“Sell the artifact. Quickly. Get out from under the item. He’s a chauffeur and an art teacher. Impress on him that the money is life-altering, We already have someone who represents a client. They have an open offer on the table of fifty million.”
“A buyer?” she repeated dumbly.
“Yes. Represented by Harrison Kulli. I believe it’s in the paperwork.”
“Harrison Kulli wants to buy the artifact from Gerald?” This was getting crazier and crazier by the minute.
“On the behalf of a client of his, yes.”
“Harrison Kulli has a client? A client for what?”
“Kulli represents an anonymous buyer.”
“I’ll bet he does. Bad pennies always turn up.”
Norm frowned. “What’s the deal with him, Suz? Why’s he bother you so much?”
“He was my commanding officer in Afghanistan.”
Norm was in the middle of eating a donut and froze. “And?”
“Do you not understand why this is setting off my hinky meter?”
He made a small huffing sound, then resumed stuffing his face. “Your ex-fiancé has just inherited an artifact that your former commanding officer is trying to buy for a client. For fifty million dollars.”
“Just another day at the office.”
He frowned, giving her an evaluative look. “It wasn’t a coincidence that Phelps, Miller was chosen to handle this particular bequest, was it?”
Suzanne broke eye contact, the paper resting in her hand like a weapon.
“I don’t think so. But what does it mean?”
“It means I need to chase down Miller and have a talk. But it also means you’re still on the case.”
“For now.”
He gave her a small, concessionary head nod. “For now.”
The air between them changed. She couldn’t give it a name, but the essence of this case—what was supposed to be a simple bequest, handled like any other—had shifted.
So had the balance of power.
“Want to grab some Thai for lunch, Suz?” Letitia asked, looking up from her bar exam study guide. Four long years at Suffolk University night school and Letitia had just finished law school. Suzanne had warned her that was the easy part.
Letitia had just laughed. Now, three months into studying for the bar, she wasn’t laughing so much. Most lunches were about studying, so Suzanne had already made plans.
“I have a date, actually,” Suzanne answered, quickly skimming her email, organizing by label. Zero inbox was her goal, and so far, she was holding steady.
“A date? With who? Not Steve whats-his-face again?” Letitia let out a whoop of amusement.
“No. This time, it’s with a fellow dog owner.”
“You’re choosing guys by whether they own a dog or not?”
“It’s this new dating service. Ever heard of DoggieDate?”
“No.”
Suzanne shrugged and kept her eyes on the screen. “It’s for people with dogs. You find fellow dog lovers and see if you’re compatible.”
“The humans, or the dogs?”
“Both.”
“Whatever happened to just meeting a hot guy in a bar, sleeping with him, and slowly falling in love?”
Suzanne looked up. “I’m all for that. Where do I sign up?”
“Not at some crazy dating company that matches you by dog. What kind of dog does this guy have? And since when did Smoochy become your wingman?”
“Smoochy is not my—oh, damn. You’re right.”
“You’re using a dog to score dates.”
“I’m using my dog to help me find the right date.”
“No difference.”
“Huge difference.”
They laughed. Both were single, and both shared the pain of finding someone in Boston.
“Hey, I don’t judge,” Letitia said in a voice that made it clear she most certainly did.
“You’re the one who found a long-term boyfriend on craigslist,” Suzanne said drolly.
“Until I learned he wanted me to have six sister wives back in Montana. And that I’d have to change my name to Tuesday.”
Some days that didn’t sound so bad.
“Well, hopefully this guy isn’t a pervert. He owns a beagle named Joe.”
“What is it with people who name their dogs real names? You got it right,” Letitia said, shaking her head. “I can’t imagine having a cat named Fred or a dog named James.”
“Smoochy wasn’t my choice. That’s what Elizabeth named her.”
“Then Elizabeth has common sense.”
Suzanne gave her a half-wave and escaped. When Letitia got going and was eyeballs-deep in bar exam prep, she could work herself into a rant.
The fast walk two blocks from her office to the food court where she was meeting a Chandler Hopkins, 34, software developer for a multi-national nutrition company website who loved dogs, wasn’t enough time to process her meeting with Norm.
And the name Harrison Kulli had been like chewing aluminum foil with a mouthful of fillings.
That rat bastard.
The guy had weaseled his way into every mess possible in Afghanistan, including inappropriate sexual behavior with local Afghan women. Rumor had it he’d stolen local relics and sold them on the black market. The guy had been a DJ before the war.
And now he worked for wealthy clients who wanted to buy rare artifacts?
The language in the paperwork confused her. Gerald had somehow rescued a rare pre-Buddhist sculpture made from gold and jewels, one with a history predating known records? He’d never said a word to her. They’d been together then, too, during the dates noted in Hopewell’s letters. Gerald had smuggled the item into the U.S. and somehow helped get it in the hands of people who would respect it, and not strip it of its cultural value by melting it down and selling it off.