by Ritter Ames
Jack looked at me and smiled. I could see his teal eyes shining again from the hint of tears, but he didn’t flee this time. “He sold the painting in grief over my mother leaving him. She was much younger than he, and Sebastian thought he’d never see her again. He said looking at the painting made him feel like his heart was being ripped out of his chest. Besides, while others have made a fortune off Sebastian’s work, he has given away more than he’s sold for himself. After she returned, it was years later, and she was a mature beauty in his eyes. He painted her several more times, but he never tried to duplicate the original work. He had the real thing. All he ever wanted.”
“So…the loss of the Juliana…All of this…” I stammered. “Is it why you do what you do?”
He gave a low chuckle and took my hand. “Yes, it sounds like my mother’s painting affected your career choices as much as it did mine. I always hoped I’d find it again. Stumble onto it like you did, or discover it when I was working to recover another work. I can’t tell you how many people I’ve asked for information on any of The Portrait of Three paintings. I thought if I’d even found one of the other works I might find the portrait of my mother eventually. No one ever had any information to help, but I’ve never quit looking. Though with the original owner deceased I imagine I’d be dealing with the insurance company if I ever did get my hands on the painting again. You say all three were together?”
“Yes. They were perfect. Exactly as they’d been the night they disappeared. Tony B didn’t tell me who stole them, but it wasn’t him. I wish I’d said something when you and Nico picked me up after I escaped—”
“No.” He rubbed the top of my hand with his thumb. “If you had I would have likely barreled back inside and gotten us killed. We would have never gotten to Florence or learned everything we’ve subsequently pieced together. You are probably the one person in the world who understands my feelings on this, and can appreciate why I’m disappointed, but glad I didn’t know at the time.”
I nodded, but I didn’t speak. I was afraid I might say too much. My grandfather loved art almost as much as he did his family, and I grew up understanding how important every medium was to mankind. When he died and my father spit on everything my family built and protected the previous couple of generations, art was the way I could escape from the hell my life had become. I’d lost my home, people I’d thought were friends, and everything I’d identified with my life. Except art.
At twelve, I’d seen Juliana, and knew it was the most perfect work I could ever witness. Like Jack, I’d hoped to be able to find and recover The Portrait of Three and return the work to the world.
“One more reason to figure out this Ermo Colle conundrum,” Jack said. “You say you think Tony B gave copies instead of originals?”
“He was playing mind games, don’t forget,” I said. “It was a feeling I had, but could have been exactly what he wanted me to think.”
Jack’s expression turned moody, and I thought it was a good time to change the subject somewhat.
“There are many legends and myths about Sebastian,” I said. “Is he really living in Italy?”
“I’m sorry. I’m sworn to secrecy,” he said, offering me an apologetic half-smile. “He’s been taken advantage of to such a degree through the years, his self-imposed exile is both protection from those who wish to exploit him and the people who love him too much. I haven’t seen him in several years, though I need to make the time to do so. He hasn’t been strong in a while. He still paints, but his mind is more in the past than the present. What little money he has left goes to those who take care of him. After he lost my mother, he didn’t handle life well for a while. Now he needs someone with him all the time.”
Such a sad story. I couldn’t help but hope I’d someday be able to convince Jack to take me to meet the great man.
He pulled out his phone, and I read the action as a message he didn’t want to talk anymore. The lights in the car dimmed, and the hum of conversation around us quieted a little. It was late and the car was winding down.
“Look,” I said. “We have about nine hours before we hit Cologne. Do you want to sleep first, or—”
“I’m not sleepy,” he interrupted, holding up his cell. “I need to send some texts, and I’m going to try to get a chat going with Micelli to find out what he knows about Roberto. Why don’t you sleep first shift, and I’ll wake you when I’m ready?”
“You promise to wake me, right?”
“I’m sure my brain will need an escape from all of this in a few hours.”
It wasn’t exactly a promise. I didn’t think I was going to get anything better though and accepted it. I handed him my phone. “In case Cassie calls,” I said. I pulled my coat from my lap and draped the warm wool over me and the Fendi wedged into the seat with me. He may not have been ready to sleep, but between the warmth and the movement of the car I was out in minutes.
Jack woke me a little after three. My cell was buzzing softly in his hand. The screen showed Ralf’s name in Caller ID.
“Hi, Ralf, thanks for calling,” I said, trying to get my tongue to sound a little less thick. I turned toward my seatback to keep my voice quieter and reduce any risk of eavesdroppers.
“I apologize for the lateness, or rather earliness, of the hour,” he said with a chuckle, his German accent heavily coloring his perfect English. “My time was already committed.” He didn’t elaborate, and I assumed someone had lost something precious overnight.
“No problem.” A yawn followed by a deep breath helped shake out some of the cobwebs in my brain. “You got Nico’s text, right?”
“Of course. It is why I called you.”
Duh. Wake up, Beacham.
“Right. Sorry. Look, the train will be in Cologne in a few hours. Can we meet and talk later today?”
“About my cousin…” Ralf’s words hung in the silence.
“I promise. Nothing to get you or your family in trouble. This is important, Ralf.”
“You’re coming alone?”
I looked at Jack and bit my lip, trying to decide what to do. I chose the truth. There was no way Jack would let me meet Ralf without him. “No. I’ve been warned to be more cautious. The guy who’s with me though, he’s only working toward the same outcome I am. Nothing to worry about. You can trust him as much as you trust me.”
“Good.” I could hear relief in the one word. He continued, “When Nico said in the text he was heading for America, I was afraid you were on your own. Things are too dangerous for this.”
There was dead air again, and I held my breath, afraid to talk and risk losing his cooperation. Finally, he said, “Send me a selfie of the two of you when you arrive in Cologne. Make it touristy. Say you’ll be here for the week and want to get together for drinks.”
“Okay…Is there a time we can—”
“We’ll meet today,” he said quickly. “I’m just being careful. Be in the cathedral at noon. Hang around the Saint Christopher statue. You’ll see it without difficulty.”
“I know it. I’ve been there before. Big guy with Jesus on his shoulder. Can’t miss him. I’ll rub his pilgrim’s staff for luck or something.”
He laughed. “Yes, do that. If I’m not there at noon, hang around. I’ll be coming, or I’ll send someone with a message.”
“Ralf, I’m sensing you weren’t really surprised when Nico contacted you about Jürgen and the information we’re seeking,” I said.
“I’m only surprised it took this long,” he replied. The line went dead.
I filled Jack in on anything he hadn’t heard. He whispered back Cassie and Nico were safe, and Micelli’s department chalked up Roberto’s death as a robbery.
“Maybe he’s right,” I said.
Jack frowned and raised his left eyebrow.
My jaw was again possessed by a powe
rful yawn, which triggered a similar one from him.
“Wow, I need coffee, and you need sleep. You should have woken me earlier,” I said.
“No need. I’m only yawning because you did,” he said.
“You’re yawning because you’re tired. No more arguments,” I said. “I’m going to go and find a cup of coffee, and when I get back I want to hear you snoring.”
“I don’t snore.”
“Yeah, keep telling yourself that. Remember, I had the room next to yours in the suite.”
Actually, I had no idea if he snored. I’d passed out so fast when I hit the bed in Rome a herd of rhinos could have slept in the next room and I wouldn’t have known.
All I needed was to find a helpful train employee, and I was on my way to the heavenly coffee car. I got two cups. One for me, and one for Jack in case he chose to be stubborn. When I got back to my seat, however, I found he’d taken my orders seriously. No matter. Two cups would wake me up even faster.
Most of the car was asleep, but a few people were talking. One twenty-something woman was knitting. A couple of teens and a guy in a suit were absorbed in whatever was on their phones. Jack hadn’t seemed concerned when he filled me in on what had happened while I slept, and I tried to relax and not think about bad guys coming through one of the doors at any moment. It didn’t work. I sipped from the first cup of coffee. It wasn’t midnight yet in New York. I could have called Max, but I chickened out and sent texts. I sent Cassie a text telling her to not worry any more about Woman Dressing Her Hair, but to note any data on The Portrait of Three she or Nico ran across. I didn’t tell her yet what Jack revealed about his mother and the paintings. It seemed too personal to share. If I felt my team needed to know I’d ask if he wanted to tell them, or get permission before I divulged anything. I reread all my latest messages, trying to keep my mind off bogeymen as I caught up on the related texts Jack had read and synopsized for me after I finished talking to Ralf.
There was nothing he hadn’t revealed. They were in New York and safely ensconced in a hotel near the foundation office. I went back over the email attachments Nico sent earlier, and wished I had a bigger screen. Zoom options are terrific, but full detail on a whole image at a time would have been stellar. Nevertheless, my wonder geek had come through superbly. I flipped through his notes in the digital file on my phone, and followed up with the attachments of official documents he’d likely gained via his hacking talents, marveling again at what was available to techno-wizards.
Ralf’s cousin, Jürgen Burkhard, known in underground circles as an up-and-coming forger of the kind of high-priced abstract artwork popular at the moment with Chinese and Russian millionaires, was killed behind his favorite watering hole after closing the place down with friends. Everyone parted company at the door, and one of the friends walked with Jürgen to the corner, where the friend turned east and the victim continued north. Yet, when the trash from the bar was removed at final cleanup an hour later, the forger’s body was discovered propped against the dumpster. Coincidentally enough, his throat was cut—like Roberto’s and practically everyone else who’d lately been pseudo-associated with this potential art heist.
Well, not everyone. From our past research we knew several European forgers had met rather unusual deaths, from peculiar electrocutions to creative suffocations and hair-raising car accidents. Many cases were quickly closed for the first two types, as situations strongly suggested accident or suicide. Only one of the last could be absolutely proven murder due to tampered brakes. The cases might be coincidental—or seem so to anyone investigating. After all, these victims worked in the riskiest of high-risk fields.
Coincidences happened, sure. Get a big enough pool of victims and any number of patterns could occur.
I didn’t believe coincidence was the answer for anything here. For as long ago as fourteen months, a higher than average percentage of forgers helped build the European fatality stats. Late summer through fall and early winter, the preferred method for killing forgers was a knife blade across the throat—and all of these murders couldn’t be muggings.
The Greek I’d found on our September pickup near Milan was not the first such death, I discovered, though he would always start the timeline in my mind. Before he was killed, there was a similar slashing in Dublin over the summer solstice, and a month earlier at Cannes during the international film festival. Spain gained the gory prize with five more over fall and winter—shared between Barcelona and Madrid—and all marked as closed cases due to muggings. I knew Simon was at Cannes near the end of spring, and he loved the weather in Barcelona year round. We hadn’t been able to place him at Milan, however. He was supposed to be busy during that time window retrieving an art object he ultimately absconded with—if the sword even existed.
A copy was left behind. We’d never tried to match that faked sword with its creator, but I put it on my mental to-do list. To see if the swordsmith was still breathing. The forgery was one of the pieces that hooked me into this puzzle originally. I had yet to learn if there was even an original Simon stole to begin with. My gut said yes, which meant its forger was at risk as well. If not already dead.
Flipping through the digital police files, to my mind the best evidence at the crime scene of Ralf’s cousin was a toss-off remark noted in the crime scene file about a strand of red hair discovered on the body. Unfortunately, no usable DNA could tag the hair to an individual, but it didn’t keep me from believing the Amazon had skipped away free.
I thought seriously about trying to pick Jack’s pocket for his cell, to see if he’d made any notes or had more info. I’d given him my phone, after all. But he needed the sleep, and I needed to learn to trust him. He’d been pretty good lately about sharing.
I opened the websites for the Guardian and the New York Times to check what news had hit in the last couple of hours and what was trending. Nothing particularly interesting to our mission.
Finally, I pulled up some travel sites to re-familiarize myself with Cologne. Or Köln, as the natives call Germany’s fourth largest city. It was one of my favorite places for its inclusive nature and broad range of events. Nearly two decades ago, Grandfather had taken my grandmother and me on a luxury Rhine cruise, and Cologne was our starting point. In the years since, I found the city’s calendar packed with spectacular events and activities, over twenty-two thousand each year. There was always something to do when I met friends, from art and cultural opportunities to dynamic rock concerts. A day’s shopping was always an option with their amazing pedestrian mall—known for being the first in Germany.
Nico and I even attended a gaming convention there a few years ago. I went as his arm candy. Once we got into the huge hall I quickly realized my role was to distract his competition. A few of those sweet nerdy guys still sent me emails several times a year.
Shortly before we crossed the bridge over the Rhine, I left our car to grab a coffee for Jack. It was a couple of hours before sunrise and only the growing wash of city lights foretold we were nearing our destination. I had a feeling my traveling companion was going to need help waking up. When I returned to our car, however, he was already awake and looking a little wild-eyed.
“Here.” I shoved the coffee into his hand and regained my seat. “Sorry if I woke you as I left.”
“No, a guy bumped my shoulder on his way to the WC,” he said, then took a long sip and closed his eyes. “This is wonderful.”
“I thought it might be appreciated.”
“We’re almost there?” he asked.
“Yeah, a few minutes.”
There was plenty of time before the appointment with Ralf. We stayed back and let most of our fellow passengers disembark ahead of us. Getting off the train was as uneventful as the journey, and no one caught our attention in the crowded station either. I was beginning to think the guys really had known what they were talking about when they sug
gested skipping the plane. Also much easier and more incognito than if we’d had to book a flight and find a hotel late last night. Of course, I’d actually slept a decent amount of time during the ride. Jack, on the other hand, immediately found the nearest coffee kiosk in the station and continued mainlining caffeine.
I pointed toward the sign for the lockers. “Let’s leave our bags here until we meet Ralf.”
“Okay.”
A toilette sign was on the wall nearby. “On second thought,” I said, “I’d like to change clothes first. Can you wait for me by the restroom?”
“Think I’ll do the same,” he said.
The stalls were mostly empty, with a couple of women at the sinks. Within minutes, I’d removed the sturdy travel tweeds and white blouse I’d worn every waking hour in the last forty-eight, to slip happily into black lined wool slacks and a royal blue high-necked blouse I’d worried I would never see again. I silently thanked whatever airport gods made the baggage handlers go back to the table when it counted. The dirties went into a plastic bag placed into a side pocket of my luggage.
I used the opportunity to slip out a couple of the handy gizmos I always had to put into my checked baggage to get through airport security. My personal favorite could open most electronic doors as easily as a household garage door opener. The little lovely went into one of the less obvious pockets of my Fendi. These were the things I didn’t bother telling Jack about. He’d seen some of my goodies, but not all. As much as he did things his own way, whether his methods were completely above-board or not, he’d squawked a little in the past about a few of my habits. I didn’t want to hear any lectures today. I did want to have my gadgets as backup, however, if we found later any were particularly necessary.
Be prepared, I always say. My Fendi alone was proof of the philosophy.
When I left the stall two women finished at the sinks. We traded smiley hellos before they left. There were a couple of stalls filled, but I had my pick of sinks and mirrors. I refreshed my lipstick and ran a comb through my hair. Things were feeling promising again as I rubbed a few dabs of lotion onto my hands. Slinging my coat over one arm, my Fendi went onto the other shoulder. My carry-on was anchored atop my rolling bag and I was ready to go.
