Page 13 of The Criminal

“De Wispelaere is a good place to go next.” John’s eyes cut to me, and I knew he’d realized I was acting cagey. Shit, working for a spy was treacherous. The man was a human lie detector. “Quinn, take Derek with you. De Wispelaere will love him.”

I didn’t care why De Wispelaere would love me—it was a reason to leave John’s office immediately before he grilled me on my morning activities. Holding information back felt uncomfortable, but I still wasn’t going to share anything about Lee. I had to protect her, even from my people.

I left Quinn and John talking about office schedules and told her I’d meet her in the bullpen when she was ready to go.

I headed toward Sydney’s desk to see how she and Noah were doing on the calls to local pawn shops. I’d set them to that task via email before leaving for Oleander. At the time, I’d thought it was a long shot, and I hadn’t changed my mind. But now that Gigi was paying for a parallel investigation, it was the right thing to do.

“I don’t speak enough Spanish to do this.” Noah snagged me as I passed his desk. He pointed to Sydney who was on the phone speaking Spanish like someone who had lived in Mexico for a decade. Because she had.

“Didn’t Quinn get you one of those crazy expensive computer language classes to fix that problem last year?” In Miami, not speaking Spanish wasn’t debilitating, but it could be inconvenient.

“It didn’t cover how to ask a pawnbroker if they sell stolen goods.” He shrugged. “But I’m pleased to say I can now pick up women in two languages.”

“Ha, the language of love is universal.” Quinn joined me in front of Noah’s desk. “And in your case, Noah, it’s easy to translate six-pack abs into any tongue.”

“If you got ‘em—“ Noah reached to untuck his shirt.

“Please do not flaunt them.” I cut him off. “You ready to go?” I asked Quinn.

“Absolutely. I love Charles.”

The drive from our downtown offices to the Design District was probably the most dangerous thing I’d do today. The traffic was crazy. Hopefully, when the summer heat kicked in, half of these people would go back north. The threat of hurricane season had a way of sending the New Yorkers flooding home.

“You can use the valet stand in front of Gucci.” Quinn pointed toward a line of luxury cars waiting at the curb. The high-end shopping area was filled with wall-to-wall designer clothing stores and posh shoppers.

“I’d rather not.” I wasn’t giving some parker my Smith Agency car. This thing was loaded down with all kinds of fun toys.

“Seriously, you’re worried about some electronics and a couple of bulletproof vests? That’s a McLaren. And parking on the street here sucks.”

I couldn’t argue with her logic, even if I wanted to. I was boxed into the storage lane, and the easy way out was to give the car to the valet.

“So, who is this Charles De whatever guy?”

“Charles De Wispelaere is the consummate showman, snake oil salesman, and perfect gentleman. John found him when he was shopping for a birthday present for Kira a few years back. Charles purported to have some authentic Fabergé objects for sale.”

“Like the Russian eggs?”

“Same maker, but Charles offered small stuff: jeweled picture frames and Christmas ornaments.”

“But…”

“But it was all stolen from some auction house the year before. John leveraged the situation when Charles realized he was going to get caught. John returned the items to the auction house without Charles going to jail. And the Fabergé collection’s owners were so thrilled that they gifted John with one frame. Ever since, we’ve kept tabs on Charles. He’s come in handy occasionally.”

“So, he fences stolen art?”

“Not just stolen. He does a bang-up job in forgeries too. He has a legitimate business as well.”

I groaned; John’s moral compass rarely pointed due north.

“Wait until you see the store.” Her eyes glittered with unrepressed excitement. The happiness combined with Quinn’s cherubic appearance made her look about twelve, and the urge to give her a noogie returned.

The store had an imposing stucco front adorned with glowing gas lanterns and a wood door that looked like it had been salvaged from a Gothic church. Everything about the Charles De Wispelaere Gallery made a statement. Inside, beautiful items filled every inch of available space. I didn’t know what half the things were, but they all looked expensive.

Sterling silver tea sets, inlaid backgammon boards, and more china than was logical crowded every polished antique tabletop. Overhead, crystal chandeliers and brass lamps hung together in a tangle reminiscent of the jungle canopy in South America.

Amid the riot stood Charles De Wispelaere. He was a stout man in his sixties with a puff of perfectly styled silver hair and a well-tailored purple suit so dark it was almost black. The chaos of the store was so distracting, it took me a few moments before my eyes settled on him. Anywhere else, his appearance might have been noteworthy, but he blended into the madness in this room.

“Quinn White, the loveliest flower in Miami.” De Wispelaere bent and ceremoniously kissed the back of her hand. “And who is your friend?”

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