Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 86450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
He was a good-looking kid. His hair was a lot longer but still with those piercing green eyes that are full of intellect and cunning. There’s no fear in his booking photo, but no defiance either. Merely the expression of a kid who’s already metabolized whatever the system is going to do to him next and is calculating his way out of it.
I leave that behind and move to his adult record. I can’t say I’m shocked to see he did time in prison for trafficking in stolen property. He pleaded out, served four years, and was released early on parole at age twenty-five. That expired two years ago.
One would think that a man who was raised in the system would continue to move in and out of it, but to my surprise, the records reveal that Finn opened a fine art gallery five years ago, which is surprisingly right here in Pioneer Square, not more than six blocks away.
The business is registered to an LLC he owns outright, and tax filings show consistent revenue in the mid-six-hundreds. The business is clean and he was even audited two years ago. There are no flags at all. His gallery looks legit, representing twelve living artists. He mounts eight exhibitions a year and participates in three international art fairs.
In the last nine years, Finn hasn’t had so much as a parking ticket in his name.
Was I wrong about him being a smuggler?
I scroll deeper and check out the property records. He owns a single-family home on Perkins Lane West in Magnolia with private water frontage on Puget Sound.
“Holy shit,” I murmur as I lean forward to look at a picture of the house pulled up from Zillow.
It’s massive and is currently assessed at $5.8 million.
My head spins over how this man went from rags to riches in a handful of years. I barely register that he has a 2025 Range Rover and a 2021 Ford F-250.
There’s no other information listed. No spouse, no children, no other family.
I push slightly away from my desk and lean my chair back. This is the man who pulled me out of the water in the wee hours of the morning. He’s a convicted felon turned successful and apparently wealthy businessman.
On paper, he’s two completely different men.
The person I met in the cabin of his fishing boat was most definitely a third, but I have no proof of that.
I close the tab just as one of the newer agents walks up to my desk, a young woman named Felicity who came straight from an enlistment as an army helicopter pilot.
“These were just delivered for you, Josie,” she says brightly.
My jaw drops as I take in the massive bouquet in a crystal vase. It’s jammed full of peonies and ranunculus in soft pinks and creams.
She places them on the edge of my desk and plucks out a card, handing it to me. “I didn’t know you were dating anyone.”
“I’m not,” I murmur as I take the small envelope and open it.
I slide the card out and turn it over.
Hope you were able to get some good sleep and recuperate from your adventure last night. - F
I read it twice, my eyes cutting back and forth between it and the flowers.
I’m flabbergasted he reached out to me, and in such a… romantic way? Or maybe it’s just thoughtful.
But flowers.
That means something, right?
But what? He’s a criminal. Or he used to be. Maybe still is.
“What’s it say?” Felicity asks.
I slip the card into my desk drawer. “Nothing. Just a sweet note from a thoughtful friend.”
“If you say so,” she replies, lifting a shoulder before turning away.
I stare at the flowers, reaching out to touch one of the peonies. My hand shakes slightly.
Six women in a panel van. A man with a fast boat who shot at the Russians on my behalf. A bouquet from a smuggler.
I have no choice but to find him.
CHAPTER 4
Finn
The painting should not be in my house. In the years I’ve been smuggling artwork from Canada to the United States, I’ve never brought items to my home or my art gallery. It’s always handled at arm’s length.
But when I decided to rescue Josie last night, it screwed up the land transfer, and we had no choice but to bring it here. After we dropped Josie off, it took another hour and a half of navigating the waterways to a public marina where Connie met us. Luckily, no one was walking the docks and we were able to get the case into her Bronco. It’s temporarily residing in my home until I can meet up with the buyer tonight.
The de Hooch painting is currently in my study in a custom archival case, and I have no desire to open it up and take a gander. Despite the fact that I own a fine art gallery and smuggle illegal art, I don’t have much interest in it. And while I know most everything about the business, I leave that in the capable hands of my gallery director.