Her word was a lot tamer than the ones ricocheting around inside Griffin’s head. The email contained two paragraphs on the history of the painting, including an estimate of the piece’s overall worth.
Damn it.
“Yeah, but that’s not why I called you.” Eric pulled up another email. “I don’t think the curator is part of our counterfeit ring. It looks like he was getting suspicious about one of the pieces. He sent this to a colleague at the Smithsonian.”
They both scanned the email.
“That painting doesn’t look like one of the ones you found in the truck,” Leslie said.
“It wasn’t.” Griffin shook his head in frustration. “That’s a Jackson Pollack. From the Map Room. The admiral’s team will have to discreetly check that one out right away. Do we know who received the email?”
“Yeah, but the recipient hasn’t actually received it yet,” Eric explained. “The curator sent it ten days ago. But he got back an out-of-office reply. Apparently, his friend at the Smithsonian is in Italy through the end of next week.”
“Well at least that eliminates one potential suspect. The curator was concerned enough about the Pollack being a forgery to contact a colleague.” Leslie paced the small conference room as she theorized. “He probably mentioned his suspicions to someone else, too. It would have to be another person knowledgeable about art. And if that person is part of the counterfeit ring, that’s what likely got our curator killed. Now we just need to find out who he might have mentioned his theory to.”
Eric’s fingers tapped rapidly on his computer keyboard. “I’ll do a keyword search through all of his sent emails.”
Griffin knew where Leslie was headed with her theory. Hell, a kindergartener could follow Leslie’s reasoning. She suspected Marin and she wasn’t going to let it alone. True, if the curator thought enough of Marin’s expertise in art, he’d likely confide in her about the Pollack. But it was circumstantial, at best. Unfortunately, Griffin’s gut told him were Marin any other suspect, he wouldn’t dismiss an email as evidence of her involvement.
Eric’s search seemed to take hours instead of a few minutes. Leslie continued pacing while Griffin stared out the window, his conscience chastising him for lusting after a potential thief and murderer.
“There’s nothing here,” Eric finally declared.
Leslie raised an eyebrow at Griffin’s quick exhale of breath, but she thankfully kept her opinions to himself.
“Okay,” she said. “Then what about the rest of the curator’s staff? He might have said something to one of the two of them. Have you questioned anyone there yet, Griff?”
Griffin shook his head. “We decided to let the police handle those interviews. We don’t want to tip them off that we know about the forgeries just in case someone in that office is involved.”
“I’ll go over the notes from the detectives in Virginia, but you might need to start feeling them out,” she said.
“I’ll have a chat with the sous chef first,” Griffin added, glad that the focus had shifted off Marin—for the time being, at least. He headed out to find Diego Ruiz.
CHAPTER10
“Come on, Chef Marin. We’re gonna miss the Easter bunny.” Arabelle tugged on Marin’s arm, while the child’s mother and father wandered hand-in-hand a few feet behind them.
It was Easter Monday and the South Lawn of the White House was awash with nearly five thousand people enjoying music and chasing Easter eggs under a cloudless blue sky. A line of thousands of more guests snaked around the Old Executive Office building; all of them waiting for their allotted time to enter Presidential Park. The crowd buzzed as Arabelle passed, many eager for a glimpse of the president’s granddaughter and her parents. The family’s Secret Service detail surrounded them closely as they all traipsed across the grass. Marin caught sight of Otto calmly sitting on the perimeter of the lawn as his handler kept his vision trained on the visitors.
An unexplained tremor ran down Marin’s spine. She attributed her jumpiness to the stress of the past few days. Still, the tense faces of the Secret Service and uniformed guards reminded her of the dangers a group this large posed to the First Family.Nothing is going to happen today.. She’d had her fair share of tragedy to last for quite some time. Still, her anxiety left her on edge.
Marin also felt awkward mingling with the guests while dressed in her chef’s uniform. She would prefer to be in the kitchen helping the staff prepare for the luncheon celebrating the sponsors of the event. The busywork would certainly help keep the thoughts of Arnold, Seth, and even Anika, at bay.
But Arabelle was insistent that Marin join her on the White House lawn. Not only that, the First Lady still had Marin under house arrest, adamant that she take it easy. The problem was, with the Secret Service out in force, Marin couldn’t help but worry she might cross paths with Griffin. He was on the top of that list of people she was trying hard not to think about.
Especially after dreaming of him the entire night.
The sleeping pill had been effective, helping Marin fall asleep; she’d missed all of Easter Sunday. But the drug had done nothing to block out the powerful dreams she’d experienced. Each time her subconscious replayed the image of Seth’s body, however, Griffin was there to rescue Marin. Just as he did the day of the fire. He comforted her the way he had the night of the attack on the Metro, with a firm hand at her back and a strong shoulder to lean on. In her sleep, Griffin did not abruptly abandon her, either. Instead, he slowly made love to her, cherishing her, protecting her. Marin woke up more agitated than when she’d gone to sleep, angry at how much she craved Griffin Keller’s presence.
Arabelle’s hand suddenly slipped from her grasp. Marin tripped as she reached to grab the child back. A strong arm caught Marin before she face-planted in the grass.
“Whoa there, gorgeous,” a familiar voice said.
Marin glanced around wildly. She blew out a relieved breath watching Arabelle scramble into the president’s lap. Arabelle’s grandfather kissed her on the head before continuing to read a book to a group of children seated on the grass in front of him; a crew of photographers clicking away behind them.
“Are you okay?” Griffin’s friend Adam asked, his arm still loosely wrapped around her stomach to steady her.
“Um, yeah,” Marin answered. “Just a little twitchy today, I guess.”