“You’ve got a witness to your gallery robbery,” he said in English, and Detective Bennett did not seem the least bit surprised that her cold case was warm again. “An American girl,” the man continued. “A tourist. She was down the street the night of the break-in. She says she saw a man in the area, acting suspiciously.”
At this, Detective Bennett raised her eyebrows. “Is he anyone we know?”
The man smiled and led her into the room where the young girl sat waiting.
“Thank you so much for coming in. I’m Detective Bennett,” the woman said. “I’m sorry. I don’t believe I got your name?”
“O’Hara,” the petite girl said. “Melanie O’Hara.”
“The Henley?”
Kat heard her father’s voice. Through the small binoculars she always carried, she saw him walking through the crowd of the familiar square, his phone held to his ear, oblivious to the fact that his only daughter was standing in the bell tower of the church, watching everything.
“That’s a nice way to greet your daughter. No ‘Hi, honey, how’s school?’” she teased.
Her father kept his left hand shoved in his pocket, deep inside his cashmere coat, and Kat couldn’t help thinking that it had gotten a lot colder in the past week.
“The Henley?” he asked again. “You know, someone said that my daughter was going to”—he stopped and surveyed the crowd while lowering his voice—“rob the Henley, but that can’t be. My daughter is at the Colgan School.”
“Dad, I—”
“Leave the Henley alone, Kat,” he blurted. “Take a test. Go to a pep rally or—”
“A pep rally?”
“Kat, kiddo, you do not want to do this.”
“Of course I don’t want to, Dad,” she said, too aware of how true and deep the sentiment ran. “We have to.”
“We? Who exactly is we?”
“Hale,” Kat said. Even from a block away she saw her father grimace. “Simon. Gabrielle.” Kat wanted to keep her voice even, steady. “Hamish and Angus—”
“The Bagshaws?” he said, not hiding his disapproval.
“They didn’t know she was a nun!”
A cold wind blew through the tower and down onto the square where her father stood.
“So that’s it, huh?” her father asked. “You’ve got your own little heist society and now you’re gonna rob the Henley.” He turned and started moving down the busy street. “Call Uncle Eddie, Kat. Tell him it’s over. You’re out.”
“You think Uncle Eddie is putting me up to this?” She watched the words wash over him. “You think he hasn’t already gotten on a plane and told me to let him handle it?”
“Then let him handle it.”
“Yeah.” Kat fought back a laugh. “Because Uncle Eddie always has your best interest in mind.”
“Kat . . .” Her father’s voice was softer. “You stay away from Arturo Taccone. He’s—”
“Coming for you.”
“I’m fine, Kat.”
“Now, Dad. You’re fine now. You can get coffee and read newspapers and put on a show for whoever Interpol has following you that day. But if Taccone doesn’t get his paintings back, five days from now there’s going to be a moment when Interpol isn’t watching and you’re not thinking, and then Arturo Taccone’s gonna be here and you will be anything but fine.”
He shook his head. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.” Kat turned away, leaned against the cold, rough stone of the tower wall as she spoke softly into the phone. “I do know, because he told me.”