Mosaic Mayhem (Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mini-Mystery) Read Online Free PDF

portfolio handles and stared at his departing back as he strode across the near-empty hotel breakfast room. The painting was worth millions.
    Now what? Was I supposed to stay in the hotel until someone contacted me or stroll around Plaça de Catalunya, awaiting the arrival of a muddy black panel truck? What if someone yanked the portfolio out of my hand before I made the exchange?
    Staying in the hotel seemed the best option . With my hand clenched so firmly around the portfolio handles that my knuckles turned white, I headed for the elevator. The doors opened. I stepped inside, and pushed the button for the third floor. The next thing I knew, a man wearing mirrored sunglasses and a Panama hat pulled low over his face stuck an umbrella between the doors to prevent them from closing. The doors sprang back open, and he stepped inside.

 
     
     
     
    FOUR
     
    I kept my head down and inched away from him.
    “Do not be afraid, Señora Pollack .”
    I recognized his voice. I stole a glance upward. He smiled. Brown teeth. Laporta. “Have you come for the painting?”
    “Sí,” He wrapped his hand around my arm. “But first we will go to your room.”
    I gasped and tried to pull away from him.
    He held fast. “I will not harm you.”
    “Why do you need to go to my room?” I shoved the portfolio at him. “Here’s the painting. Take it.”
    “I must examine it first.”
    I suppose that made sense, but I still wasn’t crazy about letting him into my room. I weighed my options as the elevator ascended. Laporta was probably pushing seventy. As long as he didn’t pull a knife or gun on me, I could probably defend myself, assuming he didn’t know any martial arts. But how likely was it that a member of a crime syndicate traveled without a weapon on him?
    The elevator arrived on the third floor, and the doors opened. Laporta knew which way to turn and escorted me down the hall, stopping in front of the door to my room. I didn’t bother asking how he knew which room was mine. He’d probably paid off the desk clerk.
    When he pulled a key card from his pocket, my suspicions were confirmed. After unlocking the door, he waved me inside. He grabbed the Do Not Disturb sign from the interior door handle, placed it on the outer handle, then closed and locked the door. My breakfast threatened to regurgitate.
    Laporta was all business, though. He took the portfolio from me and removed L’Ascète . The nearly three feet by four feet paintinghad been removed from its frame but was still mounted on stretcher bars.
    He placed the painting on the bed and removed a folding knife from his pants pocket. I stepped back, flattening myself against the dresser, but he paid no attention to me. He opened the knife and carefully slid the blade between the back of the painting and the stretcher bars. Taking his time, he slowly drew the blade back and forth along the wood.
    He’d made his way three-quarters around the painting when he stopped. He withdrew the blade, bringing with it a sliver thin microchip.
    Laporta pocketed the chip, then placed the painting back in the portfolio. He held out his hand, “Your phone, por favor , Señora .”
    I removed my phone from my purse and handed it to him. He turned it off and dropped it back into my purse. “Come,” he said. “We will deliver the painting to its new owner.” He reached for my arm and together we left the hotel.
    As we made our way toward Plaça de Catalunya, Laporta reached into his pocket and withdrew the chip. Half a block later we passed a garbage truck. He flicked his wrist, and the chip sailed into a huge pile of trash.
    “Was that a GPS?” I asked.
    “Of course. Did you think Naiman wouldn’t try to track you and his beloved painting?”
    Would Naiman fall for the ruse and think his L’Ascète had been destroyed? “You won’t be able to sell it.”
    Laporta chuckled. “You are very naïve, Mrs. Pollack. The world is full of men willing to pay enormous sums to add to their