Suspicious (On the Run) Read Online Free Page A

saw the office’s fluorescent lights shining on the dome of Nigel Edwards, her boss and the head of the Art Squad. He’d taken the razor to his patchy hair growth last year, declaring that he’d rather resign than resort to a comb-over at the ripe old age of thirty-four.
    “Nothing I can’t handle,” Gemma said. At six-foot-two with golden blond hair, blue eyes, and a curvy figure that couldn’t be disguised, even swathed in a trench coat against London’s fickle weather, Gemma stood out in the mostly masculine police world. She had plenty of experience deflecting and diffusing passes. She rolled her chair back a few inches. “What’s up?” As much as she liked her easy-going boss, she knew he hadn’t dropped by her desk to chat.
    “Got word that there’s an informant who says he has information on the country house robberies.”
    Gemma frowned at the art catalogue on her desk. She was working on a cold case, a painting that had been stolen ten years earlier during a break-in at a pitifully ill-secured regional museum. The painting was beautiful—an exquisitely detailed still life of a table, post meal. Messy and realistic, it showed a ruched tablecloth littered with breadcrumbs, tilted glasses, and a half-peeled lemon, its rind curling over the edge of the table. The artist was Willem Claesz. Not exactly a household name. Not like Vermeer or Rembrandt.
    Nigel lifted his chin toward the catalogue. “Anything on the Claesz?”
    “No,” Gemma said, reluctantly. “Just going over everything, looking for something that was missed the first time.”
    Nigel nodded, his dark brown gaze on the catalogue, too. “If we get a break on the country house thefts, it would be good for the department. Higher ups are rumbling about cutting our budget.”
    “Again?”
    “Some idiot has floated the idea of closing the department altogether. That way, they could shift all our funding to terrorism.”
    “Well, can’t blame them. Lot easier to justify funds to prevent terrorists from killing citizens than to find a dusty old painting,” she said with a downward quirk of her lips. The budget battle was a constant threat. The Art Squad was the easiest thing to cut.
    Her boss waited a beat. “But jewels make headlines.”
    “Unlike poor Claesz.” If they recovered the Claesz, it might get a mention or two, buried at the bottom of the day’s news. If they found a stash of missing jewels, it would be headline news.
    Gemma slapped a sticky note on the corner of the page then closed the catalogue. She took the paper Nigel held out. “Well, let’s see if we can find something and get a nice splashy headline to keep the bean counters at bay.”

    ***

    “That’s not the way the zipper goes.” Zoe looked over her shoulder at Jack.
    “I thought you wanted my help with it.”
    “Zipping it up, not down.”
    He reversed course with the zipper. “Pity,” he said as he fastened the tiny hook at the top of the zipper, his breath fanning over her bare shoulders, making her shiver. “Don’t tempt me.” Zoe shot him a look as she crossed the room, her dress swishing around her, and stepped into her shoes, stilettos that she’d borrowed from her friend Helen’s well-stocked closet. “You look tempting in that tux, but you’re the one who promised Harrington we’d be there an hour early.”
    “I knew we shouldn’t have tried to work in the Castel Sant’Angelo.” He adjusted his cuffs and held out his arm.
    Zoe gave herself one final check in the mirror and rubbed her collarbone. “I shouldn’t have gotten so much sun today. My freckles are really popping.” She reached for her makeup bag.
    Jack crossed the room and caught her hand. “Your freckles are incredibly sexy.”
    She laughed. “No they’re not. Spotty, blotchy patches are not sexy.”
    He pulled her into his arms. “Yes they are.”
    “Then why don’t you see lots of models or actresses with freckles?”
    “Hollywood and the media are messed