“Tell me.”
“That in all that’s going on, Luther Mason being murdered seems almost irrelevant. He’s been dead less than twenty-four hours, and the only thing everyone is talking about is Caravaggio.”
“He does seem to have a certain presence,” Mac said. “You’re convinced Luther’s death wasn’t an accident?”
“Yup. And I think it had to do with Grottesca and Caravaggio.”
“I’m sure your instincts are right.” Mac picked up a raw carrot and took a crunchy bite. “Men have killed for less,” he said. “A lot less.”
Scott Pims left a building on K Street, NW, carrying a small shopping bag. He went directly home, changed into a tentlike pair of shorts and a size 52 T-shirt, opened a small tin of Sevruga caviar malossol, which he spread on thin water biscuits and garnished with finely chopped onion, poured a glass of vodka from a bottle encased in ice in an old milk carton in his freezer, settled at his desk, and opened the shopping bag. He stared at the sales slip from the CounterSpy Shop. “Bloody fortune,” he mumbled, tossing the slip to the floor and removing his purchase, an “Electronic Handkerchief” that looked like a small tape recorder with a phone attached.
He read the directions. Simple to use. Replace an existing phone with the device, dial in the degree of change you want for your voice, and call any number. He experimented until settling upon a change in timbre and tone that pleased him. The booklet said no matter how drastic the change in voice, his words would be free of distortion.
He consulted his phone directory, dialed a ten-digit number, and checked his watch.
“Hello?”
“Mr. del Brasco please.”
“Who’s calling?”
“A very important person. It is in reference to a certain art purchase he recently made.”
“What’s your name?”
“Tell Mr. del Brasco to come to the phone. He will consider what I have to say extremely important. E-x-t-r-e-m-e-l-y important!”
He hummed “Whistle While You Wait” until del Brasco’s flat, gruff voice came on the line. “Who is this?” he asked.
“The name is not important, sir; the message is. You have purchased what you assume is an original Caravaggio, Grottesca to be precise. You have been duped, sir.”
“Duped?”
“Duped. Fooled. Conned. You have purchased a cleverly executed copy.”
“What the hell you talking about?”
“Good evening, sir.”
He’d had better caviar, but any caviar was better than peanut butter. He refilled his glass with the throat-numbing vodka and turned on his computer. This chapter was going well. His book was becoming more interesting every day. And more salable. There was some danger he would become rich.
If only his friend Luther didn’t have to die.
But how could he have anticipated that? He couldn’t anticipate everything.
He started writing: The unforeseen and totally shocking death of one of my dearest friends, Luther Mason, left me shaken. It was as though Caravaggio’s own hand had injected itself into the picture, striking down this gentle, sweet man who’d finally dared to flaunt convention in the interest of finding his own personal freedom.
He sat back and sighed. “I am truly sorry, Luther,” he said aloud. “Truly sorry.”
His fingers flew over the keyboard.
31
TWO DAYS LATER
“Annabel. It’s Carole.”
“Hi. Anything new on the exhibition?”
“The Italians are still threatening, but no action yet. I’ve been trying to fax you.”
“Machine should be on. I’ll check.” She returned a moment later. “Must have turned it off by mistake. What are you sending me?”
“Call me after you’ve read it.”
Annabel read Carole’s fax as it moved slowly through the machine:
THE ASSOCIATED PRESS
San Francisco—The body of noted art historian and freelance curator, Peter C. Lafroing, 57, was discovered this morning in bushes surrounding Colt Tower, on Telegraph Hill. A sightseeing Japanese couple came upon the body. Lafroing, considered an expert on Italian Baroque art, was fully clothed, and his personal effects were intact, according to a preliminary statement by the police. A detective, speaking on condition of anonymity, stated that the circumstances of Lafroing’s death were “suspicious.” A final determination of cause of death is pending an autopsy. Lafroing, divorced, leaves two children, Stephanie, 28, of Santa Fe, and Peter, Jr., 24, of San Francisco.
“Carole, this is unbelievable. First Carlo Giliberti, then Luther Mason. And now this.”
“I know. At what point does the link with Caravaggio cease to be coincidence?”
“Does Steve Jordan know?”
“Would you call him?”
“Of course.”
As Annabel dialed the art-squad chief’s number, Jordan and his assistant, Gloria Watson, were in his office reading a Reuters dispatch from Rome they’d received a few minutes earlier:
REUTERS
Ravello, Italy—Father Pasquale Giocondi, a retired Roman Catholic priest, in whose former church the lost Caravaggio masterpiece, Grottesca, was discovered by a curator for Washington, D.C.’s National Gallery of Art, was found hung this morning in front of that same church. Italian authorities announced the priest’s death as suicide, although the manner of death indicated a possible link to Italy’s Mafia, particularly the Naples faction known as Camorra. He is the third person associated with the discovery of Grottesca to have met a brutal death. Italy’s cultural attaché to the United States, Carlo Giliberti, was murdered in a Washington, D.C., park shortly after the announcement that the painting had been discovered. And a few days ago, Luther Mason, senior curator at the National Gallery of Art, who brought Grottesca to the United States, died of severe head wounds in a courtyard between that institution’s East and West buildings.
Considerable controversy surrounds Grottesca. According to Italian authorities, a skillfully forged copy had been returned to Italy following its exhibition in the United States. It is believed that Mason possessed the original and was killed by whoever currently has the work. None of the murders has been solved, although there is still debate whether Mr. Mason was killed by someone or suffered a tragic accident.
“Make it four people,” Steve Jordan said to Watson, pointing to the AP dispatch about Peter Lafroing.
“Will there be five?” she asked.
“Sure, why not? I don’t believe in witches and curses, Gloria, but if somebody told me Caravaggio has cast a spell over everybody connected with Grottesca, he wouldn’t get a serious argument.”
He answered his phone. “Hello, Annabel.”
“Hello, Steve. Carole Aprile just faxed me an AP story about Peter Lafroing. He was another Caravaggio expert who—”
“I know.”
“Remarkable, isn’t it?” Annabel said. “Three people connected with Caravaggio—”
“Try four.”
“What?”
“The ex-priest, Father Giocondi. Found hung in front of his church in Ravello.”
Annabel’s gasp was loud.
“How about we get together today, talk this out? Maybe you know more than you remember. Hold on.” He cupped his hand over the mouthpiece and asked Gloria Watson, who was heading for the door, “Where are you going?”
“To buy a clove of garlic to wear around my neck, and a wooden stake.”
“Annabel?”
“I’m here, Steve.”
“Buy a couple of extra cloves,” he shouted at Gloria’s back. “What?” Annabel asked.
“Garlic.”
“Garlic?”
“I’ll explain when I see you.”
32
The Market Inn, located beneath the Southwest Freeway, was a Washington institution unto itself, a popular spot for locals seeking straight-ahead American food and round-the-clock jazz. Steve Jordan met Annabel at the door and led her to a booth in a secl
uded corner. Drinks ordered, she asked for his reaction to the murders of Peter Lafroing and Father Giocondi.
“Giocondi is simple enough. An Italian Mafia hit. Why? No details, except it’s reasonable to assume it’s connected with Grottesca.”
“Peter Lafroing?”
“A guy I went to school with heads up San Fran’s art squad. We’re pretty close. He told me just before I came to meet you that the Lafroing case looks like a professional hit, too.”
“The same people?”
“I don’t think so. But there’s that damn Caravaggio again, maybe linking them—and maybe not. Giliberti. Mason. Giocondi. Lafroing. What do you hear from Mrs. Aprile?”
“She’s shaken, of course. Besides seeing four people murdered, she’s pivotal in trying to dissuade the Italians from closing the Caravaggio exhibition. And maybe some of our air bases by now.”
“And?”
“So far just saber rattling. It’s good they’re nonnuclear. Where do you think Grottesca is?”
“Until he took his fall, I’d say it was with Luther Mason. The question is whether he had it with him that night. If he did, and if somebody pushed him down those steps, that same person might have it. Unless he had already sold it, which is unlikely. Did Luther have any contact with Peter Lafroing after the exhibition opened?”
“Not that I know of,” Annabel replied.
“Lafroing was in Washington the night Mason died. We have his flight records. He flew in the day before, then back to San Francisco first thing next morning.”
“Any idea what he did while in Washington?”
“A few leads. Nothing the night of Mason’s death. The flight crew that worked his flight back to California is San Francisco based. My friend interviewed flight attendants who worked it. One remembers Lafroing carrying a package onboard the size of a painting. Kept it close to him all the way.”
“That’s interesting.”
“Yeah. But he didn’t have any painting with him when they found his body. Wallet missing, leading you to believe it was robbery. But the Caravaggio link is just too strong, robbery too simple—though as I’ve learned, sometimes the complex is really simple. I don’t know how this all comes together, Annabel, but I’ll bet it does.”
Just as Annabel started to speak, Jordan’s beeper went off. “Excuse me,” he said, heading for a phone. He returned a minute later. “Have to run. Or maybe you’d like to come with me.”
“Why?”
“Your friend, Carole Aprile, received a call at her office from some guy claiming to know where the original Grottesca is.”
“Oh.”
“Secret Service called my leader, the commish. They consider the call threatening.”
Annabel followed him to the door. “Based upon what’s already happened,” she said, “Secret Service made a good move.”
After a stringent check of credentials at the security gate, and phone calls to the inside, Annabel and Jordan were escorted to Carole Aprile’s office in the West Wing. Darkness had begun to fall. Annabel had told Mac she was meeting Jordan but wanted to let him know where she was now. She used a phone in Carole’s outer office and got his machine, told him she was at the White House and would check in later.
With Carole were two Secret Service agents, two plainclothes detectives from MPD, an administrative aide, and a woman from State who’d been meeting with Carole when the call came in. The Veep’s wife provided a capsule account of what transpired.
“What did he say specifically?” Jordan asked.
“This,” she replied. “All calls to the office are recorded.”
The aide punched buttons on an elaborate tape recorder, and voices came through separate enhanced speakers:
“Mrs. Aprile’s office,” an aide’s voice said.
“I would like to speak with Mrs. Aprile.” The voice was male, deep and resonant.
“Who’s calling?”
“I would prefer not to identify myself. But Mrs. Aprile will want to speak with me, I’m sure.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but it is our policy not to take calls where the caller—”
“Please tell Mrs. Aprile I know where the original Grottesca can be found.”
Carole’s aide paused, obviously processing what the caller had said. One of the detectives spoke, but Jordan waved him off, leaning closer to the speakers.
“It’s very important that Mrs. Aprile speak with me,” the caller said.
“Please hold on.”
There was a lull until Carole Aprile picked up her extension. “Who is this?” she said.
“A friend, Mrs. Aprile. Grottesca is very important to you. I know where it is.”
“Where?”
He laughed. “I can’t make it that easy.”
“Why not? If you motivation is to see the painting returned to its rightful owner, I’d think you’d want to—”
“I’ve said enough for today, Mrs. Aprile. I’ll contact you again.”
“Wait. I—”
The line went dead.
“A nut,” a detective said.
“We’re taking him seriously,” a Secret Service agent said. “How many murders have there been over this painting?”
“Four,” Steve Jordan said. “At least three. We’re not sure about Mason’s cause of death.”
“We want to set up a trace on this line,” said a detective. “Any problem with that, Mrs. Aprile?”
She looked to the Secret Service agents. “Not if it’s okay with Mrs. Aprile,” one said.
“Do you recognize the voice, Carole?” Annabel asked.
“No.”
“He said he was a friend.”
“I took it to mean he was acting as a friend,” she said. “Not a friend in the true sense. What’s next?”
A Secret Service agent answered. “We’re going to increase security for you, Mrs. Aprile.”
She laughed. “I can’t imagine more security than I already have.”
“You won’t even notice,” he said.
Everyone left the room except for Annabel and Steve Jordan, at Carole’s request. “What do you think?” she asked.
“I think you should take the call seriously in two ways, Mrs. Aprile,” Jordan said. “Obviously, the safety of everyone involved with the Caravaggio exhibition is of concern. Second, the caller could be legit. He might really know the whereabouts of Grottesca.”
“That would be wonderful,” said Annabel. “If the painting is recovered, it would take the pressure off the exhibition.”
“Off all of us,” Carole said.
“What do we do?” Annabel asked Jordan.
“Sit tight, I suppose. He’ll call again. Or reach you another way. Maybe too canny to use the phone again. Maybe the trace will work. And you’ve got your recorder going, Mrs. Aprile. All we can do is wait.”
“My least favorite thing,” she said.
“First thing you learn as a cop, Mrs. Aprile. Patience. Especially in this type of situation.”
“Annabel,” Carole said as they prepared to leave her office.
“Yes?”
“Thanks for being here, for being along all the way.”
“Just taking the bitter with the sweet, as my father used to say. It’s been nothing but sweet fun, mostly. Now we’re into the bitter.”
“Has there been any progress in investigating the murders?” Annabel asked as Jordan drove her back to the Market Inn, where she’d left her car.
“Only what I told you earlier. We’ve been talking to anybody who was close to Mason. They all have an alibi for when he took his tumble. His son was at a bar with his girlfriend. The bartender isn’t certain what time they left, but he thinks it was past midnight.”
“Julian.”
“Yeah. Right after he was interviewed he went to Paris.”
“He was allowed to leave the country?”
“Homicide’s ruled him out.”
“I suppose that’s reasonable considering Luther’s death still hasn’t
been ruled a homicide. Has it?”
“No, it hasn’t.”
“What about his girlfriend?” Annabel asked.
“She worked for the kid’s father at the National Gallery. Lynn Marshall.”
“Yes, I know her. I mean, I’ve met her on a few occasions.”
“The son, as I understand it, went to stay with his mother in Paris. He told us he had been planning to do that. Mason’s first wife, the kid’s mother. His second wife was visiting relatives in Florida when he died. I know what I didn’t tell you. The umbrella found at the scene belongs to that pretentious pant-load, Mr. Scott Pims.”
“It does? Was he with Luther that night?”
“Uh huh. He says he and Mason had an early dinner together at his apartment. Mason left around nine, according to Pims. Claims he doesn’t know where he went after that. Pims stayed home to work on a book he says he’s writing.
“Believe him?” Annabel asked.
“Yeah. He showed one of our people files logged on his computer with time-date stamps that have him there when Mason died.”
“Those things can be doctored,” Annabel offered.
“What are you saying, that you think Pims might have pushed his friend down the steps?”
“Just free-associating.”
“Everybody who knew Mason at the National Gallery has an alibi, some that check out, some that don’t.”
“What about the ones that don’t?”
“Lacking motive. But no one’s been ruled out completely. Look, I’m assigning people to keep an eye on you.”
“That isn’t necessary.”
“My call, Annabel. You won’t even know they’re around. Thanks for the help.”
“Mac will. Know they’re around. Oh, by the way, you said after the Dumbarton incident you might want to use me again to recover stolen art.”
His laugh was easy. “As I remember, you accused me of considering that. I denied it.”
“And without conviction. I’ll help in any way I can, Steve. Please remember that. I’m beginning to hate anyone stealing or destroying art.”
“Yeah, except you don’t make a very believable hater, Mrs. Smith.”
Murder at the National Gallery Page 31
