He grimaced and limped into the bedroom, where he’d awakened on the floor, in a major stupor, fifteen minutes ago. He tossed his shirt on the untouched bed, then walked over to the windows and pulled open the drapes. Had he shut them after he’d fallen—or hadn’t he fallen? Had he been clocked? Damn. He didn’t remember, but he figured he must have shut the drapes himself. The hotel wasn’t bad but it didn’t have a turndown service.
Cold water and now the morning sunlight didn’t help him separate memory and nightmare, but blood, pain and a palpable sense of fear and foreboding suggested that what was stirring in his aching head was more reality than the dregs of a bad dream.
He made coffee in the Keurig machine and dug a Kit Kat out of the minibar.
“Shirt. I need a clean shirt.”
He saw his overnight bag by the door. He remembered dropping it off in the room before heading down to the bar off the lobby.
He tore open the candy. Coffee and chocolate would help him wake up, come to—both.
They did, and he didn’t like it.
This is your only warning. Back off.
A ragged low voice, maybe male, maybe female. Who knew these days?
A gun in the ribs.
Felt like a gun, anyway. Gordy didn’t know for a fact what it had been.
A pro? Not sure about that, either, but whoever it had been had managed to deliver the warning and stay out of Gordy’s line of vision. Probably would have taken less skill just to beat him over the head.
Gordy was disgusted with himself. He was rusty. Back in the day, he’d have had his attacker’s ass in the harbor.
He rubbed his lower back and discovered a bruise where he’d been jabbed. Given his fuzzy head and general aches and pains, he hadn’t noticed until now.
His head throbbed. He hadn’t been shot, grazed by a bullet, anything like that.
“I fell.”
He heard the disdain in his voice. His attacker had come at him from behind at the top of the stone steps near the hotel, stuck a gun, club or whatever in his ribs, grunted the warning and given him a good shove. It’d been dark. Gordy had stumbled and hit his head and banged his knee on the steps.
Never had a chance to light his cigarette.
It was all coming back to him.
He drank his coffee and ate his candy bar, forcing himself to stay loose, relaxed. He’d done that last night with his attacker, too. He hadn’t wanted to fight, risk serious injury, call attention to himself, have to explain to the police—all of which his assailant had clearly known and counted on.
Gordy figured if he was supposed to have come out of this thing dead, he’d be dead.
The warning meant he wasn’t grasping at straws. He was on to something.
He tossed the cup and candy wrapper into the trash. He’d have to tough out the pain from his bruises. He got a collared shirt out of his bag. He’d opted against a suit and tie, but he did have a navy sport coat. He wouldn’t be dressed as if he were off to play golf, at least.
He hadn’t planned to change his slacks despite having slept in them, but he noticed blood on his right hip, visible and obvious against the light gray flannel. He must have touched the blood on his face and then his pants. He dug out fresh trousers. He saw he had a scrape on his right hand, probably from breaking his fall, but it didn’t bother him.
Getting dressed hurt. Walking would hurt, too. Hell, thinking hurt. The attack hadn’t been a coincidence. He’d asked for it, sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. But who all knew he was in Boston?
Once he was dressed, he checked his reflection in the mirror above the small desk in the corner. Better. He looked as if he’d had a bad night, but he didn’t see any visible sign of blood or bruises.
He took the elevator three floors down to the lobby. After a moment’s deliberation, he checked out and left his bag with the bellman, a different one from last night.
He went outside, the sunlight making his head hurt worse. It was a warm spring morning, at least by Boston standards. He walked past the wharf where the New England Aquarium was located, a crowd assembled at the entrance. Parents, toddlers, students and teachers on spring field trips. A few retirees. Not many. Gordy figured he sort of blended in and people could think he was meeting his grandkids, but he’d chosen his hotel for its proximity to his ten o’clock meeting with the FBI. A little late to cover his tracks, anyway. Whoever had attacked him had obviously known where to find him. Followed him from the airport, then waited for him to come out for a smoke? What if he hadn’t? Maybe his attacker had nailed the wrong guy. But Gordy didn’t think so.
He dug out the pack of cigarettes he’d bought after arriving at Logan, tapped one out and lit it with the disposable lighter he’d bought at the same time. If he hadn’t been sneaking a cigarette, would he have been blindsided last night?
Moot point now.
He took two puffs and tossed the cigarette onto the sidewalk. He ground it out under his foot, scooped up the butt and pitched it into a trash can. Never mind someone assaulting him. If the local cops saw him litter, they’d be all over him.
Gordy chuckled to himself, feeling better. Now that he was awake and the caffeine and chocolate were taking effect, the warning and his tumble last night had fired up his adrenaline. He was tuned in, confident he was back in the game. Almost a year playing golf and hanging out with his wife and the kids and grandkids in North Carolina hadn’t softened him up too much. He wouldn’t be caught off guard another time.
A chilly gust blew off the harbor. A stab of pain seemed to go through his eyeball, but he shook it off. Hell, he might even survive May in Boston. He thought he’d never get used to living in North Carolina again, but here he was, shivering.
He glanced at his watch. He’d have to hoof it not to be late for his meeting with the FBI, specifically Special Agent Emma Sharpe.
The hell with that.
He’d take his time. He was an FBI legend. Emma could wait.
At first Emma didn’t recognize the man standing in her office doorway. Gordy Wheelock? Had to be. People didn’t just walk into her small FBI building on the Boston waterfront, and she was expecting him. He’d called her last night to set up their meeting. “Ten o’clock sharp, Emma. Funny, huh? Sharp, Emma. Emma Sharpe. Ha.”
That was Gordy, always with the lame humor.
He rubbed the back of his neck, looking pained. “I know. I look like Yank’s drunken uncle these days. Sorry. I should have warned you.”
Yank—Matt Yankowski—was the senior agent in charge of HIT, the specialized FBI team of which Emma was a handpicked member. She doubted he had a drunken uncle.
Yank and Gordy weren’t friends.
“No problem,” Emma said. “Come in, please. It’s good to see you.”
He stepped into her small office. She did her best to hide her shock at seeing him. Gordon Wheelock was an FBI legend who’d taken the investigation of art crimes to a new level during his thirty-year career, but he didn’t look like a legend this morning. He had dark circles and puffy bags under his eyes, and he’d put on weight—at least fifteen pounds. His hair was sparse and totally gray now, not the salt-and-pepper of just a year ago when she’d flown back to DC to attend his retirement party. He wore a collared ice-blue shirt without a tie, a navy sport jacket, tan trousers and scuffed leather walking shoes. The clothes were wrinkled, as if he’d pulled them out of a suitcase or a laundry basket.
Before joining HIT and moving