It took a couple of hours, but she kept digging, utterly absorbed in her search for answers. She scoured the item entries for every priceless painting, sculpture and artifact on record that belonged to Reginald Crowe.
With no luck at all.
Not until she realized there was another item she recalled was on loan from the billionaire that wasn’t among those on active exhibit. There was a piece missing from the count. On a hunch, Carys tapped over to the restoration catalogue and found the very crack she’d been looking for.
One of Crowe’s paintings had been flagged for conservation maintenance several weeks ago. It was still out of circulation, and not part of the locked-access catalogue.
Carys brought the painting up on her tablet and immediately noted the same date of modification recorded on the piece. The change to the catalogue record referred to a transfer of ownership. No doubt, she’d find the same notation on all of the other, locked records as well.
The new registered owner of Reginald Crowe’s entire collection was a private trust, not his widow or any of his five ex-wives.
What the hell was going on?
Either someone was looking out for Crowe’s interests, or had stealthily moved in to claim some of his most valuable assets for their own.
Excitement zinging through her veins, Carys called her father’s private number in the command center. He picked up immediately. “Is everything okay? Tell me where you are.”
After being home again last night, hearing the concern in his deep voice now didn’t annoy her in the least. Just the opposite, in fact. “I’m fine, Daddy. I’m at the museum.”
“So late?” Still a note of caution in his tone. “It’s going on midnight.”
“Is it? I didn’t realize how long I’d been here.” The time had sped by in the thrill of her pursuit of information. Shit. She’d planned to be at La Notte by now to watch Rune’s match. If she didn’t leave soon, she was going to miss the first few rounds. “I ran across something interesting here tonight. Does the name Hayden Ivers mean anything to you?”
“No. Why, should it? What’s this about, Carys?”
“I’m not sure, but that’s the name of the manager on a private trust that controls Reginald Crowe’s art collection on loan to the MFA. A trust that just assumed ownership the day after Crowe was killed. Do you think this person could be useful to the Order?”
Her father blew out a curse. “I think it’s a damn good start. Seeing as how we’ve turned every other lead inside out and come up empty on Crowe, this could be our best break yet. Excellent work, Carys.”
At his praise, she couldn’t hold back her smile. “I hope so. I saw something strange on some of the catalogue references for Crowe’s art down here, and I decided to dig a little deeper.”
“Excellent work, Carys. I want to hear all about it. Lucan will be pleased to hear this too. Why don’t you head home now, and you can be the one to relay the intel to him personally when we call headquarters with the information?”
She bit her lip, hating that she had to disappoint him. “I’m, uh . . . I’m actually just on my way out for a while . . .”
He kept his answering grumble low, as if it took some effort for him not to demand she report to the Darkhaven because he said so. Instead he cleared his throat. “Very well. I’ll bring this to Lucan now, and we can talk some more tomorrow, then.”
“Okay. Goodnight, Daddy.”
He grunted. “I suppose one of these nights I’m going to have to meet this fighter of yours.”
“I’d like that,” she said. “And his name is Rune.”
Another grunt. “What kind of name is that, anyway?”
Carys smiled. “I’ll see you when I get home.”
She ended the call, then closed up her equipment and office and raced out of the museum to head for La Notte. Rune would already be in the cage, but she’d only miss the first couple of rounds.
Except when she got to the red-brick, former church that housed the underground club, instead of hearing the pulsing throb of music the place was quiet. Instead of seeing excited crowds bursting at the seams of the building and spilling out onto the street, people were leaving. Most didn’t look happy about it.
Carys wove her way through the thinning streams of exiting patrons at street level, then headed to the arena below. Only a handful of stragglers remained in the cavernous space, and even those were focused on making their way out.
The cage was empty too. And through the dark of the arena, she spotted Rune crouched in front of a sobbing blond woman seated on one of the couches in the lounge. He glanced Carys’s way as she came inside, a brief but intense look to say he knew she was there and that his business with the other woman was just that.
Carys recognized the human female—one of several who worked the BDSM dens. Tonight, Lexi wore a thick robe over her obviously torn leather outfit. Heavy black mascara ran down her cheeks with her tears. A nasty bruise was forming under her left eye, and dried blood caked the corner of her lipstick-smeared mouth.
Carys glanced toward the bar and saw Jagger and Vallan standing there. “What happened?”