The Deception Code (A Remi Laurent FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 5)

PROLOGUE A mansion overlooking the Potomac River, just south of Washington, DC. 5:30 AM Valentina Montero hummed cheerfully to herself as she punched the security code into the keypad next to her employer’s front gate. Señor Grayson was an early riser, so she had to make his coffee and eggs, turn on the heat in the breakfast room, and then get started with the morning’s cleaning. The giant ironwork gate clicked, then hummed open on its hinges. Valentina drove through, hit a button to shut the gate behind her, then drove up the long driveway past a beautifully manicured lawn, barely visible in the predawn autumn light, and up to the rambling Gothic-style mansion overlooking the river. Señor Grayson had told her it had been originally built by some railroad tycoon in the nineteenth century. To her it looked like everybody’s stereotype of a haunted castle, but her boss liked old things. As she passed the house, she noticed that the lights in a couple of the collection rooms on the ground floor were on. Señor Grayson must have gotten up early. He was too meticulous to leave lights on overnight. Valentina drove around to the back of the house to the service entrance and parked. As she switched off the engine and got out of the car, she chuckled to herself. Señor Grayson never tired of looking at his own collection, just like she never tired of visiting the Smithsonian. So many things to see at the Smithsonian, everything from Lindbergh’s airplane to three-thousand-year-old bronzes from China. Señor Grayson had some three-thousand-year-old Chinese bronzes too, but there was only one Spirit of St. Louis. If the Smithsonian didn’t already own it, he would have probably bought that too. It would look nice hanging from the ceiling of the great hall in front of that grand marble staircase. It would certainly be more fun to clean than that huge chandelier that had once hung in a French mansion during the time of Louis XIV. She let herself in, punched the code to switch off the burglar alarm, and walked down the hallway to the kitchen. Even here, where only she and the other two servants ever came, the walls were adorned with items from Señor Grayson’s collection. A Folsom arrowhead from 7000 BC. A little intaglio from some Roman ring, engraved with the figure of Mercury. An engraving of the Karnak temple by David Roberts. When Valentina had applied for this job all those years ago, Señor Grayson had been kind enough to take her on a tour of his collection and she had surprised him with the depth of her historical knowledge. She had explained that when she was a little girl in Mexico City, she had loved visiting the Museo Nacional de Antropología with its giant Aztec sun calendar and its impressive gold artifacts. She had dreamed of growing up to become an archaeologist. But little girls from poor barrios did not grow up to become archaeologists, and she had become a maid in America instead. At least all that reading got her a job cooking and cleaning in one of the biggest private collections in the United States. And she shouldn’t complain, she thought as she flicked on the kitchen light and surveyed its large interior and gleaming appliances. She had worked hard and saved. Her husband, Fernando, a welder, had worked hard and saved. And now their three children were all in college. Her son was in his first year of law school on a full scholarship. Her daughters were studying accounting and theater. Valentina had never understood why some people born here criticized their country so harshly. Sure, it wasn’t perfect, but it had given her so much. It would give her children more. As she put on the coffee, Yemeni coffee made in an Italian coffeemaker and served black just the way her boss liked it, she decided to go check on him. If he had risen early, he might want his breakfast right away rather than wait until after his coffee like he usually did. She headed up a short flight of steps to the ground floor, which was slightly raised above ground level so that guests coming through the front door could first go up three steps of Italian marble past a pair of Greek statues. As she walked along, she passed several framed early woodcuts, including three originals from Dürer, and into a hallway leading to one of the exhibition rooms. And that’s when she realized something was wrong. This exhibition room was dedicated to numismatics, with a vast collection of Roman and Greek coins along with examples from Medieval Europe and even some very rare early Anglo-Saxon coins. They were arranged in glass-topped cabinets with shelves beneath. Even though the light was switched off, she could see all the shelves were open. Señor Grayson never left shelves open. He was an extremely tidy man. Valentina’s first thought was that Bruce had visited. Señor Grayson’s useless rich boy son. All cocaine and empty conversation and a condescending attitude toward the “help,” even though every single member of staff was more intelligent and far harder working. Had Bruce gone on one of his binges? She’d seen them before and they weren’t pretty. Tripping over things or throwing them in a childlike tantrum. When he was younger, before getting his inheritance, he even stole from his father, as if he didn’t have enough money! She’d stopped buying lottery tickets because of him. She’d rather not be a millionaire if that’s what it would turn her children into. She looked down the hallway. It ran past another exhibition room and then into the front hall. Beyond its marble-floored expanse she could see another hallway with two more exhibition rooms. The lights weren’t on in the wing where she stood or in the opposite hallway, but lights shone from both exhibition rooms there. Valentina was about to turn on the hallway light and call out for Señor Grayson and Bruce, but something stopped her. Instead, she stood and listened. She could hear something. The sound of drawers opening, and someone muttering angrily to himself. Bruce! She should have known. That no-good rich boy was probably looking for some cocaine he had stashed somewhere. His d**g-addled mind often forgot where he hid his supply and he’d launch into furious searches that tore the place up. One of the great satisfactions of Valentina’s job was knowing that most of the time he’d never find his stash. Any time she came across some of his drugs, she’d flush them down the toilet. The look on Bruce’s face was worth the extra cleaning. His father, a successful businessman, called her Señora Montero and lent her books. The useless son called her “hey you” and never did anything with his life. Yes, she truly enjoyed those flushing sessions. She couldn’t calculate how many thousands of dollars’ worth of cocaine she had flushed. Maybe she’d catch Bruce doing something bad enough that he’d get f*******n from entering the house. He could scuttle off to one of the other houses and leave the staff and his long-suffering father in peace. Quietly she walked down the unlit hall, then out into the grand entrance. She did not glance at the ancient statues and fine paintings, or the grand staircase and its immense crystal chandelier. Normally she would stop for a moment when she passed through to admire these things. Not today. She was a woman on a mission. More clattering and thumping. More cursing. Bruce must have really gone on a bender. She entered the hallway on the other side of the grand entrance. The first exhibition room lay open and lit to her right. She moved to the doorway and looked inside. And brought her hand up to her mouth as her lips formed an astonished O. What a mess! This was the Medieval Room. Weapons. Armor. Illuminated manuscripts. Byzantine icons. Ottonian ivory carvings. All set up with museum-quality lighting and cases. And now it looked like it had been hit by a whirlwind. All the display case drawers were open. The icons had been taken off the walls. The armor lay in pieces scattered all over the floor. Bruce had searched through everything, making a mess of his father’s collection. At least he had the respect and good sense not to break anything. The search looked like it had been hurried and desperate, and yet done with care. Because if that useless young man had actually broken any of his father’s priceless collection, he might be cut off. Bruce had never shown any interest in the private museum he had grown up in. Nothing mattered to him except his own pleasure. The sounds of a frantic search continued in the next exhibition room. Valentina frowned and stomped over to the doorway, no longer trying to hide her approach. She was going to have words with Bruce Grayson. Strong words. It didn’t matter that he was the boss’s son. His behavior was unacceptable. “Señor—” she started, and then cut off. Because as she made it to the doorway of the Classical Room, as messed up as the Medieval Room, she stopped short. Señor Grayson lay face down in a pool of dried blood, his gray hair matted like a giant scab. And it was not his son who had stopped his search to whirl around and stare at her standing in the doorway. No, it was someone else entirely. Someone rushing at her with a b****y hammer. “No!” was all she managed to scream before the hammer came down. And within moments, Valentina Montero lay next to her employer, two admirers of the past—one rich, one working class—bludgeoned to death amid the collection they had both loved.