“what...?”
Blake interrupted her next question. “Why don’t we eat our sandwiches and I’ll tell you what I know so far? And then I’ll try again to find out what the hell went wrong.”
She nodded. “All right What do you want to drink?”
His smile was a bit crooked. “A double bourbon, but I’ll settle for a cola. Sit down, I’ll get it. What would you like?”
“I saw some single-serving cans of orange juice. I’d like one of thos
e, please.” Considering how jittery she was already, Tara didn’t think caffeine was a good idea.
Blake nodded and headed for the refrigerator while Tara set their dinner of sandwiches, pickles and chips on the small, round table. The drapes were closed over the window beside the table, giving an illusion of intimacy within the little cottage.
They took their seats and opened their drinks. Blake looked glumly at his plate. “I was going to take you someplace really nice,” he murmured ruefully. “I had rather hoped to impress you this evening.”
“Well, you’ve certainly made an impression,” she responded, her tone dry.
He winced. “Not exactly the one I had in mind.”
She picked up her sandwich. “Tell me about your case.”
Between bites, Blake filled her in.
“I got a call from someone in an insurance company I work for sometimes—the same way I occasionally conduct investigations for your law firm,” he began.
“Former law firm,” Tara muttered.
He nodded. “Anyway, the person who called me wasn’t my usual contact, but since I don’t always talk to the same person, I didn’t find anything odd about that.”
“You said he asked you to meet someone at the art gallery and pick up an envelope?”
Instead of directly answering her, Blake asked a question of his own. “You’ve heard of C. Jackson Willfort?”
“Of course. Who hasn’t heard of him?”
The billionaire industrialist was a prominent figure in Georgia society, parlaying old family money into a lavish, high-profile life-style. He had a luxurious condo in Atlanta and an opulent, fortress-like compound outside of Savannah, and was almost as well known for the parties he threw as for his outspoken conservative political views and his generous philanthropy.
As Willfort approached his fiftieth birthday, there had been rumors that he was considering a run for office—governor, perhaps, or senator. Tara had even heard whispers that he was eyeing the Oval Office.
“You know that he’s an avid art collector?”
She nodded. “Didn’t he have some valuable paintings stolen from his collection recently?”
“Yeah. There was a break-in at the apartment he keeps close to his office in downtown Atlanta. Some cash, jewelry and silver was stolen, along with several paintings that he had intended to place on display in the lobby of a local bank. It was the first time Willfort had ever announced plans to share any of his private art collection with the public, so it got some attention. Apparently, someone found out the paintings were being stored at the apartment and managed to get to them.”
Tara frowned. “But wouldn’t there have been heavy security in an apartment that contained cash, jewelry, silver and art?”
“There was. A guard was seriously wounded, almost killed. It looked like a professional job.”
“An inside job, maybe?” Tara hazarded, thinking of all the TV she’d watched during the past two weeks.
Blake shrugged. “That’s always a possibility.”
“The insurance company you’re working for—did they carry the policy for the items that were taken?”
“Yes. I’m often called in for big claims like this, either to try to recover the merchandise or to make sure no insurance fraud is involved. All I was told this time was that someone who works for the Pryce Gallery—someone who was afraid to give his name or come out publicly—had some information concerning the robbery. As I’ve already told you, I was to meet him in the men’s room, where he would give me an envelope and then discreetly disappear. I was to leave the gallery, check the contents of the envelope to see if it contained anything of interest, and then get back to my client at the number he gave me. Quick. Simple. Safe—or so I thought. But no one showed up in the men’s room, and when I went back to collect you...well, you know what happened then.”
“So what went wrong?”