He studied her for a moment. At his direction, she’d pulled her hair up into a messy bun with strands hanging out in much the same way Billy Franks’s neighbor had worn hers. The careless, artistic type. Even with the hair and an oversize pair of glasses, D.C. didn’t believe she quite pulled off frump. But she was definitely a sharp right turn from the woman who’d first strode toward him in the sculpture garden. Had it only been two days ago?
He ran a finger down her nose. “Any more theories on who Amanda was referring to as she?”
He and Fiona had batted around ideas on the ride to the prison. If the he was Billy, the four shes, other than Amanda, who might be linked even somewhat loosely with him or the diamond were Carla Mason, Billy’s study pal in the lace-up black boots, Professor Kathryn Lewen, her sister, Charity Watkins and Regina Meyers.
“Kathryn and Charity are still my prime suspects. We can connect the dots between the two of them and Billy and the diamond. But where do Shalnokov and Arthur Franks fit in?”
“Maybe they don’t,” D.C. said. “Perhaps the two sisters set up the entire operation. Kathryn’s got a near genius student who might have the ability to break through the National Gallery’s security system. And Charity Watkins sets up the exhibition with Shalnokov and provides inside information.”
“But Amanda is the one who ended up with the Rubinov in her pocket. And she’s the only one who had any contact with Arthur Franks.”
“Speak of the devil,” D.C. murmured. The man they’d come to see was walking toward them. Arthur Franks was a small, thin man with a dancer’s body. He reminded D.C. a bit of Fred Astaire, an actor who’d danced his way through many a Hollywood film. Ironically enough, the star had also briefly played a thief on a hit TV series.
He and Fiona had read the file on Franks last night, and the man’s agility in his earlier years had rivaled Houdini’s. He could slip through electronic surveillance as easily as he could scale buildings. D.C. couldn’t help but wonder what it might be like to give up something one had such a talent for? Would he ever be able to give up investigative work?
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Fiona was studying the man just as closely as he was. What did she see? Odd how much he was coming to depend on her perspective.
“I’ve got an idea,” he murmured.
Fiona stifled a sigh. “I don’t know if I want to hear it.”
“I’m the one who came up with the idea of the masquerade. So why don’t you ask the questions?”
She stared at him. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No. You have good instincts. I have a feeling you might get more out of him than I will.”
A feeling. Nerves danced in her stomach. She’d been sure that D.C. was going to take the lead on this one. It was his turn. She hadn’t bothered to come with a strategy.
“Improvise,” D.C. murmured in a voice only she could hear.
Then she pushed all that aside and concentrated on the legendary thief as he reached them. Close up, Arthur Franks had the kind of nondescript face that would fade easily from memory. But the eyes wouldn’t. They were bright blue and had a twinkle in them that held pure amusement.
What was so funny? she wondered.
Reaching across the table, Franks held out his hand to Fiona first.
She shook it. “I’m Diane Lincoln. I teach in the art department at Georgetown.”
His chuckle held warmth. “No, you’re not Dr. Lincoln. You’re Lieutenant Fiona Gallagher and your picture on TV is much prettier than you are in person. I imagine you must have worked very hard to achieve this dowdy look.”
Shit, she thought. But Fiona kept her eyes on Franks. “It took over an hour. What gave me away?”
“The eyes. They’re hard to disguise even behind glasses, and yours are very distinctive. I always used to have trouble with mine.”
He offered his hand to D.C. “Are you indeed Gabriel Martin, the gallery owner my niece contacted?”
“No.” D.C. shook hands. “I’m Captain D. C. Campbell. I run the Military Police Unit at Fort McNair.”
“Where Amanda was stationed.”
D.C. nodded. “You weren’t really expecting Diane Lincoln or Gabriel Martin, were you?”
His eyes brows shot up. “Suddenly a gallery owner and an art dealer want to see me a few days after someone tries to steal the Rubinov necklace out of the National Gallery? You should never try to con a con.”
Fiona kept her eyes on Arthur Franks. “If we’d asked to come and talk to you as ourselves, would you have seen us?”
“Perhaps. But I don’t like my painting time interrupted. It blocks my flow, sometimes for hours. My arrangement with the FBI is very specific. They can only ask me about thefts that have actually occurred—not ones that have been unsuccessful or ones they’re anticipating. Otherwise they’d be here all the time.”