Arabelle scrambled off Marin’s lap and ran over to her bed. She pulled a folded piece of paper from behind one of the pillows.
“Grandma Bita said she’ll take me to Build-A-Bear if I kept the secret,” Arabelle said proudly as she handed Marin the paper. “I kept it good, didn’t I?”
Marin could barely find the words her body had become so numb with anger. “You did awesome.” Marin looked at the paper. It contained only an address—1250 Potomac Street, Northwest—and a time—eight-thirty p.m.
The child crawled back into Marin’s lap. “You’ll go get Grandma Bita, won’t you? I want her to come home.” Arabelle’s thumb circled her lips as she tried not to suck on it.
Ice ran through Marin’s veins. She’d seen him briefly and the man was bent on killing her. Arabelle had obviously seen him, too.
“Sweetie, have you met Grandma Bita’s friend often?”
“He’s not her friend,” Arabelle protested. “She always gets shaky when he calls her. I only saw him one time. He was in the pastry kitchen before school. I went in there looking for you. Grandma Bita was with me. She gave him a present.” The girl glanced at Marin, her eyes serious. “I asked him if it was his birthday. He didn’t answer. Grandma Bita said it was a ‘just because present.’” Arabelle’s bottom lip trembled. “Today he was at the donut shop. Grandma Bita was mad that he was there. She took me to the potty and told me the secret. I didn’t want her to leave with the mean man. I almost told Agent Joe, but Grandma Bita made me promise not to. She said I had to get you instead.”
Marin kissed the girl on the top of her head. She blew out a breath to steady her nerves. “You did a great job keeping the secret,” she said. “And now it doesn’t have to be a secret anymore.” She picked up Ellie, the same stuffed animal Arabelle had given Marin the other day, and handed it to Arabelle. “I’ll be right back.”
She slipped out of Arabelle’s bedroom into the hallway where the two members of the child’s protective detail stood guard.
“I need to see the director, right away,” she told the agents. “And call the First Lady back. It’s an emergency.”
* * *
Griffin prowled through the curator’s office. Ben’s forensics team had already picked the place clean. But waiting around for leads on the Ukrainian art thief targeting Marin was making Griffin stir-crazy. If he could figure out the connection between the White House intern and the Ukrainian, he’d be one step closer to finding the son of a bitch.
“So far, the admiral’s auditors have only identified four other pieces in the House as forgeries,” Leslie informed him. “Including the Jackson Pollack. They still have the third floor to go, but that would bring our total to only eight. And four of them you recovered at the warehouse in New Jersey.”
“We need to get the information about the others out to Interpol,” Griffin said. “I’d like to recover them all if we can.”
“I sent it out this morning. But I wouldn’t get your hopes up. A lot of times these pieces end up in the home of private collectors who don’t care where they came from.”
“Yeah, like someone who wants to stick it to the President of the United States,” Griffin added with disgust. “They’ll boast about it eventually, though, and I’ll nail them. Do we know how an intern was able to get his hands on valuable paintings without anyone in this place catching on?”
Leslie grimaced. “From what I can gather from the White House Historical Society, Ari’s specialty was art restoration. His grant entailed examining each canvas to look for some sort of chemical breakdown.”
Griffin laughed at the absurdity of the scenario. “When actually he wasn’t interested in restoring anything. Just reappropriating fine art for his clients. And they say crooks are stupid. The White House just got majorly duped.”
“His security clearance checked out,” Leslie said. “And he came highly recommended, according to the society. The White House curator liked having fellows in the office. The society is always scrambling to fill the position. It’s likely they saw a need and filled it with whomever applied first.”
Griffin picked up a framed photo off the desk. The picture was of the deceased curator posing with the Queen of England. “And Wes’s enthusiasm to give back got him killed.”
“I checked Ari’s bank records. He’s made some staggering deposits over the past several months,” Leslie told him. “The deposits began about the time he started his fellowship here. His yearly stipend is paid monthly, but it’s barely enough to live on in DC.”
“Please tell me Ari was paid by check for his moonlighting?”
Leslie shook her head. “The deposits were all money orders issued from a Greek bank. Tracing them is going to be extremely difficult.”
Griffin swore.
“Before coming to the White House, Ari was in Athens studying at the Acropolis Museum,” Leslie said. “I spoke with their director this morning. He didn’t want to admit it, but it sounded like they might have a case of switched art there, as well. My Interpol liaison is going to investigate whether Ari had access to any of those pieces.”
“We’re still missing the vital link to the counterfeiters.” Griffin sat down at one of the desks, scrubbing his hand down his freshly shaven face. He’d showered and changed in the Secret Service lounge after leaving Marin at the safe house. Then, he’d spent the next several hours sifting through what little clues they had. The task had only marginally preoccupied him from thinking about Marin.
Twice he’d reached for his phone to call and check with the agents at the safe house. Despite all of his attempts—even his honest declaration when he left—he was still distracted by thoughts of her. He was sure Marin had lied when she told him she hadn’t read anything more into their hookup last night. But she’d given him the out he needed this morning. And her gesture made Griffin even more enthralled with her.
Marin was brave and quick thinking. With everything they’d endured yesterday, she’d never once complained. He couldn’t even blame her about the stupid cell phone fiasco. That was Adam’s fault.
“Griff, are you listening to me?”
Leslie’s question pulled him back into the here and now. Which was exactly where his head needed to be.