by Nupur Tustin
Master of Illusion
A Celine Skye Psychic Mystery
Nupur Tustin
Foiled Plots Press
Master of Illusion
A Celine Skye Psychic Mystery
Foiled Plots Press
Copyright © 2020 Nupur Tustin
Cover Design by Crowe Covers / crowecovers.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Acknowledgments
A contemporary mystery needs as much research as a historical! For insights on art heists and the Gardner theft, I am grateful to Stephen Kurkjian, Edward Dolnick, and Matthew Hart. The Gardner Museum’s Anthony Amore was good enough to respond to emails.
Photographer Luther Gerlach provided insights on camera obscuras and a blueprint to construct one. (I left the actual construction to my ever-devoted husband, Matt.)
On matters Paso Robles, I’m indebted to Karen Christiansen of the Paso Robles City Library and Scott Brennan, Publisher, Paso Robles Daily News. (I made up the bit about tickets being sold at the Paso Robles Intermodal Station.) Iris Nolasco of California FarmLink and Suzie Roget of ASFMRA provided key facts about land prices.
On wine-related matters, Elise Keeling of J. Lohr Vineyards & Wines was ever helpful. Thanks to the San Antonio Winery in Los Angeles for the most informative wine tour I’ve been on.
The staff at Adelaida Vineyards and Sculpterra in Paso Robles allowed me to pepper them with questions as I tasted their excellent wines. (I am still savoring the Viogniers!)
SinC Members Lisa Preston, Heidi Hunter, Thonie Hevron willingly answered questions on police procedure, money laundering, and police dispatch. Donnell Bell pointed me in the right direction.
For forensic matters, I am thankful to Elaine Pagliaro of the Henry C. Lee Institute. LAPD detective Adam Richardson and his Writer’s Detective group stepped up to the plate every time I had a question; as did Patrick O’Donnell’s Cops & Writers group. Thank you for your service!
Finally, thank you Re, Gun, and Hun for letting Mom work on her novel. And Matt, thanks for that lovely trip to Paso Robles. I’d love to do it again.
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Table of Contents
Greater Boston, March 2019
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Author’s Note
About the Author
Greater Boston, March 2019
FBI, Boston Field Office. It was 3 a.m. when the tip was called in on the FBI hotline.
“Hello.” The bleary-eyed intern manning the line lifted the receiver with one hand, crisply mouthing the greeting as she reached across her desk for a Styrofoam cup of coffee with the other.
The line crackled, then a hoarse voice she had to strain her ears to hear came hesitantly over the wires.
“Is the FBI still interested in recovering the Gardner art?”
The intern’s ears perked up. “Yes sir, we are.”
She straightened up, her coffee forgotten.
The FBI had considered the Gardner Museum heist, the boldest art heist in the twentieth century, all but solved when Robert Gentile, a small-time crook had been arrested last year. But Gentile would soon be released.
And agents were no closer to recovering the art. So the FBI phone lines remained open, ready to follow up on any viable leads.
The voice at the other end of the line cleared its throat.
“This information is for Special Agent Blake Markham.”
“Yes sir.” The intern drew a Post-It pad toward herself, licked the tip of her pencil, and jotted down the name.
Special Agent Blake Markham was the youngest member of the FBI’s Art Crime Team—a team spread through the country, its efforts coordinated by the law enforcement organization’s Art Theft Program.
Markham’s name was in an article on the Art Crime Team. Buried in the FBI website’s pages, true, but easily discovered by anyone tenacious enough to look for the information, as this caller must have been.
It was unusual for a tipster to ask for an agent by name. Even more so for anyone to identify the particular unit their information should go to. Most people would have asked for the Special Agent-in-Charge, a fact obligingly provided on the upper right-hand corner of each field office’s home page.
This might actually be good.
“And your information, sir,” the intern prompted, pencil at the ready.
“The Vermeer,” the caller whispered into the line.
“The Vermeer,” the intern repeated. She wrote the name down.
The caller cleared his throat again. “I have information about Vermeer’s painting, The C
oncert.” He sounded tentative. “It was stolen from the Gardner.”
“You’ve seen it somewhere?” the intern gently probed. A leading question might get the facts out of the man more readily than the usual even-handed approach the FBI favored: Have you seen the painting?
The caller went silent. Had she spooked him?
“I know where it is,” he eventually said. “Make sure Special Agent Markham gets the news,” he said a little more firmly. “I’ll deal only with him.”
The intern nodded, realizing a fraction of a second too late that the movement was invisible to her caller. “Yes sir.”
She wanted to ask where he’d seen the painting, but sensing she could very easily lose him, she asked instead for a number at which Special Agent Blake Markham could get in touch with him.
All calls to the FBI hotline can be traced with some degree of accuracy.
Within minutes of the call ending, the intern had discovered that the call had originated from San Luis Obispo County, California.
Boston, 8 a.m. The caller from San Luis Obispo County wasn’t the only person interested in getting in touch with Special Agent Blake Markham. But Grayson Pike, a long-time Boston resident—middle-aged and washed-up now, with a beer belly—knew better than to call the hotline.
This tip was hot, and Grayson wanted to make sure Special Agent Markham himself received it. He peered at his cell phone and tapped out the number listed on the Boston FBI’s home page. When the well-modulated automated voice prompted him to, he keyed in Markham’s extension.
Markham wasn’t in. Grayson hadn’t expected him to be. Fortunately, neither was his personal assistant. That was good. Grayson wasn’t interested in chitchat or answering bureaucratic questions.
He simply wanted the one hundred thousand dollars the Gardner Museum was offering for a certain ten-inch tall bronze eagle that had once graced the top of a flagpole that Napoleon Bonaparte’s First Regiment of Imperial Guard had used to proudly hoist their flag.
A stilted, female voice instructed him to “leave a message for Special Agent Blake Markham after the beep.”
He waited for the promised beep.
“I have word on the Gardner’s eagle finial,” Grayson said. “Better than that—I know where it is. I’ve seen it. I can arrange to have it back. Possibly the rest of the Gardner works as well. Call me when you get this, and—”
No, he wasn’t going to mention the other long-time Boston residents who might be interested in the news.
“Just make it quick, Markham. You’ll make news. Trust me.”
As instructed, he pressed the pound key to finish recording his message, hung up, and smiled. He was quite sure Markham would bite. The young agent was eager to make his mark on the art crime scene; hungry for the kind of headlines this lead—properly followed through—promised to make.
A hundred grand. He could almost feel the notes rustling in his palms. One hundred thousand dollars. Yeah, baby!
Chelsea, 9 a.m. The pizzeria was empty when Special Agent Blake Markham swung open its glass door and sauntered in. It took him no more than a second to pass under the arched entrance of the brownstone-and-brick building and step onto the polished tile floor.
Here he paused, hand on the door handle, surveying the neat rows of double-sided wooden benches—each facing a small rectangular table—that lined the pizzeria floor and turned around the corner of the L-shaped interior.
No customers. And no Grayson Pike.
That fact didn’t bother Special Agent Markham. After all, it was Grayson who had gotten in touch with him. And he’d seemed more than eager to share his “hot tip.” The washed-up former art student wasn’t going to skip the meeting.
Markham checked his watch. It was precisely nine o’clock. He’d returned Grayson’s call a half-hour ago and after some haggling they’d arranged to meet here. For Markham, it was a seven-minute walk from the FBI’s office on 201 Maple Street.
But for Grayson, it would be a twenty-five-minute commute from the low-rent rathole he called home in downtown Boston to Chelsea where the Boston field office and this pizzeria were located. Twenty-five minutes, if he was lucky.
Special Agent Markham released his hold upon the pizzeria door and strolled around the corner. The bearded, middle-aged man behind the counter glanced curiously up at him.
“Welcome to Buccieri’s.” A cautious half-smile accompanied the greeting, as though the man didn’t quite know whether Markham was here to interrogate him or to place an order. It was the sort of tentative greeting the agent was accustomed to.
He’d never be good at undercover work. There was something about the wide set of his shoulders, the muted pinstriped suits he habitually wore to work, and what a one-time girlfriend had referred to as his “swagger” that marked him as an FBI man.
Markham smiled, an intentionally wide smile designed to put the man—Pete, according to the brass nametag pinned on the left strap of his red apron—at ease.
“I’m here to meet a friend,” he said, resisting the urge to extend his arm over the counter. He doubted a friendly handshake would do anything to convince Pete that, at this time, he was just a customer.
He eyed the tray of calzones behind the counter. It was too early to eat, but he figured he’d place an order in any case. He could always brown-bag it for his lunch.
“I’ll have the meatball parmesan,” he said, pointing to the crescent-shaped turnover. “And for my friend”—he glanced over the day’s specials listed on the laminated card on top of the counter—“the roast beef sub.”
He watched as Pete grabbed a paper plate and thrust a pair of tongs inside the glass case for his calzone. He waited until the calzone had dropped onto the plate before saying: “Can you set the sub aside and keep it hot until my friend arrives?”
Markham took his plate, paid for the food—his and Grayson’s—with cash, and then selected a table along the white-tiled side wall. It was discreetly located, shielded from any curious passersby who might choose to peer in through the windows on either side of him.
But he had only to tilt his head back to get a quick glimpse of whatever was going on outside.
Just the way he liked it. The way he’d always liked it. To be able to observe undetected.
You could never be too careful. Although he had to admit, as he sat down, there was very little chance of running into any of his FBI colleagues here.
It was too early in the day for one thing; and for another, almost everyone in the Boston field office favored Floramo’s, also on Everett Street, but only a minute’s walk from the FBI office rather than the seven minutes it had taken him to walk to Buccieri’s.
That was just one of the reasons he’d decided to meet Grayson at the pizzeria. The second was that unlike Floramo’s, the pizzeria didn’t boast a bar. If it did, he’d have no chance of keeping Grayson sober and on point.
The third hadn’t really been in his hands. Floramo’s didn’t open until eleven in the morning.
That Buccieri’s was cash-only worked in its favor as well. Markham didn’t want anyone to know about this meeting until he was ready to talk about it.
Other than Grayson’s message on his office line, there was no evidence of any kind of connection between the two men—on this matter at least. He himself had taken care to return Grayson’s call from an unregistered cell phone he kept for such purposes. Calls on his personal cell phone and on his FBI-issued device could be detected and monitored.
He took a bite of his calzone. It was excellent—the meatballs moist and tender, the parmesan delicately nutty, and the sauce nicely flavored.
He glanced at his watch again. Where was Grayson?
If this tip was good—it certainly sounded good . . .
Markham put down his calzone and wiped a paper towel across his mouth.
Ordinarily, he would have ignored Grayson’s message. When it came to the Gardner case, there was nothing more to be learned from the man who had been one of the two guards on
duty on the day the heist took place: March 18, 1990.
The other night watchman had been Richard Abath.
Grayson had not been on duty the night before when George Reissfelder and Lenny DiMuzio, the two men who’d robbed the museum, had done a dry run of their plan. But Abath had.
And on both nights, it was Abath who had flouted security protocol to let Reissfelder and DiMuzio—dressed as cops—into the museum.
Although Grayson had been quickly dismissed as a suspect in the case, law enforcement officials at the time had been convinced he knew more than he was letting on. And Blake Markham suspected they were right.
Since then Grayson had kept in touch, first with the FBI office and then with the Art Crime Team, calling in tips now and again. Most of these had panned out, but Markham’s colleagues had always felt that these were tidbits fed to Grayson by someone with skin in the game.
Someone who wanted to keep tabs on the Art Crime Team and was using Grayson to do it.
Someone likely connected to the Gardner Museum heist since that was the biggest unsolved case the team was up against.
Markham took another bite of his calzone. Had Grayson really seen the eagle finial? Or was someone simply trying to find out what the FBI had uncovered since Bobby Gentile’s arrest last February?
Chapter One
The chair, diagonally across from where she stood vigorously polishing the horseshoe-shaped counter of the Delft Coffee & Wine Bar, had been empty the last time Celine Skye glanced up.
Now, barely seconds later, her green eyes found themselves staring at the Lady.
Celine had always thought of her that way—compelled, she had no idea why, to be deferential. The Lady herself would have stood for nothing less.
Not that Celine could’ve explained just how she knew that.
It was a few hours to closing time at the Delft. Most of the bar’s patrons had left. Only a handful of customers lingered within its vast, softly lit interior, buried in the sumptuous leather armchairs scattered about the wood floor, drinks—wine at this hour, not coffee—in hand.
