THE TRUTH ABOUT HARRY Read online

  "So you're the one who broke into Lauren's apartment, who talked to Slick Frankie the Fence at the aquarium, and who's been tailing us, correct?" Sebastian said.

  "Who said I couldn't follow a lead if it was right under my nose?" Huey narrowed his eyes at Lauren. "You think I haven't heard the mean things you say about me? Well, now Uncle Ray is going to see that I was the one to uncover one of the largest art thefts ever to hit Philadelphia."

  "I'm sorry, I never should have said those things about you, Huey. It was wrong on my part, and I apologize." She took a tentative step forward.

  "Don't come any closer," Huey barked.

  "All right. I won't," she promised, noticing out of the corner of her eye that as Huey focused on her, Sebastian was slowly inching his way around the presser. "And it really is quite something the way you've tracked us down and all, but do you really think Ray is going to believe you're the one who found the art in the first place? I mean, Sebastian here is a professional investigator. Doesn't it make more sense that he was the one who uncovered the goods?" Sebastian had neared a front corner.

  "I think Ray will believe his own flesh and blood over a reporter who lied about a story—yeah, I figured that out, too, you know—or some stranger who came waltzing in under false pretenses to the paper. For all I know, he isn't even a real investigator."

  Sebastian leapt. The gun went off. Lauren screamed.

  She stood frozen as the two men landed in a heap and struggled. She strained to see in the dark, the lighter having skidded off. Had Sebastian been hit? Would Huey, who had clearly lost it, turn the gun on her?

  She had to act. Do something. Sebastian had a gun, didn't he? But he and Huey were rolling around. How could she possibly search for it? Stupid, stupid.

  She turned her head, frantically looking around for a weapon of her own, anything. The tote bag on the floor. Lauren grabbed the heavy candlestick. She willed herself to move forward. She couldn't see who was who, only one body twisted atop the other.

  That didn't stop her. Lauren raised the candlestick. And lowered the boom.

  The body on top slumped, a dead weight. She stepped closer. If she had brained the wrong man, she was still in a position to take out the second.

  She heard a grunt. Saw arms gradually shift the top body to the side. She hoisted the candlestick overhead. The man on the bottom instantly rolled to the side—facedown. There was no room for hesitation. She slammed the candlestick down, but it hit the floor, the force reverberating through her arms. She went to raise it again.

  And then she heard a muffled voice.

  "Darlin', I know we've had our differences, but trust me, violence doesn't solve anything."

  Lauren slowly lowered the candlestick and let her shoulders sag. Relief washed through her. She laughed and hiccupped at the same time. "I can't believe it. I hit the right person, after all. I was so worried I'd hurt you." Her hands shaking, she needed all her energy to rest the candlestick on the presser. Then she turned to check on Sebastian.

  And saw it. The lighter. In the fight, it must have slid across the floor near the clothes rack, where a pair of tuxedo pants were hanging. A small trail of flames licked the botton of the fabric.

  "Sebastian, fire!" she screamed. "All the clothes, the plastic bags, the solvents in the shop—this could be a disaster." In the darkness, she rushed for the fire extinguisher that she remembered always hung on the wall by the stairs. She yanked it off the hinges and swirled around, lifting the hose at the same time.

  But Sebastian was already there, stripping off his leather jacket. He batted at the flames, pulling the pants from the rack, and stomping on them until all that remained was a pair of singed trousers and his own ruined jacket. He dropped it and trudged toward Lauren. His face was bruised. His clothes blackened and disheveled. But a quick inspection told her the gunshot had missed his body.

  Lauren let the fire extinguisher tumble to the floor. "Thank God," she sighed.

  Sebastian touched her cheek. "I know what you mean. Never did I think dry cleaning could lead to such an adventure." He gulped for air. "I think it's time you called in all your buddies on the police force and got Huey hauled away."

  Lauren closed her eyes and leaned her face into his hand. He rubbed her jaw. "Just think of the headlines this story is going to make."

  His hand stilled.

  Her smile faded. And painfully, oh so painfully, the light dawned.

  Lauren lifted her face away and swallowed. "There isn't going to be a story, is there?"

  Sebastian lowered his hand. "I'm sorry. You have to understand."

  Lauren waved him off. "The hush-hush nature of the commission's work and all that. I should have figured it out earlier."

  "If it's any consolation, I'll get in touch with Ray and explain that as the sole remaining relative of Harry Nord, I decided that I preferred to keep the story private after all. That you were the soul of professionalism, and I admired your work tremendously and that my decision had nothing to do with any lack of ability on your part."

  "Well, that should make everything just hunky dory," Lauren said, not feeling the least bit like celebrating. So much for her big career break. At least now that the mystery had been solved, there was a possibility of salvaging things between Sebastian and…

  She looked at his shuttered expression. Oh, brother, the other shoe had dropped without her even knowing it. "Let me guess. I suppose now you're going to tell me that there isn't any story as far as you and I are concerned, either?" She held her breath in anticipation, but only for a moment. She didn't need to add oxygen deprivation to her list of woes.

  Instead, she held up a hand. "Listen, no problem. I'm a big girl. It's not like I'm going to cause a scene, have some major case of the vapors, or throw myself in front of the next SEPTA train. They never run on time anyway." She paused, rubbing the side of her head. Then she pulled her hand away, the light well and truly dawning. "Now that I think about it, I bet you were hoping to avoid any confrontation at all. Yes, that would be more your style. You probably planned to send your fond farewell via a phone call or an e-mail. No, I know, a tasteful note enclosed in a box of a dozen long-stemmed roses. Very classy. Hardly messy at all."

  "I never said it was anything more than it was." At least he looked her in the face when he said it.

  Lauren shook her shoulders wearily. "No, that's right, you never said anything of the sort." But she had so much more to say. So much more she wanted to confess. What was the point? He'd already made up his mind.

  "I'm sorry." And he was. Sorry that he hadn't trusted her, but even more, that he didn't trust himself to be able to give her what she deserved. He touched her face again.

  She pulled back. "Don't." She studied his expression, but he showed her nothing. Yielded nothing. "The funny thing is, I almost believe you really do feel bad."

  She ran her hand through her hair in frustration. "I'll call the boys in blue, and then I'll notify my parents and make up something about there being a tiny, accidental fire. I just hope the true story—that never was and never will be—doesn't get back to them."

  * * *

  13

  « ^ »

  Lauren hunched over her desk at work. She didn't care that she'd come in late and missed a Monday morning story assignment meeting. She didn't even care that she hadn't brushed her hair.

  Things were bad. Bad enough that she was listening to a CD on her Walkman and crying.

  "Lauren, dear, the bed-head look is fine for punk rockers. Not so good for beat reporters."

  Lauren lifted her head and wiped her eyes. "Phoebe, I think I've lost it." She slipped the earphones down around her neck.

  Phoebe examined the CD case on Lauren's desk, next to her blotter. "No wonder you've lost it. You're listening to Engelbert Humperdinck. It's all Donna Drinkwater's doing, isn't it?"

  Lauren sniffed. "No, it has nothing to do with Donna. It's my fault. I was a coward."

  "Nonsense, never beat yourself up
over a problem when you can blame somebody else, someone inherently odious—Baby Huey, for instance. Where is the boy wonder, anyway? Rumor has it Ray's been on the phone dealing with some high-priced lawyer regarding some mischief the little nephew has committed."

  "When it comes to Huey, committed is right." Lauren shivered. "But I really can't talk about it. And truthfully, it's the furthest thing from my mind, especially after this." She thrust a crumpled envelope toward Phoebe. "Open it up. It just proves the injustice of the world," she sobbed into her desk.

  Phoebe stepped forward, peeled open the envelope and slipped out a plastic bag. She peered at the contents. "What is this? Some new species of peyote? Now I know you've lost it."

  Lauren looked up, her eyes swollen and red. "Of course it's not peyote—you know I don't do drugs, even those with a time-honored tradition among the Native Americans. No, it's worse than that. They're seeds, tomato seeds that my father collected from his own plants. He gave them to me to give to Sebastian, and now Sebastian's gone." She dropped her head on the desk with a kerplunk. "Because I was too much of a coward and let him get away."

  "Frankly, dear, unless you turned the key in the ignition to his car and set it on cruise control, I think the man should take some responsibility for his decision to leave," Phoebe countered. "Besides, if you really need to send the seeds, there's always FedEx."

  "I don't want to use FedEx."

  "Then UPS next-day service is also very good, or so my assistant tells me. I personally don't like to get too close to men wearing brown shorts."

  Lauren moaned. "This is not an issue for the fashion police, Phoebe. This is about love. And I let it get away without putting up a fight—even if the man is too stupid to admit that he's not a lone wolf, and that he walked away from the best thing that's ever happened to him."

  Phoebe crossed her arms and tapped a manicured fingernail on the sleeve of her Michael Kors dress. "Well, if you want to talk about a man unburdening his heart, this morning I was copied on an e-mail that contained the most blatant outpouring of love I'd ever read."

  "That's nice." Lauren really wasn't up to hearing about other people's good fortune.

  Phoebe arched her neck toward Lauren. "You didn't happen to check your e-mail did you?"

  Lauren sat up and sniffed. "No, I got in late and I haven't worked up the energy to even turn on the computer." She searched for her box of tissues, then remembered she'd given it to Huey last Friday. Oh, the injustice of it all, yet again.

  "Well, maybe you should." Phoebe paused. "There's something from Sebastian."

  Lauren waved her hand in the air. "Oh, you mean his letting Ray know that he doesn't want the paper pursuing the story on Harry Nord, his supposed grandfather, anymore—citing family privacy and all that." She groaned. "I suppose I should start polishing my résumé now."

  Phoebe reached over and impatiently pressed the Power button on Lauren's computer. "No, that's not what he wrote. And if you could tear yourself away from wallowing in misery and sappy lyrics, you would know."

  "Oh, all right." Lauren set her teeth together, and when the computer booted up, she typed in the password to access her e-mail. Her messages appeared.

  "See, that one." Phoebe tapped the screen with her finger.

  Lauren opened it up, skipped the address and subject heading, went right to the message:

  Dear Ray—

  Please excuse the use of e-mail instead of a personal meeting, but urgent business required me to leave Philadelphia immediately. As you will see from the attachment, which delineates the nature of my employment, I am an art theft investigator attached to an international commission. We work in close concert with Interpol and the FBI.

  For some time, we had been tracking the disappearance of priceless works of art from a small hill town in northern Italy, and we had reason to believe that a resident of Philadelphia committed the crime. Upon the request of our organization and law enforcement officials, we asked Ms. Jeffries to publish the obituary on Harry Nord, knowing full well that the information actually pertained to a certain Bernard Lord, aka Benny Lord, who we believed perpetrated the thefts. A condition of this request was that Ms. Jeffries keep her actions secret, thus preventing the possibility of a leak into the investigation.

  Ms. Jeffries was reluctant to abuse her position at the Sentinel in any way, let alone fabricate a story under the guise of a real obituary, but we convinced her that she would be doing her country and the people of Italy an enormous favor.

  Due to Ms. Jeffries's superior investigative skills, she was able to uncover the whereabouts of the stolen items, most of which have already been returned to their rightful owners. As for Mr. Lord, alias Benny Lord, local law enforcement officials have subsequently confirmed that a previously unidentified drowning victim was, in fact, the suspect. The real Harry Nord, who did indeed recently pass away, was never involved in the crime. Ms. Jeffries plans to submit an accurate obituary on his behalf in the near future.

  Owing to Ms. Jeffries's outstanding contribution to this investigation, the commission and law enforcement bodies believe that the usual protocol of maintaining silence should be abandoned, and that Ms. Jeffries should be allowed to freely publish the details of the incident. The Italian government has further invited Ms. Jeffries to Italy to celebrate the return of these national treasures to their rightful home.

  With best regards,

  Sebastian Alberti

  Lauren was stunned. She placed her hand on her cheek and felt it grow cold. Her mouth dropped open, her throat tightened. She slowly swiveled her head and gazed up at Phoebe.

  "Here, I think you might want to use these." Phoebe dangled the keys to her Jaguar. "And please, drive carefully. Unlike you, it's all I've got."

  Lauren stared, dumbfounded, for a second. Only a second. Then she pushed back her chair and stood up. Yanking open the drawer, she pulled out her bag. "Thanks, Phoebe." She took the car keys. "You're a true friend. And if Ray comes looking for me, tell him I'm, I don't know, that I'm checking out the best deal on flights to Italy, but that I'll be back as soon as possible to file the story."

  She leaned over and kissed Phoebe smack on the lips. Of course, one of the guys from production happened to be walking by. Well, too bad. "I'm out of here," she announced.

  The phone rang. She glanced at it. "I don't dare pick that up."

  "Let me," Phoebe offered. "If it's Ray, I'll tell him you've already left." She lifted the receiver. "Hello. Oh, yes, Mrs. Jeffries, it's Phoebe Russell-Warren. Good to talk to you, too." Phoebe listened some more.

  Lauren made a nixing gesture with her hands and moved to leave.

  Phoebe caught her and held out the phone. "I think you'll want to hear this."

  "Do you realize I've been driving all over the map, looking for you? First Georgetown, and now the boonies of Pennsylvania," Lauren shouted. She stood with her hands on her hips and stared at a sight she never imagined beholding.

  Sebastian Alberti—seated on the back of a tractor.

  And wouldn't you know it, Mr. Très Sophistiqué Designer Chic looked positively yummy in ripped jeans and a faded Crimson Tide T-shirt.

  Sebastian turned off the motor and squinted.

  "How'd you find me? I purposely don't give the address of the farm out to anyone." He slipped down from his perch to stand next to her, then held up his hand. "Sorry, I forgot. You're an investigative reporter—a good investigative reporter."

  "A great investigative reporter. And I'll show you just how great." She reached in her bag. "Here," she said with a grunt.

  Sebastian's eyebrows jumped. "So that's why you've come? To give me the second candlestick?"

  "Frankly, I'd rather brain you with the candlestick." Instead, she handed it over somewhat less than gracefully.

  Sebastian stared at the ornate marble object. "Where was it?"

  "It was at the dry cleaners, after all. In your skirmish with Huey, the gunshot nicked the side of the Suzie, you know, the mannequin-
thingy. When my father went to open it up to do some repairs, he found the candlestick inside. Benny or somebody else must have used it to replace a support shaft on the inside that had broken on an earlier occasion."

  "That's it then." Sebastian shook his head. "Everything is in order."

  Lauren stepped closer. The top of her head was even with the cleft in his chin, a chin that she noticed was covered with stubble. Sebastian Alberti minus a close shave was truly a dangerous specimen—dangerous to the heart, that is.

  She poked him in the chest. "No, everything is not in order. Me, for instance."

  He looked skeptically at her finger. "Didn't you get the copy of my e-mail to Ray?"

  She poked again. "Yes, I got your e-mail to Ray, but that's not what I'm on about."

  "It's not?" He wrapped his hand around her finger. "Hey, be careful. You might not realize this, but I bruise easily."

  "You know, that's your problem in a nutshell—you're afraid of bruising if you get too close to somebody." She would have poked again, but he still held on—potentially, a sign of progress. Potentially.

  "Well, I've got news for you," she continued. "Like it or not, you are close to somebody—me. And I don't just mean standing here. I mean that you—you infuriating Italian Southerner—you made me fall in love with you."

  He cocked his head in disbelief.

  But Lauren also noticed that he suddenly clutched her hand more tightly. "Yes, you did," she went on. "And like it or not, you care for me, too—I know you do."

  She waited for a response. And waited some more.

  "This is where you're supposed to tell me that if you can just get over protecting yourself from getting hurt, you'll come to realize that maybe, just maybe, you could fall in love with me, as well," she ventured in a somewhat long-winded display of encouragement.