Sharkbait Ch. 56-65

Kai and his friends stayed over the weekend, but I wasn't much of a hostess. I worked out, ate, and prepared for my upcoming appearances. For every Bodyglove event on my schedule, I had radio and television interviews to do. Almost all were taped ahead of time with the local hosts and played in the leadup to the event. By getting them done early, I wouldn't have to deal with them when we were in Oregon for the next two weeks.

The extra security was over, but Alpha Steven didn't want me alone in public anymore. That was fine with me; I didn't feel like going anywhere. Even food didn't get me going.

Amy finally had enough on Monday when she had to drag me out of bed for our morning run. "You're better than this, Vicki," she said. "I know it sucks, but life goes on. I want my Sharkbait back." She was right. I embraced her, then started to dress for our run. I heard the sound of air brakes and a diesel truck outside, then the too-close sound of a backing alarm. "Vicki, what's going on with the truck?"

I ran out to the kitchen in my shorts and sports bra, pulling a Bodyglove tank top over it. Amy's vision was slowly improving, enough to tell it was a semi-truck, but not enough to read the side. "ATLAS MOVING COMPANY," it said on the side. "Tell your Mom, have them come over just in case," I said as I reached for the pistol we kept on top of the fridge.

"Hammer says to stall," she replied from the phone thirty seconds later.

The truck stopped short of our garage door and set the brakes, the cab sticking out into the road. The driver got out with another man, both dressed in logo coveralls and ballcaps. The driver knocked at the door. "Who is it," I said.

"Atlas Moving. We have a delivery for Vicki Lawrence."

"Give me a minute to get dressed, and I'll be right out." The guy walked back to his coworker, and they unlocked the back of the truck and swung the doors open. I could see different-shaped objects inside, all covered with moving blankets or packed into wooden or cardboard boxes.

"We're in place," Susan said.

I looked out to see her with Hammer, walking down the street while holding hands. I tucked the small pistol into the pocket of my shorts and walked outside. "I'm Vicki Lawrence," I said.

"I'll need to see some identification before I can deliver this, ma'am," he said. Amy came up behind me and handed me my driver's license. He looked at it for a few seconds, then gave it back to me. "Sign for delivery, please."

"What if something got broken during the move? Is it insured?"

"It is. There's a signature below that for whether you have any damage claims. This signature just allows us to unload." I read the parts, then signed where he had the X. "What is this stuff?"

"Furniture and things. We picked it up in Boston and drove straight here. We're supposed to give you this stuff too." He handed over a thick manila envelope with my name on it.

Emily. The office things. "Aunt Susan? Can you look at this while Hammer and I help get this stuff put away?"

They came up the driveway, and Susan took the envelope and went inside. Amy hit the button to open the garage door, allowing the movers could get their ramp down. Hammer took one look and shook his head. "You better pull your car out and park it at my place," he said. "You're going to fill up this garage and more."

I grabbed my keys and made room, running back from his nearby house. Susan was running things; furniture, pottery, and sculptures were staying in the garage for now, while textiles and paintings went into the living room. She was checking items off a list as she directed things. "How much stuff did I get?"

"All of it," she said as she flipped through the ten-page shipping manifest. "We'll talk after they are gone."

It took almost an hour for the men to finish. All of the items had to be unpacked and inspected for damage, then repacked for now. Susan ran the unloading while Hammer and I kept busy with the inspections, marking the containers if they were undamaged. Amazingly enough, everything came through without a hitch. I signed the spot stating no shipping damage observed and tipped the guys five hundred each for their work. "You guys did a great job packing and driving," I said.

"Thank you, Ma'am. Have a nice day." They loaded back up into their truck and drove off as Amy pushed the button to lower the garage door.

"What the hell just happened," Hammer said. "This isn't Ikea crap! These are museum-quality antiques! It must be worth a fortune!"

"I know," I said. "I'll explain more once I've had a chance to look at the paperwork and see what I'm dealing with here. In the meantime, we should eat breakfast since we missed our run."

"Luke has breakfast ready," Susan said. "Let's head back to our place and eat. I take it you aren't going to dojo today?"

"No, I'll go," I said. "This stuff isn't going anywhere, and I need to keep my training up." Hammer smiled at that; he understood the need to skip this morning's run, but not his training.

We went back to his place, where Luke had been flipping pancakes and frying up sausages and eggs for the last half hour. We all thanked him as we grabbed plates of food and tucked in. "Susan, how much can we trust Hammer to know of the real story?"

She had to think about that for a while. "Hammer's already suspicious, and he's too stubborn to let things go. He knows there is more to that motorcycle attack than the NCIS let on. Maybe this is Luna's way of forcing the issue?"

"He'll be home from the dojo at nine," Amy said. "We should talk to him then. That gives Vicki eight hours or so to figure out what she owns."

"Who sent you all that stuff, Vicki?"

I took some time chewing the stack of pancakes I'd just stuffed into my mouth. Of course, that's when I get asked a question. "I haven't seen the paperwork, but I recognize some of the pieces from a friend's office in Boston."

"Who do you know in Boston who would give you millions of dollars worth of antiques?"

"A filthy-rich businessman who told me he was in love with me and wanted me to stay there and date him. He was pretty old, and I wasn't interested in what he had to offer. I turned him down."

"It's a hell of a severance package," Hammer noted.

"We'll see. I think it will end up being a full-time job for me, just when I don't need any more drama." Now THAT was the absolute truth. The next Monday morning, Amy and I were flying up to Oregon for the start of the school year.

"Let the girl eat," Susan said. "We've got to leave in ten minutes."

"Luke, could you stay at our place while we're gone?"

"Sure, Vicki. I'll take the list Mom was using and start looking things up on the Internet. Maybe I can give you an idea of what is valuable and what is crap."

"Thanks, Luke." It would have been a lot less painful for me to stay home and look up stuff because I was distracted and got my butt kicked during the class. I tapped out after only thirty seconds when I was challenged, dropping three spots in the rankings.

We stopped at Sawatdee for Thai takeout; I loved their Squid Pad Thai. When we walked in, Luke was staring at a painting he had leaning up against the wall, one of several he'd removed from the cases. "What's up?"

"We have a BIG problem, Vicki," he said.

I put the bag of food on the table and started to get glasses down. "What kind of big are we talking about?"

By now, Susan and Amy were in the kitchen. Luke turned the screen on his computer to show me the website. "Take a look at that painting, then at this," he said. The painting wasn't something I'd have in my house; dark and uninteresting, it showed a woman playing the piano while another woman sang, and a large man sat facing away who must have been their instructor. Looking at the screen, it was the same. "You found it?"

"Not just any IT, Vicki. This painting is The Concert by Johannes Vermeer. Thieves stole it from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston in 1990, along with twelve other works of art."

"Damn. Alexander was rich as hell, why did he buy stolen art?"

"Vicki, that painting was last valued at over three hundred and fifty million dollars. It's the most valuable piece of stolen art in the entire world."

Ch. 57

I dropped the plates I was carrying over, causing them to shatter on the floor.

"WHAT?"

"That's not all. Look at the one next to it." The next painting I liked a lot; it was dark, with a group of men in a wooden boat with sails, fighting the big waves tossing it around like it was nothing.

"That one I like," I said. "Lots of action, lots of brushstrokes."

"You should. It's a Rembrandt; The Storm on the Sea of Galilee. It was stolen in the same heist, and is worth an estimated one hundred and fifty million dollars."

"Fuck me," I said.

"Holy shit," Amy added.

"Damn," Susan said.

I didn't know what to do, so I picked up the broken plates and swept the floor while I thought. Susan was looking over her son's shoulder as he checked other websites.

Finally, my stomach growled and snapped me out of my thoughts. "Let's eat while we think about this. The paintings aren't going to get up and walk away," I said.

Luke moved his laptop, and we dug into the food. "We can't possibly keep these," Susan said.

"I wouldn't keep stolen items," I said. "What did the envelope have it other than a packing list?"

"A will," Luke said as he handed it over. I read through it quickly as I ate my spicy rice noodles and squid. It was pretty simple for such a fortune. Mr. Alexander Corvinus' estate was to be split evenly between his wife, Emily, and his brother, Maximillian. Max, of course, died in a tragic fire at his warehouse, meaning Emily would get everything.

The art and antiques in his office and home, though, were willed to one Vicki Lawrence of Coronado, California. Emily gets his fortune tax free as his spouse, while the Feds and California would bend me over and take half of my share.

I handed this to Susan and let her read it. "Will this hold up?"

"It doesn't matter now," Luke said. "The statute of limitations on the art heist has expired. If you had stolen it, they couldn't prosecute for it. The FBI investigation was closed out decades ago."

I had to wonder; if these paintings were stolen goods, then how many other things in my home had been taken? "We need to come clean, and soon," I said.

"I agree," Susan said. "Today, we can say we didn't know and walk away unscathed. The longer we hide them, the greater the legal exposure could be."

We finished the food, and we all agreed on the path forward. "You need to make the calls, Vicki. The works went directly to you, and you are the listed beneficiary in the will."

"Fine," I said. "You should take Amy and Luke back to Hammer's house. They don't need to be involved in this."

"I'm calling Alpha Stephen," Amy said. "He needs to know. You're not going to be able to hide this. I'll get him to send down a few warriors to help protect you and the art."

Susan agreed. "I'll call Leo and Adrienne, and have them give the Council a heads up. The shit is going to hit the fan by tonight."

"It will," I said.

My first call was to the FBI Field Office in San Diego. "I need to report the recovery of stolen art," I told the receptionist.

"Hold, please." A minute later, a male agent in his twenties came on the line. He was clean-cut and athletic, just what I'd expect from the junior guy in the office. "FBI, Special Agent Powell."

"Agent Powell, I've come into possession of at least two pieces of art stolen in 1990 from a museum in Boston. I'd like to turn them in."

"If you can bring them to the field office, we'll give you a receipt and take your statement," he said as he sipped on a cup of coffee.

"You don't understand. The two paintings I know of already are worth at least five hundred million dollars." THAT was enough to get his attention; the phone dropped to the desk, and I heard him shouting for others. "Take a look." I turned the phone so that he could see the paintings, and I explained what I'd learned.

He took my address and told me a team was on the way. I next searched for the number of the museum, eventually getting ahold of a curator.

She fainted when I told her why I was calling.

Her assistant picked up until she was able to talk again. With my address and the video evidence, they promised to retrieve the paintings as soon as they could get a flight here.

My third call was to Boston, using the number on the card she had given me in Dallas. "Vicki! I understand you received your inheritance?"

"You screwed me over, Emily! There's stolen art in here!"

"Oh, relax, I knew about that. That's why Alexander willed you all of the art and antiques; you'll lose a bunch when you figure out what is hot. I hope you don't mind making millions of dollars, taking a headache away from a grieving widow."

"Why?"

"There's going to be enough interest in Alexander's death without bringing it to my doorstep. When the FBI shows up, I'll show them his office and private rooms. Nothing but office furniture and records are left now, except for the Sharkbabe room."

My jaw dropped. "WHAT?"

"Vicki, I had to have some reason why my late husband would gift millions of dollars in art and antiques to a teenage girl he only met twice. Your signed poster has a prominent spot on the wall in that room. Alexander covered the Sharkbabe room walls with photographs of you, and a screen shows your appearances on television on an endless loop. A recliner in the middle is the only furnishing, well, except for the small table with the lube and the tissues."

Oh. My. God. "Why would you do this?"

"Alexander and I were having marriage problems because he was OBSESSED with you. The FBI will see that, and that explains you being in the will. It's weird, but it works. I have to go, so good luck!"

"Thank you... I think." I had to sit down as my head was reeling with everything going on. I wanted to dive down deep and sit there until I was out of air. I'd use the quiet to think in my happy place.

It wasn't to be.

Sirens were coming closer as I walked towards the garage. I was a little shocked when two Coronado Police cruisers stopped in front of my house, the officers hurrying to my door. I met them on the porch. "Officers?"

"Are you Vicki Lawrence," Officer Brooks asked.

"Yes," I said.

"The FBI asked us to secure the scene until they could arrive," Officer Martinez added.

"You might as well come inside then," I said as I opened the door.

"We've supposed to secure the entrances to the home," Martinez protested.

"You can do that from inside," I said. "And don't call me Ma'am, I start looking for my Mom."

"I'll stay here and wait for the FBI," Officer Brooks said, but Martinez walked in with me.

"Can I offer you a drink? Water? Coke?"

"We're fine, Ma'am." Martinez moved to the patio doors, pulling up a folding chair to sit looking out.

It was a good thing that he got that chair. An hour later, twenty FBI agents were inside my home. Susan had retained a lawyer, who sat with me as I gave my statement. "You had no idea you were in the will," the agent asked dismissively.

"I'd only met Alexander Corvinus twice. I know he was a big fan, and I think he had a crush on me, but we never even kissed. The first I knew about the will was when the semi-trailer parked in my driveway."

He looked at the manifest I'd provided. "Where did Mr. Corvinus get the art," he asked.

"I have no idea. I remember some of the antiques were in Alexander's office in Boston. I'd never seen these paintings before now."

"It's likely that Mr. Corvinus kept these private, given how famous the stolen art is," my lawyer said.

"When I realized the two paintings were hot, I stopped looking up the rest of the stuff and called you immediately."

He was struggling to believe the story. "So you saw them for the first time less than two hours ago?"

"Not really. When it was delivered this morning, I did a quick check for shipping damage so I could sign the forms. I barely paid attention to what they were, though. There was so much going on."

In the end, the rest of my week got spent in the company of the FBI, Museum staff, insurance companies, and private owners. Roughly half of the items Emily had dumped on me were stolen, with the rest not registered to any previous owners.

In the end, I didn't want a damn thing from Alexander in my house. I contacted Sotheby's Auction House, consigning the remaining items to auction in Los Angeles later in the year. The FBI cleared me of any wrongdoing and even gave me a commendation for recovering the art. Everything made the news, of course, and I gained a lot of goodwill with influential people.

With no criminal charges, the reward money started coming in. The thirteen recovered works from the Gardner Museum netted me twenty million dollars in reward money alone. The rest of the stolen goods gained me eight million more in reward money from insurance companies, paid out as the original owners traveled to my home to retrieve their property.

I spent hours every day with my lawyer, accountant, and investment manager as I got ready to leave for Oregon. My sudden wealth was mind-boggling for a girl who grew up in a Minnesota suburb. I had almost fifteen million in assets now, even after withholding for Federal and California taxes. I signed over million-dollar reward checks to of Amy, Luna Adrienne, and Alpha Steven to thank them for their efforts, and I donated another million dollars to my charitable foundation for shark conservation. My investment manager assured me I could live comfortably on interest income now, without having to touch my fortune. It was heady stuff for a teenager.

"What are you going to do with your newfound fortune," Amy asked on Sunday as we packed for Oregon. Kai and the boys were soaking in the hot tub after dinner while I was in her bedroom.

"I'm going to buy a boat," I said. "Something big enough to go open ocean and hang a shark cage from."

"Wait until after the auction of the rest of the stuff," Amy said with a laugh. The Sotheby's auction house estimated the rest of the collection would fetch me another ten million dollars. "You're gonna need a bigger boat."

Ch. 58

Any thought of college life like any other student was gone before we made it to the registration office.

Mercedes had been right when she called us last night to remind us of the terms of our contract. "You're going to be all over social media," she said. "Media, students, and even the faculty want to be seen with you. You'll receive more attention than you are comfortable with, and invitations you should never accept. Conduct yourselves as representatives of our company, and ALWAYS be seen in Bodyglove merchandise. Even in your private rooms, people who visit will take and share photos of you."

That was why we showed up with Bodyglove line dresses and heels for the first day of school. I was wearing a print that showed forty different species of sharks, while Amy's dress was in an ocean pattern. We had security from our Pack, two male and two female warriors in black suits plus Amy's 'seeing-eye dog,' and we needed them just to get away from our SUV. The press was waiting for us, along with a few dozen students. We smiled as we got out, the cameras clicking away as we waved.

The crowd closed in with everyone excited to see us. We must have spent twenty minutes signing autographs and taking photos with people, and we hadn't gone fifty feet from the car yet. The group was friendly, and we got invited to every sorority, fraternity, and dorm party there was this week. The crowd continued to build as our presence hit social media, and the mood started to turn. I could hear shouting as a fight broke out in the back, and the crowd kept pressing in on us. Campus Security was trying and failing to keep the area around us open. "We've got to get out of here, Vicki. This isn't a defensible position," the lead warrior sent.