Lost Legacy. Dana Mentink

He held up a hand to stop her. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

       He’d turned and walked away before she could answer.

      I hope you do, too.

       Brooke closed the door with a deep sigh and leaned her forehead against the cool panel before she turned around to find a man standing next to the bed.

      THREE

      Victor checked his iPhone.

       Message from his brother.

      Steph told me what happened. Don’t take that case. You’re not getting the whole story.

       Victor could picture his little brother’s determined face. He’d seen Luca’s same ferocious resolve to help after Jen died. It was the reason, he suspected, his brother had come up with the Treasure Seekers idea in the first place, a way for Luca to exercise his own constant need for adventure and give his big brother a purpose again.

       Four years later, it had only partially worked.

       Yes, it had kept his mind busy, passionately absorbed in the next prize waiting to be found, but it had not healed his heart. That was still a lump of cold lead, untouchable and numb.

       He was about to dial his brother’s number when he heard Brooke scream.

       He bolted back to her room just as she tore open the door and hurtled out into his arms, nearly knocking him down.

       Eyes wide with terror, she gasped, “There’s someone in my room.”

       He guided her behind him. “Stay here.”

       In spite of his order, he felt her hand on his back as he eased the door open. She edged in behind him as he slowly pushed the door wider.

       The man with close-cropped silver hair and a face that spoke of hard living sat on the bed, arms folded. He showed no sign of agitation at being discovered.

       “What are you doing here?” Victor said. Brooke stepped up to get a closer look, one hand still resting on Victor’s back.

       The man looked closely at both of them with expressionless blue eyes before he answered. “Hello, Doc.”

       Brooke jerked, eyes shifting from Victor to the man on the bed. “You know each other?”

       “Yes.” Tuney stood. “Dr. Gage hired me to do some investigation for him four years ago. How are you, Ms. Ramsey?”

       “Who are you?” Brooke said warily.

       “A detective. I’m working on a case that started with a theft at a certain museum.”

       Brooke sagged and went to the nearest chair, dropping heavily onto the upholstered seat.

       Victor eyed Tuney carefully, the muscles in his stomach knotted. “Why are you following her?”

       Brooke gazed at the carpet as she spoke. “I recognize him now. You came to my house and asked all kinds of questions after the robbery, didn’t you, Mr. Tuney?” When she lifted her head, he noticed the smudges under her eyes and the fatigue that seemed to permeate her body. “Four years ago my father was the assistant curator at the Museum of Culture here in San Francisco. There was a theft—three pieces were stolen from the delivery truck just outside the museum.” She shot a harsh look at Tuney. “My father had nothing to do with it. He tried to call for help once he realized what was happening, but it was too late.”

       “That’s one version,” Tuney said. “Another is your father leaked the information to someone who arranged for the theft. That’s why he lost his job, isn’t it?”

       Anger flared in Brooke’s face. “He lost his job because the museum needed a scapegoat, and Jeffrey Lock, the head curator, made sure my father took the fall.”

       The disbelief on Tuney’s face was clear along with an inexplicable current of anger. “Lock lost his job, too. That’s why he works at Bayside now. The art was probably sold on the black market, and someone made a fortune. Any idea who?”

       “It wasn’t the Ramsey family,” Brooke snapped. “We’re not exactly swimming in money, in case you haven’t noticed. We left San Francisco because we couldn’t afford to stay here anymore after the incident. My father owns a fifteen-year-old car and a run-down house in San Diego.”

       “Sometimes art freaks steal for the sake of owning what they can’t buy. And the thing about art freaks is, they constantly need to collect more and more. It’s a sickness, see. So why are you using the name Ramsey? Your father’s name is Andrews, isn’t it?”

       She slumped. “He forced us to use my mother’s maiden name. Too many people hate us now.”

       Victor felt his stomach shrink. Brooke Ramsey, formerly Brooke Andrews, daughter of Donald Andrews, the one man he abhorred more than any other person on the planet.

       Tuney raised an eyebrow. “I understand your father is now in possession of a painting that might be a Tarkenton.”

       Brooke gaped. “How did you know that?”

       Tuney shrugged, his mouth drawn, eyes flashing. “Your father contacted Professor Colda at the university. Funny thing. Professor Colda went missing, shortly after. Found a note in his office. An address. Guess whose?”

       Brooke shrugged in exasperation. “Ours, no doubt. That makes sense, since my father sent him the painting to appraise.”

       “Yes, your father contacted Colda and then the guy disappeared. Could be your father and the good professor had a falling out? Maybe the learned professor started to ask questions about how your father acquired the Tarkenton? Reasonable, since Dad already has a black mark on his reputation. Maybe he had to make Colda disappear.”

       Brooke lifted her chin and Victor thought he saw her lips tremble before she glared at Tuney. “In spite of the news reports, my father’s character is impeccable. Can you say the same for yours?”

       Victor collected himself and corralled his shock. “Mr. Tuney, none of this gives you the right to break into her room.”

       “I didn’t break in. Gave the maid a happy story that I was her father looking to surprise his daughter.” His lips quirked. “Besides, you didn’t mind my methods when I was working for you.”

       Brooke stood. “You hired him?”

       Victor shook his head. “Not this time. Four years ago, after the robbery.”

       Brooke was pacing the floor now, strides long and graceful, her cheeks flushed. “Because of what happened at the museum? Why would you care about that? What’s your interest in the theft?”

       “I have no interest whatsoever,” Victor said, voice low.

       “I don’t understand,” she said.

       “One thing I’ve learned in this business. If something smells fishy, it usually is,” Tuney said. “I’ve got a personal reason to be involved.”

       “Who are you working for now?” Victor said, turning back to Tuney.

       Tuney shrugged. “That’s not your concern.”

       Brooke crossed her arms. “Whatever you two think you know about my father is wrong. He’s a good man. He didn’t steal anything back then and he hasn’t stolen anything now.”

       “So why are you here in San Francisco?” Tuney said, jerking a thumb at Victor. “Talking to him? Going to do a little treasure hunting?”

       Victor held up a hand. “I don’t think that’s any of your business, Mr. Tuney. The lady can talk with whomever she wants.”

       “Oh, I think it’s my business, all right.”

       “How’s that?”

       “One thing you should both know. I’m