turned the page for him. “Medical bills. His mother’s terminal. Cancer.” Shane looked closer. “Been in and out of the hospital for the last year. Started some experimental treatments that cost an arm and a leg. She’s hangin’ on, but doesn’t look like she’ll last much longer. My guess? Sullivan sold his stake to pay for her treatment.”
Shit. He was still a criminal, no matter what his reasons.
“Guy’s got a place in Key West, right?” Shane asked. “Why not sell that? Real estate down there has to go for a pretty penny. Why not pay his bills that way?”
“House is in both his and his brother’s name. Inheritance kind of thing. Maybe the mother wouldn’t let him sell it. I don’t know the family dynamics there, only that he didn’t go that route.”
No, because he knew he didn’t have to. Shane frowned. “Assuming that’s the case, then why not steal what he needed? Sell off a few prime pieces and I’m sure he’d have more than enough dough. A guy who knows how to get things like Sullivan shouldn’t have trouble in that area.”
“Morals?”
“Right.” Shane flicked Jack a disbelieving look. “Not this guy. And that’s what we’re talking about, right? He’s a high-class criminal who’s gotten away with it so far, all under the pretense of ‘in the name of art’ and the almighty buck.”
Jack shrugged again, looked out at the rippling water. “You can spin it however you want, Maxwell. Looks to me like he’s in a bind. Needed cash, sold his share. For whatever reason, he’s not scamming anyone to get his dough this time.”
No, not just anyone, dammit. The prick was scamming Shane’s sister.
“I think he’s working on his own now.”
“What makes you think that?” Shane asked.
Jack pulled a photo from the back of the file. “He cuts ties with Kauffman, gets his mama all set up in a cush Miami care facility, bills squared away, and two months later pays cash for a pretty new sailboat.”
Shane lifted the picture and studied the pristine white sloop. Envy stabbing him, he let out a low whistle. “Damn. I need to get me one of these.”
Jack chuckled. “Yeah, me, too. We picked the wrong line of work, schmuck. Point is, Sullivan didn’t touch his reserves from selling his part of the gallery to buy that little toy. Which means—”
“Which means his sudden cash flow’s suspect.”
“Right. Unless he’s working for someone under the radar. Tracking down a few special pieces maybe?”
Three special pieces. The Furies. And if he happened to have double-crossed the hand that was feeding him, if he was going out on his own to find the best deal, pitting dealers against each other, the prick was in over his head.
And dragging Lisa along with him.
Peter Kauffman’s phone shrilled. Five seconds earlier and it would have ruined the mood entirely.
With a heavy sigh, he tucked one arm around the woman straddling his lap and breathing hot against his neck. “Hold that thought, precious.”
Pushing them both forward, he reached for the phone. “Kauffman.”
“You sound way too relaxed to be at the office.”
Pete leaned back against the leather chair behind his desk and smiled at the sound of Rafe’s voice. The man had timing, he could say that for his friend. “And you sound a little stressed, buddy.”
“I have reason to be stressed, Pete.”
Maria braced both hands against Pete’s shoulders and sat up. A seductive smile curled her sensuous mouth. With one hand, she pushed dark, silky hair back from her face and tightened her pelvic muscles.
“Tell me about it,” Pete mumbled. Distracted by the increase in pressure, he ran a hand over the vee of her fire red suit jacket, exposing voluptuous cleavage. His hand drifted down her abdomen, across her hip where her skirt was pushed up and her bare thighs rested against his slacks.
“I was nearly charcoal last night,” Rafe grumbled in his ear.
The seriousness in Rafe’s tone drew Pete’s attention. His hand paused on Maria’s thigh. “Say that again.”
“I said,” Rafe huffed, “someone’s onto us.”
Maria pushed off Pete’s lap and tugged her skirt down, obviously sensing his change in focus.
Pete repositioned himself and sat up straighter. “Tell me what happened.”
While Rafe ran through the events of the previous night, Maria strode to the massive floor-to-ceiling glass bookshelf across the room. Pete watched as she ran slender fingers over an Egyptian pendant of a crouching pharaoh resting on the shelf.
“I’m telling you,” Rafe said, “this wasn’t a coincidence.”