Lost Legacy. Dana Mentink

room. “I don’t believe in coincidences either,” he said. “But I do believe that someone is going to pay for killing my wife.”

       “My father wasn’t responsible,” she whispered.

       “Then the truth will set us all free, won’t it?” he said.

      FOUR

      “Absolutely not,” Dean Lock said, lacing his fingers together. One hand was stiff, swollen at the joints, like a withered tree branch. Behind him a set of windows looked out on a courtyard thick with shrubs and a series of wooden benches. The office they now sat in was tucked behind the outer reception area, painted a soothing ivory color, the desk a rich, dark wood. Victor’s feet sank into the plush carpet.

       He had the same trim, polished look that Victor remembered from seeing the man two years before. Victor’s father had bestowed a generous endowment to the university at that time. Polished but tired, as if he’d traveled many miles since their last meeting. His brows were drawn together and the furrows on his forehead were pronounced. Victor felt rather than saw Brooke’s body tense in the chair next to him.

       “We just need to take a look, to satisfy Ms. Ramsey’s curiosity,” Victor said, keeping his voice light. “There was a police report of a student who witnessed Colda exiting the tunnels just before he disappeared.”

       “I’m well aware of that.” Lock’s expression was amused. “Colda was my employee. Based on that one report, you believe Colda stashed a supposedly invaluable painting down there for safekeeping? A Tarkenton?” His words dripped with incredulity.

       Victor chuckled. “Stranger things have happened.”

       Lock nodded. “True, but a whim isn’t a good enough reason to take on the liability. I’m sorry. The tunnels are in a state of disrepair. Dangerous, to say the least.”

       “The university won’t be held liable,” Victor said. “Ms. Ramsey and I will act at our own risk.”

       She nodded, the overhead light sparkling in her hair. He could see it was killing her to keep silent during the exchange.

       Lock shook his head. “Your reason is too far-fetched to merit the risk. There have never been any undiscovered Tarkentons and there are certainly not any underneath this university.”

       Victor shrugged. “Far-fetched, but not impossible. Brooke says Donald Ramsey sent the painting here to Colda. Now both the painting and the professor are missing.”

       “The police have searched the tunnels. They found nothing out of place and no sign of any painting.”

       Brooke broke in, “Then it won’t do any harm to check again.”

       Victor sighed inwardly, wishing she had stayed quiet. As he suspected, Lock took offense.

       The dean’s gray eyes narrowed. “Harm? I believe your father has caused enough harm to me to last a lifetime.”

       He heard Brooke exhale slowly. “Dean Lock, my father did not engineer that theft at the museum. I am sorry that you lost your position as head curator there but—”

       “But heads had to roll and mine was the one that did.” His eyes narrowed. “Someone knew the delivery schedule for those paintings. It was clearly an inside job.”

       “So it could have been you,” she answered quietly.

       Victor was surprised at her courage to speak even though her lips were trembling.

       Lock leaned back as if she’d struck him before he swiveled his eyes to Victor. “I’m disappointed to see you’re throwing in with her. Four years ago you hired an investigator to find evidence that her father was guilty.”

       Brooke’s face flushed, and Victor fought an unexpected urge to take her hand. “I hired Tuney to look at every suspect, and that included you.”

       The ghost of a smile played across his face as he massaged his bad hand. “You made your father angry doing that.”

       “It wasn’t the first time. Your friendship with my father aside, I had to find proof of who might have caused my wife’s death.”

       “But you didn’t, because there wasn’t anything to incriminate me. I loved that museum. Why would I engineer a robbery?”

      Because you are an art freak. The chance to own a rare piece thrills you like nothing else on earth. Because, as my father said, you love dead artists far more than any living. “We’re not here to imply anything.”

       “Good, because I had nothing to do with that robbery.”

       Victor held up a hand. “And Tuney found nothing to incriminate Donald either. Tuney’s back, by the way. He’s been following Brooke.”

       “Really? Who hired him?”

       “He wouldn’t say who hired him, but it can’t be another coincidence.”

       The dean sighed, a long, mournful exhale that seemed to shrink him several inches. “Victor, I understand your need for closure on this.” His eyes clouded. “I’ve lost people, too, a woman I loved more than anyone else in the world, as a matter of fact, but getting involved in this ridiculous treasure hunt is not going to bring Jennifer back.”

       “I know that,” Victor barked, surprising himself with his tone. He continued more softly, “I’ve accepted the loss and dealt with the grief, but the thing I cannot make peace with is that nobody paid for the crime. If this situation is in any way connected to what happened four years ago like Tuney seems to believe, I need to know the truth, all of it.”

       Lock smiled and sat back in his chair. “Your father’s nickname for you was right on the money.”

       Victor felt his cheeks flush and swiveled his eyes away from Brooke. “So will you allow us to go in? I would take it as a personal favor. Besides, we might just find the treasure of a lifetime.” Victor didn’t want to go over Lock’s head, knowing it would destroy his relationship with his father’s old friend. He didn’t want to, but if Lock proved an obstacle, Victor would circumvent the problem one way or another. He always did.

       Dean Lock cocked his head. “All right. Because you are Wyatt’s son and because I try to be a fair-minded man, I’ll take you into the tunnels myself. You’ll see that there’s nothing there but rusted pipes and rats.”

       If Lock intended to frighten Brooke with the mention of rodents, it didn’t seem to have any effect. She nodded solemnly. “Thank you, Dean Lock. I know you believe the worst about my father and I’m sorry to have to ask. I appreciate your help.”

       Victor sensed her humility. He could hear in the clipped syllables what it cost to speak the words. Situations reversed, he was not sure he would have said them. “When can we see it?”

       To Victor’s great surprise, the dean rose stiffly to his feet. “How about right now?”

      * * *

       While the dean went to retrieve his keys, Brooke paced around the office. “I can’t believe he said yes.”

       Victor smiled. “Frankly, I can’t either. I was prepared for more of a fight.”

       She laughed. “Thank you,” she said, putting her hand on his arm and feeling the hard strength there that made her fingertips tingle. “I truly appreciate it. You don’t have to go with me. I’ll pay you for your time.”

       He raised an eyebrow. “It’s not a matter of money.”

       She saw the anger in his eyes, deep down, nestled like a live thing. Could he see the hurt in hers? she wondered. The grief that was kindled when her father was stripped of his job and his dignity? She moved away. “Of course. I understand. This isn’t about the painting for you.” His eyes followed her and she felt suddenly nervous. She began to prowl around, scanning the pictures on the wall. One caught her eye, a photo of a much younger Jeffrey Lock