Identity Crisis Read online

  He shrugged. “Maybe. Besides, taking money from a bunch of snooty rich people responsible for jacking up the prices of art to begin with so they can flaunt their wealth isn’t really a major crime. However—”

  “Not a major crime? What about the artists’ integrity? Every time a forgery is sold—which my dad hadn’t done in twenty-four years—it not only depreciates the value of the original painting, but the quality. Many forgeries out there aren’t nearly as well painted as the originals. Pretty soon, people see enough crappy fakes and they’re thinking, ‘Hey, that Rembrandt wasn’t such a great artist.’ It diminishes people’s view of the real artist and alters history.”

  “Like I was saying, if it’s just a bunch of rich people getting screwed, it’s not as major a crime. However, using stolen art and forgeries to fund terrorism or arms and drug trafficking is major. A multi-billion-dollar enterprise annually to be exact. Largely operated by international organized crime syndicates. Like the one your father worked for.”

  She let out an angry huff of air, flexing her fingers, wanting to wrap them around this guy’s neck. “No way in hell,” she said through gritted teeth, “was my dad involved in funding terrorism or arms and drug trafficking. He was a peaceful man. I guarantee you won’t find me nearly as peaceful if you continue harassing me.” She gave his shoulder a shove, pushing past him. “Stop following me.”

  If Ethan insisted on an investigation and once someone caught the slightest wind of it, her and her partner Rachel’s reputations would be ruined. Even when the paintings turned out to be authentic, the doubt would be planted in people’s minds and scandal would be attached to her gallery’s name forever.

  She needed Ethan Ryder to stay away from her gallery, and out of her life.

  * * *

  Ethan watched Olivia bolt down the hallway, her dark, wavy hair bouncing against her back, an air of confidence in her stride. He’d never met someone so passionate about her career. Well, at least not someone with a legitimate one. And his gut told him she was legit, even though she was hiding something. He’d mastered the skill of reading people, and he could see fear in her eyes. Good thing he’d just finished his latest assignment, protecting a witness waiting to testify. Not that any assignment was ever really finished. When he was assigned a witness, they were his responsibility for life, or until they opted out of the program. After twenty-four years, Andrew Donovan’s case appeared to once again be active.

  Had her dad continued his life of crime? If he had been selling forgeries, Ethan doubted the money had funded terrorism or drugs when Donovan appeared to have lived a quiet, unassuming suburban lifestyle.

  Ethan had never dealt with a witness involved in forgery or theft. Outside of protecting innocent victims of circumstance, his criminal witnesses were mainly snitches who’d put away dealers or gangbangers. It came down to using the little fish to bait the bigger ones.

  Busting an art forgery ring was outside the scope of Ethan’s job description. Except in this case, WITSEC—marshal talk for the Witness Security Program—had been responsible for putting Olivia’s dad back on the street and giving him a clean slate. If it turned out he’d been selling forgeries and Ethan didn’t follow his instincts and stop a possible forgery ring, it wouldn’t be good. He was already on the U.S. Marshals’ shit list. He had to find out if her dad had indeed been a little fish.

  He wasn’t about to lose his job over another screw-up.

  Chapter Four

  Olivia walked into her gallery—a brick building on Sutter Street, just off of Union Square. She’d never get to sleep without taking a look at Trapeze Artist, along with whatever was inside the envelopes from her dad’s safe. Even though the last envelope she’d opened had been like opening Pandora’s Box.

  She’d closed the gallery for the funeral and her talk. Rachel was vacationing in Rome, returning the following day. Being high season in Europe, she’d been unable to change her airline ticket to get home in time for the funeral, so Olivia had told her to stay until her vacation was over.

  Besides Chagall, their gallery specialized in Matisse and Picasso—Rachel’s area of expertise—along with several local artists. When Olivia was young, she and her dad used to visit remote galleries throughout California. She’d fallen in love with Chagall’s colorful artwork, especially his whimsical, fantasy-like portrayal of the circus. The more interested she’d become in Chagall, the more her dad had discouraged her. Made sense. The newspaper article stated he’d sold several Chagall forgeries.

  Olivia marched over to Trapeze Artist hanging on the white wall. Done in vibrant reds and blues, the painting portrayed a young girl swinging through the air, no net below. The scent of cotton candy and popcorn filled Olivia’s head, along with gasps of awe from the circus audience. Her gut told her the Chagall was real. And that her dad hadn’t resumed his life of crime. He’d been too cautious to have done anything to put their lives in danger.

  Olivia walked over to her desk, her heels echoing against the wood floor and through the gallery. She scooped a handful of gummy bears out of the jar on her maple desk and popped several in her mouth. A lone framed Chagall postcard sat on her desk, whereas family photos filled Rachel’s. Olivia hoped to have her children’s pictures sitting on her desk one day. Rachel was the first friend Olivia had really clicked with. Growing up, she’d been into hanging Chagall posters on her bedroom walls rather than ones of Kirk Cameron or New Kids on the Block. Rather than Teen, she’d subscribed to Art Digest.

  Olivia sat at her desk, removing her dad’s envelopes from her briefcase. Taking a deep breath, she opened one and pulled out a stack of financial papers. She thumbed through statements for retirement accounts, a life insurance policy, several mutual funds, and stocks. There was no bank account in the Caymans proving he’d been funneling large sums of money from the sale of forgeries to an offshore account. The envelope also contained the provenances for the artwork at his house, but none for any possible forgeries or paintings currently in her gallery. More evidence of her dad’s innocence.

  Take that, Ethan Ryder.

  There was no evidence against the mob. She wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing.

  The other envelope contained personal documents, including their real birth certificates. His parents were Katherine Flannery and Roger Donovan. Allegedly, her dad’s parents had died in a car accident when he was in high school, and her mom’s dad had run off when she was two, her mother dying shortly after. Undoubtedly lies, same as the rest of Olivia’s past. Her family was possibly still alive and living in Five Lakes, Wisconsin.

  She picked up a small yellowed envelope with a return post office box in Washington, DC, the postmark dated twenty-four years ago. While removing a letter, a thick gold band with alternating diamonds and rubies set in the center of flowers fell out onto the desk.

  Her mom’s wedding ring?

  Olivia slipped it on her ring finger, envisioning her dad slipping it on her mom’s finger during their wedding ceremony. A warm feeling washed over her as she admired what was likely the only personal possession she had of her mom’s. A tad big for her finger, she removed it, fearing she’d lose it.

  She opened the letter, written on purple floral stationery. The folds were nearly worn through, testament to the fact that it had been read often.

  Dear Andrew,

  I’m sorry my letters make you sad. Lord knows I don’t want you to feel any worse. I want to believe you and Livvy are happy wherever you are. You’ll always be in my prayers. God will watch over you. It’ll be hard, but I promise to stop writing. Know that I’m here for you should you ever want to write or call me someday. I hope you will.

  Love, Mom

  Livvy. So, her name really was Olivia. Her dad had apparently been able to correspond with his parents through the U.S. Marshals and he’d chosen not to. He’d chosen for her not to be able to write to them. Granted, if he hadn’t, she’d have insisted on meeting them. It made her furious that he’d chosen a life of
crime without considering the consequences.

  From her grandmother’s kind words, she appeared to have forgiven her son. What if Olivia wasn’t capable of such forgiveness? How would she learn to live with the anger eating her up inside?

  Chapter Five

  Olivia’s eyes shot open. She laid still in bed, soaked in sweat, her green silk nightgown clinging to her. Her gaze darted around her bedroom, scanning the Chagall lithographs on the red walls and the maple furnishings, dimly lit by the streetlights filtering in around the edges of the curtains.

  Must have been a nightmare.

  Located in a large Victorian house, her condo was cozy with oak floors and wood beam ceilings, yet suddenly it felt eerily quiet and empty. Then the wood floor in the living room creaked, as if under someone’s step. She lay frozen, her heart racing. Had she forgotten to set the security alarm? No. She’d checked it several times. Especially after the break-in at her dad’s. A creak echoed down the hallway, and a shadow cast against the hallway wall.

  She punched the panic button on the wall behind the nightstand. The alarm wrred to life. The shadow flew down the hallway toward the front door. She snatched her cell phone off the nightstand and a can of pepper spray from the drawer. She slid onto the floor next to the bed. She peered over the bed at the doorway, grasping hold of her mom’s wedding ring on the chain around her neck, praying the guy was gone.

  The deafening shrill of the alarm drowned out her cell phone, which thankfully vibrated in her hand. She answered it to find the security company, assuring her the police were on the way. The entire building was undoubtedly awake and the intruder long gone, so she turned on a lamp and deactivated the alarm. The wailing stopped, yet ringing echoed in her ears, and blood zipped through her veins.

  Ethan Ryder flew into the room. He’d apparently been staking out her home. Unless he’d been the man in her home.

  * * *

  “You all right?” He rushed toward her.

  She nodded faintly.

  Ethan scanned Olivia for injuries, his gaze pausing briefly on the sheer nightgown hugging her breasts and the curves of her waist. Thank God there was no sign of blood.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “A man”—she gestured a trembling hand toward the doorway, looking scared shitless—“was…in here.” Curiosity and suspicion creased her brow. “How’d you get here so fast?”

  As though he’d been the one in her place? The first step in earning a witness’s trust was to protect them. He wasn’t about to let anyone hurt Olivia.

  “Only takes a matter of minutes to run upstairs from my car. I’m in pretty good shape,” he joked, trying to ease the tension. “But I’m sure the guy’s long gone.”

  “Why were you watching my house?” Her voice held a hint of relief rather than anger, unlike at the museum when she’d demanded he stop following her.

  “Someone trashing your dad’s place right after his death is too coincidental. He might be dead, but you’re still part of the program. It’s my job to protect you. Wait here.” He bolted out of the bedroom, Glock drawn, and swept through the apartment.

  After losing a witness four months ago, he wasn’t about to lose anyone else under his protection. Worse, he’d also lost his team member, Roy Howard, when they were both blown up in a safe house. Ethan had left after receiving a call that his aunt, the last person he had on earth, had a severe heart attack. It was the only time Ethan had let his personal life and emotions cloud his judgment and interfere with his job.

  He’d returned to the safe house two hours later and stepped from his car as an explosion blew out the windows, showering the lawn with glass and wood. He’d gotten off with a gash on his forehead. Frank Meyers, the marshal guarding the exterior, had been shot and was looking at years of rehabilitation. Not only had Ethan tarnished his impeccable record, but also the organization’s, since this was the first witness killed while under U.S. Marshals’ protection. At least the first one who’d been killed while following the program’s guidelines.

  Unless the witness had gone against policy, disclosing their location. She’d been allowed one call to her mother while Frank Meyers was present…or at least should have been present. Frank wasn’t the sharpest. The pretty witness might have talked him into permitting her a private call.

  The alternative was almost unthinkable: A snitch on the inside was responsible for the death of one of their own.

  Ethan finished checking the closets and any potential hiding spots, even though he guaranteed the guy was gone. How had he not seen him escape? For that matter, how hadn’t he seen someone entering when he was camped out right across the street in his car? He’d seen only one couple and later three teenagers enter the five-unit house. The back entrance exited into a dimly lit alley. He doubted any tenants used it at night, and he’d stuck a magnetic alarm on the door to signal if someone did. The guy must have seen the alarm and deactivated it.

  He opened the door to scan the hallway for potential escape routes and found neighbors congregating. After flashing his badge, assuring them everything was under control, he returned to Olivia sitting on her bed, rocking back and forth, sliding a ring along the chain around her neck.

  “Nobody’s here,” he said, slipping his gun in its holster.

  “Thanks,” she muttered, a tear trailing down her cheek. “I’ve never been so scared.”

  He fought an overwhelming urge to wipe the moisture from her cheek and take her in his arms, promising to protect her. He’d never had such a strong desire to physically comfort a witness. Keeping an emotional distance was critical to maintain an edge. Once you lost that edge and let down your guard, everyone was in danger. He remained a good two feet away.

  It had been months since he’d touched a woman intimately. A lot longer since he’d touched the same woman twice. Women weren’t real understanding when he disappeared for days or weeks at a time or when he had to leave in the middle of the night to play family counselor or therapist to a distraught witness. Being unable to disclose his reason for leaving didn’t help. Keeping witnesses alive required keeping his job a secret.

  At least he preferred to blame his lack of relationships on his job.

  He glanced at the paintings on the walls. “So, you still sticking with the random robbery theory? I can’t protect you if I don’t know what’s going on.”

  “I have no clue what’s going on.” She exhaled a ragged breath. “I don’t know why my dad’s place was broken into or why somebody would break in here. I don’t have anything anyone would want.” The desperation in both her voice and her green eyes conveyed honesty, and fear.

  “Maybe you do, and you just don’t know it.”

  The front door opened and Ethan drew his gun, turning toward the bedroom doorway.

  “SFPD,” a guy called out.

  He relaxed, lowering his gun. “Back here.”

  Ethan snagged a red silk robe off a hook by the door and held it out for Olivia to slip on. She stood, giving him a faint, appreciative smile and turned her back to him, slipping her arms into the sleeves. His fingers, curled around the robe, grazed her collarbone and the swells of her breasts as he slid the robe on her. He swallowed hard, promptly removing his hands from the garment. Avoiding Olivia’s gaze, he stepped back as two officers entered, one of whom was Brian Gibson. Ethan knew him from his short stint with the SFPD, before he’d joined the Marshals. He was a good guy, around Ethan’s age. Tan and blond, he still looked like the California surfer dude he’d been in his early twenties.

  “Ethan,” Brian said, looking surprised to see him. “Everything all right?” He glanced over at Olivia.

  “Yeah, the alarm scared away whoever it was,” Ethan said. “Don’t think anything was taken, but she needs to check out the place to be sure.”

  Brian took Olivia’s statement, and fifteen minutes later he and his partner were gone.

  “You know that officer?” she asked. This appeared to give him at least some legitimacy in he
r eyes.

  “Used to work with him on the force.”

  She sat on the bed, and her robe slipped away from the silk nightgown covering her legs to just above her knees. She brushed her hands nervously over the sheer material, and he imagined the warm, smooth feel of her skin underneath.

  Reminding himself she was under his protection, he took a step back.

  Her gaze narrowed, full lips slightly parted, she appeared to be contemplating something.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  She glanced up at him. “Why would the mob kill my dad before getting what they wanted? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “If the mafia killed your father, he’d have taken a bullet or his house would have been blown up. They wouldn’t have spent time making it look like a heart attack. That’s not their way. If he had something they wanted, they’d have attempted to get it out of him, and his death could never have been deemed a natural cause. Besides, Vinnie Carlucci died in prison a year ago. Not like he’d still have a hit out on your father.”

  A look of relief flashed across her face, then her gaze narrowed in concern. “Maybe his death sparked a renewed interest in finding my dad. A family member seeking retribution.”

  “I highly doubt it. Too much time has passed. If someone had come looking for him or evidence, he’d have handed it over, knowing they’d kill him anyway and then come looking to see if you had it. I don’t think his death or these break-ins are mafia related. If your father was still selling forgeries, he likely had a partner who’s after any remaining paintings or money due to him.”

  Her soft features hardened into a scowl. “I’d have known if he was selling forgeries. I knew about his life now, even if I didn’t know about his past life.” A hint of doubt flickered in her eyes. “Looking back, I realize the great lengths he went to not to be found. He never even confided in our priest about his past. Why take the chance on selling forgeries and possibly exposing his real identity?”