by Nupur Tustin
“I’ll see if he wants to meet you,” he’d said. “But it’s going to be his decision.”
Grayson had fortunately agreed to see them.
He glanced at the door now. Reverend Patrick Donegal had left it ajar. But the room on the other side was the Rector’s office. No one was likely to disturb them.
Not without the Reverend’s permission. And he’d seemed like a shrewd individual, unlikely to be taken in by . . .
A name crossed Celine’s mind.
The General.
Nothing more specific than that. But now at last she was able to put a name to their adversary.
The General.
She thrust the name aside, bringing her attention back to the present.
“Good detective work,” Julia was responding to Grayson’s question. She glanced at Celine. “And a little bit of intuition.”
“We met Annabelle Curtis,” Celine added. “Simon Duarte’s sister.”
Grayson nodded. “She tell you about Belle’s church?”
“She couldn’t remember the name,” Celine said. “But how many churches are there in Boston with a connection to Isabella Stewart Gardner?”
Grayson smiled. “Most people would’ve thought of Old South Church. The connection there is overt. But it was the Church of the Advent that Belle Gardner was especially fond of.
“Its”—his smile widened—“The word ‘progressive’ has such negative connotations these days, but the church did have a progressive outlook for its time. Not wanting to rent pews so that rich and poor could sit together. That must have appealed to Belle’s sense of justice.
“And John Hubbard Sturgis was a parishioner in addition to being the man who designed its house of worship.”
“What brought you here?” Julia wanted to know.
Grayson sank back against his armchair. “Only safe place I knew. We used to know the Rector here. Not Donegal. Another man. He was the one who urged us to go to the FBI when we realized the heist hadn’t been planned as a wake-up call. It was designed to take advantage of the security breaches at Belle’s museum.”
He sighed. “Obviously no one knew going to the FBI would be such a bad decision.”
“He’s dead now, isn’t he?” Celine said. “The man you went to?”
She wondered why Julia hadn’t asked for a name. She glanced at her friend. Julia sat tight-lipped, hands crossed primly on her lap. Celine sensed that the former federal agent had a pretty good idea who Grayson was referring to.
“Oh, yes, he’s dead all right.” Grayson nodded. “Guess that’s why Duarte thought it would be safe to call in his tip. But the General must still have his tentacles in the department?”
“The General—he was behind the heist?” Celine asked softly.
Grayson nodded again.
“I kept hearing the word when we were going through Dirck’s wheelbarrow,” Celine addressed Julia, deliberately keeping her explanation vague. “I didn’t know what it meant at the time. I do now. It’s what he calls himself?”
“The General?” Julia repeated in disbelief. She turned to Grayson.
“That’s the moniker he goes by,” Grayson said. “And before you ask, I don’t know who he is. No one does. Someone with a lot of influence, I imagine.”
“You recognized Dirck—Simon Duarte—the minute you saw him, didn’t you?” Celine asked.
“And he knew me. Knew who I was. Knew it was okay to trust me.”
He and Dirck had met later that night, Grayson told her.
“Very briefly. He wanted me out of the way so he could clean up and get the Vermeer down for me. Guess he didn’t entirely trust me. I was supposed to come back for it and then he’d take me to the vineyard to grab the finial.”
“Okay. Where is the painting now?” Julia leaned forward. “Where did you stash it?”
Grayson looked at her. “I didn’t. Duarte never had a chance to give it to me. It’s back wherever he had it.”
“At the Delft?” Julia looked at Celine. They had scoured the place. There’d been no sign of a Vermeer. “Are you sure?”
“Unless the General’s men got hold of it,” Grayson said.
“I don’t think that happened,” Celine said softly. She was remembering the images that had flooded her mind when she’d entered the bar hours before dawn. Dirck had been taunting his attackers.
Hiding in plain sight.
What had he meant by that?
An unrelated thought flashed through her brain. She turned to Grayson.
“Why didn’t you call 9-1-1? When you saw what was happening, why didn’t you call for help? Why did you let him die?”
Silence greeted her question. Grayson averted his eyes.
“I was scared,” he said flatly.
“You let your friend die,” Celine accused him. Anger pulsed through her. “How could you do that?”
“Hey, now!” Grayson’s head jerked up. “Duarte and I were never close. I was simply—”
“Looking out for yourself,” Celine finished for him. “I know.”
Disgust filled her. You’re such a piece of shit, she thought unable to look at him anymore. Julia squeezed her hand, the older woman’s touch soothing her ragged nerves. Gradually, her breathing slowed.
She heard Julia pressing on with her questions. Grayson had seen the men who’d attacked Dirck.
“You don’t double-cross the General, you piece of shit!” one of them had growled.
The name had caught Grayson’s ears, and he’d run.
“Don’t ask me to testify against them. I’m not doing it.”
“They haven’t been caught yet,” Julia replied, her grip tightening around Celine’s wrist. Her friend seemed to be willing her to stay calm. But Celine was calm.
“There’s just one piece of information we need from you.” Celine forced herself to look at the coward who’d let Dirck die. “You don’t know who the General is. But you recognize the name, right?”
Grayson dipped his head.
“Do you know whom he’d use as a fence? To offload high-end goods?”
His eyes widened. She knew he’d read her mind.
His voice was quiet when he replied.
“I wouldn’t play games with the General if I were you. It could get dangerous.”
Blake shifted, stretching his legs in the cramped space beneath the archway of the Chapel Street Bridge.
“You sure this thing’s gonna go down today?” Tony, his partner, asked in a low voice.
“Yup.” Blake shifted again, his gut wrenching despite the certainty in his voice. It was not that he didn’t trust Celine’s intuition. It was just that . . .
Just that her word was all the confirmation he had.
The dampness of the ground seeped in through his jeans. They’d been hunched under the bridge, their eyes trained on the stone gazebo known as the Round House Shelter for hours.
A team of agents he’d handpicked for the job were posted at key points along the Muddy River all the way from Shattuck Visitor Center at Fenway and Forsyth to Longwood and Riverway, just past where he and Tony were posted.
Penny, Blake was pretty sure, would bring the money. He could only hope that her caller kept his side of the bargain. He adjusted his earbuds and the mouthpiece that wrapped around his mouth, preventing his words from carrying into the night air.
“Just another hour to go,” Blake spoke into the mouthpiece, his eyes on the lightening sky. They’d agreed to share the watch during the night at each post. In reality, no one had gotten much shuteye. But it was time now for every agent to be awake and alert.
Through the noise-canceling earbuds, he listened for the sound of his men reporting in.
The wait was interminable and his gut tensed again as dawn broke, casting a pale, gray light over the part of Emerald Necklace known as Riverway. In the silence, the quiet crunching of grass and leaves came to his ear.
He glanced at Tony. Someone was approaching.
He leaned caut
iously forward, peering out from under the arch. Penny’s slender figure emerged from the trees, a leather case in her hand. She looked uncertainly, first to the left, then to the right, and then entered the gazebo.
A short time later, she re-appeared at the gazebo doorway, this time without the leather case.
Blake took in a breath and let it out slowly. The first part of the mission had gone off successfully. Penny hadn’t been aware of their presence. And Celine had been right about the timing of the drop-off.
Blake spoke into his mouthpiece. “The bread’s here. Repeat. The bread is here. Any sign of the ducks?”
The ducks had not arrived.
Several minutes passed.
He was about to inquire after the whereabouts of the ducks again when a heavier footfall caught his ear. He exchanged a glance with Tony.
“Looks like they’re here,” Tony whispered into his mouthpiece.
“White yacht docking at the harbor,” Blake heard Nick, the agent posted at the Shattuck Visitor Center, report at the same time. They’d code-named the visitor center the harbor and the white yacht referred to a white van. “We have eyes on it.”
Blake acknowledged the report, craning his neck out in time to see their target. He yanked his gun out, pulse racing. It was almost time for action.
The short, heavyset man gave his surroundings a cursory glance, then made his way into the Round House. He was back out a minute later, Penny’s leather case in his hand.
“When?” Tony moved restlessly beside Blake.
“Let’s give it a minute.” Blake crouched by the arch, watching as their target uttered a few words into his radio. He wanted Nick to confirm the connection between their guy and the yacht at the harbor.
“Duck Two just hopped off the yacht,” Nick said. “He’s got a package.”
“Now!” Blake erupted into his mouthpiece. In one fluid movement, he swooped out and up from under the archway, his gun pointed squarely at the heavyset target.
“Drop the case.” He didn’t bother identifying himself as FBI. “Drop it now!”
Chapter Fifty-One
“It should be any minute now.” Penny stood at the window, scanning the view outside her office. “The call should come at any minute.”
She tugged at the gold band of her watch, then swung decisively around to give her visitors a tight-lipped smile.
“Were you given any indication of when to expect the call?” Celine asked.
She exchanged a glance with Julia as the Director of the Gardner Museum began pacing the length of her spacious office again—covering the distance from window to bookcase in short, elegant steps.
It had been over two hours since Penny had dropped off the money—bundles of cash stuffed into a discreet brown leather case. Nearly two hours since Celine and Julia had joined Penny in her office, waiting to hear where and when the Vermeer they were receiving in exchange could be picked up.
Penny shook her head in response to the question Celine had asked.
“No,” she said, tucking her shoulder-length gray hair behind her ear. “I wish I’d thought to ask.”
Celine chewed uncertainly at her lip. The painting, if Penny even received it, was unlikely to be the real thing. But Blake and Julia had insisted they keep that bit of information from Penny.
If they were to have any chance of nabbing the guys behind the ransom demand, the operation needed to go down as planned.
“Any idea where they’ll leave the painting?” Julia asked. She’d stayed more or less silent, quietly sipping her café latte, the entire time.
Penny turned to face her, her blue-green eyes shrouded with anxiety. “I can’t imagine they’ll come to our doorstep, do you?”
“Highly unlikely,” Julia agreed, lowering her head to draw another swig of her latte.
Penny was back by her desk. She propped herself against the chair, clutching the backrest for support.
“The thing is, this was such a lot of money. And if it doesn’t pan out . . . ” She closed her eyes. “Oh dear God, what have I done?”
Celine exchanged another glance with Julia. “It’ll be all right,” she wanted to reassure Penny. If all had gone according to plan, Blake had recovered the money—and the art.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Penny move to the window again, searching the street below. Julia’s gaze followed her, then turned to Celine.
“Paperwork,” the former fed said quietly. “Protocol. He’ll call as soon as he can.”
BRR . . . RRR . . . RING.
The sudden ringing of the phone was like a jolt of lightning lancing through their bodies.
Penny spun around, her hand on the receiver.
“Yes,” she breathed the word into the mouthpiece.
A flurry of emotions swirled over her features, flitting by too quickly for Celine to detect what they were. Alarm, anger, relief, and then a strange calmness.
“Come on up,” she said, and replaced the receiver in its cradle.
Blake was still in his jeans and the dark turtleneck he’d worn all night when he walked into Penny Hoskins’ office. He’d managed to run a comb through his hair and brush his teeth, but he hadn’t been able to dispel the discomfiting sense of scruffiness that followed an all-nighter.
“Got your money.” He dumped the leather case unceremoniously onto Penny’s desk—she was sitting behind it—and nodded a greeting at Celine and Julia. “We’ve documented it, photographed it. You can have it back.”
“And the art?” Penny jerked her head at the rectangular, brown-paper-wrapped package under his arm.
He looked at her, his eyes feeling sandy and gritty. “I brought it here for you to take a look at. But it’ll need to go into evidence.” He used his leg to yank a chair toward him and sank into it. “If it’s any consolation, I doubt you’ll want it.”
“Meaning?” Penny leaned forward.
He couldn’t prevent his gaze drifting toward where Celine and Julia sat. Penny caught the movement.
“They were in on it?” Her normally fluty voice sounded brittle and edgy.
“Penny . . .” Blake heard Celine begin and found himself interrupting immediately.
“Celine just sensed that your caller likely didn’t have a genuine Vermeer. No hard evidence, just a psychic sense.” He emphasized the last words.
Penny already didn’t trust him. He didn’t want her incipient trust in Celine and Julia broken as well. He’d been forced to admit to himself that the two women were their only hope of recovering the Gardner’s lost art.
“Okay.” Penny dipped her head, considering his words. “But how did . . . ?”
“We’ve been discreetly staking out the surroundings ever since you told me you’d received a tip. Celine and Julia had no idea.”
He caught Celine’s eyes widening and gave her and Julia a hard stare, imperceptibly shaking his head.
“Okay,” Penny said again. “But what makes you think the Vermeer isn’t genuine?”
“We found Grayson,” Blake replied. “I can’t tell you very much more other than that his testimony suggests the painting, if it exists, is still in Paso Robles. He never got to set eyes on it.”
“I’d still like to take a look at it.” Penny indicated the painting.
“Sure.” He lifted the work up. “That’s why it’s here.”
It may not have been painted by Vermeer, but it was still breathtaking. The artist had captured the vibrant glow of Vermeer’s paintings, the subtle gradation of light and shade.
“It’s beautiful,” Celine breathed, leaning over the work.
“So vibrant,” Penny agreed. “So striking.”
“Too much so, perhaps,” Celine suggested. The delicate technique Vermeer had used on this painting would have been susceptible to abrasion. Yet there was no sign of it on the work Blake had recovered.
She gently touched the edge of the wooden frame and closed her eyes.
An image of Simon Underwood swirled into her mind. She
saw him as a young man sitting before an easel.
“This is an Underwood,” she proclaimed with certainty. “Not a Vermeer.” Her eyes opened. “He was able to figure out how Vermeer captured his compositions—a tonal image making no use of lines.”
“But where’s the hard evidence of that?” Penny stared at the work, enraptured.
“You’re not just going to take it on faith that this is a genuine Vermeer, are you?” Julia sounded horrified.
“I’m not going to dismiss it out of hand,” Penny shot back. She glanced up. “Look, it’s been thirty years, Julia. And now, finally, we have this—the most valuable of the works stolen. I’d like to believe . . .”
She took a deep breath. “I just don’t want to be too skeptical is all. Not based on . . . on . . .” Penny’s hand swept through the air, a gesture of frustration.
“On psychic hocus-pocus?” Celine voiced the words Penny had suppressed.
“That’s not what I said,” Penny replied tersely. She turned to face Celine. “Look, did Simon Underwood ever confess to making a copy of the Concert?”
“No.” Celine felt her spirits sinking as she made the admission. Penny’s features remained obdurate. There’d be no persuading the Museum Director of the truth she saw. “No, I can’t say that he did.”
“But that doesn’t mean he didn’t paint this.” Julia’s voice was firm.
She rested her hand on Celine’s shoulder. “Let’s just take it slowly, and see what we can find, okay?”
Penny nodded, reluctantly.
“Whatever it is, it’ll be something obvious.” Celine scanned the paintings, her confidence resurrected by Julia’s open show of support. “Underwood always included some detail that would enable the careful observer to distinguish a genuine Vermeer from one of his copies.”
“What about these fine brown hairs?” Blake was studying the work through a magnifying lens. “Would a forger allow brush hairs to remain on his work?”
“Someone like Underwood, who knew what he was doing, would have,” Celine pointed out. “After all, bristles have been found on The Music Lesson. That dates back to the same period as The Concert.”
