“Aldric co-signed the apartment lease.” Darrell ruffled Aldric’s hair and fed him a fry. “Finally.”

  He’d moved in a month or so back, but this made it official. “Congratulations.” Elliot picked up his plastic cup of herbal tea in toast.

  “And Darrell won’t let me pay half the rent,” Aldric said, chewing and swallowing his mouthful of meat and bun.

  “Because…” Darrell drew it out like a drumroll. “He’s decided to go to college!”

  “Just community college, locally,” Aldric added.

  “Excellent! I’m very pleased to hear it. Have you chosen which?” Elliot nodded as Aldric described the merits of San Antonio’s biggest community college over the others in in the city, and all the subjects he hoped to study during the course of his associate degree. Aldric really was making his own life.

  “Ask Jonas for advice?” Elliot suggested. “I realize he teaches at a different sort of college, and on bachelor’s degree courses, but even so?”

  “Over here!” Darrell called, and signaled before Aldric could reply to that. He waited until the man he was waving at joined them. “Elliot, you asked how many goals I scored? The other side of the coin is how many goals the Bears didn’t score, because Nando stopped at least six dead certs.”

  Darrell’s green-brown eyes were alight with intent as he half-pushed the newcomer into the middle of the group—next to Elliot. “Nando plays in goal,” Darrell added, demonstrating understanding of Elliot’s unfamiliarity with the game. “He works at the same station as me—Officer Nando Reyes, Elliot Douglas, Aldric’s boss.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” Curly-haired, short and tan, Officer Reyes was softly spoken and looked a little diffident, although the grip of his hand was almost as strong as Darrell’s.

  Elliot caught the look that Darrell and Aldric exchanged, and his heart thudded. Reticent and reserved, he’d never discussed his sexuality with them, but it seemed clear that they were if not setting him up with their friend, then getting them together in the hope that something would come of it. Why did they think he was gay? He was, but that wasn’t the point. Before he could think what to say, the guy spoke.

  “Do you play?” the police officer asked, stumbling over his words. “Five-a-side, or kickball or baseball? You should join one of the teams.”

  “I wouldn’t have a clue, I’m afraid,” Elliot, trying his best not to take the irritation he was feeling out on this innocent party. “The closest I get to a team sport is attending an arts and antiques fair. They can be rather a scrum. I feel I have to get into training for the one coming up next week.” And yes, he was sounding stiff and out of touch again. Well, if he was behind the times, at least he knew where he was.

  “I think we need another box of fries.” Aldric elbowed Darrell. “Anyone want anything while we’re there?”

  Elliot shook his head, and Nando refused too. Elliot hated to see the other two walk away. It left him exposed and vulnerable.

  “Do you play pool?” Nando asked, still trying.

  “I used to play billiards.”

  The word brought back memories of the game and when he’d played and with whom, memories he’d rather tamp down. He regretted his reply for another reason when Nando continued, his voice eager, “There’s a bar downtown with a billiards table.”

  Elliot swallowed his sigh. He willed Darrell and Aldric back so he could make his escape. He might want someone of his own, but this sweet, shy man, a little reminiscent of Aldric when he’d first come to work at the store, wasn’t the one for him. He wouldn’t be able to meet Elliot’s needs any more than Elliot would be able to give him what he wanted.

  He felt lonelier now than he had before he’d forced himself to come here.

  Chapter Four

  Claire looked up when Drew slid the takeout coffee and sandwich across her desk. “What’s this?” she said.

  “I got them. Make up for you missing lunch.”

  “Drew, it’s almost evening!” Claire exclaimed.

  “Is it? Oh.” He’d been working all afternoon, and, seemingly, into the evening. “Keep them until tomorrow?”

  He pushed them nearer as a peace offering anyway. How things had gone with Kislyak had been his fault—he’d railroaded his fellow detective sergeant into it and had made sure their superiors, especially Detective Inspector Stewart Lassiter, their immediate boss, knew it. It hadn’t stopped Lassiter passing on the shit he’d received from Chief Inspector Caine, of course.

  “Yeah?” Claire picked up the sandwich. “Then this better be at least chicken Caesar and bacon. And no runny egg. I saw enough of that earlier.”

  “It is. And I know. Oh, and the coffee’s got a shot of caramel in, how you like it.” Drew leaned lower. “Look, I’m sorry. I know I’m a little—”

  “Obsessed?” Claire flicked the lid of her drink and sniffed it. “Just the one shot, I see, or rather smell?”

  “But I know he’s connected!” Drew raked his fingers over his scalp. “Not just planning out these huge, lucrative thefts, but the whole of Organized Crime would love to know the source of his ‘unexplained wealth’, all the properties and business he owns in the UK, bought through anonymous companies and—”

  “DS Harrington!”

  Drew straightened, closing his eyes. The exasperated voice behind him belonged to DI Lassiter.

  “You got any real info on the role of offshore companies and trusts washing money leaving Russia or the Ukraine, take it to the Criminal Finance or the Financial Investigation departments!” his boss barked. “If not, I suggest you sit your ass down in your chair and get on with your job.”

  “Sir.”

  Drew sat his rear down as ordered and pulled up the Art Loss Register and Interpol’s Stolen Works of Art database. It was part of his job to send updated information to the registries on any new losses reported or pieces recovered, and he enjoyed being the bureau’s Interpol liaison. He studied the lists too, cross-tracking thefts over the last decade with what he knew of Kislyak’s movements.

  The Zurich robbery had been dominating his thoughts ever since the painting stolen from there had come to light. Tracing the chain of ownership from Sonia Malykhin to her ex-husband had led to the dealer the Russian had bought it from, then to how Kislyak had ‘acquired’ it.

  Drew pulled off his black-framed glasses and held them in the hand he was using to prop up his chin as he considered all he knew…and what he suspected. A more typical kind of art theft was low-key, surreptitious, taking advantage of the lack of funds available for strong security to steal from museum storage facilities or library stacks, for example. The scant resources these places had often meant it was years before thefts were discovered, also making the dates of the crimes impossible to pin down to anything more concrete than ‘sometime between this inventory and the last one’.

  But robbing a gallery, and in the various bold, brash ways several had been raided? That was a whole different kettle of crime. Brash, arrogant…adjectives he’d use to describe that egotistical bastard Kislyak. Was he the type of criminal to direct robberies of foundations and institutions like the Hauser?

  “Lucky?” he called across to Detective Constable Kai Lee, who had no objection to his nickname, though he probably would if he knew the song and singer it referenced, Drew bet. “You got that info on the 2019 case?”

  “Just printing…” At the copier, Lucky gathered up several sheets of paper into a file to present to Drew. He’d send it all in e-form too, and log it into their workflow, but Drew preferred having actual pictures to look at, even if they were only copies, like these, while he committed them to memory.

  “These all of them?” Drew asked.

  “From the 2019 robbery at the Maison d’Art Moderne, Paris? Yes,” Lucky assured him, hovering in case he was needed further.

  “Thanks.” Dismissing him, Drew fanned the pieces of paper out like playing cards. Monet’s Fishermen at Île de Groix, Renoir’s Bather Seated on the Grass, Cezanne’s Sunrise at Châteaufort and Sisley’s Wheat Field Near Ponthierry along with another Monet, one of his London Bridge series. The priceless works of art had been on loan from several museums for an exhibition, netting the raid a good haul.

  Was Roman Kislyak in Paris at the same time? A phone call requesting that information from the official departments privy to the knowledge could alert the system—and his bosses—what he was checking into, but Drew had other resources. He picked up the phone.

  “Chris, hi,” he greeted his contact. “I was wondering if you could—?”

  “Lemme guess. Look up your nemesis in the archives again,” Chris interrupted, his eyeroll coming across the phone line perfectly.

  “He’s hardly that,” Drew scoffed. Okay, so he was a little fixated on the guy. A little.

  “Can I remind you again that London Society magazine, while the city’s oldest illustrated journal of society, doesn’t have a high-powered database like the sort you have at your disposal?” Chris sniped. “All we have are issues on file. I can’t cross-reference by search terms.”

  “I know, and all I want to know is if Roman Kislyak shows up in Paris in June 2019.”

  “Oh.” Denied anything to bitch about, Chris hummed and muttered as he looked it up.

  “Anything?” Drew waved off Hasina Ali, the department’s other detective constable, who was trying to draw his attention to a memo she’d left on his desk.

  “Anyone. As in, anyone who was anyone was in the City of Light then for a huge international charity fashion show and gala dinner at the Paris Opera House. Ooh la la.”

  “Roman Kislyak included?”

  “Roman Kislyak included.”

  It proved nothing, of course, especially with the man attending and donating to a lot of high-roller charity events, but it was a connection.

  “You stalking him?” Chris inquired. “Because if so and because I’m an enabler, I can tell you where’ll he be this evening. We’re covering it.”

  Drew had to grin. “I’m not.” Fine, so his bosses might disagree. “But tell me anyway?”

  Chris did, and Drew hung up, then turned back to a photograph of his quarry. He could believe the man was cunning and motivated enough to plan heists, but, now he’d met him, he couldn’t see the man sitting calmly, analyzing and directing others.

  No, Kislyak wasn’t as much a person who saw an opportunity and took it as someone who made an opportunity and grabbed it, neutralizing anyone or anything in his way. All that aggressive, explosive energy that swirled around the man needed an outlet.

  Drew’s fingers brushed the memo Hasina had just left him. Glancing at it had him clenching his teeth. The department’s short-term focus was now on looted antiquities, which were an economic opportunity for terrorists who found them, sold them and used the funds to finance further operations. “For God’s sake!” he gritted out. “Yes, this is vital, but the Met has other units for this!”

  “Don’t blame me. I’m only the messenger,” Hasina called.

  “Did you read the supporting documents that informed the new directive?” Claire asked him. She took some stapled sheets of paper from her desk and brought them to him. “Basically the same info as we got from the presentation the other day about looted cultural property being terrorists’ second-highest source of income. Oh, and the high international demand for ancient artifacts and the relatively low risk of selling them compared to drugs or weapons, yadda yadda…”

  Drew knew all that. “What if I can prove Kislyak’s into organized crime?” he said, because all the trails he was investigating—as far as he could get along them—led to that. These lines of inquiry tended to fall apart, though, with any would-be informant clamming up and muttering that it would be the kiss of death to spill anything on this.

  Claire reared back. “Is there any point me repeating what our DI and our Chief Inspector said? Well, all I can say is if you take a shot at the king, you’d better not miss, you know? For your sake.”

  Shaking her head, she left him. Drew grabbed his phone and again studied the photos he’d taken at the Thames penthouse. A search told him the three paintings were a James Buttersworth ship portrait, a Martin Johnson Heade seascape and a Bricher landscape. The ship was rendered in great detail, and the other paintings more Romantic, the artists from different schools. Different periods even. The only immediate link Drew could think of was that all three were from the US and still popular there.

  His phone buzzed as he held it and he took a brief glance at the text. Ash, his boyfriend, was at Drew’s flat, cooking. Fine.

  “You going?” Claire pulled her coat on. “Big evening, right?”

  “I’m going in a minute.” Drew nodded. He didn’t know if the evening would be big, but he hoped it would be fruitful…

  * * * *

  Should I be doing this? He wasn’t dressed for it and didn’t have a ticket for whatever was happening at the Lakeside Gallery, Kensington Gardens, but the memory of Kislyak’s smug I’m untouchable smirk propelled him on, and his badge got him through the security rope around the gallery’s pavilion. He wouldn’t be crass and help himself to a drink, though. There wasn’t a show on—this was a private event. A drinks party, Chris had said, some preliminary view of the early stages of an exhibition being held soon, for some of its sponsors and consultants.

  A small flat-screen on a display plinth told him what was being put together, and his cop senses tingled. A Celebration of The Impressionists was going to bring together artworks from around the world, including some rarely seen, from five decades of the art movement. Images of the works flashed up—all the big names, and the places they were coming from were major, from huge museums to private collections.

  Drew studied the building where this show would be held. He did a circuit of its outside, noting its size, strengths and weaknesses. It was small and without half the security measures a major museum or gallery had. How closely this fitted the pattern of the two heists he was investigating staggered him. Small like the Zurich foundation, and about to be stuffed full of extra priceless works on loan.

  It has to be! He increased his pace to return to the doors, where an information panel stood. He had to know when this was opening, when the works would be arriving. The Met has to know.

  As he neared the door, a man strode out by the side of a woman, a small group of people following. Dressed in well-cut evening wear, he held a glass of wine high and gestured with it as he described something. Kislyak. He saw Drew, and his face hardened into a dark scowl. He strode over, that coiled-spring energy Drew had noticed wound tighter.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he snapped.

  “My job.” Drew stood still, making the other man fidget. “Which is, as you know, looking into burglary of art and antiques, international cultural property theft, fraud and money laundering.”

  “You’re not needed here.” Kislyak’s face cracked into a fake smile. “Not when I’ve already got one cop on hand…” He swung aside so Drew could see the small huddle of people who’d exited the gallery behind him. “John?” he called, sounding stressed and upset.

  John being Chief Inspector John Caine. Of fucking course.

  “I invited him and his wife as a thank-you for John’s apologies for one of his men badgering me.” Kislyak’s voice rose on the last two words—they were aimed at Caine, who rushed up, spilling his wine, his face like thunder.

  “Sir—”

  Caine held up a hand. “You are not required to speak. You are not required to be here. So leave, now, and this will be dealt with as soon as possible. Expect to face disciplinary action.” He turned to Kislyak.

  “With all due respect—” Drew started.

  “Go home!” Caine ordered, loudly enough that people looked over. “Or I’ll arrest you myself!”

  Drew carried the image of Kislyak’s gloating sneer with him all the way back to his apartment in Putney. He slammed the door behind him.

  “Ash!” he called to his boyfriend, remembering he’d said he’d be there. “You won’t believe what…” The flat’s general darkness struck him, that and the candles burning on the small kitchen table where Ash sat, a plate of untouched food in front of him. A similar plate waited opposite him, and a bottle of wine and glasses competed for space in the middle with a vase of flowers. The flat smelled of more complex cooking than the pasta or rice dishes Drew or Ash usually threw together.

  Drew walked into the kitchen, which was Ash’s cue to blow out the candles on either side of his plate and stand to snap on the harsh overhead light.

  “I’m late,” Drew began.

  “About half a year late,” Ash agreed. He took a few cooking utensils from the cupboard and shoved them into a bag. “As in, tonight was our six-month anniversary…” He indicated the table.

  Shit.

  “Six months of missed dinners, canceled evenings and postponed dates. I know you’re busy. So am I.” Ash Patel was a mergers and acquisitions lawyer in the City. “But this was the final chance, to see if we were going anywhere, and we’re not. Well, no—I am.”

  He zipped the bag closed. “I think I’ve got everything I might have left here, but if I missed anything, bring it to my office and leave it at reception. Don’t bother trying to get in touch with me.” He scoffed. “Why am I bothering to say that? You won’t. Too busy obsessing.”

  “Ash,” Drew said, his voice low and deep.

  “And don’t use your Dom voice on me. Yes, sex is good between us. Really good. You’re focused on me and my pleasure, and we’re compatible there. But a relationship is more than that, even a Dom–sub one.” Ash shook his head. “You’d think I’d have seen the signs, six months back.” He slapped door keys onto the table and blew out the last candle.

  “Isn’t that a little dramatic?” Drew asked.

  Ash grabbed his bag and left, without replying or saying goodbye. As the door closed, Drew’s phone buzzed. He pulled it out and read the message from Caine. It had him sinking onto a chair, almost dropping his cell. Really? He hadn’t been expecting this, although perhaps he should have been.