by Nupur Tustin
“I really thought things would be different with you. That you’d accord us some respect, treat us like partners. But clearly, I was wrong. I’m just grateful that Julia Hood hasn’t given up on us. And I’m grateful, that unlike you, she thought to inform us of this important new development in the case.”
Blake lowered his eyes—a tacit apology—not that she was there to see the gesture. He hadn’t known about the “new development,” he wanted to explain. But she wouldn’t have believed him.
“I apologize,” he said. “I didn’t want to offer any false hope. And over the years, despite our best efforts, we seem to have done just that, Ms. Hoskins. But with all due respect, how does the re-appearance of the finial prove that Duarte is alive?”
It was the only item stolen that could’ve escaped complete destruction from the fire that had consumed Duarte’s vehicle. If indeed, that was what had happened.
“Because there are no signs of fire damage on the finial, Special Agent. None. It was never in a fire. I’m guessing Duarte and Bramer weren’t either. The bodies found at the site of the car crash were too blackened and charred to be properly identified. Clearly—”
“I understand,” he interrupted gently.
He really did. The pieces were beginning to fall into place.
Grayson had mentioned the finial. It was in Paso Robles, Grayson had said. If he hadn’t lied about that, there was no reason to believe he’d lied about seeing Duarte either. The only question was: where was Duarte?
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Celine unlocked and pushed open the front door of the Delft. A stale, musty odor greeted her when she stepped inside. The bar was no longer a crime scene—all the evidence Detective Mailand and his team might need had been bagged and tagged.
But the cleaning crew the Coroner’s Unit had recommended to Celine wasn’t going to be available until the following week. By then Celine would be in Boston. That was yet another task their winemaker would have to supervise.
Andrea hadn’t been too happy about her decision to leave at a time like this, but he’d fortunately offered no argument against it.
“Are you still up for this?” Julia asked, following her in.
They’d returned to the bar to search for any trace Dirck might have left of his doings prior to his death. Anything at all that could tell them what and how much Dirck knew of the Gardner heist. If he’d promised to return a Vermeer, surely some clue to its whereabouts could still be found here.
“Sure,” Celine said. Her throat felt hoarse—as though she was being choked. A sensation possibly due to the residue of negative energy that remained from the murder. She cleared it as she surveyed her surroundings.
Someone—possibly one of the crime scene technicians—had set the bar stools and chairs upright. But the walls were mostly bare—bereft of the paintings that gave the Delft much of its character. And a thin layer of dust had settled on everything.
All of that could be cleaned. But the stain of death would mark the bar forever. There was no getting rid of that.
“Shall we?” Julia’s voice interrupted her brooding. The former fed gestured toward the room where Dirck’s body had been found. The wall panel separating it from the bar was still retracted. It was a secret space that no one but she and Dirck and John had known about.
Now, thanks to the news of Dirck’s murder, all of Paso Robles—possibly the entire county of San Luis Obispo—was privy to its existence.
“This is where—” Celine averted her eyes, flailing from the images that accosted her the moment she set foot inside the concealed room. She gripped the door jamb, suppressing the nausea that threatened to overwhelm her. “There’s a closet in here where Dirck and John kept their most significant belongings, their most important possessions. Anything of a sensitive nature, really.”
Celine sighed as she recalled what Dirck had told her the last time she’d seen him alive. “Most of it pertains to the business. Wine recipes, business plans.” She tapped out the code on the thermostat and waited for the closet door to slide open. “But it’s possible Dirck thought to keep other important items here.”
The finial had been stored in the closet until Dirck had entrusted it to her that night. Could the Vermeer be here as well?
The closet door was now fully open revealing rows of shelves stacked with overstuffed files and folders; sheaves of paper with crinkled corners protruded untidily from each. A four-foot high safe stood in the center.
“I don’t think Mailand’s team had a chance to search in here” she informed Julia. “This is a cleverly constructed space, and you’d have to know it existed to even begin to wonder how to access it.”
“Pretty fortuitous that Dirck happened to tell you about it just before he died.”
“He must have had some forewarning of what would happen,” Celine said. Dirck’s odd behavior that night was finally beginning to make sense. “That entire evening he was bidding me farewell. And he must’ve wanted me out of there before his attackers arrived. That’s why he was rushing me out.”
A wave of nausea overcame her again. “Oh, God! I can’t believe he’s gone. And Simon, too.”
She doubled over, clutching her midriff.
Julia’s strong hands gripped her shoulders. The former fed remained silent, but the heavy pressure of her hands was comforting.
“We can do this another time if you’d prefer,” Julia said softly.
Celine shook her head, bracing herself. “No, we’re here now.”
Besides, they were leaving in a couple of days. There would be no other time to return.
They sifted through the papers, finding nothing more interesting than business plans, tax returns, and documents pertaining to the living trust the estate had been put in.
“The safe,” Julia said. “You wouldn’t happen to know the combination, would you?”
Celine shook her head. Dirck hadn’t gotten around to revealing the numbers that opened it. But she had an idea. “Dirck liked to keep things simple,” she said as she twisted the dial clockwise three times.
Then, she proceeded to twist the dial, first clockwise, to the first digit of the code that opened the concealed closet; then counterclockwise to the second digit; clockwise again to the third digit; and counterclockwise to the last digit.
A welcome click sounded in their ears, indicating she’d cracked the code. “I’m guessing that’s why he changed the code to the closet every week. He probably reset the combination to the safe at the same time.”
But when they opened the door to the safe it was apparent that The Concert, a painting about 28.5 by 25.5 inches, wouldn’t have fit within it. The metal shelves were welded in, each at a height of about eight inches from the one below. The safe itself had an overall depth of a little over two feet.
An envelope with color photos spilling out of it lay on the topmost shelf. On the next was a bundle of correspondence. Celine pulled out the bundle and examined the postmark on each envelope.
They’d all been mailed from Boston. And they were all addressed to Simon Underwood.
“What was Dirck doing with these?” She pulled out a few handwritten sheets from one of the envelopes and turned to the last page. “From Annabelle Curtis.”
“Are they all from her?” Julia wanted to know.
“Looks like it.” Celine sifted through the other letters. They all ended with Annabelle’s name, inscribed in a large, rounded hand across the page. Many were accompanied by photographs of herself, her son, and her husband.
“What could Dirck have wanted with these?” Celine asked again. “And why would Simon have let him keep them?”
“I’m guessing it was so that the other Simon—Simon Duarte—could stay in touch with his sister.”
“Then Dirck must have known where he was.” At least, he hadn’t been responsible for the man’s death.
“It would seem so.” Julia’s tone was oddly non-committal. She reached for the packet of photographs. Most were pi
ctures of a fruit farm.
“Appleway Farm,” Celine read the sign. “Isn’t that where Simon Underwood said Dirck grew up?” According to Underwood, the Thins had sold the farm shortly after Dirck had left for Boston.
“Umm … hmmm,” Julia murmured. She continued to shuffle through the photos. In one, a middle-aged couple stood smiling in front of a sprawling farmhouse. The man bore a faint resemblance to Dirck. A few showed a slender young woman with a baby in her arms.
“That’s Annabelle,” Celine exclaimed. “I had no idea she knew Dirck that well. They must have grown up together.”
“Looks that way,” Julia said. Her voice remained neutral. Celine glanced at her. They were far closer to finding Duarte—and the truth—than they had been. But Julia seemed strangely unenthused.
Celine wondered why.
Don’t close your mind, Celine. She heard Sister Mary Catherine’s voice in her ear. Don’t close your mind to the truth.
And what truth might that be, Celine wondered, but her guardian angel hadn’t stayed behind to answer that question.
Blake had just begun to draw a few tentative conclusions about Duarte’s whereabouts—he’d combed through the notes on his interviews with Annabelle Curtis and Michael Kevorkian three times before an insight surfaced, bolstered by a playback of his last conversation with Grayson Pike—when Ella poked her head in.
“SAC wants an update on the Gardner case.”
He looked up, mildly irritated.
“Couldn’t you do it?”
Some key details needed to be ironed out before he could confirm he was on the right track. The time wasted gabbing with Special Agent-in-Charge James Patrick Walsh could be better spent working the case.
Ella shook her head. “Sorry. He wants you. In person, he says.”
But when Blake walked into the anteroom, he was met by a smiling intern who informed him that SAC Walsh and his personal assistant had both just gone into a meeting. An unscheduled meeting.
The news—delivered with an apologetic smile—did little to appease Blake’s irritation. It was typical Walsh. But he swallowed his ire, giving the young lady a brief message for her boss—and his.
“Developments in the Gardner Case,” she repeated, jotting Blake’s words on a notepad. “Anything specific you’d like to report, sir?” She glanced up at him expectantly.
Blake hesitated. But the intern—Mary, according to the nametag pinned to her breast—was the person who’d received Dirck Thins’ tip. It was her initiative that had resulted in the call being traced to Paso Robles and her diligence that had resulted in the detailed report that had landed on Blake’s desk.
She’d been rewarded with a transfer from the hotline to the SAC’s office. But a few more details about the case would not go amiss, Blake figured. She’d make a good agent. And people like her needed to be encouraged.
“We have some reason to believe our missing CI is back in Boston. And—this is big news—the finial has been recovered.”
“Wow!” Her eyes widened.
“Absolutely,” he agreed. “Give Ella a call when the SAC is available to meet, will you?”
It was just a few minutes after he returned to his office when Ella showed Mary in.
“SAC wants a written report, sir,” the intern said.
“I’ll email it to him within the hour,” Blake promised.
Mary hesitated. “He’d prefer it handed in to his office, sir. Reasons of security.”
“Fine,” he said. He didn’t understand Walsh’s reasons, but he wasn’t about to argue. Not with an intern at any rate.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Celine leaned forward to peer out of the cabin window. She and Julia were in the first class cabin of Flight AA 518, which was now approaching Boston Logan International. The seat belt sign had come on several minutes ago when the plane began its descent.
Slender wisps of cloud floated in a crisp, azure sky that overlooked a splendid expanse of cyan blue water. It was a breathtaking view, but the knot in Celine’s stomach tightened as she gazed down at it.
“Cold?” Julia asked, her warm hand closing over Celine’s icy palm.
“I’ll be fine.” Celine forced herself to smile.
Paso Robles was enjoying a spell of warm weather. It had been in the high seventies when they’d left. Boston was going to be at least ten degrees cooler. But although Celine could sense the change, it wasn’t the temperature that was making her shudder.
From the time they’d made the decision to come to Boston, the Lady—Celine still found it hard to think of her as Isabella Stewart Gardner—had made her presence felt.
There’s danger where you’re going, Celine, Sister Mary Catherine had whispered to her. Belle’s watching over you.
Recalling the warning, Celine forced her eyes away from the view of Boston harbor below and turned toward Julia.
“We’ll need to be careful.” She fingered the pendant Julia had given her—a silver cross with a tiny heart-shaped amethyst in the center. It was, Julia had said, a gift from Keith Elliot, the psychic detective she’d come to know in New Hampshire.
“It should help hone your psychic energies,” Julia had told her when she’d given it to her.
There are choices to be made, Celine, Sister Mary Catherine now whispered as Celine’s eyes fell on the red duffel bag sitting between her and Julia. The bronze finial, carefully wrapped, was in it, tucked between two layers of Julia’s clothing. You’ll need to make the right one.
“You’re sensing danger,” Julia said. It wasn’t a question. “You think Dirck’s killers are on our tracks?” The former fed’s expression was grim as she followed Celine’s gaze to the duffel bag.
“I’m not sure how they know.” Celine closed her eyes. The attempt would be made as soon as they landed. She was sure of it. Within her stomach, it felt as though her intestines were twisting themselves into tight knots. The pain was excruciating.
“I can’t imagine how they could have found out,” she said again.
The only person Julia had called had been Penny Hoskins, the director of the Gardner Museum. And that call had been made on a secure line.
“I wonder if the Gardner Museum phone was tapped,” Julia mused out loud. “Or could Penny have mentioned the fact to someone else? I did tell her to keep it quiet. But this is an exciting development, and . . .” Her voice trailed off.
She patted her hip. “We’ll face whatever comes our way. I’m armed.”
“But”—Celine felt Julia’s eyes on her—“I am worried about you. Protecting myself is one thing. Taking care of an unarmed civilian . . .” Julia inhaled deeply. “Well, it is what it is.”
Celine nodded, opening her eyes. The plane had descended even lower. A building caught her attention—a square structure constructed of glass and metal with a staircase unfurling, ribbon-like, onto a deck that projected out onto the harbor.
She pointed. “What is that?”
Julia leaned across. “The tall glass building is Pier 4. The shorter structure next to it is the Institute of Contemporary Art. Remarkable, isn’t it?”
But Celine didn’t reply. The view below had faded, replaced by a deserted wasteland. Rickety piers extended out onto the water. Dilapidated warehouses loomed up toward a dark sky. A truck lumbered into an empty parking lot.
“This is it, man,” she heard a long-familiar voice say.
It belonged to Dirck.
In the arrivals lounge at Boston Airport, as she and Julia waited for the carousel to deliver their luggage, Celine braced herself for trouble. The Lady stood directly across from them, staring so intently, Celine found it impossible to look away.
There’s danger, Celine, Sister Mary Catherine warned again. It’s not a question of “if,” but “when.” Think carefully about the choices you make.
Julia glanced at Celine. “Everything okay?” she asked.
Celine nodded. Her face, reflected in the shiny metal column rising above the carousel, looke
d pale and wan. Her hands felt cold and clammy. It didn’t help to know that a single decision of hers could either put them in harm’s way or keep them safe.
But then it didn’t help to know a lot of things, Celine reminded herself bitterly
She wasn’t sure what was making her more nauseous—the prospect of running into Dirck’s killers or the implications of the vision she’d had as the plane landed.
The truck she’d seen had been transporting the stolen Gardner art to the Seaport district. In the early morning hours of March 18, 1990—hours after the theft. And there’d been no mistaking the voice she’d heard.
Her murdered employer was clearly more closely—and more directly—involved in the Gardner Museum heist than she’d realized. To what extent had he profited from it, she wondered. And the business he and John had built up—had that been financed by the Gardner’s stolen treasure?
God! No wonder, Dirck had attracted the attention of the mob.
Focus on the present, Celine, Sister Mary Catherine’s low voice cut in through the thoughts swirling in her brain.
How can I? Celine was beginning to respond when Julia’s voice penetrated her consciousness.
“Well, what do you think?” Julia hauled her baggage off the carousel.
“About what?” Celine forced herself to concentrate.
“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?” Julia’s lips twitched, forming an amused half-smile. “Oh good! There’s yours,” she exclaimed as Celine’s light-blue bag came into view. She lifted it down effortlessly and turned to Celine.
“Rent a car or take a cab?” she asked. “There are pros and cons with either choice. It would be good to have our own ride in case we’re tailed. On the other hand, I don’t like the idea of being liable for damages to a car we don’t own.”
“It’s still the better choice,” Celine said quietly. “If we took a cab, we’d be drawing an unsuspecting individual into our situation—a life-and-death situation.”
