Until he knew more about Robber Hood and their motivations, everything was conjecture. For now, all he could do was help the police figure out why these artworks were taken and, hopefully, create a list of potential targets. The police didn’t have the resources to protect all the museums in the Netherlands—there were far too many. Vincent cleared his mind and concentrated on the stolen artwork again when their simplicity struck him.
The pieces of art covering his couch and coffee table were all loosely painted or drawn, somewhere between abstract and realistic. Most were sketches created by important artists, but none were their most renowned works. Some were painted by Americans, but most by Europeans. All were postmodern works and most created in the last fifty years. The artists used watercolor, charcoal, gouache, pencil, oil, and acrylic to create studies and sketches on paper and canvas. A collector interested in documenting the evolution of postwar modernism would value these pieces far more than the average museum visitor, Vincent realized.
These are exactly the kinds of modern artworks my father preferred to forge, Vincent thought wryly. There was no tempera or mineral-based paints used in their creation, meaning his forgers had easy access to the same sorts of paints the artists had. Everything they needed could be purchased at a quality art supplies store. That made copying the pieces easier and detection more difficult. Oh God, he thought with a jolt. Were these thieves actually forgers?
So what was their plan? Cry artnapping, and when the museums paid up, they would receive forgeries? It would be easy enough to sell the originals abroad. Or were they destined to disappear into the criminal underworld as a down payment for drugs or weapons? Vincent still had trouble believing that no one in his Croatian network knew who Robber Hood was. He would give anything to be able to connect the thefts to Luka Antic.
Twenty-seven pieces. If they were sold abroad, it would take years to find them all again. Vincent shook that depressing thought off. He promised the police an honest assessment. He now knew what Robber Hood preferred. Could he also predict which museums would be next?
26 An Old Friend
September 10, 2018
“Well, Zelda, there’s your taxi. Take care of yourself, and I hope not to see you again for quite some time.” Doctor Maring smiled warmly as she held onto the wheelchair she’d used to bring Zelda to the hospital’s front door.
“Thank you, Doctor. The feeling is mutual.” Zelda grinned back as she slowly lowered herself into the taxi’s back seat. Her head spun a little as the driver pulled away. She still wasn’t one hundred percent but well enough to be released. This was not how she envisioned her return home after a week in the hospital, but a taxi was the only option. Jacob’s meeting had gone so well Friday that the grant funders stayed the weekend so they could tour the museum’s research facilities and view the collections Jacob was responsible for documenting. He wouldn’t be back until midnight tonight but had already arranged with his boss to work from Amsterdam for the rest of the week. Although Zelda was disappointed he couldn’t be here to pick her up, she was thrilled he would be able to spend time at home. If anything, this attack had brought them even closer together. For the first time in her life, she felt truly loved.
The only two friends Zelda knew who owned cars were both unavailable to pick her up, though Esmee from the Amstel Modern did promise to make her soup and bring it over later. Zelda was relieved not to have to worry about food or shopping tonight—she doubted she’d be able to walk to the store without passing out let alone carry everything home.
Walking across the lobby was more draining than she’d expected. By the time she’d ridden the elevator up to her front door, Zelda was feeling faint. Thoughts of stretching out on her comfortable couch motivated her feet forward. She held onto the doorframe for support and then slowly made her way inside. It felt so strange to be back inside her apartment after a week. It was almost as if she were entering a hotel room. Zelda stumbled into the living room and laid out on the couch. Within seconds, she was fast asleep.
Chimes disturbed her slumber, and Zelda woke up groggy. The clock on her living room wall read five p.m. The chimes rang through the apartment again. It was her doorbell. It must be Esmee with the soup, she thought. When she opened her door, a skinny man with a pointed beard and long hair pulled back in a ponytail was standing outside.
“Hello, I’m a friend of Gabriella. She’s not answering her door. Do you know where she’s at?” His English was clipped and off-beat. It reminded Zelda of how Gabriella spoke. With his all-black outfit and hip facial hair, Zelda reckoned he must be one of Gabriella’s artist friends. Zelda didn’t recognize him, and he seemed friendly enough, but wouldn’t her friends know she was missing? Or had she resurfaced while Zelda was in the hospital?
“I’m afraid I don’t,” she said. She was ashamed to realize she hadn’t thought about Gabriella while in the hospital. She’d been in too much pain to think about anything but her recovery. “Sorry. I’ve been in the hospital all week.” She automatically touched the wide Band-Aid covering the two-inch-long wound on her head. “Who are you?”
“I’m Marko. Gabriella and I grew up together. I’m only in town for a few days and thought I’d look her up. I tried calling, but she’s not answering. Maybe I have her old number. Is this the correct one?” Marko held up his telephone’s screen so Zelda could read it.
“Yes, that’s the same one I have,” she said, suddenly realizing that he probably didn’t know about Gabriella’s disappearance last week. But she was too tired to explain the situation in full. Zelda figured he and Gabriella weren’t that close if Marko lived abroad. A little lie won’t hurt anyone, she thought. “Last I heard, she was going to attend a month-long workshop. I think it’s in Bali. But I don’t know if she’s already left or not. Why don’t you leave your telephone number, and I’ll give it to her when she returns?”
Marko turned red from embarrassment. “I forgot to turn the international phone plan on so I can’t call or receive calls while I’m here. I can give you my hotel’s front desk, but I’m at a conference during the day. And we are going on several field trips. Could I ask for your number? Then I can borrow my coworker’s phone and check in with you later. I’d really love to see Gabriella again. It’s been far too long. And her grandmother knitted her a sweater I promised to deliver. I’m dead meat if I don’t find her.”
When Marko laughed, the hair on the back of Zelda’s neck stood on end. Something about his demeanor made her nervous. Who was he exactly? Was this the man who hit her? Zelda studied his face but knew it wasn’t. The person who knocked her out was older, shorter, and squatter.
“I don’t think…”
“Look, it’s more than that,” he pressed. “Gabriella’s grandfather is quite ill, and I hope to convince her to come back and visit us. She’s not much for keeping in touch with her family, but I know she would regret not being able to say goodbye. Are you sure you don’t know where she’s at or when she’ll be back? Or maybe which hotel she’s staying at in Bali? Is there someone else in this building that might know?”
Zelda shrugged, “Not as far as I know.”
“Do you have any of her friends’ phone numbers or addresses? Or could you get in touch with them? I feel obligated to find her but don’t know where to look. We haven’t seen each other in years.”
Zelda waffled. Before she could respond, Marko added, “I promise not to call more than once a day. Just to check in.”
His pushiness was unnerving. A wave of dizziness overcame her. She leaned against the wall, wishing this guy would go away so she could get some more shut-eye. She suspected he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. A pang of guilt forced her not to shut the door in his face. If Gabriella’s grandfather were on his deathbed, she would want to know about it—whenever she returned or was found.
“Sure. Okay.” Zelda rattled off her number, adding, “But I have the ringer off most of the time, so you’re better off sending a text message.” The last thing sh
e wanted was this guy calling her at all hours. Lord knows what Jacob would think.
“Excellent, thank you so much. And you are?” The way he looked at her, almost through her, gave her the creeps.
“Zelda,” she said, ignoring his outstretched hand, already regretting giving him her number. “And which hotel are you staying at?” she pressed, trying to match his inquisitiveness.
“The Victoria Hotel across from Central Station.” His piercing gaze and broad smile creeped her out. “I’ll be in touch.”
He reached the elevator just as the doors opened. Esmee emerged, carrying a crockpot. Even from her doorway, Zelda could smell the bacon and peas. Esmee grinned widely at Marko, ogling his wiry frame as they exchanged places. “He’s cute,” she whispered loudly. “Who is he?”
Zelda stared at the closed elevator doors. “I’m not sure.”
27 Peace of Mind
September 10, 2018
Luka knew he was being unreasonable—irrational even—when he told Marko to question Zelda Richardson, the missing artist’s neighbor. The knowledge that Ivan Novak was lying to him was driving him absolutely crazy. He wasn’t positive Zelda knew where Gabriella was, but the young American worked for the Amstel Modern, lived next door, and in her police report, she claimed to have seen two Pollocks in Gabriella’s studio. His gut told him that was too many coincidences for Zelda not to be involved somehow.
Even if the museum researcher wasn’t directly involved with the robberies, her testimony confirmed what Marko thought he saw. And his nephew was the most trustworthy person he’d ever met, which is why Luka was grooming him to take over part of his organization. Luka was almost sixty-five years old, an anomaly in his profession, and was considering semi-retirement. Luka knew he had to secure his organization’s future by expanding its reach. Although he didn’t have children of his own, he still wanted his legacy to live on, and right now, that meant doing everything in his power to find out what Ivan Novak was trying to hide from him.
But neither Marko nor the police could answer his most pressing question—was Ivan having copies of the stolen artwork made or not?
If they couldn’t, perhaps through some miracle, Zelda Richardson could by leading them to the artist.
Marko saw Ivan move the artist and her artwork out of her studio and whisk them away in a van registered to a man named Anthony Beek. Luka now knew that the missing woman’s name was Gabriella Tamic and that Novak’s gallery represented her. But Luka could not confront Ivan about any of it without risking the entire deal.
Where did Ivan take the paintings and Gabriella? And was she busy copying the rest?
Luka longed to ask Ivan about what had happened that Friday night. He’d already pussyfooted around the topic, asking the art dealer during their last call if he had started moving the stolen artwork to a central location yet. Ivan’s resolute answer that none of the works would be moved until after the last robbery did not appease him. He needed the peace of mind in knowing what Ivan was up to and how the artist was involved. If he couldn’t question Ivan directly about it, he could concentrate his energy on finding the missing artist.
Having Marko reach out to Zelda was him panicking, not taking back control. He knew that, but until Gabriella resurfaced, he had no choice except to use every available resource to find her.
28 People Don’t Just Disappear
September 10, 2018
Zelda awoke to Jacob’s sweet lips brushing up against her cheek. She smiled and stretched until her back cracked. She’d fallen asleep on the couch in a tight ball.
“Hi, honey. It’s nice to see you again and to have you home and out of the hospital,” Jacob whispered in her ear.
“Indeed,” she murmured and rubbed her cheek against his stubbly chin.
“How are you feeling?”
“Better,” she said with a yawn. Esmee’s homemade pea soup and lots of sleep had helped.
He rubbed her cheeks with his long fingers. They were soft, warm, and comforting. “I have a surprise for you.”
Zelda nuzzled his neck. “You’re enough.”
Jacob smiled. “On the train ride back, I booked us into a spa in Nijmegen for three nights. I figured it would help you recover faster.”
“Oh, Jacob, that’s so sweet!” She threw her arms around him and hugged him tightly. Right now, a spa sounded like just what the doctor ordered. All she wanted to do was forget this past week’s events and get back to her normal life. She hugged him close before thoughts of Marko made her push him away and sit up. “Something kind of strange happened after I got home. A childhood friend of Gabriella’s stopped by looking for her.”
“Oh, I’m surprised he didn’t know she was missing.”
“He said he’s only in town for a few days and decided to drop by when he couldn’t reach her by phone.”
“Okay. That’s not strange.”
“He insisted I give him my telephone number so he could call and check in about Gabriella.”
Jacob’s brow furrowed. “Your number? What do you mean he insisted?”
Zelda reflected on how uncomfortable Marko made her feel. “It’s not what he said, it’s more how he said it—like there was no other choice but for him to call me. Gabriella’s grandfather is sick.”
“Hmm. That is kind of weird. But if he’s only in town for a few days, I guess he might have come across as desperate.”
“So, should we be looking for Gabriella for him?” Zelda asked. After Esmee left, she’d pondered that question until sleep returned. Zelda called Gabriella’s number and even knocked on her door but got no answer. She should have told Marko that Gabriella was missing and sent him to the police instead of giving him her number. Next time he called, she would fess up.
“Why would we do that? And how? The police are still searching for her, and they have a better idea of where to look than we would. People don’t just disappear, Zelda. I’m sure they will find her if she wants to be found.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the police still don’t know who hit you or why. All of Gabriella’s things were taken, even her clothing. Did you ever consider that she wanted to leave? I mean, if she were kidnapped, why would they take her things? Maybe she was behind on her rent and was trying to sneak out in the night.”
“But why would someone hit me? Gabriella knew I wouldn’t have told the landlord. Technically, we aren’t supposed to be renting this place for a year, remember? I hope we don’t get Renee into trouble. I’m surprised she hasn’t called yet.” Zelda felt so tired and confused. It hurt to think, and right now, her brain was in overdrive.
“I don’t know why someone attacked you unless they thought you had hurt Gabriella. You did say she was unconscious on the couch. Maybe it was all a big misunderstanding. Besides, I didn’t know you were such good friends. Why is she so important to you?”
Zelda frowned. Jacob was right. The police were far better equipped to find Gabriella than she was. She barely knew the woman. They weren’t great friends and knew almost nothing about each other’s private lives, and if Jacob was right about Gabriella hiding out, she had no chance of finding her.
Besides, Zelda was beginning to wonder if this wasn’t a huge mix-up. Maybe Gabriella was at an artist retreat and would resurface of her own accord when it was over. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d taken off at a moment’s notice. Part of her suspected that Gabriella would get in touch with the police any day now. And if not, the police would surely find her soon.
“Yeah, well, she is my neighbor, and we did hang out a lot when you were in Cologne. It’s just so strange not knowing where she’s gone or why someone felt the need to assault me in the process.” Even to her ears, her reasoning sounded lame. “And I guess Marko made me feel guilty because I hadn’t thought about her while I was in the hospital.”
“And why should you have? You need to concentrate on getting better, Zelda. Not play detective.”
She hugged him tightly. “You’r
e right. Let’s go to bed. We have some packing to do in the morning.”
Zelda pushed Gabriella and Marko out of her mind. She was in no position to hunt down a missing person. Right now, what she needed most was Jacob and lots of rest.
29 Ode to Modernists
September 12, 2018
Cornelius Kronenburg, director and owner of the Kronenburg Museum, fumed as he read the email from the Dutch police a second time through.
After five years of lobbying, fundraising, and ass-kissing, his dream was finally a reality—his extensive collection of modern and contemporary art now hung in a gorgeous, custom-designed museum bearing his name. It was a wonder of architecture and blended in with the tree-rich environment perfectly. A garden designed by the Netherland’s top landscape architect and a perfectly manicured field of grass surrounded his temple to art. Rising behind the museum was a strip of a forest with paths visitors could wander along to reach the North Sea.
Collecting artwork had been a lifelong passion, one he was thrilled to share with the world. Forty years of founding successful software start-ups had made him a multimillionaire. When he retired two years ago, his assemblage of art was considered the most prestigious, privately held collection in the Netherlands. He had spent the last five years securing the land and preparing their new home. With his museum’s opening last year, his legacy was secure, and he couldn’t be prouder, which was why this email infuriated him so.
According to the police, his permanent collection and current exhibition were the ideal targets for the Robber Hood gang presently terrorizing Dutch museums. And his museum’s remote location situated on a nature reserve straddling the dunes of the Netherlands’ west coast made it even more attractive.
He was not going to sit back and allow a group of thieves to destroy everything he had worked for. Especially one with such a stupid name. Who did this Robber Hood think they were? Robbing the rich to do what, ransom it back? Had the artwork already disappeared into someone’s private collection or, worse, was on its way to Eastern Europe? He read Interpol’s annual reports and knew that stolen artwork from Western European museums and galleries often ended up in the Balkans before being further traded or sold. Pink Panthers, Robber Hood, Arkan’s Tigers, Groupa Amerika, Balkan Bandits—it was hard to take these groups seriously until you realized that they were responsible for stealing hundreds of millions of dollars’ worth of jewels and artwork from private and public collections throughout Europe.
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