Lost Art Assignment by Austin Camacho Page A

learned that the likelihood of a person being right is directly proportional to how sure they are. But a lot of people would not accept.”
    â€œA lot of people would think we were nuts,” Morgan said. “That’s why you’re the only person in the organization who knows. But I think you’re a good security risk.” Morgan smiled and slapped his shoulder. Paul respondedwith a rare smile of his own.

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    Felicity kissed Morgan’s cheek, gave Paul a good-bye wave and strode off as quickly as she could for Los Angeles International Airport’s air conditioned comfort. A small duffel hung on her right shoulder, but it wasn’t heavy enough to counterbalance her suitcase, so she leaned right a bit. She avoided redcaps because her luggage contained some special things, but her progress wasn’t as fast as she would have liked. She bobbed down the hall, past shoe shine stands and newspaper kiosks toward the gate listed on her advance ticket.
    She traveled in comfortable clothes, but her pleated shirt dress wasn’t meant for athletics. Her long skirt got tangled with the suitcase. Freeing it, and pulling her hair from her face, kept her busy while she tried to avoid running into those arrogant businessmen and helpless old women permanently stationed, like barriers on an obstacle course, on all major airport walkways.
    By the time she arrived at her destination, Felicity had also reached a high level of quiet frustration. She simply wanted to check her luggage and board the blasted plane. She started to perspire, something she hated except when jogging or doing her gymnastics routine. With a huff, she dropped her suitcase beside the conveyor belt, building up her strength to heft it up onto the scale. An instant before she actually yanked the handle, she felt another hand slip over her own.
    â€œYou look like you could use a hand,” Ross Davis said, putting her suitcase in its place. He reached for the duffel bag, but Felicity grabbed its straps.
    â€œNot this one, thanks. It rides with me. Got some nice pictures in here of my time in California.”
    Felicity was cheered by the pragmatic thought that she now had clear evidence that Davis represented no threat to her. If he did, she would have felt him there before his smooth hand contacted hers. Maintaining serious thoughts was hard around him. Today he wore a Brooks Brothers blue pinstripe suit with a gray French cuff shirt. The pattern on his tie was composed of those two colors with a midnight blue back. His shoes were gray alligator, she guessed from Stacy Adams. It worked for him. She found herself thinking he had the natural fashion sense Morgan lacked.
    This was bad. When she started comparing a man to Morgan it was a sure sign of trouble.
    In the waiting area, Felicity stood at the wall sized window, watching her plane get into position. Davis walked up beside her as if they were strangers.
    â€œHave they filled the tank and checked the oil yet?”
    â€œI’m waiting for them to check the tire pressure,” Felicity said. “Do I look like a nervous flyer, Mister…?”
    â€œDavis. Ross Davis.” He took her hand. “And please call me Ross. Are you on the flight to New York as well?”
    He was good, Felicity reflected. She reminded herself that he had just picked her up with the smooth practiced ease of a master confidence man. She must not forget that putting people into their comfort zone was his business.
    Their conversation continued until a nasal voice called them to board their plane. As they started down the portable tunnel, Felicity picked up a gentle nudge from herdanger sense, the kind she felt when she was under surveillance. It could be nothing, a pick pocket in the crowd looking for a target or a mugger attracted to her legs. Just in case, she scanned the group boarding behind her.
    The woman pulling a shopping bag seemed a little too nervous. The small Japanese man gave a broad