Marked for Revenge

by Jennifer S. Alderson

  “But you just said…”

  Vincent laughed. “I know a guy…”

  And indeed, he did. Three years ago, he had helped recover one of the Guggenheim Museum’s Alexander Calder mobiles, stolen five years earlier from the Leerdam Glass Museum while it was on loan for a Calder exhibition. Vincent only had to ask for his friend, the museum’s head of security, and they were skipping the lines—to the frustration of several grumbling tourists ahead of them.

  They headed straight to the piece Vincent had recovered, one of the only Calder mobiles displayed in a public museum made from wood, string, and metal. The rawness of the material added an edge to his work Zelda had never seen before. The shapes and their positioning reminded her of the solar system, with moons, stars, and planets rotating around the sun. It was fascinating. They then walked quickly past masterworks by Constantin Brâncuşi, Georges Braque, Salvador Dali, Joan Miró, René Magritte, Jean Arp, and more. Zelda’s brain had difficulty processing all that beauty. The lightning-fast visit only motivated her to make returning to this enchanted city a priority.

  On the way back to their hotel, they dined on the water. Zelda ate fresh seafood and sipped excellent vino while enjoying the twinkling night lights reflecting off the water and sounds of street musicians, accompanied by drunk tourists singing on their way home. Her appetite waned a bit when Vincent pointed out a rat sneaking away from a nearby table with a bread roll.

  Soon enough, they were back in their tiny hotel room. After hours of preparing for the morning meeting, they both called it a night. Zelda couldn’t help but watch Vincent sleep as her mind raced. She knew she should be concentrating on tomorrow’s meeting and locating Gabriella, yet she was mesmerized by how his chest moved slowly up and down, and his breathing sounded like a gentle breeze. She knew he was married, and she was so happy with Jacob. It was just odd to be sharing this room with him here in one of the most romantic cities in the world. She wished he were Jacob instead.

  In the morning, her jangling nerves wiped away any residual notions of a Venetian tryst. Besides, she could never hurt Jacob like that. He was her soulmate.

  Getting dolled up in her new clothes brought her no joy, and it took forever to apply the kind of makeup that Vanessa von Trapp would wear. By the time Zelda joined Vincent for breakfast, she was so jittery her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

  Vincent grabbed her shoulders and looked her in the eye. “It’s going to be fine. You are going to be great. All you have to do is get Ivan to talk about Gabriella, and we’re golden.”

  Hand in hand, they walked back toward Gallery Novak. The warmth of Vincent’s touch calmed her thoughts and steeled her nerves. For a fleeting moment, she felt as if this nightmare was about to end.

  56 Venetian Betrayal

  September 22, 2018

  Zelda felt like a fraud decked out in her new clothes, standing outside Gallery Novak. A wobbly fraud on spikey heels, ones not meant for walking through the cobblestoned, uneven streets of Venice. She caught a glimpse of herself in the gallery’s plate glass window and cringed. A clown looked back at her. She had to consciously stop her hand from scratching at the thick layer of makeup suffocating her skin.

  Their plan was simple. ‘Vanessa’ would act like a spoiled American socialite with money to burn. She would ask extensive questions about Gabriella’s background under the guise of wanting to buy four of her works—if ‘Vanessa’ deemed the artist was worth investing in. Vincent kept reminding her to remain haughty at all times. Zelda thought back to the many gallery openings she had attended and found inspiration in the actions of some of the more important guests, confident she could mimic their behavior for a few hours.

  After Ivan showed her the artwork, ‘Vanessa’ would tell him she wanted to meet the artist—after all, she was planning on dropping two hundred thousand dollars on Gabriella’s work. How Ivan reacted would determine their next steps.

  While Zelda was inside playing the role of her life, Vincent would be outside the gallery, pretending to be a tourist infatuated by the canal the shop was located on.

  But now, standing outside of Gallery Novak, their plan didn’t feel simple at all. An impeccably dressed woman with long, curly black hair sat behind a wide desk, placed discreetly at the back of the square space. Her outfit and makeup put Zelda’s to shame. Behind her was a long wall of smoky glass. Zelda and Vincent figured that was the office and that Ivan Novak was probably sitting back there waiting for Vanessa von Trapp to arrive.

  At ten past ten, ‘Vanessa’ opened the gallery door. She gave one fleeting glance at Vincent, who was steadfastly ignoring her, then disappeared inside. “I am Vanessa von Trapp,” Zelda announced in the most dismissive tone she could manage.

  The gorgeous woman behind the desk rose with a smile. “Of course. I will tell Ivan Novak you are here. May I offer you a cappuccino?”

  “Yes, thank you.” When the woman disappeared behind the glass partition, Zelda sauntered over to the nearest painting and took in the abstract rendering of the Doge’s Palace at night. The flat perspective and bright, unnatural colors reminded her of the Fauvists. Zelda wasn’t sure if she liked it but did find the painting fascinating.

  “Good morning, Miss von Trapp. That is one of Gabriella Tamic’s pieces, the artist you are interested in. It’s part of her Ode to Venice series. She’s painted several of our landmarks in her unique style.”

  “Oh, that’s interesting…” Zelda turned to greet him, and the smile on her face vanished when they made eye contact. “You! You were the one who hit me!”

  Zelda grabbed the older man by the lapels and shook him as hard as she could. Ivan was smaller than she was and much older. His head bobbed around like a rag doll. His eyes were wide with fear, not recognition.

  “Where is Gabriella? What did you do to her?” Zelda’s screams brought Ivan’s gallery assistant and Vincent de Graaf into the action. The Italian woman tugged on Zelda’s dress and scratched at her arms as she cursed at her in Italian.

  Vincent raced inside and pulled Zelda’s fingers loose from Ivan’s lapel. “Enough. Let him go, Zelda!”

  As soon as he was free, Ivan Novak stepped back and smoothed down his hair. “I was told you are a collector interested in buying Gabriella’s work. Who are you really?”

  Zelda glared at him. He didn’t seem to remember her at all. “I’m Gabriella’s neighbor. Don’t you recognize me? You assaulted me three weeks ago. I’m doing better now, thanks,” Zelda said, unable to leave the sarcasm aside.

  Novak’s face remained completely neutral. He rebuttoned his jacket then wiped a speck of lint off, avoiding Zelda’s gaze as he answered. “We have never met. I am quite certain of that. I think you should leave.”

  “What did you do to Gabriella?” Zelda cried. She surged forward, but Vincent held her back.

  “Leave it,” he whispered in her ear.

  “I don’t know what you think happened, but Gabriella is fine.” Ivan locked eyes with Zelda, his cold stare startling her. “She’s back in the Netherlands, preparing for her next show, an Ode to Barcelona. If you were really her neighbor, you would know that. If you do not leave right now, I will call the police.”

  As Vincent pulled her toward the door, Zelda glared at Ivan but said nothing.

  Once outside, she broke free from Vincent’s grip and raced to the Campo della Salute. She stopped at the water’s edge and stared out at the gondolas. “Why didn’t you do anything? I don’t care what he said. That is the man who hit me!”

  “Zelda, I believe you. But he would never admit it to you, me, or Vanessa von Trapp,” he said in an attempt to raise a smile. It didn’t work. “I’ll follow him today and see what I can find out. If he does know where Gabriella is, I bet your performance will spur him to visit her. Or at least get in touch with her.”

  Zelda wanted to cry. They were no closer to finding Gabriella or the stolen Pollock. She didn’t believe for a second that Gabriella was back in Amsterdam. Where could she be hid
ing? Anywhere in this vast city of interconnected islands, Zelda realized. They could search for months and still not find her, especially if she didn’t want to be found. “I guess we have no choice. It’s just—what the?” Zelda couldn’t believe what she was seeing. “Vincent, look! Ivan’s getting away!”

  Vincent followed Zelda’s finger, pointing to a speedboat racing up the Grand Canal, Ivan Novak behind the wheel.

  The detective raced through the crowds, following the boat along the water’s edge. He was retracing their steps from yesterday, though now at top speed. Zelda followed the cries of anger Vincent was inciting as he pushed his way through the throng of tourists gawking at the glorious scenery.

  Ivan’s boat was faster. By the time Zelda reached the land’s end, Vincent was already there, his telephone’s camera zoomed in as far as possible, documenting Ivan’s actions. The art dealer had tied up to a large yacht called Sunset Dreams bobbing in the Bacino San Marco, anchored directly in front of Isola di San Giorgio Maggiore, an island on the opposite side of the bay. They watched through the screen as Ivan boarded the yacht. Two burly men climbed down to his vessel and swiftly lifted twenty-five crates up onto the yacht. On deck, there seemed to be a disagreement between Ivan and the yacht’s captain. The art dealer made a call, then handed the phone to the boat’s captain. Moments later, the captain ordered the speedboat to be cut loose, then the yacht pulled away and quickly headed out toward the Adriatic Sea.

  “Shit!” Vincent screamed.

  A mother standing next to him covered her young child’s ears and glared at him in disapproval.

  Zelda looked up to him. “What now?”

  Vincent stared out at the horizon, his eyes locked on the rapidly disappearing yacht.

  “Time to call in another favor.”

  57 You Only Live Once

  September 22, 2018

  Count Giovanni Bonato’s baritone voice boomed through the phone. “Vincent, my dear fellow. I’ve got the information you requested.”

  “That was fast. Thank you for making it a priority.”

  “Of course! I am always happy to lend a hand. Gallery Novak owns the speedboat as you suspected. However, Sunset Dreams is the property of a rental company owned by Tekin Enterprises, based out of Marmaris, Turkey. I’ll send you the details by text.”

  Vincent gave Zelda a thumbs up. He quickly scribbled on her notebook. ‘Search for flights Venice to Marmaris, Turkey.’

  Zelda pulled out her iPad.

  “That’s great, Giovanni. It gives us a solid lead to follow.”

  Vincent had called on Count Bonato, a Venetian aristocrat whose mother lost her family’s art collection during World War II. Vincent was instrumental in the recovery and restitution of seventeen of the thirty-one looted paintings. The family was forever grateful. During his five-year-long investigation, he had grown particularly fond of Count Bonato. The older man was the epitome of kindness and grace with a sharp wit to boot. He was also the owner of a multimillion-dollar cruise ship company and an avid boat collector. He had the connections to check the boat’s registration numbers as well as a fleet of vessels Vincent hoped he might be able to use to get them out of their next bind.

  “Give me just a moment.” Vincent put his hand over the receiver as Zelda thrust the iPad’s screen in front of his face. She’d found a short list of flights, none of which had available seats until three days from now. It must be high season, he thought, which meant the ferries would be booked out as well. Vincent knew they needed to find a way to get there faster.

  “Count, I hate to impose on your goodwill even further, but would it be possible to borrow one of your boats?”

  “For a trip to Marmaris, I presume.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Certainly. Let me check and see which vessels are available. I’ll call you back as soon as I know more.”

  “YOLO? Seriously?” Zelda stopped in front of the gangplank and stared up at the sleek yacht, appropriately named You Only Live Once.

  Vincent shrugged. “It’s what was available.”

  When the captain told them it would take approximately thirty-five hours of sailing to get there, Zelda’s first thought was to take a long nap. She hadn’t gotten a decent night’s rest in weeks. Yet despite her cabin’s luxurious interior, she couldn’t sleep a wink. The events of the past few hours kept her mind abuzz.

  Gabriella’s art dealer assaulted Zelda then whisked her half-comatose friend away. Zelda was having trouble wrapping her head around that fact. Did Gabriella go willingly? Did her disappearance have anything to do with the stolen Pollock? It must, she reckoned. Otherwise, why would a Croatian mobster be interested in finding Gabriella, one who was involved with the Amstel Modern robbery?

  Zelda hoped their trip to Turkey would bring them answers. All she wanted to do was get Marko out of her life, the police off her back, and go back to work.

  An hour before dinner was served, Zelda finally fell into a restless sleep. She awoke to a crew member knocking on her door, asking if she would prefer red or white wine with her meal.

  “Red, please,” she muttered loud enough to send the man scurrying back to the kitchen. After a long stretch, she rose, groggy and disoriented. It took her a while to dress for dinner.

  When she finally arrived in the dining room, she was amazed at the size and lavish interior. Large windows provided unobstructed views of the open ocean. The paneled walls and ceiling were a rich red cedar with swirls in the highly polished grains, which reminded Zelda of abstract paintings. The plush couches lining the walls were covered in a royal blue as were the chairs. Zelda was surprised to see the table was large enough for a party of sixteen with two places were set. Her meal was covered to keep it warm while Vincent was already halfway through his steak. She took her seat and stared out at the setting sun lighting up the sky with streaks of red and purple as it slowly disappeared under the horizon.

  “How do you know so many rich people?” she asked Vincent as she unfolded her cloth napkin and lay it in her lap.

  He laughed heartily. “My job, I guess. Most of my clients are wealthy. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have the means to hire me to find their missing artwork or antiquities.”

  “It doesn’t seem fair that only the rich can hire someone like you to help recover what is rightfully theirs.”

  “Sometimes I help families who aren’t able to afford me, but if I took on every pro bono case I was contacted about, I wouldn’t have time to earn a living.”

  “Sorry, that was rude of me. Of course, you need to make money. You have rent to pay and groceries to buy just like the rest of us. What you do is just so specialized, and there aren’t many people out there who have the right kind of training and contacts to find lost or stolen artwork.”

  “No offense taken. Luckily, there are several of us working in the field. But you’re right. There aren’t that many private investigators specializing in art crimes. It’s too bad there aren’t more. It is time-consuming and often frustrating but finding a piece and being able to return it to its rightful owner is quite a kick and extremely rewarding.”

  “I can only imagine.” Zelda looked at Vincent with new respect. It must take a tenacious investigator to track down stolen artwork. He’d definitely proven himself a man of action and well connected. She hoped he could work the same magic in Turkey. After a few sumptuous bites of the cauliflower couscous salad, Zelda asked, “Why do you think Ivan is heading to Marmaris?”

  “I’m still trying to work that out. I spent the afternoon talking to several of my Croatian associates, and so far, no one knows how Ivan fits into the picture. Other than the rumors about Luka’s involvement in Marjana’s accident, I can’t connect Ivan to his criminal network or any other in the Balkans. He seems to be clean.”

  “I heard you say something yesterday about the Balkan Route. What is that exactly?”

  “Cocaine and heroin are often smuggled by boat from Turkey into Europe through Croatia and Albania. Interpol
calls it the Balkan Route. There are rumors that Luka Antic is expanding into heroin or cocaine. It could be the stolen art will be used to pay for drugs. You heard me asking one of my contacts if they’d seen any movement on the Balkan Route that could be tied to Luka. So far, he’s heard nothing. But if Luka and Ivan aren’t working together, it might be Marko Antic who is buying the drugs, which could result in a bloody interfamily feud, depending on whether or not Luka Antic has given Marko his blessing. There are still so many possibilities.”

  “Do you think the artwork is on the yacht?”

  “Yes, I do. The crates moved from Ivan’s boat onto the yacht were the right size and number. I just hope we’re not too late, that we see what Ivan does with the stolen art and we can recover it before it vanishes.”

  “What if we can’t find Ivan or the yacht, and the artwork disappears forever?” she asked, her mind racing with scenarios, each one more horrifying than the next.

  Vincent shook his head. “I don’t know. Right now, I want to focus on the positive.” He pushed back from the dining room table. “I’m going to give one of my contacts a call. I just remembered something he told me last week that could be useful.”

  Zelda hoped with all her might that he was right. They needed all the luck they could get.

  58 Hitching a Ride

  September 24, 2018

  An hour before the Sunset Dreams was to dock in Marmaris, Ivan rose and enjoyed a leisurely breakfast on the deck. The morning sky was an orange glow above a sea of dark blue, sharply divided by the straight horizon. It reminded him of a Mark Rothko painting come to life. He meditated on mother nature’s artistic abilities until their boat turned inland. When the mouth of Marmaris Bay was in sight, Ivan called Luka Antic as promised.

  “We’re about to dock.”