Chase Baker and the Da Vinci Divinity (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book 6) by Vincent Zandri

any one of our
enemies—known or unknown—rear their ugly heads. While she’s once more dressed
in her black tactical gear, minus the radio, I’m wearing dark jeans, boots,
dark blue work shirt, and an old Tough Traveler satchel over my black leather
coat. We’re not invisible against the darkness, but we’re not sticking out like
sore thumbs either.
    We leave the apartment, head into
the dark of night, taking a more circuitous route through narrow back alleys. The
happiness of our time in the bedroom is now replaced with a sense of urgency. A
sense that, if we don’t find the key to the lock in the museum wall, someone
else will. Someone whose intentions are evil.
    From the cobbled street, the
interior of the da Vinci Museum is dark and empty. But that doesn’t mean closed
circuit surveillance cameras aren’t watching our every move. Or so Andrea
reminds me.
    As if on cue, we both peer at the
stone exterior wall above the door and the façade’s wide picture windows.
    “I’m not seeing any cameras,” I
say.
    “Doesn’t mean they’re not there,”
she says.
    I look at my watch. We’ve been
standing in the road for more than a minute.
    “I say we just go in through the
front door. The faster we get in and get out, the better.”
    “There’s still the question of the
key,” she reminds me.
    “Could be we’ll find it in Dr.
Belli’s office.”
    “Or could be he keeps it on his
person, like I would do. Like you would do.”
    “You got any C4 in that utility
belt, girlfriend?”
    “Got plenty of rounds, boyfriend.”
    “How’s about a device to pick a
lock?”
    “Now you’re talking.” Reaching into
one of the pockets on her belt, she produces a lock pick. She approaches the
front door, thrusts the small, metal, pin-like device into the lockset twisting
and turning it. “Observe,” she says. Then, in a soft singing voice, “I can
bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan, and never ever let a locked door get
in the way of me and my man, ‘cause I’m a woman … “
    The quiet of the night is broken by
the distinct click of lock tumblers being released.
    “Let’s hope they don’t believe in
alarms,” I say.
    “Only one way to find out,” she challenges.
    She opens the door.
    Stepping inside, I find the
darkness of the interior to be more intense than the exterior. Closing the door
behind us, I make sure to re-engage the lockset. Andrea pulls a mini-Maglite
from her belt, flicks it on, illuminating the ticket counter in a bright white
circle.
    “Belli’s office will be behind it,”
I say. “But first, let’s check the mural. Maybe the lock is something that can
be easily picked like the front door.”
    “No arguments from me,” she says.
    We head down the short flight of
steps into the main display room, the many life-sized inventions appearing
ready for action. Making our way across the floor, we then descend the second,
shorter flight of steps into the room that houses the multi-media copies of the
more famous da Vinci paintings as well as that massive mural that takes up the
far wall.
    “Light up Jesus,” I say.
    She does, shining the beam brightly
on the divine son of man, his eyes looking so bright and alive in the otherwise
pitch darkness, I half expect them to blink. I go to the wall, hold out both my
hands, feeling for the thin seams formed by the inlaid door inside the concrete
wall. When I locate them, I ask Andrea to shift the light so that it
illuminates Jesus’ left hand.
    She repositions the light.
    I gaze upon the hand, looking for
anything resembling a keyhole.
    “See anything?” Andrea says.
    “Not at first glance,” I say. “But
that doesn’t mean much.”
    I feel Christ’s hand with my hand.
Rather, the pads of my fingertips, pressing them into the life-sized hand as if
it were not made of paint on plaster-covered concrete but, instead, human skin
and flesh. Then, suddenly, an area of the mural feels soft.