Her last chance

Brooke Ramsey is running out of time. She needs to save her father’s reputation before she loses him to illness. That means finding the painting that went missing while in his care. Fast. Which is why she teams up with Victor Gage, owner of Treasure Seekers agency.

The charming private detective has more at stake than uncovering a lost masterpiece. He’s investigating his wife’s death, and the artwork holds the answer. As Victor and Brooke draw closer to each other, so does a murderer. Someone wants the past to remain buried and will kill again to keep it hidden.

“Why don’t you tell me the truth?”

Brooke started. “I am telling you the truth.”

“Not all of it,” Victor said. “I can see in your face there’s something you don’t want me to know.”

“I thought you were a heart surgeon, not a psychiatrist.”

He laughed. “Good research on your part, but I’m also pretty skilled at reading faces.” Truth was, he did not understand why he had the feeling he knew her. He kept his voice low and soft, but he could see she caught the intensity anyway. “So go ahead and tell me. You want to find the painting because it belongs to your father. What’s the other reason that brought you here?”

She took a deep breath and straightened, looking somehow more vulnerable. Vulnerable, small and scared. “I came to you because I believe you are the only person who can help me find that painting. And…”

“And what? Let’s have it, Ms. Ramsey.”

“And I think someone is…”

“Is what?”

Her voice dropped, so he had to lean closer to hear.

“Following me.”

DANA MENTINK

lives in California, where the weather is golden and the cheese is divine. Her family includes two girls (affectionately nicknamed Yogi and Boo Boo). Papa Bear works for the fire department; he met Dana doing a dinner theater production of The Velveteen Rabbit. Ironically, their parts were husband and wife.

Dana is a 2009 American Christian Fiction Writers Book of the Year finalist for romantic suspense and an award winner in the Pacific Northwest Writers Literary Contest. Her novel Betrayal in the Badlands won a 2010 RT Book Reviews Reviewer’s Choice Award. She has enjoyed writing a mystery series for Barbour Books and more than ten novels to date for Harlequin’s Love Inspired Suspense line.

She spent her college years competing in speech and debate tournaments all around the country. Besides writing, she busies herself teaching elementary school and reviewing books for her blog. Mostly, she loves to be home with her family, including a dog with social anxiety problems, a chubby box turtle and a quirky parakeet.

Dana loves to hear from her readers via her website at www.danamentink.com.

Dana Mentink

Lost Legacy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Guard, through the Holy Spirit who dwells in us, the treasure which has been entrusted to you.

—2 Timothy 1:14

To my faithful readers who have come along with me for this Treasure Seekers series. You inspire me to make each book better than the last.

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Dear Reader

Questions for Discussion

ONE

Victor Gage saw beneath the determined expression that Brooke Ramsey was hiding something. Although her red hair and splash of freckles lent her an impish quality, she was deadly serious at the moment.

She lifted her chin, her hands clasped together tightly. “Dr. Gage…”

“Please call me Victor. I haven’t been a practicing surgeon for four years.” He still felt the familiar twinge when he said it out loud. Though he smiled gently at her, she did not respond. Something about her seemed familiar.

Her words were measured and calm, but there was a strong current of emotion throbbing underneath. “I want to hire you to find a treasure.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why me?”

She glanced around the richly appointed office. “Because Treasure Seekers is your agency.” She crossed her legs, long and lean, a dancer’s body. “You’ve found things for people before. Yours is the only business in California that does this kind of work, I’ve heard.”

“True, but we’re not really a public agency. We are very selective. The cases we’ve taken on were strictly through private recommendation. Friends of friends generally. I’m surprised you’ve even heard about us.”

“You found that Vermeer six months ago. You’re the only one who can help us,” she said.

For Victor the thrill came in unearthing the treasure, not the publicity that inevitably followed, but the Vermeer had made international headlines in spite of his refusal to be interviewed. “Us?”

“Me. I meant me.”

He cocked his head. “There are plenty of good detective agencies you could go with. Why am I the only one?”

She shifted in the chair. “You have connections to Bayside College. Your family funded some buildings there.”

He hid his surprise. She’d done some homework, just as he would have before a meeting like this. “My father did, yes.”

She leaned forward. “Then they’ll allow you access.”

“To what?”

Stephanie Gage slipped into the room and joined them. Victor introduced his sister. He watched Brooke’s reaction to Stephanie’s frank stare. Brooke’s gaze lingered on the scar that crossed his sister’s cheekbone. “Stephanie is working on another case right now. She’s a computer genius among other things,” Victor said. “My brother, Luca, is also a partner in this firm, but he’s traveling at the moment.”

Brooke eyed the two of them. “I can see the resemblance.”

“Working with big brothers can have advantages and disadvantages,” Stephanie said, with a wry look at Victor. “Have you got siblings, Ms. Ramsey?”

“Just a brother but he’s…away.”

Stephanie gave Brooke a friendly nod before turning to Victor. “Luca is going to be tied up for another two days.” Her gaze flicked to Brooke and back again. “He said not to get into any messes while he’s gone, but I think he might have meant that more for me than you.”

Victor laughed. “Ms. Ramsey was just telling me that she needs access to Bayside College, but she hasn’t told me why.”

Brooke breathed deeply before she answered. “There is a tunnel system under the college. It’s been there since the place was built in the 1930s. I have reason to believe there’s a treasure hidden there, which I need to recover quickly.”

He leaned forward. “Let’s stop dancing around the issue, Ms. Ramsey. What’s the treasure?”

She raised her chin a fraction. “A painting that belongs to my father.”

“What kind of painting?”

She stared at him, and he could see her weighing whether or not to trust him. “It’s a Tarkenton.”

He didn’t answer for a moment. “A Tarkenton? As in a work by L. Tarkenton?”

She nodded.

Considering he’d recently read about a Tarkenton fetching twenty million dollars at auction, it would be a treasure indeed. “How did your father wind up with it?”

Her eyes flicked away from his. “That’s not important. The point is, I know where it is.”

He considered, pulse quickening at the enticing possibility. She could be wrong. Barring that, her father could have obtained the painting illegally. The possibility that a work of art was tucked in the tunnels under Bayside College was beyond far-fetched. “That’s certainly quite a prize, but we don’t work for the payoff. We’re all well established. I think you need an art historian, not the three of us. We couldn’t authenticate it, even if we found the piece.”

“I am an art historian, unofficially anyway. Look, I know you’re not in it for the payoff and neither am I. The painting belongs to my father and he’s…” She swallowed. “Never mind the details. My father had it sent to a professor at the college for examination, a man named Leo Colda, and it disappeared while in his possession.”

Stephanie cocked her head. “Hang on. This rings a bell. Colda disappeared, too, didn’t he?”

Brooke nodded. “He was last seen exiting the steam tunnels a month ago. I need to recover the painting. Time is running out. They’re closing down the college next term for a massive remodel and if I don’t find the painting soon it will be destroyed.” She bit her lip and looked at her lap.

He watched her cheeks flush, the curse of a fair, freckle-faced redhead. He got the impression there was something much more than treasure at stake. After giving her a moment to recover herself, he asked, “Why don’t you tell me the truth?”

She started. “I am telling you the truth.”

“Not all of it. I can see in your face there’s something you don’t want me to know.”

“I thought you were a heart surgeon, not a psychiatrist.”

He laughed. “Good research on your part, but I’m also pretty skilled at reading faces.” Truth was, he did not understand why he was so intrigued by this particular face, why he had the feeling he knew her. He kept his voice low and soft, but he could see she caught the intensity anyway. “So go ahead and tell me. You want to find the painting because it belongs to your father. What’s the other reason that brought you here?”

She took a deep breath and straightened, looking somehow more vulnerable since she’d taken off her jacket. Vulnerable, small and scared. “I came to you because I believe you are the only people who can help me find that painting. And…”

“And what? Let’s have it, Ms. Ramsey.”

“And I think someone is…”

“Is what?”

Her voice dropped so he had to lean closer to hear.

“Following me.”

* * *

Stephanie and Victor stared at Brooke, and she could feel her cheeks flame with embarrassment.

Victor’s look was half suspicious, half amazed. He thought she was paranoid and, from the guarded expression on his sister’s face, she agreed with him. Brooke was beginning to think it herself.

She waited in the outer office while they discussed the situation, even though she knew what the outcome would be. She thought about her brother. Tad’s goofy smile played in her memory.

Chin up, he would remind her at every opportunity. Deep down he was a gentle soul, sweet and loving, and no one would ever convince her otherwise. She raised her head. She would find the Tarkenton and they’d have enough, more than enough to take care of Tad, to bring him home where he belonged. The door opened and she shot to her feet.

They emerged, their demeanor kind, professional and firm.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Ramsey,” Stephanie said. Brooke was afraid to look her in the eye, so she focused on the second tiny gold hoop in Stephanie’s ear, just above the lobe.

“We have several projects in progress right now and we don’t feel we can give your case the attention it deserves.”

Victor thanked her for coming and offered to help her find a private investigator. She declined.

As Brooke exited the outer office and headed for the elevator, she puzzled it over. Of course a successful doctor, already wealthy, who found treasures on a lark wouldn’t be interested in her fanciful tale of a vanished Tarkenton painting. And he and his sister would definitely be put off by some paranoid woman who believed someone was following her.

As she waited for the elevator, the fright she’d experienced over the past few months seemed ridiculous. The lady she’d thought was tailing her, the phone calls. She swallowed. Was her mind going? Was it an early manifestation of the disease that was eating away at her father? A version of the terrible genetic error visited on Tad?

She shook it off and willed the elevator to hurry. The quiet of the hallway was oppressive. Didn’t anyone else work on this floor of the San Francisco building? She longed to get home to Southern California where the fog did not lie like an oppressive blanket over the spring sunshine. Shivering, she realized with a start that she’d left her jacket in Gage’s office.

She would rather lose it than go back and face the former doctor who already thought she was delusional. It had taken every ounce of courage to seek him out. She had not one bit of bravery left. A familiar sense of failure hung heavy on her shoulders. The elevator doors slid open and Brooke stepped forward until she saw the lady in the back, her hair a perfect black in spite of the fifty years or so written on her hardened face.

That face.

That woman.

Brooke knew her; she’d seen her back home at the coffee shop, at the library.

Fear bubbled up inside and she backed away.

The woman stepped forward, a question in her eyes. She reached into a black slouch bag.

Brooke didn’t wait. She whirled around and ran toward the end of the corridor, slamming through the stairwell door. Her feet moved faster than she’d thought possible as she plunged down three flights of stairs, heart thundering.

She did not know exactly why, but the woman had been stalking her, waiting to make her move. The cement corridor echoed her frantic run as she pelted down the stairs.

Get to the next floor. There will be people around. She can’t hurt you with people around.

Brooke continued on her flight until she saw the door marked Floor Six just ahead. Only a half-dozen steps left to go when she heard the unmistakable sound. The door began to open.

* * *

For all his years as a surgeon and the personal trauma he’d survived, Victor thought he was immune to surprise, but he found himself taken aback at Brooke Ramsey’s declaration that someone was following her. They’d exchanged a few words. She’d shaken his hand, her fingers cold and small in his grip, and practically run out the door, before he could even recommend someone else to help her. He was grateful for the chance to try to sort out his tangle of feelings as he returned to his desk and sank into the chair.

“What are you thinking?” Stephanie said, her hand on his shoulder.

“Me? Just wondering if we did the right thing refusing her case.”

“If she’s telling the truth, she needs the cops, not us. If she’s not…”

“Then she’s crazy?”

Stephanie sighed. “I’ve wondered that about myself many a time.”

He wanted to take her hand and squeeze it, to tell her that there were brighter days ahead, but he didn’t think he could sound convincing and she wouldn’t welcome the gesture anyway. He felt certain that all his brighter days were firmly in the past. Long gone, like his wife, Jennifer. He looked at the framed picture on his desk of a smiling Jen with her arms around him. Ironic that the afternoon she died she was wearing the same colorful scarf she’d been sporting the day he’d proposed.

Jen was gone; the joyful years were now buried deep and sealed over like an ugly, improperly healed wound. Now the only thing left was Treasure Seekers. It was the single reason he pulled himself out of bed some mornings. There were treasures still to be found in the world, the perfect job for his mixture of tenacity and curiosity. “Something about Ms. Ramsey is familiar. Why do I feel like I’ve seen her somewhere?”

Stephanie headed for the door. He recognized the determination in her perfect posture. “I’ll go do a little digging and get back to you.”

Victor stared after her. He replayed his last question to Brooke Ramsey in his mind, after he’d refused her case.

“What will you do now?” Why had he even said that? Why did he have the desire to keep her from leaving?

She’d turned her head, the light catching the determination in her profile and the streak of little-girl vulnerability. “I’m going to find another way to return my father’s painting. Thank you for your time.” Then she’d bolted out the door.

His eyes wandered back to the chair where she’d sat, looking at him with emotions that went far deeper than her words. It took him a moment to realize she’d left her jacket on the chair. He fingered the soft brown suede, remembering how it accentuated the almost luminous quality of her coppery hair. A light citrusy scent clung to the material.

He hurried to the door, calling to his secretary. “Trudy, I’m going to step out for a minute.”

She nodded. “I’ve got a message for Ms. Ramsey. Did you get her cell phone number?”

“Yes,” he said, frowning. “A message from whom?”

“Her sister, asking for a return call.”

Just a brother, she’d said.

Without a word, he took off running toward the elevators.

* * *

Brooke froze, heart slamming into her ribs, paralyzed. Should she run by the door or back up the stairs?

She was about to bolt past when the door swung open. A startled maintenance worker jerked when he saw her.

“Man, you scared me,” he said.

“Sorry,” she managed after sucking in a breath. “Is… Did you see anyone out there? A lady with black hair and a big bag?”

He chewed a piece of gum and considered. “Saw someone like that earlier in the lobby. She looked around for a while and made a phone call, then I lost track of her.”

She nodded her thanks and continued on down until she reached the lobby. Opening the door and peeking out, she was relieved to see no sign of the lady. Trying to appear calm even though her heart was still thundering inside her, she walked to the reception desk and asked the attendant to summon her a taxi. While she waited, her attention divided between looking out the glass doors for the taxi in the bustle of the financial district and watching the elevator and stairwell for any sign of her stalker, Brooke shivered.

Could be the lady was completely innocent, but Brooke was positive it was the same person she’d noticed the week before in San Diego, watching her from a parked car.

Brooke positioned herself nearer to the glass doors where she would be easily seen by passersby and the front desk person. Once again she was overreacting. Her fears were silly. She tried to focus her thoughts on the next step. Since Victor had declined, she had to find another way to get access to the tunnels under the college. How? Dean Lock would never allow it, not considering his hatred of her father. The police wouldn’t get involved. Who could pressure the dean into allowing her access?

No one but Victor Gage.

She pushed the dark thought aside.

God will help me through this, she thought. He’d held on to her and her father and brother through a lifetime of struggle. He wouldn’t turn His back on them now. She didn’t need anyone’s help anyway.

The elevator doors opened. Brooke was startled to see Victor step out, troubled eyes scanning the room until he found hers. There was an intensity in his face she hadn’t seen before.

He’d changed his mind. Her heart leaped until she saw her jacket in his hand. Merely returning a forgotten item. Disappointment swirled inside, but she held up her chin and plastered a gracious smile on her face.

A moment later the smile fell away. Brooke watched over Victor’s shoulder as the black-haired woman emerged from the stairwell, her expression grim.

Brooke gasped and took a step backward.

In a fog of confusion, she saw a look of horror twist Victor’s handsome features, his eyes rounding over her shoulder as he looked out the glass doors.

She had no idea what had startled him until the glass shattered around them and Victor pulled her to the floor.

TWO

Victor saw the situation unfold, but his head did not believe it. One moment he was heading toward Brooke Ramsey, wondering at the frightened look on her face. The next, he saw a car pull up outside the office, the window rolled down just far enough for him to see a gun thrust through the opening. He had a split second to leap on top of Brooke and carry her to the ground before three shots drilled through the glass. They tumbled along the tile floor, small pieces of the safety glass crackling underneath them. There was a scream from somewhere as the car pulled away and out of sight.

Her breath came in short pants against his cheek. He pushed away a section of her glossy hair and looked into her eyes, so close he could see his own expression mirrored there.

“Are you hurt?”

She tried a few times to answer before any words came out. “I don’t think so. What happened?”

He took another look to make sure the car hadn’t returned before he rolled off her and moved her away from the glass. “A shooter,” he managed, before he noticed the front desk person sprinting across the lobby, shouting into a radio.

Victor followed his progress. Brooke must have, too, because he heard her gasp, her hands flying to her mouth. Then his body was moving on instinct, feet crunching over the broken glass, mind running like a mad thing as he raced to the dark-haired woman lying motionless on the floor.

Mid-fifties, he guessed as he checked her vitals. No breathing, no heartbeat, bullet wound visible on her forehead. He knew the prognosis of a bullet plowing through the frontal lobe of the brain, but he ignored it, tilting her jaw to open the airway and starting chest compressions. Every few cycles he rechecked the vitals without much hope.

Cold horror seeped into him as he was transported back to the moment when he’d awakened in a wrecked car, Jennifer unconscious and broken next to him. He could still feel the warmth of her body under his hands as he frantically tried to restart her heart. There must have been people there, too, as there were now, standing helplessly, dialing cell phones, calling encouragement to the victims of the awful accident, but he hadn’t heard them. Everything faded into a mumbling haze except the reality of his hands on her ribs, his lips blowing air into her mouth, the fading pulse under his frantic fingertips.

“Help me, God,” he’d said, because that’s what Jen would have prayed.

And He hadn’t.

And Victor couldn’t either.

Jennifer was gone.

Victor knew with the same sickening certainty that the black-haired woman was gone, too. He could force her heart to pump, squeeze it into pushing the blood around, but the life, that indefinable force that separates the living from the dead, was gone. He continued the compressions anyway, shoulders burning, until the paramedics arrived and took over the effort. When he finally did move away, he saw Brooke staring at him in shock. An officer took her by the arm and another one escorted him to a nearby hallway, away from the broken glass and the death that lay in awkward display on the cold tile floor.

He was surprised to find that his hands were shaking, so he stuffed them into his pockets as the officer began to ask him questions. He retold the strange interview with Brooke and her assertion that someone was following her. With a start, Victor remembered why he’d gone to the lobby in the first place.

“Someone called my office looking for Ms. Ramsey, pretending to be her sister.”

The officer raised an eyebrow and dutifully recorded the information. “Why don’t you sit down here while we look into some things, Mr. Gage?” The officer moved off and Victor caught sight of Brooke talking to another cop, the freckles standing out strikingly against the paleness of her skin.

He wished he could settle on one feeling, but a stream of conflicting emotions surged through him. Post-traumatic shock, he figured. He’d just witnessed a murder, and if he hadn’t been there it would have been Brooke on the floor. The thought sickened him.

Stephanie appeared, eyes wide and scared. She took hold of his arms, squeezing hard. “Are you all right?”

He reassured her, bringing her briefly up to speed. Stephanie shook her head. “Drive-by shooting? Gang related, maybe?”

He shrugged, and he read in her face that she didn’t believe it was a random shooting any more than he did. He glanced over at Brooke.

Brooke nodded at some question from the officer and looked as though she might cry.

Was this related to the phone call? Or was this a random shooting? He should help her figure it out, dive into the situation with all the zeal he possessed, isolate the problem, cure the ailment.

He looked again at Brooke as the officer led her to a chair. “It was the woman…the woman I thought was following me back in San Diego.”

The same woman?

She avoided looking at him.

It was just as well.

Brooke needed help, but he was not the man to give it to her, or to anyone else.

* * *

Brooke had to force herself to remain in the chair. She had the insane desire to run, to plow through the ruined front doors and sprint all the way back to San Diego to her father. She’d heard the front desk man say something about gangs and drive-by shootings but she knew in her soul, deep down in the instinctive part, that the bullet had been intended for her, not the black-haired lady who had been wheeled out on a stretcher to the waiting ambulance. She could tell by the expression on Victor’s face when the medics arrived that the lady would not survive. Had the woman been trying to help her? To warn her? Of what? Of whom? Brooke’s head spun.

After an hour of questioning, waiting and more questioning, she was spent. Blinking back tears, she pulled the phone out of her purse and dialed. It rang once, twice, until someone picked up.

“Dad,” she breathed, trying to keep her voice steady.

A woman’s voice answered. “Brooke, it’s Denise. Your father’s taking a nap. Are you okay? You sound funny.”

Brooke relayed the events as simply as she could to her father’s cousin.

Denise gasped into the phone. “What? Are you hurt? Who was shot?”

Brooke reassured her, “A lady I don’t know was killed. I wasn’t hurt, thanks to—” she shot a look at Victor, who had closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall behind him “—the man I was meeting, to look into the situation. He kept me out of the line of fire.”

“Brooke, this is crazy. You need to come home right now. Tell that man you don’t care about the painting anymore and head home before something worse happens.”

She sighed. “He didn’t take the case anyway.”

Denise exhaled loudly. “Then you’ve got no reason to stay. Come home where you’ll be safe.”

Brooke glanced at Victor, who was now gazing at her with haunted eyes. She wondered for a moment what it would be like to bring someone back from the brink of death. Or fail to. She blinked away the thoughts. “I’m going to stay the night, try to plead my case with Dean Lock myself.”

“It’s a lost cause. You know that. Way too much past history there.”

“I know but I’ve got to try. How’s…how’s Dad?”

“It was a good day. He was very together. We finished up another chapter and he even remembered where he’d put some of the notes he took from our trip to Cambria.”

Brooke smiled, remembering how excited her father had been, researching Tarkenton’s time in Cambria. It was there, six months ago, that he had purchased the unsigned painting at an estate sale, a painting he was absolutely convinced was the work of Tarkenton. For months he’d been studying it, fussing over it, she thought uncomfortably. She sighed, wondering for a moment if it wouldn’t have been better for him never to have discovered the thing. It seemed to be the root of the strange trouble she found herself in now.

But recalling the sheer joy on his face when he showed it to her, the clarity of his mind as he took her through each aspect of the painting, the application of color, the emotionally controlled realism, the perfect execution only possible from a master. She would not trade those moments for anything. She tuned back in.

“Brooke,” Denise was saying, “your father would not want you to put yourself in danger to find out what happened to his painting. You’re more valuable to him that any work of art.”

“I know, and I’m just going to give it one more try and then I’m on my way home. Don’t tell Dad about the shooting, please. It will just upset him.”

“I don’t like keeping things from your father. He’s not a child, Brooke.”

I know that, she wanted to snap. He’s my father, isn’t he? Instead she bit back the frustration. Donald Ramsey was not a child; he was a man of ferocious intellect and voracious curiosity, but more and more the genetic condition was turning him into someone she didn’t know. Each day brought him deeper into that mental fog from which someday he would not be able to escape.

Denise was helping, too, keeping his mind active, engaging him in finishing his book, making sure he had contact with Tad. Patience, Brooke. “I understand. Maybe you could not mention it unless he asks about me.” She paused. “Has he? Asked about me?”

She could sense Denise struggling with the truth. “Well…we’ve been really busy here, honey. We visited Tad today, and you know that’s hard on your father.”

Brooke blinked hard at a sudden wash of tears. It’s hard on everyone. “No problem. I’ll call you soon.”

She hung up before the emotion got the best of her. Phone gripped in her hand, she tried to take some calming breaths.

Gotta help Dad. Gotta make things right. Time is running out.

Victor’s voice made her jump.

“Are you okay?”

There was sympathy in his face, probably the kind he gave to any crazy person he came across. “Yes. Okay. Thank you for…what you did.”

He didn’t respond, just looked at her with those piercing green-gold eyes until she couldn’t stand it anymore. She walked to the nearest officer, feeling as though she’d been in that lobby for a lifetime instead of an hour and a half. “Can I go now?”

He asked her a few more questions, got her cell phone number and the name of her hotel and offered to call her a taxi.

“I’ll drive her.”

Brooke was startled to find Victor standing at her elbow. “I can take a taxi.”

“My car is around back.”

Stephanie walked over. “Stay here,” she said to Victor. “We’ve got some things to look into.”

“No, Steph. I’ll be back soon. I need to take Brooke to her hotel.”

Stephanie looked unhappy, but she did not attempt to persuade her brother. “Okay. I’ll be waiting for you.” She paused a moment next to Brooke. Her eyes were guarded, but Brooke could see concern buried deep down. “I’m sorry this happened, Ms. Ramsey. Be careful.”

Brooke felt suddenly exhausted. She only wanted to get to her hotel room, sink into a hot bath and forget the past few hours. Maybe if she tried really hard, she could convince herself it was all a dream, a very bad dream. “Thank you.”

Victor led the way to the parking lot, where he opened the door to a spotlessly clean Mercedes. She leaned her head back on the leather seat and closed her eyes as Victor eased them through the crush of the San Francisco financial district, suited men and women, bicycle messengers and the constant supply of taxis weaving through the lanes. He didn’t say a word, and that was just fine with her. The sun was low in the sky now, outlining the tall buildings in harsh shadow.

She shot a peek at his profile, dark hair cut short on the sides, bangs long enough to show the slightest tendency to curl. Thick brows and a strong chin that sported the shadow of the beard that would no doubt emerge if he wasn’t impeccably shaved.

“I overheard you talking on the phone to your mother.”

Brooke stiffened. “My mom is gone. That was my father’s cousin. My unofficial aunt.”

“Is your father ill?”

The question might have been rude if it hadn’t resonated with a certain compassion. Or was it clinical curiosity? She sighed. “Yes, he’s…he’s not well.”

“And you’re trying to find the painting because you think time is running out for him?”

She shoved her hands under her thighs. “Isn’t that kind of a personal question after you washed your hands of my case?”

A ghost of a smile danced on his lips. “You’re right. Poor bedside manner. I apologize.”

“Why aren’t you a doctor anymore?” she blurted out, aghast at her own forwardness. What had come over her?

He didn’t look at her, but she saw his grip tighten on the steering wheel. “I needed a break.”

“So you went from being a doctor to a treasure hunter?”

He offered a small smile. “Luca’s idea. He’s always been part Indiana Jones.”

She brightened. “Do you think he would take my case, then?”

Victor laughed. “We usually stick together on these decisions. Treasure Seekers is really important to all of us.”

“Indiana Jones would have done it.” They exchanged a look and both of them laughed until Brooke flopped her head back against the seat. “Well, you did save my life, so I guess I can forgive you for turning me down.”

“I’m glad,” he said.

“I think I’ve heard your name before somewhere. Are you an art aficionado?”

“No, but my wife was.” He cleared his throat. “I took up treasure hunting after she was killed.”

Brooke felt herself flush. “I’m sorry.”

He nodded, not looking at her. “Me, too.”

They pulled up at the hotel and Brooke got out quickly, hoping Victor wouldn’t offer to walk her in. He did anyway, in spite of her protests. Something about him made her stomach flutter.

The hotel carpet was plush, the lobby tasteful with graceful indoor trees and richly upholstered chairs arranged in cozy groups. It all looked so normal, so unbelievably calm compared to the anxiety storming inside her.

He walked with her to the elevator and they got inside, the silence thickening between them. Brooke could not figure out what to think about the man next to her. She wanted to be angry with him for brushing her off, but those feelings were outweighed by his heroic effort in the lobby and the shadow in his eyes when he spoke of his wife.

She would have shaken her head to ward off the thoughts if he wasn’t standing so close, close enough for her to catch the faint musky aftershave and see the tiny cut on his cheek, no doubt caused by his dive into the glass.

A big man wearing dark glasses got into the elevator. She jumped as he dropped the clipboard he was carrying, which fell to the floor with a sharp crack. Victor gave her a reassuring look as the man apologized, and she offered him a shaky smile.

Victor saw her up to the fifth floor and waited until she slid her key card and opened the door. She turned to thank him again.

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 a busy man, so sometimes I hire people to do freelancing for me. In this case, I had someone keeping tabs on you in San Diego and on your trip up here.”

Victor felt a tingle of unease in his spine. “Who?”

“Gal by the name of Fran.” He looked at Brooke, a flash of emotion crossing his face. “I was scheduled to meet her but things didn’t work out. Maybe you saw her.”

“Saw her?” Brooke echoed.

“Yeah,” Tuney said, his eyes shifting from hers to Victor’s. His voice trembled slightly, and he cleared his throat. “She was shot in your lobby a few hours ago.”

* * *

The walls seemed to blur before Brooke’s eyes. She staggered back and felt Victor’s arm around her waist, steadying her, before she pulled away. “The black-haired woman worked for you?”

“Yes. Off the books, of course. She’s the one who found your father’s address in Colda’s office, so she started tailing you. Followed you to San Francisco, to Gage’s office building. I went to meet her. Got there just in time to join the crowd of bystanders who collected after the shooting.” He cleared his throat again. “It was clear she wasn’t going to make it, even with Dr. Gage’s help, so I decided to come to meet with you personally.”

“Did you tell all this to the police?” Victor asked.

Tuney’s eyes narrowed. “Not yet. I figured I would fill them in right after I talked to you.”

Words failed Brooke. All she could think about was the lady lying on the lobby floor with the life ebbing out of her.

“Brooke’s going back home soon, so there’s no reason for you to continue to pursue her.”

“I want the truth. That’s what I get paid to find out, and now, since Fran’s been killed, I have even more reason to stay on this. She was a good woman and whoever is responsible needs to be punished.” Tuney moved toward Brooke but Victor stepped in between them. Tuney continued, “Get me some time with your father, Brooke. He can come clean, admit to his part in the robbery and cop to whatever he did to Colda and had done to Fran. He’s a sick man, I understand. He’ll want to do the right thing before it’s too late.”

“Stop it,” Brooke screamed, tears pooling in her eyes. “My father is okay. He’s okay.”

“Leave her alone.” Victor drew himself up to his full six feet three. Tuney did not miss the gesture and eased back.

“Or your aunt Denise could talk to me,” Tuney said thoughtfully. “She might have some info that would put the incident to rest.”

Brooke didn’t even ask how Tuney managed to know all the intimate details of her family’s life. “You’re wrong about everything.”

He shrugged. “You should make it easy on your father. Get him to talk to me.”

“What if she doesn’t?” Victor said, voice low.

“Then I stick to Ms. Ramsey like the proverbial glue.”

“You’re no better than a stalker,” Victor snapped.

“I prefer to think of it as determination rather than stalking. Funny how you didn’t mind my tactics when you wanted answers of your own.”

Victor gestured to the door. “I think you’d better leave, Mr. Tuney.”

Tuney hesitated, and Brooke hated the scornful look on his face.

“I’ll go,” he said, “but you’ll be seeing me in your rearview mirror until this thing is solved and Fran’s murderer is caught.” He stopped as he got to the door. “One thing you might consider. Could be that shooting today was random, but it could also be that someone else is interested in your situation.”

“No,” Brooke mumbled, head whirling.

“Better to get it all out in the open before somebody else winds up dead.”

“Get out,” Victor snarled.

Tuney strode out the door, leaving them in silence.

Victor gestured for her to sit on the bed and he took the chair. “We need to contact the police and fill them in on everything Tuney said.”

She tried for a steady tone. “First you need to tell me what’s going on. You know about the robbery and you hired Tuney before. I’m not moving an inch until you tell me the truth.”

“The truth?” he said quietly. “That’s all I’ve been trying to find out for four years.”

Pain surged through her. All the shame, all the humiliation. Her father had never really been able to put it behind him, and now it was all going to be raked up again. Her mind was still spinning from Tuney’s intrusion. “What is happening? It was just supposed to be a meeting. Now there’s been a shooting and this detective shows up. How well do you know him?”

“I hired him to investigate the circumstances of my wife’s death. He wasn’t able to solve the case, so we parted ways.”

Brooke felt a tremor inside, a deep foreboding slithering through her body. “When…when was your wife killed?”

His eyes bored into hers. “September fifth, four years ago.”

“September fifth?” She gaped. “That’s the day my—”

“Father’s museum was robbed, I know.”

She did not understand the expression on his face, a mixture of anguish and burning intensity. “There was an accident,” she whispered. “A few blocks from the museum. I remember reading about it in the paper.”

His voice was feverish, brow furrowed, and she could hear a deep current of emotion behind the words. “At three forty-five, September fifth, a man fleeing the scene of the robbery plowed into our car and killed my wife. The driver was never caught. I hired Tuney to find out who was involved in the robbery so I could nail the guy.”

“You hired Tuney to investigate my father?”

“And anyone else who might have been involved.”

She felt sick. “You think…you believe my father is the one? That he robbed his own museum and hired the man who killed your wife?”

“Tuney didn’t find any proof.”

“But that’s what you believe…deep down…isn’t it?”

After a moment, he reached for his phone. “I’m going to call Dean Lock and arrange a meeting for us, tomorrow, if possible.”

“Us?” She looked at him, openmouthed. “You’re taking my case?”

“No,” he said as he dialed. “But I’m going to go with you to meet the dean.”

“Why would you do that?”

He stared at her. “Do you believe in God, Brooke?”

She started at the abruptness of the question, his eyes burning into hers. “Without a doubt.”

“Well, I don’t. My wife did, but I always told her I would never let anyone or anything take charge of my destiny but me. I don’t believe there’s a God that guides us through our daily lives. I don’t believe it for one moment, but there’s something going on here that I can’t explain. The day your life fell apart, mine did, too, and now, all these years later, you walk into my office.”

“Coincidence. It’s got to be. How could the robbery be connected to what’s happening now?”

“I don’t know, but here you are claiming another painting has been stolen from your father.”

“It’s not just a claim. It’s the truth,” she snapped.

“Maybe it has nothing to do with what happened four years ago, but I’m not going to let it go until I know for sure.”

She stared at the granite expression on his face, feeling a wave of anguish wash over her. “I had no idea. I remember hearing that a woman was killed, but I was too wrapped up in what was happening to my father to pay much attention. I never would have come to you if I had… It has to be a crazy coincidence.”

She saw something glittering in his eyes, something hard and unforgiving. A bank of fog rolled across the sun, sending dark shadows skittering across the 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 in a tuxedo and tails, smiling in front of a baby grand piano.

“He’s a musician?”

“Used to be,” Lock said from the doorway, startling her. “Before rheumatoid arthritis took that away from me. Can’t even play a scale now. It pains me to even try. I keep that piano around to torture myself with what could have been.” Lock was smiling, but there was a pained look in his eyes. “Your father and I used to joke about how our bodies betrayed us.”

Brooke hadn’t known her father had shared the deeply personal struggle with his own disease, a syndrome called FXTAS, with anyone except immediate family. While she struggled to think of something to say, he handed her a hard hat and another to Victor.

“The access point we’ll be using is in the basement of the women’s dorm. It’s empty right now in preparation for the remodel, so we shouldn’t have any interruptions.”

They followed the dean out into the chilly air, and Victor sent a text as they walked. Brooke was struck again at how lovely the campus was, a series of stately buildings sprinkled over the hills, shrouded in fog that rolled in off the San Francisco Bay. From the highest building, she imagined, a person would have a panoramic view of the entire bay and across the water to the cities of Hayward, Oakland and the infamous hippie town of Berkeley.

“The students have been relocated to our satellite campuses.” Lock gestured to the tall building in the distance. “Really there are only a few professors left here, tidying up, and a security detail to keep people out.”

“When do the renovations begin?” Victor asked.

“Officially in two weeks.” The dean shot a look at the red brick building, rising in a series of peaked gables partially hidden by a cluster of trees. “That’s the girls’—” he shook his head “—sorry, women’s dormitory. Empty now, and next to it is the library.”

She followed him past the graceful columns. The Gage Library. Victor’s family really did live in a different stratosphere. Her skin prickled with goose bumps. It was so empty, so silent. The grassy area that should have been sprinkled with students nursing coffees and cramming for tests was deserted and eerily still. She felt a deep longing for the college life that she’d given up after only one semester. After losing her dance career to a knee injury, she’d tried for years to rehab before finally admitting defeat. It seemed like a lifetime before she’d returned to college, but the decision to leave had been easy. There had been no choice with her father being investigated by the police, the press shadowing his every move.

And Tuney.

The man had broken into her hotel room.

He would not stop until her father was disgraced.

She shot a look at Victor, who would also not let go until the truth was revealed.

He must have felt her gaze on him because he turned to look at her, eyes dark in the gloomy morning. He looked completely calm, handsome, self-assured as if he might be a professor strolling the campus on his way to teach a physics class. Hard to fathom that the day before he’d been wire taut, impassioned as he worked to bring the dark-haired lady back to life.

The memory of her lying there, dying, stabbed at Brooke.

She shivered, and Victor took off his jacket and draped it over her, fingers caressing her shoulders as he did. The gesture startled her.

She started to decline but he did not give her the chance, merely strolled forward to ask the dean a question. The jacket smelled of leather and a subtle musky aftershave. In spite of herself she snuggled deeper into the supple material.

Removing a heavy key ring from his pocket, Lock unlocked the front door and they entered an empty room with windows that looked out on the grassy hill and a small patio. Again she fought a feeling of unease. So empty, as if the building was a mother who had lost all of her children to some terrible accident.

Stop it, Brooke. No time for your ridiculous imagination.

“Sad, really,” Lock said, his voice loud in the hushed space. “This building has stood largely untouched since the thirties.”

The clusters of worn, upholstered chairs were pulled into odd groups and the wooden floor was nicked and scarred by the countless students who had paraded through over the years. A fireplace, blackened inside, crowded one wall.

A few minutes later they were entering a narrow stairwell and descended three flights until they emerged in a cavernous space, dark and smelling of mold. The dean flipped on a light that flickered to life, revealing an empty basement with a set of metal doors at the far end.

He ignored a tiny panel near the door.

“Alarm?” Victor said.

“It’s not activated now so the workmen can have free access, but usually the administration takes great pains to ensure no one has access to the tunnel system. You wouldn’t believe how much trouble college kids can get into,” Lock said.

Victor chuckled. “Yes, I would.”

Lock gave him an amused glance. “Your father was amazed that you made it through medical school. He couldn’t figure out how someone with a genius IQ could get into so many scrapes.”

“My father was kicked out of three colleges before he struck out on his own, so he has little room to talk,” Victor said.

Brooke heard the warmth in Victor’s voice when he spoke of his father, a sharp contrast to his coolness and efficiency. They had that in common anyway. The doors groaned open, exhaling a waft of cold air.

“Pipes here are disconnected?” Victor said.

“Yes. Otherwise we’d be walking into a sauna right now.” Lock put on his hard hat, and Brooke and Victor followed suit.

Brooke tried to give Victor back his jacket, but he refused.

“I’ve got more body mass to keep me warm,” he murmured in her ear, sending tickles up and down her spine as they moved forward.

If it weren’t for the meager light provided by a rickety setup of overhead lightbulbs, the darkness would have swallowed them up completely. The tunnel was damp, the walls clammy with moisture. Along either side of the tunnel were long webs of jointed pipes, heavy with rust. The space was so narrow the three of them had to crowd together, and Victor’s height left a scant few inches between his head and the light fixtures. Grit scraped under their feet as they shuffled along.

“You see what I mean?” Lock said. “This is the last place anyone would come to hide a painting, especially a valuable one. The conditions in here would destroy a piece immediately.”

Brooke felt her heart sink. He was right. Colda would never have risked concealing a Tarkenton in the tunnel. Humidity? Rodents? Water? Any one of them would ruin an oil painting. No one who knew the Tarkenton’s value would risk those dangers. It was inconceivable, like throwing the crown jewels into the ocean.

Victor looked around, keeping his head bent to avoid cracking into the pipes around him. He glanced at Brooke as if trying to read her thoughts. She wondered what was going through his mind. If her search ended, he might lose the chance to find out if there was any connection between the missing painting and his wife’s death. There wasn’t, she was sure, but for some reason having him there was comforting in spite of his distrust of her father.

“Does this tunnel lead to any others?” Victor asked.

The dean pushed on. “You’ll have your answer in a few minutes.”

They pressed on, and the chill seemed to leach out from the pipes into Brooke’s spine. Her hands were cold, skin goose-pimpled. Unless the conditions changed significantly, there was no possibility that the painting was housed in the damp tunnels.

Her hard hat clanked against an elbow of pipe that jutted into the space. The farther they pressed into the chilled darkness, the more on edge she became. “How much farther?” she asked.

Lock stopped. “This is what I wanted you to see.” He pointed a gnarled finger ahead and eased back so Victor and Brooke could move closer.

Brooke found herself staring through an old rusted metal grate. She pressed a hand to the iron mesh. Beyond was a ruinous pile of twisted pipes and jagged blocks of concrete. It was completely impassable. The floor was obscured under several inches of murky water.

“Take a look at the padlock,” the dean said.

Victor fingered the heavy rusted piece. “Hasn’t been opened for a long time.”

“Since five years ago when the tunnel collapsed. Wouldn’t be any point in going in there anyway.”

Brooke suppressed a groan. She’d been so sure that the tunnels held the answers. Proof that the Tarkenton was real, that her father had found a treasure that would obliterate his rocky past and provide a secure future for her brother. In her mind it was a tunnel of light, of hope.

Ahead she saw only ruin.

Victor put a hand on hers, fingers warm against her cold skin. “We should go now.”

She nodded, unable to trust her voice.

Dean Lock squeezed past her. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Ms. Ramsey. It really would be incredible to think there was a buried treasure here, but as you can see it’s just not possible.”

The pity in his tone was worse than the disappointment stabbing through her. “Thank you anyway,” she forced herself to say. Chilled and numb with discouragement, she followed him on the way out.

Victor fell in behind her. “I’m…sorry,” he said.

Sorry that her father wouldn’t get a second chance? Or sorry that Victor had lost the chance to prove her father was a criminal like he’d always suspected? She did not want to find comfort in his large palm pressed to her back, but nonetheless she did. Must be the impenetrable darkness that made her feel so weak.

She willed her legs to move faster, to get out of that dank place so she could think, but she had no time to do so.

There was an audible snap.

Without warning the lights went out.

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