If heknewa man who hired him eight years ago wascurrentlyin Zurich, that meant Dmitry had already contacted him about this.
“I want to hear what he knows. About who she really was.” Grace looked up at me. Was she asking my permission? “What do you think?”
“One sec.” I let go of her hand and pulled out my phone. No response from Arthur yet. I’d have to consult with him on the Dubois claim before we made any hasty decisions. And I’d have to— My text conversation with Tristan caught my attention. I opened it and scrolled to the photographs he’d sent me from the security footage at Isabella’s gallery that captured the second man who’d shown up at the coffee shop. “Before we agree to anything, I need you to look at this.”
I handed the phone to Dmitry and monitored his face, ready for the tell. Waiting for some flash of recognition he’d try to hide or some microexpression that would reveal he was working with the man in the photo, and that this whole thing was a setup.
Dmitry’s eyes widened. Not recognition.Fear.He stared at the phone a beat longer than he needed to, as though he was willing the photo to change. “The photograph is unclear, but I’m certain this is Conrad Richter.”
“Who?” I asked.
“He works for an obsessive collector named Werner Kessler, who swears he’s of Romanov blood, and believes collecting Russian artifacts will prove it.” Dmitry handed the phone back. “If Richter has been following you?—”
“He was in London when we were,” Grace said. “He followed me through the streets and stole something from my purse. He thought I had the egg on me, I think.”
“They know you have it.” Dmitry stood abruptly and looked at Jean. “I’m sorry, my friend. But they can’t stay here. Richter isvery good at what he does, and it’s only a matter of time before he finds this place.”
There was nothing false in his words. I ran the options: stay here and wait for Richter to show up, head back to Paris and try to disappear, or push forward toward Zurich, toward Henri, toward answers.
And toward more danger.
Fuck.I’d have to call Arthur and put a rush on his research.
“We go to Zurich,” I said.
Dmitry nodded. “I’ll advise Henri. He’ll want to see you immediately.”
Grace stood. The color hadn’t returned to her face, but her jaw was set. Whatever she was feeling—the grief, the shock, the betrayal—she was locking it down. Focusing on the next step.
That’s my girl.
She’s not your girl, Garrett.
I had to focus on something other than her. Well, on her, but not onher.She was still my job, but my haywire emotions had to stay buried where they belonged.
“Go and pack, Grace,” I said, then marched off to grab my things from the bathroom. As I walked, I sent Arthur the full list of names: Dmitry Ivanov, Conrad Richter, Werner Kessler, and Henri Dubois. The sooner the team started chasing down these people, the sooner I’d know what we were dealing with.
Chapter 23
Galahad
“Yeah, I got the photo,”Arthur said over the phone fifteen minutes after I’d sent Grace to pack. “Morganna ran it and confirmed Dmitry Ivanov is a licensed PI with fifteen years of experience, primarily in art recovery. No criminal record, no red flags.”
Part of me had hoped it was all a lie, so I could have justified my behavior at Grace’s café, if nothing else. “And the others?”
I knocked on the guest room door. Grace said something that might have been ‘Come in’ or might have been any number of irrelevant responses. Hoping it was the former, I pushed the door open.
She wasn’t packing. She was standing in front of her dresser, staring at an open drawer. Her suitcase lay open on the bed, half-empty.
“It’s a wild story.” The sound of keyboard clacks filtered from Arthur’s end. “Conrad Richter works for a collector named Werner Kessler. German descent with homes in Switzerland, Czechia, and Grand Cayman. He claims he’s descended from the Romanovs.”
I crossed to the dresser and started pulling clothes from the drawer for her. Grace didn’t move. Didn’t even seem to notice I was there.
“His family story traces back to his grandmother, but there’s no documentation to back it up,” Arthur continued. “He’s petitioned the Romanov Family Association for recognition twice and been rejected both times. Near as Merlin can figure from his profile, Kessler thinks surrounding himself with Russian artifacts will lend credence to his claim.”
“Great.” I tucked the phone against my shoulder to fold a wrinkled T-shirt, and set it in the suitcase. A pair of jeans. A cardigan that had been draped over the chair.
“Sending his photo now,” Arthur added.
