No Way Left (A Carly See FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 4)

PROLOGUE This never gets old, Vanessa Talmadge thought. She inserted the key into the lock and turned it, then swung open the handsome glass door and stepped into her personal domain. She always made it a point to arrive at the Talmadge Gallery before it opened in the morning. She liked to luxuriate in its majesty during the quiet hours. Of course she also enjoyed seeing a well-heeled client dig deep into their resources to buy a work of art that she recommended. That was how her own exquisite taste helped to create a more perfect world. But having the gallery all to herself was the richest reward for everything she’d contributed to keep this place going. Although she wouldn’t be completely alone this morning, Vanessa knew that the minion working here overnight would have left the alarm system on for protection. She headed straight to the security box and deftly punched in the access code to turn off the alarm. Finally she flipped on the breaker switches, bathing the whole primary gallery in brilliant white light. She clapped her hands and gasped with pleasure at what she saw. No, it never gets old, she thought again. A wonderful display surrounded her on all sides. The gallery specialized in works by well-known contemporary artists and a few others recently deceased. She’d gone to great lengths to set up contracts and acquire these pieces for exhibit and sale. Her stable of artists was the envy of other high-scale galleries throughout Boston. Several elegant sculptures graced the broad gallery floor, and the walls were hung with beautifully framed paintings. Everything was well-lit and perfectly presented. Many pieces were New England–themed, including landscapes and cityscapes, while others were portraits of people who were or had been famous throughout the region. Of course there were a few images—such as those broken black-and-white stripes that looked to her like the depiction of a disorderly bookcase—that grated on Vanessa just a little. Abstracts were not her favorites, but of course she knew it was her duty to please the entire gamut of local tastes. She was nothing if not a dutiful patron of the arts. She wouldn’t linger here this morning. Light glowing through the connecting archway revealed, as expected, that her curator had been working in the secondary gallery where they held special exhibits and opening receptions. As her high heels clattered across the polished parquet floor, Vanessa called aloud in a note of stern command to the young woman she expected to meet there. “OK, Michelle, it’s time to show me what you’ve got!” Vanessa’s spirits dropped abruptly as she stepped through the arch into the room. She’d expected to find the gallery all ready for tonight’s opening of a show by an up-and-coming Honduran painter named Lalo Hernández. But the entire room was a mess, and nothing was ready for tonight. Fewer than half of the paintings were where they should be by now. Most of them were still on the floor leaning against the wall in anticipation of being hung, pretty much where they’d been when she’d left late last night. They were an incongruous sight—a wild blaze of Latin American color clustered in heaps below expanses of bare white wall. The soulful eyes of faces in those images seemed to be gazing at her sadly. Or perhaps reproachfully. Folding tables had been pulled into place for the evening’s spread of finger food, and of course, there was an excellent selection of wine. But there were no tablecloths on the tables, and no serving platters either. To make matters worse, Lalo Hernández himself was at this moment flying from Central America to be here in time for tonight’s opening. Vanessa found herself trembling with rage. That girl! she thought. I should have known! She’d only met the curator of this exhibit a few days ago. Though still very young, Michelle Rice had arrived here with a whole raft of prestigious credentials—sterling references, an Ivy League MFA degree in Arts Management, and several years of study and gallery work in Paris. But from the very start, Michelle had struck Vanessa as rather flaky and scatterbrained. I should have paid attention to my instincts, Vanessa thought. Meanwhile, just where was she? Vanessa looked around and didn’t see the young woman anywhere. But surely she must be in the museum somewhere. Vanessa shouted, startling herself with her harsh, braying tone. “Michelle, you’d better get your little a*s in here and tell me just what the hell is going on.” Her voice echoed throughout the building, but there was no reply. Vanessa tapped her foot, trying to decide whether to search the whole building for her. “Michelle!” she yelled again. Again there was no reply. Vanessa heaved an angry sigh. Michelle was pretty obviously nowhere within earshot. But where is she? With a roll of her eyes, Vanessa remembered how Michelle had flirted last night with a well-built male worker who had helped deliver the paintings, then again with a handsome gallery guard. She’s probably off having a fling somewhere, Vanessa thought. Wherever she was, Vanessa intended to fire her immediately, then do everything she could to keep her from working as a curator anywhere else ever again. Meanwhile, Vanessa was determined to give the girl a piece of her mind. She took out her phone and dialed up Michelle’s cellphone number. After two or three rings, Vanessa guessed that Michelle wasn’t going to take the call. If she didn’t, Vanessa planned to leave a blistering message. But then she heard something odd. It was as if the ringing signal in her cellphone was being echoed somewhere nearby. But how could that be? Vanessa quickly traced the source of the noise to the adjoining storeroom, the door to which was open just a c***k. She discontinued the call, and the telltale ringing stopped. She’s hiding from me! she thought. The nerve of that girl! I’ll kill her when I find her! Vanessa strode over to the door and pulled it open and stepped inside. After the bright light in the gallery, her eyes had trouble adjusting to the dim, flickering light in the storeroom. She soon realized that the light was coming from votive candles arranged in a large circle on the floor. “What on earth …?” she murmured aloud. Then she realized that the candles surrounded a prone young woman. She was lying on her back in a formal pose resembling a corpse in a coffin. Her hands were folded around an earthenware cup sitting upright on her chest. Vanessa recognized the cheerfully colored dress Michelle had been wearing the last time she’d seen her. And as she took a few steps toward the weird tableau, she could make out Michelle’s face, her skin a pale yellowish hue in the candlelight, her eyes closed and her expression eerily calm. This doesn’t seem real, Vanessa thought. Indeed, for a moment, she wondered whether she might be dreaming. Or was this some kind of dress rehearsal for a performance piece Vanessa hadn’t been aware of? “Michelle …?” Vanessa said in shaky voice. She became aware of the unnatural pallor of Michelle’s face, the absence of any movement that would suggest breathing, and also a telltale bruise around her throat. It dawned on her that Michelle wasn’t going to answer. Michelle was dead. Vanessa felt her knees weaken, and her feet and hands got suddenly cold as her brain struggled to make sense of the situation. Michelle was murdered, she realized. And for all she knew, the murderer was still in the building. If so, she was shut up in here alone with him. A fight-or-flight response kicked in. Vanessa’s legs seemed to decide on their own to choose flight. She found herself whirling around and stumbling away before she staggered through the building, running awkwardly and precariously in her high heels. She didn’t dare stop or slow down enough to kick off her shoes. When she got to the front entrance, she fumbled desperately in her purse for her keys. An eternity passed before she laid her hands on them, then shakily inserted the correct key into the lock and turned it and yanked the door open. She lurched outside into the morning air, pulled the door shut again, and hastily locked it. Then she leaned limply against the building panting for breath. I’m safe now, she told herself. Even so, those early morning shadows in the landscaped grounds seemed threatening. She pulled out her cellphone and dialed 911.