted, she was the sole reason the director had agreed to hire Ryder. While I doubted the woman had the kind of clout to convince Daniel Perez to hire a conservation director with Ryder’s history, he had squarely laid the blame on the Jameson family. The pompous windbag was convinced the Jamesons pulled off the heist together. He’d leaned forward and confessed he’d pointed the FBI in their direction, but without proof, there was nothing the agents could do.

Deverish’s inside person was Mae Yung, the Asian art director. Dev hadn’t wined and dined her; he’d approached her about lending a Neolithic piece of pottery to the museum for a future exhibition. Banks was genuinely an antique collector, and there were many occasions we used pieces of his collection to gain access to a museum. May Yung had invited Dev into her offices where she inspected the piece and gave him a tour of the lab where she could conduct a few tests to ensure the pottery was authentic and not a replica. Sometimes we deliberately used fakes because it garnered the same access as the authentic pieces did.

Mae Yung was naturally the first person I wanted to speak to since she was the Asian arts director and the one responsible for the fanyi vessel. Had she suspected her interaction with Dev, and if not, were there any other potential clients that stuck out in her mind as suspicious? The answer was no and no. Neither Deverish nor anyone else she met caused alarm bells to go off in her head. I noticed she was one of the few that didn’t throw Ryder under the bus. The only thing she’d mentioned about Ryder was his passion for his job and his friendly smile. To her, those things made him innocent. I left the interview convinced the extent of Mae Yung’s involvement were her interactions with Deverish.

I’d discreetly worked my way through the board of directors and museum staff. No one other than Daniel Perez had tripped my alarms, but I couldn’t trust myself to be objective in his case. He had the most scathing things to say about Ryder and Celeste, and it potentially clouded my judgment when it came to him. I hoped the trustees could shed new light on dealings at the museum, but I wasn’t going to hold my breath. Banks was starting to lose his patience because the longer I stayed in Cincinnati, the longer he was short another man in the field.

The Jameson home was north of Cincinnati in a wealthy neighborhood called Indian Hill. According to my research the community was a mix of old and new money, which showed in the styles of homes. I saw graceful, old homes built around the turn of the nineteenth century as well as newer mansions built in the last decade. Some homes sat on smaller lots while others were surrounded by sprawling estates. The Jamesons’ family home sat on a large estate surrounded by a stone wall that was built more for looks than protection. I drove up to the ornate, wrought iron gate and rang the buzzer on the intercom system. After identifying myself, the gates slowly opened and I drove down the long winding driveway which circled in front of a massive stone and cedar structure. The main part of the home was stone and looked like it was built more than a hundred years ago. Since then, wings were added on to the east and west sides of the original structure. Rather than trying to match up stone colors, the architect chose materials which complemented the original stone. Tall, narrow windows lined the east and west wings while stained-glass windows graced the original structure. As grand and regal as the house was, the amber-colored cedar siding made it look warm and inviting.

Behind the home sat two massive outbuildings and a paddock where horses ran and frolicked. The home was lovely and picturesque, and I could picture Ryder growing up here. I should’ve known by the way Ryder’s hips moved when he rode me he was an accomplished horseman. My heart throbbed painfully in my chest when I remembered the way we parted three weeks ago. Someone else would be on the receiving end of his skill from now on. Maybe I could find a way to clear his name while obtaining the answers I needed to close my investigation. Hell, I was even starting to think like a law enforcement officer thanks to Percy’s merciless coaching. He loved mystery books and movies and watched detective dramas all the time. While admitting most things were probably dramatized for television, he did offer some handy advice and coached me on technique. I’d spent my adult life evading law enforcement, not imitating them.

I parked the boring sedan in front of the home and killed the engine. I missed the Aston Martin so fucking much, but Inspector Christian Somersby would hardly drive something so extravagant. The doorbell was answered immediately by a pleasant woman who looked to be in her mid-fifties. I assumed by her uniform she was part of the household staff.

“Hello, ma’am. I’m Inspector Christian Somersby with Interpol. I have an appointment with Mrs. Jameson.”

“Yes, she’s expecting you.” She stepped aside and allowed me to enter the breathtaking foyer. The home could rival the finest I’d seen in England. Marble floors and columns, a winding staircase with a gleaming wooden banister, and dark wood everywhere the eye could see. The windows adorning the front of the home afforded plenty of sunlight to prevent the space from feeling gloomy and oppressive. “I’m afraid she’s taking an important call in her office. She asked me to show you to the library if you arrived before she finished.”

I smiled cordially and said, “That’s no problem at all. I don’t mind waiting.” I did, but what the hell was I going to say? “I can’t linger in case her son happens to show up.” No, I very well couldn’t tell her the truth. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and I wondered if it was a result from thinking about him or—

“I’ll take it from here, Betty,” Ryder said firmly, approaching from the hall to the east wing. “Inspector Somers is it?” he asked when he stopped just to the right of me.

I turned and faced Ryder, knowing the disguise I wore wouldn’t fool him for a second. The corner of his mouth briefly twitched like he wanted to smile, but his anger won the battle, and he continued to scowl at me. His eyes didn’t widen in surprise, so was he expecting me? I knew I’d find out once we were alone in the library. “It’s Somersby,” I corrected. “Christian Somersby.” I extended my hand because it’s what the housekeeper would expect.

Ryder squeezed my hand in a bruising grip, giving away how angry he was. I should’ve worried the FBI agents were in the library waiting to pounce, but I somehow knew better. Ryder was going to allow me to carry out this farce, but why? Curiosity? Did he hope I had information he could use to exonerate him? “Follow me,” Ryder said, dropping my hand and walking back toward the east wing.