“No, we don’t have a meeting.”
“Oh, well, uh…” He ran a hand through his hair, struggling to figure out what else to say. “Want me to find someone to give you a tour?”
“That might be hard, since the museum is closed today.” She said it gently.
“It is? Then it’s Monday.”
“Yes,” she confirmed, “it’s Monday.” Juliette fought the urge to grab him and kiss him. He was just so hapless it was cute.
“Wait…if it’s Monday, how did you get in here?” For the first time he regarded her with suspicion. In Juliette’s opinion, that reaction was very late coming.
“The door was unlocked.” That wasn’t entirely true. The deadbolt on the front door hadn’t been engaged, so it had been child’s play to open it. She’d had wire cutters in her hand, ready to deal with the alarm if her quickly gathered intel on the museum’s lack of security was wrong, but nothing had gone off.
“Oh, uh, sometimes I forget.” He was still looking at her suspiciously. “So you’re just here visiting the museum?”
“No, I actually came to meet you .”
“You…did?” He sounded both alarmed and resigned.
“Yes. I have something I think might interest you.” Reaching up, Juliette first took the clips out of her hair, which was half down after he’d accidentally whacked her on the head. She didn’t miss the way his eyes lingered on her as the locks fell around her shoulders.
Opening her purse, she slid the hair clips in and then extracted the cardboard sleeve she’d placed the pictures in.
Wordlessly, she handed it to him. Francisco frowned but shook the photos out into his hand. He peered at the first one for a moment, before his whole body went still. Flipping to the next one, he brought the photos closer to his face then fumbled in the pocket of his hoodie, extracting a pair of thick, black-rimmed glasses.
They magnified his eyes cartoonishly and Juliette had to bite back a giggle.
“Where did you get these?”
Juliette opened her mouth, ready to start her carefully prepared statement, the first phase in a plan to suss out what he knew about the Trinity Masters, but before she could say anything, he’d turned and walked away, disappearing through the door he’d appeared from.
Juliette waited, but he didn’t come back. Half-amused, half-irritated, she too stepped through the door, taking time to put the stanchions and rope back in place before following after the lost member of the Trinity Masters.
Franco jerked on his gloves, moved the letter he’d been examining off the light box, carefully laid out the photos the blonde had brought then flipped the light on.
Planting his hands on the worktable, he peered at the first photo. Three men. The one on the left in white, or possibly tan pants and a jacket. The older man in the center in loose clothing and tall boots, a rifle across his chest. Francisco knew both of them. Well, he didn’t know them, since they’d been dead a long time. He recognized them.
William Ludlow was on the left, and in the center was Calixto Garcia, general in the Cuban revolution. Next to Garcia was the third person—a younger man wearing a hat, sporting a wispy mustache that meant he was probably only in his teens.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered to himself. He needed to check the background against a picture they had in the collection of Ludlow and Garcia together. It looked as if both photos were taken the same day—the men were in the same outfits, with the same scenery in the background. In the photo they had on display, there were a variety of men standing behind and slightly downhill from Ludlow and Garcia. The third man in this picture had to be someone important to merit a photo with two such powerful men. A hat shadowed half the younger man’s face, but there was something familiar about him, as if Franco should recognize him. He almost looked like—
“Pedro Garcia Fernandez.”
Franco’s head jerked up so fast his glasses slid down his
“Oh, well, uh…” He ran a hand through his hair, struggling to figure out what else to say. “Want me to find someone to give you a tour?”
“That might be hard, since the museum is closed today.” She said it gently.
“It is? Then it’s Monday.”
“Yes,” she confirmed, “it’s Monday.” Juliette fought the urge to grab him and kiss him. He was just so hapless it was cute.
“Wait…if it’s Monday, how did you get in here?” For the first time he regarded her with suspicion. In Juliette’s opinion, that reaction was very late coming.
“The door was unlocked.” That wasn’t entirely true. The deadbolt on the front door hadn’t been engaged, so it had been child’s play to open it. She’d had wire cutters in her hand, ready to deal with the alarm if her quickly gathered intel on the museum’s lack of security was wrong, but nothing had gone off.
“Oh, uh, sometimes I forget.” He was still looking at her suspiciously. “So you’re just here visiting the museum?”
“No, I actually came to meet you .”
“You…did?” He sounded both alarmed and resigned.
“Yes. I have something I think might interest you.” Reaching up, Juliette first took the clips out of her hair, which was half down after he’d accidentally whacked her on the head. She didn’t miss the way his eyes lingered on her as the locks fell around her shoulders.
Opening her purse, she slid the hair clips in and then extracted the cardboard sleeve she’d placed the pictures in.
Wordlessly, she handed it to him. Francisco frowned but shook the photos out into his hand. He peered at the first one for a moment, before his whole body went still. Flipping to the next one, he brought the photos closer to his face then fumbled in the pocket of his hoodie, extracting a pair of thick, black-rimmed glasses.
They magnified his eyes cartoonishly and Juliette had to bite back a giggle.
“Where did you get these?”
Juliette opened her mouth, ready to start her carefully prepared statement, the first phase in a plan to suss out what he knew about the Trinity Masters, but before she could say anything, he’d turned and walked away, disappearing through the door he’d appeared from.
Juliette waited, but he didn’t come back. Half-amused, half-irritated, she too stepped through the door, taking time to put the stanchions and rope back in place before following after the lost member of the Trinity Masters.
Franco jerked on his gloves, moved the letter he’d been examining off the light box, carefully laid out the photos the blonde had brought then flipped the light on.
Planting his hands on the worktable, he peered at the first photo. Three men. The one on the left in white, or possibly tan pants and a jacket. The older man in the center in loose clothing and tall boots, a rifle across his chest. Francisco knew both of them. Well, he didn’t know them, since they’d been dead a long time. He recognized them.
William Ludlow was on the left, and in the center was Calixto Garcia, general in the Cuban revolution. Next to Garcia was the third person—a younger man wearing a hat, sporting a wispy mustache that meant he was probably only in his teens.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered to himself. He needed to check the background against a picture they had in the collection of Ludlow and Garcia together. It looked as if both photos were taken the same day—the men were in the same outfits, with the same scenery in the background. In the photo they had on display, there were a variety of men standing behind and slightly downhill from Ludlow and Garcia. The third man in this picture had to be someone important to merit a photo with two such powerful men. A hat shadowed half the younger man’s face, but there was something familiar about him, as if Franco should recognize him. He almost looked like—
“Pedro Garcia Fernandez.”
Franco’s head jerked up so fast his glasses slid down his
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