by Nupur Tustin
But the Gardner had lost a total of thirteen works. Why bother with Degas sketches and Chinese vases, if Rembrandt was the main target? Blake shook his head. In this case, theories were a dime a dozen. Everyone had one.
His eyes were drawn back to the passenger manifest for the United Airlines flight. Gary Portland was their most likely bet if Grayson had managed to get himself a prepaid credit card. His index finger hovered above the red buzzer on his intercom, preparing to issue instructions to Ella, when the door opened and his personal assistant barged into the room.
Her face was flushed; the ends of her blunt-cut bob, curving sharply up like the black edges of a crescent moon, flicked her cheeks. She braced herself against the open door for a moment, her lips parted in a triumphant smile.
Then, pulling herself away to let the door swing shut, she marched across the room.
“I’ve got something,” she announced, unceremoniously dumping a pile of papers on Blake’s desk.
“Simon is dead,” Celine heard herself say.
Afternoon light filtered in through the muslin curtains at the living room window. The couch on which she sat was upholstered in a faded, worn red fabric. A newspaper lay crumpled on the coffee table.
She saw the large Old English font of its title through the corner of her eye. But her gaze was focused on the woman standing distraught in the middle of the room, tears raining down upon the letter bunched up in her hands.
Celine wanted to draw her into her arms, wanted to tell her not to cry, but she remained seated, her hands folded in her lap.
“It’ll be okay,” she wanted to say.
“He’ll be watching over you,” she said instead, mouthing the words awkwardly. “Simon will look out for you.”
“How can he, when he’s gone?” The woman sobbed uncontrollably.
“Bella,” Celine began. Bella. Belle?
When her eyelids jolted open, the stiffness in her neck was Celine’s first conscious sensation. She was slumped on the wood floor, phone in her hand, back pressed hard against the white cabinet below the black quartz kitchen sink.
Her neck ached; her back was sore. She eased herself up, massaging the dull pain out of her neck.
Her eyes circled the room. It took a moment for recollection to set in. She was in her cottage. On the Mechelen Estate. In Paso Robles.
Not Boston.
Her eyes surveyed the room again, making sure of the fact. Then, bracing her hands against the floor, she pushed herself up.
The dream she’d had was so vivid, there was no questioning what it was. A psychic dream. For the half-hour or so that her physical body had been unconscious, her mind had occupied another time, another place.
Boston. She’d been in Boston. How did she know that? She closed her eyes.
The Old English letters of the newspaper’s title came into focus.
The Boston Globe.
Had she been in Boston in the present time? She peered at the newspaper, but the date, in print too small to see, eluded her.
The woman’s name had been Bella. Or Belle? The same person that Sister Mary Catherine had mentioned? The one who sought Celine’s help?
Her eyes flew open. And Simon was dead. Which Simon? Simon Duarte?
Or Simon Underwood?
Chapter Twenty-One
Recalling her promise to contact Dirck’s lawyer, Celine glanced down at her iPhone. The battery indicator blinked red, prompting her to charge the phone—an unforeseen but fortuitous reason to put off her call.
She plugged her phone in, poured herself a cup of coffee, and sat down. She desperately needed to sort through her impressions.
Sister Mary Catherine’s last words to her before Celine had collapsed had given rise to some unpleasant memories. Ten years ago cancer had claimed the nun’s life—at the same time that a brutal serial killer had claimed the lives of Celine’s college friends, Sonia and Nicole.
The killer had been apprehended and the girls had crossed over, but the incident—Celine’s second encounter with murder—had been hard to bear. The memory of it—her inability to prevent her friends’ murder—was as raw as that of her parents’ untimely death.
Celine wrapped her arms around herself and rocked back and forth, trying to will away the intense pain that threatened to consume her.
Concentrate, she whispered to herself. Concentrate.
After she’d died, Sister Mary Catherine had shed light on the visions Celine received every time an untimely death occurred. The image of the Lady at such times portended more than death. They were a reminder of Celine’s mission to fight for justice—the Lady herself standing in need of Celine’s help.
She’ll return when you’re ready to help her, Sister Mary Catherine had said.
And now, according to the nun, the time to help the Lady had finally come.
But what did any of this have to do with Dirck? Had Dirck died trying to help the Lady? How had he even come in contact with her—the spirit of a dead woman?
Dirck didn’t see the dead, my dear. Sister Mary Catherine’s voice intruded upon her thoughts. He was trying to right a wrong.
“Sonovabitch! He’s in San Luis Obispo.”
Blake rubbed his hands together, too elated to care that Ella, a woman and his personal assistant, was within earshot when he’d uttered the epithet. You never cussed in front of a woman or one of your underlings. But what the heck, it wasn’t every day a guy had a break like this.
“I knew it!” He jabbed at the untidy heap of papers on his desk. “I knew we’d come up with something sooner rather than later.”
Following paper trails wasn’t exactly sexy work. Blake knew that. It was a slow, time-consuming process that required a patient, methodical mind. His colleagues, preferring to work the streets or go undercover, frequently teased him about his penchant for scrutinizing documents, calling him a pencil-pusher.
But right now Blake felt vindicated. Poring over paperwork was a solid way to develop leads. And it always paid off.
They now knew that at 3:15 a.m., Pacific, Grayson Pike had boarded an Amtrak motorcoach at the Paso Robles Intermodal Station.
“The station is a four-minute walk from his motel via 8th Street.” Ella’s nail, manicured and painted a bright red, traced the route from the Paso Spring Inn to the station on the printout that sat between them.
“He arrives at 3:55 a.m., walks to Santa Barbara and Church, and takes a second Amtrak bus at 6:21 a.m.”
“To where? The airport?” Blake had pulled the printout toward himself as Ella spoke and now read her notation scrawled in the margin. “To LOVR?”
He looked up.
“Los Osos Valley Road,” Ella explained. “It’s a bus stop. There are several on that street. Grayson got off at the Laguna Village stop.”
“Why?”
Ella shrugged. “It may have been the only one available to him.”
Blake leaned back in his chair and frowned. “So 6:32 a.m., Pacific, at the Laguna Village bus stop in San Luis Obispo is the last we hear of Grayson. Where could he have gone from there?”
“If he’d had a car, he could have made it to the airport in eight minutes. There’s a bus at 6:45 a.m. that could have gotten him to the airport by 7:40. If the poor sap decided to walk it, it would have taken him an hour to get to the airport.
“Doable, considering he had nothing more than a shopping bag.”
Blake considered this. If Grayson had to hoof it to the airport, he probably would. But it was unlikely that he had. No, the Grayson he knew—a lazy bugger if ever there was one—would’ve waited for a bus or conned someone into driving him to the airport.
“A shopping bag, that’s all he was traveling with?” He raised his eyes. Ella, her head tilted to one side, was gazing earnestly at him.
“Yep, that was it.” She nodded.
“And he didn’t check in any baggage?”
Ella confirmed his hunch. That meant that Grayson didn’t have the art with him.
&n
bsp; Blake pondered the information they’d gathered so far. Grayson had left his belongings behind in his motel room. Deliberately, it would seem. He’d gotten rid of his cell phone. And now he was in San Luis Obispo. Presumably, he’d ditched his FBI code name as well; the Amtrak tickets had been booked in his own name, not the alias assigned to him.
He’d need some form of ID to fly out of the city. Fake ID since none of the flights they’d checked had any passengers by the name of Grayson Pike. He’d either gotten it and made it to the airport or he was still in San Luis Obispo, waiting for it. Or waiting to return to Paso Robles.
Either way, Grayson was going to need a couple of things to keep going: an unregistered phone and a credit card.
“Keep looking for a Grayson Pike flying out of San Luis Obispo,” he told Ella. He pulled the passenger manifest for the late morning United Airlines flight out from under the printout they’d been studying.
“And I want to know more about Gary Portland. If Grayson managed to get some form of ID in time to catch the 11:50 flight, that could be the alias he’s using. If it is, Portland will have paid for his ticket with a prepaid credit card.”
Ella nodded and rose to her feet. “So you still think Grayson—”
“No, actually, I think he’s probably still in San Luis Obispo. Find out what he purchased before he left Paso Robles. I’m betting it was a burner phone and some prepaid cards.”
“But you still want me to keep checking flights out of SLO County Regional?” Ella didn’t look too happy about the prospect. Not an efficient strategy, he could hear her thinking.
“I just want to cover our bases.” If Grayson had his eye on the art, he’d probably make it back to Paso Robles. On the other hand, if he’d been sufficiently spooked by Dirck Thins’ murder, he’d get out of California as fast as he could.
But, bottom line, the art was still in Paso Robles. Grayson hadn’t taken it out of the city. Blake’s pulse quickened as the thought occurred to him. Operation Project Recovery wasn’t off the rails just yet.
“Check flights,” Ella was muttering to herself as she pushed her chair in and turned to leave. “Keep checking flights.”
“And this time, focus on passengers who used prepaid credit cards to purchase their tickets,” Blake called after her.
Trying to right a wrong? Celine repeated the nun’s words. If that was the case, Dirck must have had some information—or evidence—of a crime.
“And he died for his efforts,” Celine whispered to herself. Whatever Dirck had known, whatever it was he was trying to do, it had caused his death. That much seemed clear.
He knew he’d die, Celine. Now it’s up to you.
Up to her? Detective Mailand’s question to her that morning—What exactly did your employer know?—replayed in Celine’s mind. What had Dirck discovered?
The words Gardner Museum Heist flashed across her mind—just as they had that morning in the interview room of the Paso Robles Police Station. She’d been loath to consider the possibility then, but now Celine pondered it.
Hadn’t Julia said that the clues to what had happened in Boston might lie in Paso Robles? Could Dirck have somehow stumbled across those same clues? She recalled all the late nights Dirck had spent at the Delft.
It had been shortly after John had died, and Celine had simply assumed it was because of the additional responsibility of taking over the Mechelen vineyard and winery.
Now she wondered if the real reason for the long hours Dirck had been putting in had less to do with the burdens of running two businesses and more to do with whatever it was her employer had unearthed.
Was the timing of his discovery significant? It appeared to have been soon after John’s death. Did that mean there’d been something in John’s papers . . . ?
No. No, that wasn’t possible. That would mean John Mechelen had been involved in the heist.
He’s a dead ringer for Earl Bramer.
B-aw-ston Greg’s words rang in her ears. Had Greg—possibly connected with the mob—recognized the man the Boston mob knew as Earl Bramer? Was that why Greg had come to the Delft—a beer drinker at a wine bar; a mob-affiliated philistine pretending to be an art lover?
Dear God! And she’d left Dirck alone to deal with that? Celine buried her face in her hands. She ought to have stayed in the neighborhood. Tried to see what was going on.
She shook her head. Guilt is an indulgence, her guardian angel had said. And wallowing in it wasn’t going to help her get to the bottom of the situation. Whatever evidence Dirck had discovered was “hiding in plain sight.” That’s what he’d said to his attackers.
That meant it was somewhere in the Delft. In the concealed closet he’d shown her, perhaps? She’d have to check it out.
Dirck hadn’t confided in her, but could he have shared his discoveries with someone else? His lawyer, Charles Durand? Simon Underwood?
Simon is dead.
Celine sat straight up on the barstool. If Dirck had confided in Simon Underwood, he might well have put the artist in danger.
Celine glanced at the kitchen clock. She and Julia would need to get to Simon before the mob did. But first she’d make a quick call to Charles Durand.
“What happens to the business now is your decision, Celine,” Durand informed her. The news of Dirck’s murder hadn’t come as a surprise to his lawyer.
Celine surmised Detective Mailand had already given Durand the news—why? To find out about whether Dirck’s legal and financial affairs provided anyone with a motive to kill him?
It seemed unlikely given the scene of the crime. But Detective Mailand was likely just following protocol—making sure to have all his bases covered.
She forced herself to concentrate on the bombshell Durand had just hurled at her.
“But Charles, I have no standing—I’m not—”
“Dirck and John put their businesses in a trust, naming each other as beneficiary. When John died, Dirck listed you as his successor. He and John had thought long and hard about it. They wanted the business to continue and they felt it would flourish under you.
“There’s some minor paperwork involved, but it shouldn’t take too long. And I can take care of it all for you. You are now the legal owner of all of Dirck’s assets. I’m surprised Dirck never mentioned it to you.”
“No, he didn’t. I guess he never got around to it.” The evidence Dirck had uncovered about the Gardner Museum theft must have been horrifying; it had preoccupied his entire attention.
She hesitated, tapping her foot on the kitchen floor.
Now that she had Durand on the phone, she thought it unlikely that Dirck had confided in him. But the question had to be asked.
“Did Dirck mention anything else to you?”
“Anything else?” Durand sounded puzzled. “About the business, you mean?”
“No, not the business. But anything else he might have needed to take care of. Anything to do with Boston.” She was rambling now. “Connections, relatives in Boston. Surely he had some?”
“No, neither one of them did. Is that what you’re worried about—that someone might come out of the woodwork and lay claim to the business?”
Celine sighed. “If only that were the case. I’d be all too happy to have someone take the winery off my hands.”
“You can always sell. Want me to look into it?”
“No. Not just yet, anyway. I don’t think a decision to sell right this minute will make our winemaker too happy.”
She turned the conversation to the matter of compensation for the artists who’d left their works on consignment at the Delft. Could a check be made out to each one of them? It could, Durand assured her. Was there anything else she needed help with? No?
“Well, all right, then. Call if you need anything. I work for you now, remember?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Celine’s fist was about to rain down upon Julia’s cottage door for the third time when the door opened and the former federal agent appeared
within the doorway—clad in a light peach bathrobe, eyes still narrowed into a sleepy squint, strands of gray hair falling out of her ponytail.
“I’m sorry, were you sleeping?” Celine slowly lowered her arm. She’d driven to Charles Durand’s office, picked up the checks for Simon and the other artists, and then returned to the Mechelen Estate to pick up Julia.
Julia rubbed her eyes and blinked. “Yes. Weren’t you? I thought you wanted to get some shut-eye.”
“I did. But I think we need to go see Simon Underwood at once. He might be in danger.”
“And you know this how?”
“I had a dream,” Celine began.
Julia held up her hand. “Tell me about it later.” She pulled the door back farther and stepped away from the doorway. “Come in while I get dressed. You can make us some coffee for the road.”
Twenty minutes later they were on the 101 freeway driving to Morro Bay where Simon Underwood the painter lived in a two-story house overlooking the crown-shaped volcanic mound known as Morro Rock. The mound featured prominently in many of Simon’s paintings, including the one that the Delft had been carrying.
“Morro Rock? Is that one of the Nine Sisters?” Julia asked, referring to the series of nine volcanic plugs that stretched from Morro Bay to San Luis Obispo. The wind whipped her gray ponytail to the front and held it against her cheek.
Celine nodded, her eyes on the road. “The smallest of them.” They’d been formed twenty million years ago when magma had hardened within the vents of active volcanoes. Now they were a tourist feature. She stepped on the gas.
Flat, dry grassland interspersed with short, stubby trees spread out on one side of the freeway. On the other, a steep incline covered in yellow-green grass stretched above them. The road curved before them, virtually empty.
