Art and Murder

by Don Easton

  Roche gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “You have already helped us in Canada. Don’t worry about that. We trust you.”

  Like hell you do.

  “What I think you will find even more pleasing is … well, first of all, do you speak other languages besides English?”

  “A little Spanish, but that’s about it,” replied Jack. “Why?”

  “We are going to arrange for an interpreter to go with you. She is fluent in at least six languages, and you will be able to incorporate some pleasure while searching for your villa.”

  “I told you, I’m not into —”

  “No, no, she is not a prostitute,” Roche assured him. “She is a businesswoman. Attractive, single, about your age, but more importantly, she shares your interests.”

  “What do you mean … shares my interests?”

  “Well, art in particular. She loves art.”

  “Oh?”

  “She is an expert. Her business is art authentication and restoration. You will have the opportunity to visit various museums and art galleries as you go.”

  Oh, shit.

  “I’m sure that pleases you.” Roche smiled.

  “You have no idea,” Jack said, trying to sound enthusiastic. “It sounds like a fantastic opportunity. I’m sure it will be an experience I’ll always remember.”

  “Great. I’ll introduce you to each other tonight over dinner at your hotel. We will provide her with a prepaid credit card for ten thousand Euros for the week, which should cover flights, food, and accommodation, but if you need more, let me know.”

  “That is very generous.”

  “It’s nothing, really.”

  “When do we leave?” asked Jack.

  “You mentioned you were interested in Marseille, so tomorrow you will go there first. As I recall, you expressed an interest in the Musée des Beaux Arts there.”

  “Yes, the Museum of Fine Art. I wouldn’t want to miss that.”

  “Good. You are both booked to fly out of Paris at eleven-twenty tomorrow morning and you will arrive in time for lunch. Once you are finished in Marseille, it is about an hour flight to Malaga, Spain, and then a one-hour drive to Costa del Sol, where you also expressed interest. After that you could fly to Malta, then up to Italy to check out those areas, or perhaps save them for your next visit. Whatever you decide will be fine.”

  “I won’t really know until I see what’s available,” Jack said. “I’m looking for something modest. Say in the range of two to three million Euro, cap it off at, say, four million Canadian.”

  “That will narrow down the selection,” noted Roche. “I don’t know how many properties in that high of a price range are available.”

  Exactly. I’ll pretend to find a place I’m interested in and force the Ringmaster to meet me — hopefully before they discover my taste in art refers to the taste of crayons.

  * * *

  Yves glared at Jack from the far side of Otto’s room. “The plan was for you to meet the Ringmaster immediately. Now you would have us travelling all over Europe?”

  “It isn’t my choice, either,” Jack told him, “but I could hardly refuse. If I am who I purport myself to be, there’s no way I would turn down such an opportunity.”

  Laura glanced at Jack. He had called her on his way home from dinner last night to let her know he had turned down a prostitute. Did that cause them to be suspicious? With all the other things he has done …

  “Something on your mind, Laura?” Jack asked.

  “After everything you’ve done, what’s it going to take for them to trust you?”

  “It’s no coincidence that they’re lining me up with an interpreter who’s an art expert,” replied Jack gravely. “They’re checking to see if I really am a collector, which has me worried. The only thing I know about art is what I’ve gleaned off the Internet in the last month. If she’s an expert, she’ll see right through me. I could be finished as of tonight.”

  “We will make sure you are well protected tonight,” said Yves.

  “I’m not worried about my safety tonight,” replied Jack in exasperation. “It’s blowing the case that has me worried.”

  “Perhaps you shouldn’t have pretended to be an art connoisseur.”

  You pompous asshole. “And what would you know about undercover?” snapped Jack. “You were filling your belly when Kerin was being murdered.”

  Mouths dropped open around the room, except Yves’s, who clenched his fists as his ruddy face turned purple. He leapt to his feet and yelled, “Yes, I was having lunch! Maybe if I had been at the park or had detailed more people to provide fresh faces, Kerin would still be alive! You think I don’t know that?” His chest heaved with emotion as he glared at everyone, then his voice lowered. “There, I said it. Is that what you all wanted to hear? That I fucked up?”

  The anger Jack felt turned to remorse when he realized Yves felt guilty over Kerin’s murder, too. He took a deep breath, then said, “Fucking up and working undercover go hand in hand. It’s all about making choices and sometimes there are consequences to those choices you don’t expect. It’s like a lot of police work. The harder you work, the more chance you have of fucking up.”

  “That’s the truth,” added Otto, looking thoughtful.

  Jack got to his feet and said, “I’m going back to my hotel to try to educate myself more about the art world.” He looked at Yves. “Dinner will be at eight in the hotel. I would ask that you not have anyone inside the hotel. There is a time for a cover team to be close and a time for them to be far away. Tonight I believe I am safe and if I am wrong or get killed, I will not blame you.” He turned toward the door.

  “Wait,” said Yves quietly. “How do you feel about Maurice being outside in a surveillance van?”

  Jack knew he should compromise. “I’m okay with that. He would be close if something needed to be done.”

  Yves nodded.

  “Are we good?” Jack extended his hand to Yves.

  Yves stared momentarily at Jack, then shook his hand.

  When Jack left the room, Laura stepped out in the hall with him. “I’ve never seen you blow up and slam-dunk someone like that,” she said. “Especially a foreign policeman.”

  “Guess I was an ass,” Jack admitted. “I can see the guilt he’s carrying. You’re thinking I should go back in and apologize?”

  “No, I think offering to shake hands with him was enough. That’s not why I’m here. I can tell you’re worried about the art expert.”

  “Definitely. My brain is spinning with all the different types of art, let alone famous artists.”

  “Didn’t Roche tell you the expert is a woman about your age and single?”

  “Yes, so what?”

  “You’re not hearing me.” Laura’s tone was serious. “Forget art. Sidetrack her.”

  “Sidetrack her? How?”

  “How?” Laura was clearly surprised. She eyed Jack as if he was trying to hide something from her. “Don’t give me that guff. You charm all the women you meet.” She shook her head in disbelief as she recalled something, then said, “You should hear what all the secretaries say about you behind your back.”

  “What do they say?”

  “I’m not telling you,” she replied, frowning as if he shouldn’t have asked.

  “Why not?”

  “Because if I did, your ego would go through the roof and you’d be impossible to work with. For tonight, just be yourself … well, not entirely yourself.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Jack.

  “Try not to kill anyone.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  At eight o’clock that night, Otto nudged Laura, who sat beside him in the surveillance van, along with Maurice. They were parked on a street near the front of Jack’s hotel, and Otto gestured at two people walking down the sidewalk.

  “Yes, that’s Roche,” confirmed Maurice, using a camera to take pictures. “The woman with him must be the art expert.”

  They watched a
s Roche and the woman entered the hotel lobby together.

  “She’s a Swede,” said Otto matter-of-factly.

  “What makes you say that?” asked Laura.

  “Blonde hair, tall, slender, pale skin, straight nose, high cheekbones, and beautiful,” replied Otto. “You can tell.”

  “It sounds like you think you know your women.”

  “I do,” replied Otto. “It’s my mesmerizing metallic-blue eyes. “They take it all in … or hadn’t you noticed?”

  Laura’s face reddened. “Jack told you I said that?”

  Otto grinned in response.

  “That jerk. I was joking. Did he tell you I was joking?”

  “It’s okay, Laura,” said Otto in a soothing tone. “You’re only human.”

  “Do you like my eyes, too?” asked Maurice, batting his eyelashes.

  “This is going to be a long night,” muttered Laura.

  * * *

  Jack tightened the knot on his tie as he entered Le Pinxo restaurant. He wore his same navy-blue suit with a white shirt and gold cufflinks, but tonight had opted for a blue tie. On entering, he saw Roche talking to the maître d’. A woman with short blonde hair wearing a black, long-sleeved dress, a pearl necklace, and high heels stood beside Roche. Simple but elegant, Jack thought as he tapped Roche on the shoulder.

  Roche turned. “Jack! Good timing.” They shook hands, then Roche nodded at the woman beside him. “I would like to introduce you to Carina Safstrom.”

  “You’re Jack Smith?” she exclaimed. Her eyes opened wide and she took a step back.

  “Yes.” Jack extended his hand to her. “Who … or what … were you expecting?” He grinned.

  Carina blushed and shook Jack’s hand, quickly saying, “Uh, well … nothing. I … I didn’t see you come up behind us.”

  Jack could see that she was flustered. Good. She’s attracted to me. He held her gaze a moment longer, hoping to convey that he was also attracted to her, then gave her a bemused look to indicate he doubted her explanation. “Sorry if I startled you.”

  She responded with a coy smile, which made him realize he’d accomplished his goal. His confidence grew.

  They were led to a small rectangular table. Carina sat across from Jack with Roche beside her. After a quick look at the menu, they each ordered appetizers. Oysters in a light mushroom jelly for Roche, a salad containing goat cheese, eggplant, and black olives for Carina, and a dish of mushrooms in warm pâté for Jack.

  As the bottle of wine Roche had ordered was being poured, Carina looked at Jack and said, “So, I understand that you are an art collector.”

  Jack felt his stomach tighten. Here it comes.

  “Who’s your favourite artist?” she asked, “and what’s your favourite style?”

  Any hope Jack had of charming her and keeping the conversation away from art vanished. He knew by the tone of her voice that she would not be easily sidetracked. “I love many types of art, with the exception of abstract paintings,” he said, pausing to take a sip of wine. “Although I do like some abstract sculptures.” He gave a lame smile. “I find it embarrassing to admit, but deep down inside, I sense I’m not a real aficionado when it comes to art.”

  “You’re not?” Carina said frostily, before glancing at Roche for his response, which was simply to raise an eyebrow.

  “Not compared to many of the collectors I’ve met,” Jack went on. “Sculptures that are missing their heads or limbs appear incomplete or damaged to me, yet the majority of people I meet find great beauty in them.”

  “Like Aphrodite?” questioned Carina, her eyes fixed on Jack.

  “Yes, that’s one example I had in mind.” Jack looked at Roche and explained, “Aphrodite may be better known to you as the Venus de Milo.”

  “Oh, of course. Yes,” Roche muttered.

  Jack turned his attention back to Carina. “Everyone seems overwhelmed with its beauty, but I must confess, it doesn’t do much for me.”

  “What about the Winged Victory of Samothrace?” asked Carina.

  Good, at least so far you’re sticking to the basic Art 101 questions. Will it be the Mona Lisa next? Jack glanced at Roche again. “It’s also called the Nike of Samothrace, named after the Greek goddess Nike.”

  Roche nodded, but it was apparent that the subject of art did not interest him as much as Carina’s reactions to what Jack said.

  “Beautiful to many,” continued Jack, “but it is both headless and winged. I like art that seems … well, like it speaks out to me.”

  “Speaks out to you? Like Edvard Munch’s famous painting?”

  You won’t quit, will you? Edvard Munch? Oh, right. The guy who painted a picture of a person screaming on a bridge. “Yes, The Scream.” Jack paused, then said, “When I said ‘speaks out to me,’ I didn’t mean scream at me, although I must admit that one does appeal to me in a rather dark way.”

  To Jack’s relief, the appetizers arrived and everyone started to eat. The conversation about art was put on hold. For now.

  * * *

  Maurice grabbed the binoculars from the floor of the van and focused on two men who were strolling down the sidewalk. He cursed softly in French, then said, “One of those men works for Roche. I’m sure the man with him works for Roche, too.”

  Laura watched the two men as they continued down the sidewalk, occasionally pausing to peer into a parked car. Eventually they reached the van they were in, and Maurice shut off his police radio and everyone sat in silence. Laura heard them check the door handles and was glad they were locked. Equally glad for the dark-tinted windows. Moments later the two men walked away.

  Maurice slowly blew out a breath. “I understand Jack’s concern about our surveillance being —”

  Otto interrupted him. “We have a problem,” he said. “They’re standing in front of the doors to the lobby and one gestured at our van … the other is taking out his phone.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Jack had barely started his appetizer when Roche received a phone call. He glanced at Jack, then said, “Excuse me. I need to take this but will go to the lobby so as not to disturb you.”

  Something about his glance made Jack feel uneasy, but he knew he had a more pressing problem in front of him. A problem named Carina.

  “So … we were discussing art,” Carina said.

  “Yes. How about you? What kind of art do you like?” he asked, hoping to get her talking about herself.

  Carina smiled. “With the kind of work I do, I would have to say I like it all. To admit otherwise would not be good for business.”

  “Ah, yes. Roche mentioned you were into restoration.”

  “And authentication and appraisals,” she added.

  “So how do you go about doing authentication? Is it the style you look at, combined with the paint itself, along with the subject matter?”

  “Yes, and technique. So tell me, what is your favourite painting?”

  Good. Maybe now I’ll be able to shut you up. Jack pretended to look shocked that she would ask, then shook his head in disgust. “You say you are an art expert, but by your questions I have the feeling that you are more into history.”

  “History? Well, of course, art is —”

  “I mean, I bet you are a big fan of the Spanish Inquisition.” Jack’s tone was harsh.

  “I don’t understand,” said Carina. “Why are you —”

  “Never mind.” Jack shook his head. “I’ll tell you what my favourite painting is. It’s one I obtained recently,” he said emphatically. He then softened his voice and said, “It speaks to my heart.” He looked intensely at Carina and added, “Actually, it does more than that. It’s part of my heart.”

  Carina sat back in her chair, looking confused. “It sounds powerful.”

  “It’s beyond powerful,” Jack stated coldly.

  “I don’t understand.” Carina still looked confused. “What did I say to upset you? You sound angry.”

  “Of course I’m angry.” Jack gave he
r another hard look. “I don’t appreciate Roche lining me up with prostitutes or —”

  “Prostitutes!” Carina gaped at him. “Is that what you think I am?” She rose to her feet.

  “I didn’t mean you,” Jack said. People at nearby tables had stopped talking and were staring at them.

  Carina glowered down at Jack. “Well, for your information, when Roche hired me, sleeping with you was not part of the deal.” She practically spat out the words. Then she muttered, “God, I’ve never felt so humiliated.” She glanced around and snatched up her purse.

  “I was referring to the woman Roche tried to line me up with last night,” Jack explained. “Not you.”

  Carina looked at Jack sharply. “He tried to line you up with a prostitute last night?”

  “Yes. I met him for dinner and he had two prostitutes with him. The girls were young enough to be my daughters. I was both disgusted and embarrassed.”

  “So you thought … do I look like a prostitute to you?” Her expression was horrified.

  “No, of course not. But when you asked me what my favourite painting is … well, it was like sticking a knife in my heart. Coupled with last night’s experience, it left me with a bad taste about the whole situation.”

  “What does asking you about your favourite painting have to do with anything?” she said angrily. “It seems like a normal question to me.”

  “Obviously, you don’t know the significance the portrait has for me. I thought Roche would have told you.”

  “When he hired me this afternoon to be your guide and interpreter, he said —”

  “This afternoon?”

  “Yes, and he said you were an art collector, so naturally, I presumed you would like to talk about it.”

  Jack groaned. “I am truly sorry for my outburst. Your question caught me by surprise and I reacted badly. Please … I apologize. Will you take your seat?”

  Carina grimaced and fidgeted with her purse strap.

  “Please,” Jack repeated, gesturing to her chair. “I feel awful about how I reacted.”