Counterfeit Conspiracies - Hardcover

Ames, Ritter

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 1943390487 ISBN 13: 9781943390489

Verlag: Henery Press, 2016

Inhaltsangabe

USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR "This fast-paced, action-filled whodunit was enjoyable and hard to put down. The mystery was good, the characters are likeable and it was fun to watch all the pieces come together in this well-written drama. I'm looking forward to the next book in this series." - Dru's Book Musings "Funny, fast paced and just a smidge of romance. What more could you ask for? Bring on the next one!" - T. Sue Versteeg, Author of My Ex-Boyfriend's Wedding "A high-octane, fast-paced thrill ride of a mystery adventure that will definitely leave you anxious for the next installment." - Girl with Book Lungs "This fast-paced mystery had me reading far past my usual time for bed. I simply couldn't put it down because I was so drawn into the story. It's simply wonderful!" - Dianne Harman, Author of the Cedar Bay Cozy Mysteries "The book takes you on car chases, shooting, great locations around the world all in the hopes of finding a missing friend and lost artifact. I read the book three times enjoying each time." - Heidi Wimmer, Book Him Danno "An intricately woven tale with plenty of action and suspense. The story is crafted in such a way to keep readers guessing. The characters are well-written with smart and witty dialogue. An enjoyable read." - A Cozy Book Nook "A fast-paced book, and to save the day, Laurel takes you with her every step of the way on subways, planes, fast cars, and motorcycles all while being in danger. This book is truly a keeper, jump in a go for a ride!" - Destiny's Book Reviews "I love the main character of Laurel. She is not just smart - she is quick on the uptake and manages to get herself out of many tight spots...a fast-paced, well-plotted read. I could not put this book down. I hope we get to read many more adventures with Laurel in the future. So if you like a mystery with a touch of James Bond, you should be reading Counterfeit Conspiracies.

Über diesen Titel

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Counterfeit Conspiracies

A Bodies of Art Mystery

By Ritter Ames

Henery Press

Copyright © 2015 Ritter Ames
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-943390-48-9

CHAPTER 1

Clouds shrouded the moon. The Dobermans, Zeus and Apollo, snoozed by the rose bushes after devouring the tasty treat I had offered. Waves crashed in the distance and gave the crisp sea air a taste and smell of salt spray. The estate's showplace lawn ended a hundred yards away at a private beach.

Like my previous visit, I wore head-to-toe black. For this jaunt, however, I hadn't donned the ebony-beaded Vera Wang halter gown and Jimmy Choo stilettos I sported the last time. No, for the current foray, my Lycra garb more closely resembled Catwoman with my blonde hair hidden under a dark hood. Night vision goggles finished off the ensemble. The difference between arriving invited versus an incognito — and illegal — entrance. I pulled up my turtleneck to cover the lower part of my face and fitted night vision goggles over my eyes.

As I slipped through the mansion's side door, the left wall security pad flashed. I patted the ring of leather pouches attached to my belt and removed a cute little gizmo I'd picked up in Zurich that resembled a garage door opener. Only this handy gadget decoded electronic security systems, rendering them harmless. The tiny warning whine never had a chance to turn into a scream; my device made friends and invited us to enter.

I slipped down the rear hall and up the staircase my research had uncovered in a back issue of Architectural Digest. At the upper landing, infrared lasers protected the area from unwelcome visitors. I opened another pouch, withdrew a small, specially formulated aerosol can, and sprayed in a sweeping pattern. As the particles fell, laser lines were revealed in vivid detail. Seconds later, I'd picked the lock on the turret gallery door.

The last time I stood in the gallery the master of the house provided a guided tour and made a blatant pass beneath the gaze of a Dutch Master. My ability to deflect the Lothario took grace and diplomacy, plus restraint to curb the strong desire to disable his favorite body part. Still, the event had been worth the effort. A six-month quest was over, and I had found my Holy Grail of paintings.

"My father started this collection," the slimy billionaire had bragged. "He made purchases while stationed in Europe in the mid-1940s. I added to the works and specially constructed this temperature-controlled castle safe room."

On this return visit — my acquisition finale — I slid into the darkened gallery. The circular space, lit only by the minimal luminosity filtering through a half-dozen narrow arched windows, allowed my shadow to mix with those already in residence. Night vision goggles allowed the glorious set of Rembrandts and French Impressionists to glow alongside the beauty I came to liberate.

It was a vibrant seascape, circa 1821, and a breathtaking scene of energy and clear passion. A little known work by a well-respected artist, which had been cherished by the family of its previous owner before eventually falling into the hands of the billionaire's father. Gazing upon the work, I could almost hear the buoy bell ringing in the distance, but the room's current illumination left the scene too dark to see beyond the receding foamy water. I shivered as if the wind picked up; the painting was that powerful.

I heard a noise. A human-moving noise.

I had to hurry. I slipped a blade from my belt and ran it along the frame's edge.

The moment the canvas was free, I heard the master of the house bark, "What are you doing?"

I spun to find him standing behind me. Holding his gaze, I sheathed my knife and dug into another pouch, then threw a capped vial into the darkness between myself and potential capture. The glass broke, and when the chemicals inside hit the air, a dense smoke obscured all vision. But I had already calculated the distance to the nearest window, moved to it, and affixed a suction cup with a braided nylon line to the wall. The painting protected in one hand, my remaining gloved fist, now fitted with brass knuckles, shattered the narrow pane. I slid through the turret's slit window, taking a few shards of glass along for the ride. Then I rappelled down the rough stone wall to the manicured lawn.

"Zeus! Apollo! Robbery! Attack!" my impotent enemy screamed.

Next morning, the painting and I slipped into the back of Greg's shop for the new frame constructed per my specifications. A close facsimile to photos, and infinitely better than the garish gold number that restrained the seascape during its turret imprisonment, the burnished brass frame even evoked a nautical theme that conjured the look of a spyglass.

I changed into blue coveralls and left his shop with the newly framed painting wrapped in brown paper. Magnetic signs attached to my van implied a courier service, as did the faked breast pocket insignia on my uniform. The drive to Mrs. Lebowitz's tiny home was quick.

"Yes?" she said, answering the door. A Holocaust survivor, the only one in her family to make it out of Europe alive, she was a child when the Allies freed her from Auschwitz.

My brown-wrapped package once graced her grandmother's dining room. Before it was stolen by Nazis and purchased with fictionalized provenance by my adversary's father. One of my pro bono projects to not only return the art to its true owner, but to insure masterpieces such as this one did not get locked away from public sight.

"Mrs. Lebowitz, I have a very special delivery."

Eighteen hours and one chartered jet flight to Italy later, I was still running on adrenalin as I played the part of an art world socialite representing the New York based Beacham Foundation. Easy enough, since I'd perfected the role over the last five years, except that nothing was going right tonight.

"A quick and easy pickup," Max, my boss, had told me. "Everything is taken care of. Don't worry."

It was another black-tie affair with nothing more to go on than a name and small photo that Nico, my research wizard, had slipped me earlier with a flute of Dom Pérignon. Not a perfect method but it worked for us. As the foundation's leading art recover expert my life was pretty much a series of different hotel rooms every week. Tonight's event was one of a series of smaller jobs directing me to the person who held an art object I needed to return to the person or institution that had true ownership. Mrs. Lebowitz's job had been a rushed opportunity when I had little choice, since I'd not only learned the painting's location, but also information regarding a potential sale in the works. On the other hand, this evening's pickup at another glittery party was "my day job."

Despite Max's assurances, things began tanking with a flourish before I'd even arrived. First, I'd received a bogus text with driving instructions that sent me in the wrong direction. Once I'd found the correct location, I went in search of my objective in the early meet-and-greet stages of the party. Our contact in the photo was nowhere to be found, despite my best efforts in searching this extensive castillo. Finally, and probably the most disturbing after all that had gone wrong, I'd noticed one of the attendees seemed a bit too interested in me. I'd dodged him once in the entry, again in the ballroom. And here he was again. Churning through the crowd like a heat-seeking missile. A Rhett Butler wannabe in Armani. There was a canniness to the way he looked at me that said I was an assignment instead of a...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Henery Press
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2016
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 1943390487
• ISBN 13: 9781943390489
• Einband: Gebundene Ausgabe
• Anzahl der Seiten: 252
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar