Guarding His Fortunes

Chapter 1

Languidly rolling in the drizzle past quaint adobe cottages set close to the narrow lane, the stretch SUV limousine garnered no particular interest by the few people out on such a chilly night.  As expected, it stopped in front of Twilight's Lantern, the four diamond restaurant.  A woman and a man, impeccably dressed in evening attire, climbed out of the vehicle and entered the restaurant's covered patio.  The headwaiter welcomed them, assured them that there was time to enjoy dessert and coffee before the establishment closed in twenty minutes, and seated them at a petite table under a grand painting of galloping horses.

Meanwhile, the limousine turned around, by carefully backing into an alley, and parked across the street in front of Resplendent Colors, a fine art gallery.  Three figures, attired in charcoal jumpsuits with full hoods and masks, slipped out of the vehicle.  They hastened to the back of the gallery and disabled the electrical power, back-up generator, secondary alarm system, and surveillance cameras. 

In mere minutes the thieves stripped a wall of paintings, snatched a ledger book, and emptied a wall safe.  They tucked the contents into black nylon and canvas bags.  Soon thereafter, the limousine disappeared down a bend on Canyon Road. 

Moments later, a sole police officer arrived in front of the gallery.  She called her superior to confirm the power outage and wandered to the back of the building.  Upon spotting the surveillance cameras covered in polyurethane foam, she requested backup officers.

Inside the restaurant, the well-dressed couple finished dessert and chatted with their waiter.  They complimented the chef on the lemon and berry crepes, identified themselves as Seattle tourists celebrating their engagement, asked for a recommendation on a nightclub, and inquired about the artist of the equine oil painting.  They tipped generously and attempted to thank the headwaiter as they exited, but he was distracted by the flashing lights of the police cars converged onto the street.  However, the headwaiter observed the couple making an exaggerated point of expressing their surprise that their limousine was gone and heard them speculate that it may have been stolen.  Before he could offer them assistance, while he was handling a concern by another restaurant patron, the couple vanished from the patio.

Chapter 2

Agilely darting and slithering out of the world champion's grip, Sam Capone moved cleverly and unexpectedly, with rapid bursts of impressive exertion.  His success inspired Vicente Bastian to react, quicker and smarter, in order to prepare him for unconventional motions from upcoming opponents.  This was why Vicente liked to train with Sam, at least when practicing grappling moves.  Several inches shorter, and significantly leaner with virtually no body fat, Sam had speed that Vicente did not encounter in matches.  Nonetheless, Vicente challenged himself to be ready for anyone. 

The barefoot men, clad only in combat shorts, wrestled on rubber mats in the natural daylight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows lining the rooms on the hidden floor—the second floor—of the mountain compound.  This is where Vicente, the MMA (mixed martial arts) title belt holder for the super middleweight division of multiple fighting leagues, lived and trained.  If they had looked out of the windows, they would have seen the entire city of Palm Springs stretched below them on the desert floor. 

Sam was once a professional MMA fighter too.  He had achieved modest success, but had never become a contender for a championship.  Sam would not blame anyone, or anything, for the trajectory of his once-promising career.  Analysts, peers, and fans had expected stellar accomplishments from him.  Sam suspected that due to bulking up the musculature of his legs, overcompensating for a series of knee and ankle injuries, he had lost some of the critical dexterity required to advance further.  But Sam's tenacity and ingenuity, in and out of the arena cage, had earned him widespread respect.  He had retired at thirty-one years of age and accepted Vicente's offer to become one of his elite security guards.

Alerted to footsteps ascending the stairs, Sam hesitated for one moment too long.  Vicente captured his waist and propelled him downward.

Standing in the doorway to the private stairwell, Catalina watched her younger brother pin Sam to the mat.  Tall and slender, with dark hair parted in the middle and cascading to the center of her back, her presence was both serene and formidable. 

Vicente, I need Sam please, Catalina said. 

Go on, Vicente said to Sam, releasing him from his grip.  She's in charge.

Sam followed Catalina Bastian down the stairs and out onto the mansion's deck.  Like the home, as well as much of Palm Springs, it was decorated with mid-century modern furnishings.  The Bastian's household staff had prepared a tile-top table with generous portions of pasta, various sauces, fresh sour dough bread, and bowls of arugula and cherry tomato salads. 

Please join me for lunch, Catalina said, motioning toward the chair for Sam to occupy.  I want to discuss a new task for you.

Thank you very much, Sam responded, startled by the personal invitation.  He was always fed exceptionally well, as was the rest of the Bastian family's staff, but most of Sam's meals were served in the employee dining room.  As soon as they were seated, a server brought them glasses of iced coffee and poured olive oil into small jars by their bread plates.

Are you still having nightmares, Sam? Catalina asked.

My dreams are still the same, Sam answered.  They are troubling, yes, but I don't consider them nightmares.

That is curious.  Why not?

There are no monsters in them hunting me and trying to eat me alive or anything like that.

Monsters can take many forms, can't they?

That must be true, Sam answered.  The dreams are so vivid and unsettling that I cannot fall right back to sleep.  It takes me anywhere from a few minutes, or even a few hours sometimes, to fully shake them off.

What about my suggestions, Catalina asked, are you following them?

Yes, I am drinking valerian tea before going to bed and writing down everything I can remember from the dreams when I wake up.

Something in your mind is struggling quite mightily for your attention.  I would think of it as a plea for help.  A desperate cry.

What could it be? Sam asked.  I think of myself as steady as they come.  Everyone says I am like a rock, so this doesn't make any sense to me.

Keep listening to yourself, Catalina said.  It is important.  What are you learning so far?

Well, nothing yet.  The distress is from the same three things I told you about already, when I asked you for help with an herbal sleep remedy.  I am wandering in a jungle without trails and I find a boot—a hiking boot.  I try to go find who lost it because he won't survive long without it.  Then I stumble upon a giant hole.  It appears to be a bottomless pit, but I can hear a wounded animal or person in it whimpering.  I phone for emergency help, but no one answers my call.

Catalina searched Sam's face for indications of enlightenment.  Fiercely handsome with sharp features and a pronounced forehead, he exuded self-assurance.  But Sam's emerald-green eyes lacked glow or sparkle.  Catalina found herself empathizing with him, and even pitying him.

Do you know what my dream means? Sam asked.

You must decipher it for yourself, Catalina answered, biting her lip, then scooting her chair closer to the table.  Now, I need to go over your assignment.  You have a plane to catch this afternoon.

Where am I going?

Santa Fe.

My gallery—a fine art gallery named Resplendent Colors—was broken into last night, Catalina began.  Simply put, I want you to go there and get the operations back on track.

I have accompanied you and Vicente to your home in the Santa Fe Hills a couple of times, Sam said, but this is the first I have heard about you owning an art gallery there.  Did you just recently acquire it?

No, it is kind of a relic from my past and my extended family.  It remains deeply important to me, on multiple levels.  Both my brother and I have significant investments there.

I will find the stolen art and return it to your gallery.

Not so fast, Catalina replied.  That is not your mission.  I don't need the art pieces back.

Are you collecting their value on insurance instead? Sam asked.

No, Sam, the stolen pieces are worthless.

Catalina paused to let that fact sink in.  Sam remained silent, thinking through the possibilities.  Catalina signaled the server to refresh their drinks.

I am sending you there under some false pretenses, Catalina said.  The gallery staff—Antonella, the manager, and her sales attendants—have been in place for a long period of time.  Until last night, I trusted each of them.  They will understand that your role is to refurbish the gallery's security system.  What they won't know, though, is that you will have other duties—covert roles—of more vital importance.  Let me know that you understand me so far.

I do.

Find out who betrayed us.  These are smart and insightful people at the gallery.  Don't confuse their suspicions about you and your real tasks as indications of any guilt.  We must precisely know which one of them may have engaged in some form of treachery.

So you are certain that the burglary was an inside job?

It probably was.  In a span that could not have exceeded two or three minutes, the criminals broke in without triggering any of the alarm systems.  They avoided and destroyed the security cameras.  They wiped out the contents of our safe.  They stole paintings—all on one wall and by one artist—and a ledger book detailing that artist's sales, buyers, and inventory.  Not only are thefts of this caliber unheard of in Santa Fe, their activity threatened several million of dollars worth of treasure.  Only an employee could have helped them accomplish so much in such a remarkably short period of time.

Several million? Sam repeated, lifting his eyebrows and shifting in his chair.

Correct, Catalina answered.  She rubbed her thick eyebrows with her fingers, in a motion akin to pulling hair away from her eyes, and regarded Sam with a somber demeanor.

Several million dollars in value, yet you don't want it back and just now deemed it worthless.  Am I to understand the thieves failed?

Indeed.  They failed miserably, but that doesn't necessarily mean that they were incompetent.  Quite the contrary, from what I can tell.

But you said they cleared the contents of your safe, Sam countered.

Yes, but it was the wrong safe, Catalina replied, folding her hands across her lap.

The thieves were only interested in one artist's work.  Was that their error?  They had the wrong artist?

No, they had the right artist.

But they stole the wrong pieces?

Bingo!  They stole the wrong artwork, a fake ledger, and the contents of a contrived safe.

So you knew this particular artist was being targeted, Sam speculated.

Elan Gagnon is the most enigmatic member of our gallery team, Catalina said.  He is a park ranger and part-time resident artist.  He uses studios situated at the back of the gallery, out of public view, for his paintings, glass, and pottery work.  The staff and others consider him an atrocious, talentless painter, but a better sculptor and pottery maker.  My understanding is that they have theorized that Elan is getting special treatment because of a sexual relationship, a familial connection, or an attempt on our part to acquire diversity because of the native American ancestry in his heritage.  Of course, none of those theories is correct.

Does the public buy his paintings?

No, it is rare for one of Elan's pieces to sell to a real buyer.  They are purposely crude, grossly overpriced, and displayed in a nook that is out of the path most visitors take when strolling through the gallery's rooms.  The staff, who are experts in fine art and the Santa Fe art scene, could be expected to smell a fraud and become particularly interested in not just Elan's status with me, but with the real reason for the inclusion of his paintings in Resplendent Colors at all.  Our gallery, like most of the others on Canyon Road, occupies no more space than a modest adobe home.

But Elan is enormously talented, in reality, right?

Certainly, Catalina answered, putting her thumbs on the sides of a spherical bronze pendant embedded in a thick necklace made of chocolate-colored macrame.  Elan is a magnificent talent.  He created this piece I am wearing.  It is to our benefit that his work is under-appreciated.  Are you understanding everything so far?

I am, Sam answered.  "I am going there to get your operations back on track and figure out who betrayed you.  Elan's paintings are just a ruse for his real art.  The