Cygny's Six

CHAPTER10

Beck handedRoman her iPad and watched while he read through the message from Hank. When he was done and handed it back, he gave her a curious look. “What else do you know?”

She shrugged. “Exactly what you read in that message. This is a little too short notice for my liking, but I’m definitely curious to see what the FBI has for us. You?”

He looked at the name on the email and nodded. “Does his name sound familiar to you?”

She put a hand to her chest and leveled a look at him. “I would have told you if he did.”

Roman put up his hands in surrender. “Point taken.”

Beck ducked her head and raised a perfect brow as she looked him straight in the eye. “We’ll talk about this later.”

She saw an answered smile on his lips and knew that they would have a rather interesting… talk later that night.

A knock sounded at the door.

Beck nodded at him, and he called out for them to enter.

When the door opened, both Roman and Beck got to their feet, a perfect united front. The man who entered looked at Beck and then Roman in turn, making a quick and silent assessment of them both, knowing that they were doing the same.

Roman gestured to the table and the empty chair across from his seat and watched as the man slid a curious look toward Beck, hesitating.

Smiling, she also gestured at the chair. “Please, Agent Franks, have a seat.”

Still hesitating, he lowered himself into the chair at about the same time that Beck found her seat.

The agent, looking a little gaunt in the lighting, shifted on his chair before he spoke. “I’ve already explained things to Mister Patterson, but,” his lips pursed for the barest of moments before he continued to explain, “he insists that I need to explain this to the two of you.”

Beck met the older man’s pointed stare with a smile. “Well, I’m glad you could come in to talk to us.”

“The drive from Denver was less than ideal, but I’m afraid it was… necessary.”

Beck felt Roman’s gaze on her and offered him a smile that said she was fine only to see the tick of his jaw muscle.

Roman gave the agent a nod. “What do you need from us, Agent Franks?”

He drew in a breath, his head tipping back enough that he had the look of a human PEZ dispenser. “We need the assistance of one of your people. I work for the Art Theft Division, and we have a bit of a problem on our hands.”

Beck turned to look at Roman and saw the matching cast of confusion in his eyes. “You need one of our people?”

Agent Franks dragged in a breath through his nose, as his mouth was closed before he spoke. “Yes. Our division normally handles this kind of thing, but we have an issue with using our own staff.” He continued on with a clipped tone. “We’ve had a bit of an information leak.”

Beck knew what that could mean. “Is everyone okay?”

The color in Agent Franks’ face was dark and ruddy. “Of course they are. We’re not amateurs. We knew within seconds that someone had accessed our files. And,” he addressed them with a look, “we had our agents protected. They’re all alive and their families are being watched by agency security. I don’t need your advice on how to take care of my own people.”

The temperature in the room dropped a few degrees with the tone of his voice, but before Beck or Roman could speak, Agent Franks continued on, and Beck wondered how many times Agent Franks got what he wanted by running right over the other people in the room.

“The problem at the moment is that the main file accessed were the personnel files and ID photos of our agents.”

“Personnel files?”

Agent Franks didn’t answer Beck, he just continued on.

“We have credible information that a black-market art sale is scheduled to happen at a private property in the mountains near here. We need someone at the sale, and we can’t use any of our current people.”

Roman shifted in his chair and Beck read his expression as a little unspoken commentary. ‘Obviously.’

“For safety reasons, we’re reassigning all of our current agents to different divisions and the only other agents who are close to being up to speed have no undercover experience and no one has the right qualifications to correctly assess the artwork at the sale and discover if they are the stolen pieces we’re looking for.”

Beck managed a little smile and wondered aloud. “Why would they sell counterfeits at a black-market sale.”

Agent Franks tugged at the color of his starched white shirt. “Those wishing to make money off of stealing art have no problem making money selling counterfeit art. It’s about making money and they’ll do it any way they can.”

Something was niggling at that back of Beck’s mind. She looked at Roman, hoping that something would jog her memory, but the thought remained just out of reach.

Roman seemed to have his own question and leaned forward with his arms on the table, his gaze fixed on the Agent’s face. “You came to us for a reason.”