Page 22 of The Voicemail

“He isn’t your co-worker, he’s your boss,” I point out. “Besides, he’s doing some shady shit in the background. He knows that shipment never had a painting. Something else came in that crate.”

“What?” she asks curiously.

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “You’re the one who processed it. Did you see anything?”

She narrows her eyes at me, but only because she’s thinking.

“There was an envelope,” she says. “That’s all that came in the shipment.”

I nod. “Where is it now?”

“I’m not sure.” She sighs. “We’ve processed hundreds of shipments since then. I can’t keep track of one envelope.”

My phone buzzes. Luca. I step into the hall to answer.

“What’s going on?” he asks by way of greeting.

“I’m at Bellamy Fine Art,” I tell him. “Bianchi is definitely running dirty money through here. Look up Elio Marchesi. It’s one of his old aliases.”

I hear him typing something.

“Confirmed,” he answers a moment later. “He used the name to set up a few shell companies. But why use an art gallery?”

“Stolen artwork?” I guess. “There’s a lot of shipments back and forth between galleries and collectors. Nobody would notice unless there just happens to be an overzealous gallery assistant.”

“You think that’s why Bianchi is after her?”

“It’s just a theory,” I say. “We need to implement some surveillance here.”

“On it,” he says.

I hang up and go back into the office, where I find Elena sitting in front of her computer with her arms crossed. Behind her, on a shelf near the printer, there’s a framed staff photo from some event.

Elena stands near the edge of the group in a black dress, hair loose, smiling at something outside the frame. She looks happier, less worn down by her stalker and an asshole boss. She doesn’t look as haunted.

“What?” she asks, looking up at me and then behind her to the picture.

“You really do love this job, don’t you?” I ask.

She shrugs. “I probably wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

I nod. “Well, I’ve got what I need, so we should probably leave.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “You said I could work half a day. We haven’t even been here an hour.”

“It was a productive hour,” I say firmly. “But, unfortunately, you aren’t feeling as well as you thought, and you need to go home.”

“Alex,” she huffs. “That wasn’t the deal.”

I’m about to argue when her phone buzzes on the desk. I know who’s texting when her whole body goes still. I look over the desk at the screen. Blocked number. The message appears while we’re both watching.

You should really add more personal touches to your office.

The color drains from her face. This time, Elena doesn’t argue when I say, “We’re leaving.”

7

ELENA