Fatal Cover-Up. Lisa Harris

the museum was open. And each time they strategically took small pieces of art with high price tags. The difference this time was that one of the guards was killed trying to stop them.”

      Talia shook her head. “I’m sorry someone was killed, but I still don’t understand what this has to do with me or with Thomas. He didn’t steal art. He stole drug money and cocaine.”

      He caught another flicker of pain when she spoke and regretted having her dredge up so much from her past. “When Forensics came up with a match, I went to your husband’s department and got your husband’s file. Among the case notes, there were three postcard-sized paintings by nineteenth-century Italian artist Augusto Li Fonti logged as a part of Thomas’s personal belongings, but they’re never mentioned again.”

      “Three postcards?” Her eyes narrowed as she took a sip of her espresso. “I don’t remember any mention of postcards, or understand why that would be significant.”

      “In the second museum heist we believe to be connected to the case I’m working on now,” he continued, “there were three paintings the size of postcards stolen. And because it’s not uncommon for the cartel to trade valuable artwork as collateral, it’s very possible for something like that to be found at a drug raid. I believe they were at the house where your husband was killed.”

      She set down her cup. “And you think I have them?”

      “You could have them without realizing how valuable they are.”

      A shadow crossed her face. “There are still people who believe that I knew what my husband was up to. And possibly even helped him.”

      “Did you?” he asked.

      “No...” She hesitated, clearly unsure if she could trust him. “I need to tell you something.” It seemed she’d decided she didn’t have anyone else to turn to.

      “Okay.” He waited for her to respond.

      She paused one more time then pulled out her phone, clicked on a message and handed it to him. “I received a text message late last night. They told me to bring the three paintings to the Spanish Steps when I got off work. Apparently you’re not the only one who believes I have them.”

      He quickly read through the message. “You were planning to meet them?”

      “I can’t,” she said. “Because I don’t have what they want.”

      “So you don’t remember any small paintings or drawings in your husband’s personal things?”

      “Maybe... I don’t know.” She pushed a wisp of hair behind her ear. “After the investigation closed, the department gave me a box of his personal things. I spent days sorting through all his stuff. I ended up giving some of his personal things to my mother-in-law, then donated most of the rest.” She looked up and caught his gaze. “You have to understand I’d just found out that my husband was a dirty cop and skimming money from police raids. I didn’t exactly want to keep reminders of him around.”

      He understood what she was saying, but now there was something else she needed to know. Someone else—perhaps someone with access to the information he had—had made the same connection to Talia that he’d made. And whoever was after the paintings had killed before. Which meant if that person believed she had them, then her life was in danger.

       TWO

      Joe watched as Talia rubbed the back of her neck with her fingertips. A part of him understood how she felt. Not only was there a strong possibility that her life was in danger, but she also had to be questioning her past decisions. And going through a long list of what-ifs. It was something he’d done far too much lately. But why wouldn’t she? The man she’d given her heart to had betrayed her, and now she was suddenly having to deal with what he’d done all over again.

      “Tell me about the paintings they want,” she said, taking the last sip of her espresso.

      “Do you want another espresso first?” he asked.

      “No. I’m fine.”

      “Okay.” He grabbed his phone and pulled up a photo of the three paintings the museum curator had given him, then handing the phone to her. “They were stolen from a museum in Boston four years ago. A trio of paintings worth somewhere around half a million each.”

      “They’re beautiful,” she said, studying the seacoast scenes.

      “Do you recognize them?”

      She turned the phone sideways. “You said they’re small?”

      “Yes.”

      “Then maybe. I just never made the connection. When I received the text message, I imagined paintings that hung on the wall, but you said Thomas’s list of personal items returned to me included three postcards. It’s strange...he used to send me postcards when he traveled.”

      “So you do remember them.”

      “I think so, but like I said, I didn’t pay much attention at the time to what the department gave me. I just thought they were postcards from one of his trips.” She took one last look at the photos, then handed him back the phone. “And apparently whoever passed them on to me assumed the same thing, as well.”

      “Do you know where they are now?”

      “I only wish I did. Because then I’d be standing on the Spanish Steps right now, handing them over to whoever wants them and putting an end to all of this.” She shoved her empty cup toward the middle of the table. “You said they use art as collateral.”

      “Art has the unique advantage of having an international value without the hassle of money laundering and currency conversion.”

      Talia shook her head. “Meaning?”

      “Over the past decade there has been a huge push to regulate money laundering. Organized crime has adapted by using artwork instead of cash, sometimes in everything from drug deals, to tobacco trafficking, to gunrunning. And while the value of a piece of art that is used as currency is far less than its estimated legitimate value, it can still be worth millions.”

      “So I understand how they ended up in the middle of a cartel meth lab, but here’s something that doesn’t add up—why now? Why are these paintings being connected to me three years after Thomas’s death?”

      “I’m not sure, but it seems to have happened after I started looking in to the connection with your husband’s case and started asking questions.”

      “So what are you saying? Someone inside the department is involved in this? Another dirty cop like my husband?” Her eyes widened at the thought. “Maybe even someone who worked with my husband. I mean, who else would know the case has been reopened? Who else would be looking for those paintings?”

      “All of that could be true,” he said, wishing he had more answers for her. “He might have been working with someone else, or had connections inside, someone who’s been waiting all this time for a lead that would uncover the location of the paintings.”

      “But almost three years have passed.” She shook her head. “And you don’t know if the gun that killed my husband was sold or stolen.”

      “True.” He hesitated, but he needed to know more from her perspective. “I know this is hard for you, but what do you know about that night? Were there any discrepancies that bothered you after his death?”

      “Other than the fact that he was accused of stealing over two hundred thousand dollars in cash and drugs from previous drug raids?” She shook her head. “I never could justify that.”

      “So you never suspected he was involved in something illegal?” he asked.

      “Never. I’d noticed he was distracted, but he’d been working long hours on a couple of tough cases. What I never