by Stuart Woods
Stone sat up. “That would have been the sound of Mark hitting the pavement.”
“It had to be. We drove past the alley, but there was a car parked illegally at the entrance, and I saw it drive away in the rearview mirror. That car had blocked our view.”
“Did the driver of the car see Mark fall?”
“I don’t think so. There was nothing hurried about his departure.”
“So you’re telling me that Mark and Morgan were alone in the apartment when he fell.”
“That has to be the case.”
“Why didn’t you tell the police about it?”
“The standard reason—we didn’t want to get involved. We didn’t want to spend months talking to the cops and reporters, then testifying in court. It’s a privacy thing—we’re funny that way.”
“And why are you telling me now?”
“Because we’re cowards,” Pio said, “and we think you’re not. You know the police commissioner, you can get the case reopened.”
Stone shook his head. “That’s highly unlikely.”
“Why? You know now what happened.”
“No, I only know what you heard. Certainly that puts her in the apartment with Mark, but she’s already admitted being there. In fact, your story backs up hers, to the extent that she arrived when she said she did. And it strains credulity that she would arrive home, walk out on the terrace, and push her husband off the building.”
Pio looked as though he’d just been backhanded. “What about her story about the cat burglar?”
“I think Mark’s death was an accident of some sort, and she made that up on the fly because she was afraid of being accused of murder.”
Ann spoke up. “Stone is right, Pio,” she said.
“Jesus,” Pio said, “we went through this whole conscience thing, deciding to tell you, and now what we’ve told you makes no difference?”
“Not in the least,” Stone replied. “And I have to tell you, having gotten to know Morgan, I question whether it’s in her character to do something like that.”
Ann spoke again. “I think our suspicions helped form our opinion of her character. And I think that now we have to question our conclusions.”
“I know that’s hard to do,” Stone said, “but I think you have to try.”
They were all quiet for a moment.
Then Pio said, “The doctor says we can see Dad tomorrow morning at ten. Will you come?”
“Of course,” Stone said.
56
ARTHUR STEELE WAS SITTING at his desk, going over the final draft of the Steele Group’s annual report, which was to go to press in an hour. The phone rang.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Steele, there’s a man on line two who is demanding to speak to you.”
“What does he want?”
“He wants to know if you want your picture back.”
Steele was about to ask what picture when he stopped himself. “I’ll take the call. What’s his name?”
“Sol Fineman.”
The name was vaguely familiar, and he picked up the phone. “This is Arthur Steele.”
“Mr. Steele, this is Sol Fineman. I used to work for a man named Sam Spain, now deceased.”
“That name is familiar to me.”
“First of all, I should save you some time by telling you that you can’t trace this call or my location.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to give you back the van Gogh you insured.”
“Oh, really? How do I know you’ve got it?”
“I’ll have it delivered to you, and you will have three minutes to inspect it, and if you find it to be genuine, then you’ll give the man who delivered it five million dollars in hundred-dollar bills.”
“Oh, I will?”
“Mr. Steele, you’ve already fucked this up once. This is your last chance to save tens of millions of dollars.”
Steele didn’t speak for a moment.
“I was there when you told Sam Spain to go fuck himself,” Fineman said. “You can tell me that, if you like, and neither you nor your client will ever see the picture again. I’ll have to destroy it—it’s too hot.”
“How do you want to do this?” Arthur asked.
“There’s a luggage shop near your office, at Park Avenue and Fifty-sixth Street.”
“I know the place.”
“When you hang up, go there and buy a large black aluminum suitcase, made by Zero Halliburton. Buy the largest one available on wheels. It’s about five hundred dollars.”
“Then what?”
“Take it back to your office and put the five million, in bundles of ten thousand each, into the suitcase. That’s how it comes from the bank. Follow the directions that come with the luggage and set the two combination locks to eight-six-nine. Got it?”
“Yes. I have the cash in my vault as we speak. When do you want to do this?”
“In two hours.”
“I guess I can do that.”
“A FedEx delivery man will call at your office and tell your people that he has a delivery that must be signed for by you, personally. You will allow him into your office alone. He will give you a package containing the picture and wait three minutes for you and you alone to examine it, so if you need any inspection equipment you’d better get it now.”
“I see.”
“While you’re examining the picture, he will open the suitcase using the code eight-six-nine and count the money. When the three minutes is up, he will depart your office with the money.”
“What if I need more time?”
“Mr. Steele, you have an eight-by-ten transparency of the painting. You can compare it to that, and you will know that the picture is the one you previously had authenticated. If you feel it’s not the same picture, return it to the deliveryman. He will leave with it, and our business will be done, once and for all. Neither you nor your client will ever see the van Gogh again.”
“I understand, and I accept your conditions.”
“I haven’t told you all of my conditions yet.”
“Go ahead.”
“Now comes the unpleasant part: The deliveryman will carry a small explosive device. If you involve the police, your corporate security people, or anyone else who attempts to disrupt this process, the picture will be destroyed by the deliveryman, who will also take a few seconds to end your life. If you stick to my conditions and allow the man to leave with the money, unhindered and not followed, he will disarm the device remotely, fifteen minutes after he leaves your office. You will get a phone call telling you that it is safe. Do you understand these terms?”
“I do.”
“Do you agree to them?”
“I agree.”
“Good. If you keep your word, you will be able to report to your board of directors that the picture has been recovered and returned to the policyholder. They will be very pleased with the terms under which you resolved the problem. The alternative will, I assure you, be unbearable to all concerned.” Fineman hung up.
Arthur Steele immediately used his cell phone to call Stone Barrington.
“Hello, Arthur.”
“Stone, there have been developments with regard to the van Gogh.”
“Oh?”
“I just got a phone call from someone named Sol Fineman. Do you know that name?”
“I do. He’s the man who put me in the hospital a few days ago.”
“Let me tell you what he proposed.” He related the phone conversation to Stone. “What is your advice?”
“Arthur, do you still intend to pay me the twelve-million-dollar recovery fee?”
“Stone, if I get it back this way, then you won’t have recovered it.”
“Think it through, Arthur. This recovery will not have taken place, except f
or my participation.”
“I don’t see it that way, Stone.”
“In that case, I have no advice to offer you.” Stone hung up.
Arthur panicked and called Stone again.
“Yes, Arthur?”
“All right, I agree to pay you the twelve-million-dollar fee if I recover the picture today.”
“In that case, here is my advice. Follow Sol Fineman’s instructions to the letter. Do not attempt to apprehend him or deny him the five-million-dollar payment or inhibit him in any way. Do not report this to the police or your corporate security, and do not have him followed. Do you understand my advice?”
“Stone, you want me just to hand over millions of dollars to this guy?”
“I thought I had made myself perfectly clear. You are in a very dangerous position, Arthur. If you attempt to obstruct this exchange, the whole thing will blow up in your face, perhaps literally, and you will have to face the board and tell them exactly how you blew the opportunity to recover the picture for less than ten percent of its value, and how you are, as a result, going to have to pay your client sixty million for her loss. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Stone,” Steele said resignedly.
“Then I compliment you on your perspicacity, and I wish you every success in recovering a precious artwork.” Stone hung up.
Arthur Steele sat there sweating for a moment, then he got up and headed for the luggage shop.
57
ARTHUR STEELE POINTED at the large black Zero Halliburton case on wheels. “That one, please, no need to wrap it.”
The salesman pulled down the case from the shelf. “This one?”
“That is correct.” Steele handed him a credit card and waited as patiently as he could while the sale was processed. He read the instructions for setting the combination on the locks, then handed the salesman the leaflet in frustration. “I can’t do this. Will you please set the combinations to eight-six-nine?”
The salesman didn’t bother with the instructions. He made a few swift moves, and the combinations were set. He handed Steele the slip to sign.
Arthur pulled out the handle on the case and it followed him down Park Avenue to his office building. As he passed the reception desk, he said to the uniformed security guard, “I’m expecting a delivery soon, which will require my signature. Send him up to my floor.”
“Yes, Mr. Steele.”
Steele went from there to the chief accountant’s office. “Please open the vault,” he said.
“Of course, Mr. Steele,” the man said, rising. “May I ask why?”
“Because I asked you to.”
The man complied, then returned to his desk, out of sight. Steele walked into the vault and pulled the door nearly shut behind him. He took out a key and opened a steel door at the rear of the vault, exposing a tightly shrink-wrapped block of bank notes. He found some scissors and slit the pack open, then set the case on the nearby counter and began to stack the banded bundles into it, four at a time, counting aloud. When he had stacked in five hundred bundles, he rearranged the notes a little, then closed the case. He was surprised that it held all the money.
He set the case on the floor; it was very heavy, and he was grateful for the wheels. He locked the cabinet and left the vault, closing the door behind him and spinning the locking wheel. He towed the heavy case down the corridor to his office, stood it up beside his desk, and sat down. He removed a magnifying glass from a desk drawer and retrieved the 8x10 transparency of the painting from his personal safe, then set a light box on his desk and sat down to wait, dabbing at his damp face with a tissue.
• • •
SOL FINEMAN, now Blankenship, maneuvered the rented white van, on which he had pasted a plastic FedEx logo to each side. He found a space in a loading zone a few steps from the entrance to the Steele building, then he took a closed FedEx box and a clipboard, walked into the building, and approached the front desk, where a uniformed security guard awaited. Sol was wearing a khaki uniform with a matching zippered jacket bearing the FedEx logo and a name: Jenson. He was also wearing heavy-framed, tinted glasses and a thick goatee, mustache, and eyebrows.
“May I help you?” the guard asked.
“I have a delivery for Mr. Arthur Steele, requiring his personal signature.”
The man picked up a phone and reported this to the receptionist on the executive floor, then hung up. “Please go up to the thirtieth floor. They’re expecting you.”
Sol got onto the elevator and pressed the button for 30. He felt oddly buoyant and relaxed. He got off and started toward the receptionist.
“You may go right in,” she said. “You’re expected. First door on your right for Mr. Steele.”
Sol walked to the door and rapped lightly on it.
“Come in,” a voice said.
He opened the door, took a step in, and looked around. A bald man in a black suit sat behind the desk.
“Delivery for Mr. Steele,” Sol said.
“I am Arthur Steele. Come in.”
Sol walked to the desk and set the box on it. “May I see a picture ID?” he asked.
Seemingly surprised, Steele produced a driver’s license.
Sol tore open the paper zip of the box. “You have three minutes,” he said, starting the stopwatch function on his wristwatch.
“There’s the money,” Steele said, pointing. He tore at the box, removed the wrapped painting.
Sol set the case on a conference table and dialed in 869. Nothing happened; the lock refused to open. “Stop!” he said to Steele.
Steele stopped. “What’s wrong?”
“The combination didn’t work. What did you set it to?”
“I asked the salesman at the store to set it to eight-six-nine. It must work.”
“You’re sure you said eight-six-nine?”
“I’m certain. I’m not trying to trick you.”
Sol turned back to the case and tried 986: nothing. He tried 689, and the locks opened. “Got it.” He reset his stopwatch. “Three minutes from now.” He began counting the bundles of hundreds, flipping through them to be sure there was no plain paper hidden there. He saw a postage scale on a nearby credenza and moved it to the conference table and started weighing banded bundles at random: all the same weight. He counted the stacks and rows of bundles and multiplied in his head. Five hundred of them.
Steele had turned on the light box and set the transparency there and was peering first at the light box, then at the painting.
“You have twenty seconds,” Sol said, feeling for the pistol at his belt.
With five seconds to go, Steele switched off the light box. “It’s the authentic painting,” he said.
Sol snapped the case shut, spun the combinations, set it on the floor, and extended the handle. He walked toward the door and stopped. “Nice doing business with you,” he said, and headed for the elevator.
• • •
HE STEPPED OUT into the lobby, where his wife awaited, had a quick look around, then, satisfied, handed her the handle to the case. “Out the uptown door and turn right,” Sol said. “I’ll catch up to you in the next block.” She started in that direction and he turned toward the front door.
The van was where he had left it. He got in, started the engine, and pulled out into the traffic, just as a cop came around the corner toward him. He looked straight ahead, ignoring the uniform, then made a right at the corner. He made another right and started looking for his wife. There she was, near the next corner. Sol stopped the van next to her, got out and loaded the heavy case into the rear, while his wife stripped off the FedEx logo from each side of the truck. She got into the driver’s seat while Sol got in beside her and started stripping off his jacket and shirt.
He ripped off the mustache, eyebrows, and goatee and wrapped them in his shirt, along with the tinted glasses, which he
had wiped clean. “Take a right on Forty-second Street and head for the tunnel,” he said. “Check your mirrors regularly.” He reached out the window and turned the mirror so that he could see behind them.
“So far, so good,” she said.
Traffic was backed up a block at the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel, and it took another ten minutes before they were inside it. Finally, they broke out on the New Jersey side in bright sunshine and drove normally past the cops stationed there.
“Take 3 West and get off at 17 North,” Sol said. He got out a cell phone and made a call. “Twenty minutes,” he said to the man who answered. “Get your clearance and start an engine.” Twenty minutes later they pulled up at the security booth at an entrance to Teterboro Airport. “November one, two, three, Tango Foxtrot,” she said to the guard, and the bar was raised. They parked the van, and Sol got the case from the rear, while his wife gave the attendant the car rental papers and told him they would pick up the van. Two minutes later they walked out onto the ramp, where the chartered Citation was waiting.
She got onto the airplane, while Sol helped the copilot hoist the case into the rear baggage compartment. “Got your clearance?”
“All the way to Wichita,” he replied. He followed Sol onto the airplane and settled in the right cockpit seat, while Sol strapped himself in next to his wife and put on a headset so he could hear the pilots talking. He heard the other engine start.
“Teterboro ground,” the pilot said, “N123TF is ready to taxi, IFR to Wichita.”
“N123TF, taxi to runway one, via kilo taxiway.”
The pilot repeated the instruction, and the airplane began to move.
There were two aircraft ahead of them waiting for the runway, and another ten minutes passed before they were rolling and rotating.
Sol waited until they were given a higher altitude and had contacted New York Center. “Pilot,” he said.
“Yes, sir?”
“Request a new destination and routing to Anderson, Indiana, identifier AID.”
