Cleopatra's Necklace (Devlin Security Force Book 3) Read Free

door.
    ***
    “The bastard’s dead.” Ricci fingered his mustache as he stared at the body on the sofa. “Keep your gloves on. The polizia will undoubtedly show up soon.”
    He let the sheet drop over the waxen face, then whacked his shorter partner on the head.
    “What’d you do that for?” Panaro stumbled back a step, holding up both hands as if to shield his bald pate from further attack.
    “You need target practice. How’s he going to tell us where the necklaces are?”
    “They’re sure as hell not in his studio.” They’d tracked Moreau from the Piazzale Roma to his atelier on an obscure calle in Santa Croce. Panaro’s shot was supposed to stop him, not kill him. The bastard had gone down, but while they were searching for the real necklace and the copy Moreau had made, he’d somehow escaped.
    Panaro waved a hand toward the body. “At least he didn’t stink up the place. And somebody covered him. The girl?”
    Ricci peered around the flat. Couple of tiny rooms, closet-sized kitchen. Shabby but neat and clean. Laptop on a worn desk. Table set for two. “Split. Search the bedroom.”
    He checked out the kitchen. Lifted the saucepan lid and dipped in a finger, tasted. “Not bad.” And still warm.
    She left in a hurry. Moreau had time to warn her. Maybe she was going for the necklaces. She had to know where her lover stashed them.
    Returning to the other room, he sat on the straight chair at the laptop. “Password protected?” His computer skills were good but didn’t rise to the level of hacker. Awkward with gloves but he would manage.
    “Bloody shirt on the floor. Easel and paint stuff in one corner,” Panaro called. “Big suitcase still in the closet but racks pushed to the side, drawers left open. Didn’t find makeup or a toothbrush. She could’ve packed a small bag.”
    “You find a mobile phone?”
    “No.” Panaro came around to look over Ricci’s shoulder. The chunky man’s breath reeked of garlic and fried sardines. “Anything?”
    Ricci stifled a snarky reply. Panaro owned the pistol with the suppressor. And, loosely speaking, he was the local talent. He knew the city’s crazy maze of canals and islands and streets. Porca vacca , he needed the idiot. “Just booting up.”
    There were two user icons, one for each of the lovers. He clicked on Cleo and her desktop appeared. No security whatsoever. People were so naïve, so trusting. So stupid.
    He opened the browser to her home page. Facebook. Of course. With a picture of her wearing the necklace. Bella , this Cleo Chandler, with her dark red hair pulled up to display the gold choker that spilled a jeweled net from her throat across her elegant pale shoulders.
    Did she have anything on but the necklace? If Ricci had been in charge of the camera, she’d have been naked and there would be more pictures. “Moreau must have gotten a kick out of his girlfriend having the same name.”
    “Is that the original necklace or the copy?”
    “As soon as I get my jeweler’s certificate, I’ll tell you.” Ricci hated that Panaro habitually stood too close. If he was nearsighted, that explained a lot. But not all. Today the Venetian seemed to have eaten a big bowl of stupid.
    Panaro made no reply to the sarcasm, but moved aside, thank the Madonna. Ricci clicked through to the woman’s personal information. The airhead had listed everything, including what they needed—mobile number and place of work.
    “Let’s see where she ran off to.” Ricci navigated to an illegal website for tracking mobile phones. He keyed in her number. A detailed street map appeared. A flashing icon pinpointed the mobile’s location, stopped in one place. In case she’d called the polizia , they had to get out fast. “You know this street?”
    “Between here and the Rialto Bridge in San Polo.”
    Ricci sighed. More walking through these impossible alleys. He’d be lucky not to fall in one of the filthy canals. “I don’t know why, but she could be headed to