No Law (Law #3) (6 page)

Chapt
er 10

Carey opened the
door to the outer office. The crime scene clean up crew had come and gone, cleansing the space after the police had taken what they’d wanted, and now the room smelled of disinfectants. Looking about the office now, no one could’ve known Brian’s brains had been the decoration on the walls last night. Most of the papers on the floor had been boxed up and taken to the police station as evidence, and over half the paper had been ruined, either torn or saturated with blood. It would take her some time before she could sort out all the files and acquisition forms. She moved over to her desk and found the key to his office that was kept hidden in her drawer for emergencies.

At the connecting door that opened to the curator’s office, she unlocked it, stepping inside. This room had also been swept clean, all papers obviously missing. Some of the drawers to the filing cabinets lay open and empty. She moved over to his desk and unlocked the drawers before opening them. Hopefully the police or the Russians hadn’t cleared them out as well. She had no idea where to search for the forms should they not be here. With any luck, Brian, not wanting his little scheme to become known especially if his files were audited, would’ve kept his illegal activities under the blanket.

She breathed a sigh of relief to find Brian’s desk drawers untouched, the sigh then followed by a sound of disgust. Brian was nothing if not a slob. By the looks of the mess, he had often dumped receipts, gum wrappers, and discarded papers in his bottom drawer. If Brian had gone to the Customs office with the box, she should find a copy of the consignment here.

Please, Brian, don’t let me down. Not now when I can’t call you on it.

There was another option. There were the papers the officers had taken as evidence. If she couldn’t find the consignment amongst his crap, she had another option. Although deep down she didn’t want to have to go down that road. If she asked Detective Harrington to see the papers, he might decide to be a prick and hold them longer than required. She flicked through the mass of files and found pay stubs from 2002.

Way to file, Brian.

If he wasn’t dead, she would’ve prayed for him to be audited by the IRS.

She found what she was looking for an hour later, stuck together with another sheet of paper with what she hoped was gum. Wrinkling up her nose in disgust, she typed the relevant information into her iPhone, such as the manifest number, shipping number, and customs I.D. number. That would help her find the box once she got to Customs.

She still couldn’t figure out what was in the box, unless of course Brian had done a deal on the side without consulting her. Which was highly unlikely, because not only was Brian uninterested in acquiring new exhibits or artifacts, but she seriously doubted if he knew where to start in doing so. What had possessed Brian to become an art major, let alone a curator of all things? It certainly wasn’t a ruse to get the ladies, since most people believed that the world of art and antiquities were something akin to watching paint dry. Yet, on that note, Brian had never lacked for the company of the fairer sex, always having a gorgeous woman on his arm to all the major events. She assumed it was having the
Doctor
at the beginning of his name. While he didn’t have what it took to become an MD, a PhD was probably his only choice.

She moved her mind away from Brian and back to the matter at hand. There was no address on the consignment or a contents description, although the insurance box was ticked and beside it was marked eleven million. She would have to wait until she opened it and got all of Brian’s files back before she could learn its origins or at least destination, her mind drawing a blank.

She heard the sound of voices floating up from beneath the open window of Brian’s office and footsteps crunching on the white pebbles that made up the path surrounding the mansion. The mansion that housed Hamilton Museum was built on a raised hill, the curator’s office along with the director’s office and large conference room all overlooking the eastern side of Rock Creek Park. In the afternoon, each room was blessed with the sun as it set. It was quite beautiful and one of her favorite times of the day, often watching the sun go down over the park from her own office.

Peering out the window, she was shocked to find Thug Number One standing there talking to Number Two. He’d obviously called for back-up. They didn’t seem to be aware that they were standing right under the curator’s office. Would she never be free of them? Her body slowly began to shake as fear once more overtook her senses. They were here for her and they didn’t plan on leaving without her.

The image of Alan’s last moments played inside her mind. She could hear his screams, and she bit down on her lip to avoid crying out. Tears blurred her vision as she made her frozen feet move. Whatever they planned to do to her, she wasn’t about to make it easy on them. She’d learned a lot in the past few years and backing down was not an option. Fighting for survival had been her top priority for so long it had become second nature.

Carey whirled around, pushed all the papers back into Brian’s desk and relocked it, placing the key in her small purse. She found her car keys and slowly opened the door to the corridor outside the outer office and prayed no one caught sight of her or wished to speak with her. She checked to see if anyone was coming before gingerly moving down the corridor. She took the back set of stairs that the cleaners and most staff used during the day when the museum was full of tourists. She stopped breathing for a second when she heard the two men talking in Russian as they ascended the main staircase. She strained to listen, trying to pick up each individual word. She hugged the wall as their voices neared.

She chewed on her lower lip as they muttered on about what a waste of
their
time it was to apprehend her, and that Mikhail should have sent a lackey. She frowned, not liking her odds of survival should they capture her. What were their plans for her? Would they merely murder her once they got their hands on her, or did they think they could threaten or perhaps turn her to do their bidding, to bring them whatever it was that Brian helped them with?

Opening the nearest door to avoid being seen, she found herself in what was once the mansion’s drawing room but now housed antique furniture from France. She saw the much loved Louis the sixteenth chair on the other side of the room. The walls were adorned with French portraits and tapestries. Some of the finer well-preserved porcelain dinnerware were contained in locked glass cabinets. While French antiquities weren’t her forte, she could still appreciate the fine lines and craftsmanship of the French. The room looked like something a traveler might expect to see at Versailles.

Darting across the room, she went through the connecting door to the pavilion. Just through the other door was the gift shop which led to the garden and ultimately freedom for her, should she make it. She tried to look casual but feared it didn’t show. Her heart was pumping so fast she was surprised no one else could hear it. She moved quickly across the room, not wanting to linger. Her heart almost failed when heard the loud slamming of a door on the office level and knew the two men had discovered she was no longer in her office.

She wondered at how they’d managed to once more enter the establishment. There was no way they were coming through the entrance like the rest of the tourists and staff but she had little time to reflect on possible entry points as she weaved her way through the throng of museum goers and tried to keep her eyes open for attack. She figured she must look guilty as hell and if someone was watching the security cameras, had she not been who she was, she would have been accosted by security by now.

She squeezed between two men who were so deep in discussion on Greek statues that they hadn’t heard her say
excuse me
three times, and clear her throat twice. She had finally given up being nice and courteous and had barreled her way past them. She surveyed the gift shop. Thankfully, the Russians hadn’t believed she warranted more than a two man recovery team, so the two were alone but that didn’t mean back-up wasn’t far away. She put her head down and rushed for the exit.

Shouting burst from behind her. She’d been spotted. Her only hope would be getting to her car and getting the hell out of there. She would have stopped one of the museum’s guards and told him to detain the two men if she hadn’t feared for the guards’ safety.

Running as fast as her feet could take her, she was glad she’d dressed in dark blue jeans and a black V-neck shirt that morning rather than her usual skirt and blouse with heels. She had also worn practical slip-on ballet shoes. Not entirely appropriate for running, but at least they were flat. She jumped over the trimmed hedge with little effort and could see her car in the distance.

She hoped they hadn’t meddled with her car. If they had, she had no idea what her next move would be.

No flat tires that she could see, and the hood was still down, her fuel cover closed. So far so good—no discernible damage. She didn’t dare look back, fearful at how close they were. If she tripped or lost her way, they’d catch her for certain.

She was closer to the car now, but she didn’t dare slow her pace. Her side burned since she was not used to such vigorous exercise. She was running out of breath and her legs were getting wobbly. She had to come up with a plan, a good plan.

She was screwed. She had no idea what to do, drawing a blank. Detective Harrington didn’t believe her and would probably think she was after attention if she went to him, or worse, that she was trying to throw suspicion off her. Not that he’d listen to her anyway. He had already made up his mind about her and nothing would change it.

Thank you very much, Brian
. The only selfless thing he’d ever done was get her out of that room last night. Not that it was helping her much today, but at least she was alive—for now. She certainly wouldn’t have been had she stayed in that room.

Carey concentrated on breathing in through her nose and out her mouth, already breathless. She wasn’t the fittest person in the world, her work schedule not allowing any time for the gym, and the only exercise she got was lugging crates around for the museum. The building was a large enough structure that she had to run all the way around it to get to her car. Stumbling on the loose pebbles of the driveway, she almost lost her footing. Her hand flailed about in front of her as she regained her balance.

Heart in her throat, she made her body move faster. Perspiration slid down her back, her messy ponytail bouncing up and down against back. She pressed down on the central locking release button on her keychain and her indicator lights flashed. She vaulted into the car and slammed the door, hitting the locks again.

Mikhail’s men were a few feet away, their expressions murderous. She started the car, not about to hang around, and hit the accelerator, kicking up the white pebbles as she navigated the fountain turn-around.

She let out a shaky breath, her nerves shot. Her legs, like jelly, barely managed to stay on the accelerator. She blinked back tears. There’d been few times in her life that she’d truly been terrified, and now was definitely one of them.

She moved her SUV into the mainstream of traffic. She sped up, pushing well past the limit, and hoped that no cops were about. The last thing she wanted was to be pulled over or arrested for speeding or dangerous driving.

What was she going to do?

Come on, Carey, think. You’re smart, so do something
.

Her mind flashed to Alan, her husband, and she swore she could hear him scream. She blinked rapidly to clear the vivid vision from her mind. Thinking about Alan only brought back the memories of Russia. It hadn’t all been bad. She had loved the architecture and the culture, acclimatizing herself into their way of life. It had been hard to leave the museums and history she had found there. She had met some really nice people too, some of whom she was still in contact with today. Not all of them close friends, most of them contacts she used and the others she’d ignored after Alan’s death—like Elena Ivanova.

It hadn’t been her fault, but she just couldn’t see Elena without thinking of Alan. Even to this day, thinking of Alan was remembering him in his last minutes. She still hadn’t been able to move past that terrifying moment. Someday she hoped to think of Alan and smile, to remember all the good times she’d had with him.

Elena.

She had tried to help her so much but couldn’t.

Elena.

The name repeated itself in her head.

Elena.

She was in America now—the CIA of all places, practically down the road. If anyone could understand her predicament right now it was Elena. Years ago, in Moscow, Elena had listened patiently when no one else had, and even then she knew her story was outrageous. Just like now. She seemed to be a magnet for all things out of the norm.

Weaving precariously through the throng of motorists on Nebraska Avenue, she narrowly avoided cutting off a station wagon. Using her rearview mirror, she scanned for anyone who might be following her. Luck appeared on her side, the coast clear—at least to her untrained eyes. No one sped up without a valid reason for doing so. No one followed her erratic path and pulled in behind her. Her heart pounded in her throat. She’d probably just lost ten years of her life. She gripped her steering wheel hard, as if the very thing was her life force.