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  Victor noticed the tiny bead of sweat on the dean’s temple. Exertion from hobbling out of the tunnels?

  “I suppose,” Lock said, “but the university security and the police have searched his apartment and, besides, we’re not in the business of hosting guests.”

  Brooke rose from her seat and smiled, a grin that both mesmerized Victor and made something tingle through his veins.

  “Of course you are,” she said, with a sweeping gesture. “You’ve got an entire building here for your women guests. And there are plenty of vacancies at the moment.”

  “Another for the men, right across the way,” Victor added.

  “No,” Lock said. “The administration will never allow it.”

  Victor cast a glance toward the stately columns of the library. He didn’t want to play the card, but Lock gave him no choice. “I heard Bayside was interested in purchasing the land behind the university for a new science building.” A worthy endeavor. Very worthy. Very expensive. Gage family money would be crucial in such an effort. It was essentially blackmail, but he knew Lock needed some motivation to grant his request.

  Dean Lock heard the unspoken message. He lowered his head for a moment, rubbed his face with his good hand before he met Victor’s eyes again. “You’ve got to be out by demolition day. You can’t stay here tonight. I’ve got to inform the university president. Come to my office tomorrow morning and I’ll give you the keys to Colda’s place and the dormitories.”

  “Thank you for your cooperation,” Victor said.

  Lock shook his head. “Isn’t that like the barracuda thanking the squid?”

  They watched the dean bump away, seated in the back of the cart.

  “I’m going to pack up some gear and update Luca about our college overnighter,” Stephanie said with a mischievous grin. “He’s not going to believe this, and it’s going to make him insane not being here.”

  Victor and Brooke followed. “I’ll drive you back to the hotel. We’ll return in the morning.”

  Brooke caught his arm and turned him to face her. “I don’t understand. The dean is right. There couldn’t be a Tarkenton in that tunnel. Do you really think we’ll find it in Colda’s office?”

  “No. I imagine the police have thoroughly searched that, and whoever else is after the painting.”

  “Then why are we staying?”

  He noticed a cobweb trapped in the coppery strands of her bangs. He gently removed it, feeling the soft silk of her hair. For a moment, he forgot the question until she repeated it.

  “We’re staying because the power didn’t fail when we were in that tunnel,” he said.

  Brooke frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Stephanie told me the switch was off. Someone did it on purpose.”

  “Who would do that?”

  “We can rule out the dean, for one, and there are no students around, no staff.”

  Her face clouded. “Then someone else doesn’t want us here.”

  “And I can only think of one reason why. There really is a treasure here that somebody wants for themselves.”

  They walked to his car in silence, the fog enveloping them in moisture. It wasn’t until he checked her room for unwanted visitors and prepared to leave that she asked the question.

  “What is your nickname? The one your father gave you?”

  Victor sighed. “Sea Tiger. It’s a catchy name for the barracuda.”

  She cocked her head. “Why? Your teeth aren’t sharp and pointy.”

  He laughed. “It’s not an altogether flattering comparison. Barracudas are relentless when they want something. They don’t sleep, and you can’t distract them when they’re fixed on their prey.”

  “So you’re relentless?”

  His gaze wandered over her face, lingering on her lips. “Only when I need something.” He walked away, wondering why he felt a strange need coursing through his heart at that very moment, a need that had nothing to do with a missing painting.

  * * *

  Brooke hardly slept. She awoke the next morning with gritty eyes and tangled sheets. A shower did little to revive her as she tried to organize her thoughts. They were going to camp out at the university and do what? Search Leo Colda’s room? It seemed to her unlikely that they would find anything the police or the university personnel who had gone to look for their missing professor hadn’t.

  And Victor had led the charge, pressuring the dean to allow it.

  She recalled the intensity that smoldered in his eyes.

  Sea Tiger.

  Relentless.

  And if he found evidence that somehow linked her father to wrongdoing?

  She knew her father was a man of principle, an innocent in the robbery, yet he had been secretive of late.

  Scribbling notes, closeted in his study, leaving her and Denise to wonder.

  No, she told herself, twisting off the shower faucet.

  Dad isn’t guilty of anything, and I’m going to get his painting back to prove it.

  She had to. Her father was failing, and his reputation was the only thing he had left. Finding a Tarkenton would be a coup that no one could take away from him. The sale of it would help her bring Tad back home and maybe pay for someone to help with the challenges of his Fragile X Syndrome. She could not afford to fail. Tad was counting on her, too.

  Chin up, Brooke.

  With her few belongings stowed in a small bag, Brooke headed down to find Victor already waiting in the lobby. He leaned against the wall, in black jeans and a tucked-in T-shirt. Black jacket, loose-fitting. He could have been a tourist, or a man waiting for his date, but for the intensity on his face. Her pulse edged up a notch as she joined him.

  “Morning,” he said. “Did you get any sleep?”

  “No. You?”

  He shook his head as they walked to the car. “I don’t need much.”

  “Is that the barracuda in you?”

  He shot a look at her and then smiled, an expression that lifted the dark shadows from his face. “I have a hard time shutting off my mind.”

  She picked up the file tucked neatly between the seats in Victor’s Mercedes. “Last night’s project?”

  “Research,” he said. “Go ahead and look.”

  She riffled through the papers, which included a brief biography of L. Tarkenton and some glossy photos of several of his oil paintings.

  “I need you to tell me about the missing painting,” he said. “There are no references to the one you described that I could find.”

  “I’m not surprised. Dad’s spent most of his life sniffing out hints about it. It’s called The Contemplative Lady. The subject is a young woman looking out the window of a drawing room. It’s done in oils. My father found reference to it in one of Tarkenton’s letters but no one has ever found proof that Tarkenton actually went beyond the planning stages of the work, until my father came home with the painting from that estate sale. It’s unsigned, but he’s sure it’s the Lady.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She hesitated only a moment. “Yes. I’m not a trained art historian, but I’ve spent four years immersed in my father’s world.”

  “What happened to dancing?”

  The car suddenly felt very small. “I got a scholarship to a dance academy in New York but I injured my knee.”

  “So you came home?”

  She flushed. “Yes. I worked some part-time jobs and spent years trying to find a passion again. Finally, I started college, which was a terrible mistake.”

  “Why?”

  “My brother had trouble. He can’t control his anger sometimes. He was sent to a group home. If I had stayed home, he might not have gotten so bad.” She shook her head, wondering why she’d told him any of the whole messy story. Desperate to change the train of conversation she noticed another file, stuck in the pocket of the driver’s side door. “What’s in that one?”

  Victor stared at the road ahead, accelerating through a yellow light. “More research.”


  “May I take a look?”

  “Nothing you’d want to see.”

  Her pulse quickened. “I guess I’d better take a look anyway.”

  He shot her a look but she could not read the expression behind the serious demeanor. Slowly he removed it and handed it to her.

  Her heart sank as she scanned the pages. “What is this?”

  “It’s a copy of Tuney’s report to me after he finished his investigation into the museum theft. Cops determined the mastermind was familiar with the delivery schedule even though that was only provided to the curators and security people a few days before. When the truck pulled into the lot, the thief was waiting.”

  She forced out the words. “But there was no proof of my father’s involvement. Lock could have been behind it.”

  “There was not enough proof to pin it on either one. I was just refreshing myself on the details. Take a look at the second set of papers.”

  With fingers gone suddenly cold she found the pages. “Phone records? From my house?”

  “Not official. That would be illegal.”

  She forced a calm tone even though her insides were churning. How much had he pried into the private life of her family? “Then how did you get them?”

  He sighed. “My sister is very…effective at collecting information. She called in a favor. Cop told her, off the record, that Colda called your house in San Diego once the week before he disappeared.”

  The breath seemed to bottle up in her lungs. “It doesn’t mean anything. They were colleagues, Colda was evaluating a painting for him. It makes sense that he would call our house.”

  “Then why was the phone call only five seconds in duration?”

  “What?”

  “Cop said Colda hung up the phone immediately after it was answered.”

  “Hung up?” Her head spun. “Was he worried that someone was eavesdropping?”

  “Not sure, but he was worried about something. Seems he booked a flight out of SFO.”

  Nerves tingled along her spine. “What was the destination?”

  “San Diego.”

  She swallowed hard. “He was coming to see my father?”

  He nodded grimly. “But he never made it on that plane.”

  SIX

  He saw her clutch at the little gold cross around her neck, smoothing it in her fingers.

  “Do you…” She cleared her throat. “Do you think Professor Colda is dead?”

  He wanted to tell her that in his mind there was no doubt about it, but oddly he could not bring himself to say it. “We’ll have to see. No sign of foul play. The cops floated the idea that he left for the break. His classes don’t start up for another two weeks at the satellite location, so they think he could have gone on a vacation.”

  “But you don’t think so?”

  Victor tried for a gentle tone. “It’s strange that he would have paid for a plane ticket and not shown.”

  Her eyes closed and he saw her mouth move, and he wondered if she was praying. Your God won’t hear you, he thought. He hadn’t heard Jennifer, and there was no one more deserving of answered prayer than her.

  Brooke sighed, a soft, gentle sound that took him instantly back to the memory of where he’d first seen her. Several months before the crash, Jennifer was meeting with then-curator Lock at the museum to arrange to take her middle schoolers on a trip. Victor went along, left to wander through paintings he had no interest in, when he came upon Brooke. He hadn’t known her name. Her hair was different, face fuller then.

  She stared with rapt attention at a small Degas, a painting of a ballerina, ethereal and graceful. It was not the painting that captured Victor’s attention, but the look on Brooke’s face—sadness, longing, painful disappointment laid bare in that moment. She’d probably been dealing with the loss of her dancing career. Home for a quick visit to her father perhaps. He’d stood frozen, captivated by the sheer nakedness of the emotion, uncertain what, if anything, he should do about it, until another visitor came close and Brooke scurried away.

  In the years after Jennifer’s death he’d thought about that face, pondered how she had shown on her face the worst emotions that crowded into his heart after the accident. It was all written there, naked, for anyone to see, except one emotion was missing. Rage.

  Her father may very well be a thief, Victor reminded himself, rekindling the anger in his own heart. It didn’t matter what Brooke felt or did. He needed to find the truth.

  But what if the truth about Donald changed Brooke Ramsey? Would it pain Victor to see her face hardened by the same anger that turned his own heart to stone? He tried to shake off the idiotic thoughts.

  A movement in the rearview mirror caught his eye. He stiffened at the sight of the motorcycle a few car lengths behind, the driver’s face hidden behind the tinted faceplate of the helmet. “I saw the same guy on the motorcycle when I drove over to get you this morning.”

  Brooke peeked into the side mirror instead of turning around. Good girl, he thought.

  “So now there’s someone following us?”

  “Maybe. Let’s find out.” Abruptly he changed lanes, eliciting a honk from the car behind him. He pushed his way over to the right-hand lane and turned down a narrow, one-way street. Victor’s heart was beating fast, eyes intent on the rearview mirror as he slowed the car.

  He could be mistaken.

  It could be a different motorcycle than the one he’d seen.

  Or paranoia born of the shooting at his office.

  It took a few moments before the motorcycle made the turn, also.

  Victor’s blood pumped faster, as he strained in the rearview mirror to get a glimpse of the man’s face.

  “Is it Tuney?” Brooke’s eyes were riveted to the side-view mirror.

  “That was my first thought, but the driver’s too tall to be Tuney.”

  “What now?” she said.

  Victor’s stomach tightened in determination. “Now we find out how good the guy is. Buckle up.”

  Brooke clutched the door with one hand and her seat belt with the other.

  He waited until the motorcycle closed the gap to one car length, then he increased his speed, turning one left and then another until they were back on the main drag. San Francisco’s middle-of-the-day traffic was not terrible because most people who lived in the city didn’t bother to drive, as parking spaces were expensive and hard to come by.

  He slowed just enough to let the motorcyclist ease closer.

  Come on, buddy. You’ve almost got me, don’t you?

  Victor began an intricate series of lane changes and moved in and out of side streets, doubling back and moving forward until Brooke gasped.

  “I’m getting dizzy.”

  He pulled into a one-way street, hemmed in by tall, old warehouses on either side. The car idled while they waited to see if Victor’s tricks had worked.

  The motorcycle turned in behind them once more.

  “Guy’s determined and not a bad driver. He must be somewhat familiar with the city. There’s a place just ahead, an old box factory. We’ll lose him there unless he knows this city better than I do.”

  “What if he does know it better than you do?”

  Victor shrugged. “Then we’ll have the chance to get to know each other pretty soon. Be ready to get a plate number if you can.”

  Brooke clutched her seat belt with one hand. “How do you know this area so well?”

  “We lived in San Francisco for decades. My brother never met an abandoned building he didn’t want to photograph.” He had to fight to keep himself from hitting the gas too hard.

  Keep it cool.

  Another block and he accelerated and flipped a quick left turn, moving quickly enough to ease into a narrow alley before the motorcycle. He pushed the car faster and jerked it into a space behind a crumbling brick facade, intended to artfully conceal trash dumpsters.

  Victor held his breath, pulse pounding, and he could tell by Brooke’s rigid posture that she was d
oing the same.

  One second.

  Three.

  Thirty seconds later and they heard it, the rumble of a motorcycle engine.

  It grew louder and then roared past.

  Brooke exhaled. “Sorry I didn’t get a plate number,” she said, voice high and tense.

  “It’s all right. At least we lost him for the moment.”

  She uncurled her fingers from the seat belt. “That was some driving.”

  He felt unaccountably pleased at her comment until she added, “For a barracuda.”

  * * *

  The dean greeted Victor, Brooke and Stephanie with a weary smile when they arrived, and gestured to his ankle, encased in an elastic bandage. “Bad sprain,” he said. “I know what you’re thinking. I should have stayed put when the lights went out down there.”

  Victor shrugged and smiled politely, but Brooke could tell that was exactly what he was thinking. She also had the feeling that Victor did not completely trust Dean Lock.

  He took the keys to Colda’s place the dean offered and thanked him again.

  Brooke added her thanks, also. She felt the tingle of excitement. Maybe Colda had left some sort of indication of where he’d stowed the painting. It was a long shot, extremely long. She wished she could search by herself, comb every square inch of the campus and restore her father’s good name without relying on Victor and Stephanie to help, but without them she wouldn’t have gotten anywhere.

  God would help her see it through, in spite of Victor’s doubts. She felt certain about that.

  Lock looked away for a moment, apparently studying the oil painting of a desert mesa on his wall. “Colda was living in the Professor House. That’s the hall where the staff who choose to reside on campus are housed. The House is undergoing only minor upgrades, since it’s a fairly new structure, but the resident professors have all been relocated for the time being.” He paused. “I’m going to send someone to accompany you.”

  Brooke wasn’t surprised. The staff wouldn’t be happy to hear about strangers given carte blanche to enter their building. They heard a knock.