Page 74 of Devious Gambit

“Oh.”

“And that’s when things turned bad.”

“What happened?”

“I assumed I’d get another job real quick, but sadly that didn’t happen.”

“Why did you kill those men?”

He sighed. “Looks like you’ve done your homework.”

“I wouldn’t mind an explanation,” I said dryly. “Your version of events.” The explanation was for me, not for anyone else, especially not for Mr. Asshole Ed.

“It was the worst month of my life. I lost my job, my lifesavings were caught up in an investment that was steadily crashing, and my mom, your grandma, was sick and dying of breast cancer. A friend of mine heard about this guy who had a shitload…excuse my language, of stolen goods worth a pretty penny on his property. So we meticulously planned to break into the guy’s house and steal some items to sell, so I could get back on my feet again. We broke into the house when no one was home, unfortunately those three guys turned up in the middle of it all and…Johnny lost his cool and shot one of them and one of their guys shot back at us and…” he sighed, “the rest is history. It was a burglary gone wrong. We did not intend to hurt anyone. I mean, we planned it out when the guy left on vacation. You’ve got to believe me.” He smacked his lips. “I was a desperate man who did a desperate thing. I swear, I was straight as a die, never broken the law ever, until that day.”

I wondered if he was telling the truth, but I had to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Do you regret it?”

“Hell, yes. I regret almost everything I did apart from meeting your mom and having you. You meant everything to me.” He puffed his cheeks out like a blowfish and exhaled. “It was nothing but a dumb idea, Rhys.”

“I read you stole some expensive items and ran off with them.”

“Yeah, in the rush we grabbed a heap stuff to sell. Scout blew the safes up, looking for cash and jewelry and we fled.”

I paused to compose myself. I imagined a bloody scene, caused by my father, which was making me queasy.

“Did you take any art?” I asked carefully.

His eyes flicked back and forth in a shifty fashion. Even though this meeting was via video, I didn’t know how private it was. Surely, they’d let couples talk dirty to each other without listening in “Why do you need to know that?” Something about this retelling of events didn’t sit right with me. However, I had to quickly remind myself that it’s not my problem.

“A friend,” well, I could hardly call him that now, “asked me to ask you, if you knew where the Klimt was. Apparently, it belongs to the Harrington family of Chicago and they want it back.”

He shuffled in his seat and swept his thin hair back with his shackled hands.

“Did you take it?” I enquired.

“I took one piece of art in a gold frame. I recognized the artist, but assumed it was a fake.”

“Who was the artist?”

“I discovered it was a Klimt, although it took me a while to find that out.”

“What did you do with it when you were on the run for three years?”

“Hid it. I wanted to get it appraised one day, when everything calmed down.”

“Is it still in the same hiding place?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I haven’t moved it and I refused to tell anyone about it, so I hope it’s still there.”

“Where? Please…D-ad.” His face softened when I called him ‘Dad.’ “Where is the Klimt hidden?”

“Do you know these Harrington’s personally?” he asked.

“Sort of. But I think you owe them, since you stole the precious painting that was stolen from them.”

He took his glasses off to clean the lenses as time ticked far too quickly. He had to tell me now, because I didn’t know when I’d come back again.

“Will you write to me?” he asked, fitting his glasses back on his face.

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