They nodded.
“Why aren’t you arresting me for what I did?”
“Yesterday we met with your brother. Before he became incommunicative, he told us what happened. We believed that your actions were motivated to save your nephew. It would have been much better if you had contacted the authorities back then, but no one has the desire to put you through the process now after all these years. Mr. Kastanski enjoy your remaining years in good health,” Ichowitz told him.
“Well, at least we eliminated another name from the list Sister Marta gave us. Now we only need to try and track down five more. Maybe three of them will turn out to be the Jane Does buried on the Kastanski properties. And we also know that Paul buried the two Jane Does at the butcher shop,” McElroy said as they drove away from the farmhouse.
Ichowitz nodded, “Do you believe that Paul had nothing to do with their deaths?”
McElroy shrugged.
“Maybe we’ll find out who they are when we question the sister-in-law.”
Chapter 47
The caller id read ‘Pablo Picasso,’ so he answered the call.
“Do ya know who this is?”
Harlan Johnson would never forget that Irish brogue. Johnson had been the security guard on duty at the Barnes Foundation the night Michael Flynn and his accomplices stole half the collection of masterpieces from the gallery in Lower Merion before they could be safely relocated to the new museum on the Parkway. Flynn held Harlan at gunpoint and locked him and the other staff in the back of an eighteen-wheeler while the thieves loaded the artwork onto another truck and drove away.
Harlan’s controlled reaction and calm demeanor prevented what could have easily escalated into a horrible tragedy to manageable proportions. By dint of his taking charge none of the staff had been hurt. His quick thinking also led to the recovery of most of the stolen masterpieces. Harlan and Jack Regan were able to track the paintings using a monitor that received signals from the chips the museum had inserted on the art to help keep track of the collection when the Barnes Foundation exhibited at other locations.
The Foundation’s Board rewarded Harlan’s good work by promoting him to the position of chief of security at the new facility. With the opening of the museum on the Parkway, and the enormous increase in the number of visitors and special events, security of the collection became exponentially more demanding and sophisticated than the guard house and stone wall that formerly served as the primary means of protection the Foundation had relied upon for more than half a century.
“Mr. Flynn why are you calling me?”
“Well, I could be callin just ta thank ya for buyin my state of the art security tracking equipment. It’s far better than the skimpy device you used to track the paintings last summer, but it did give me the idea. Ya know I was afraid I would have to draw ya a map to help ya find where I left them. But I’ve a more important matter ta discuss.”
“And what would that be?”
“I noticed an empty space on the wall when I visited your grand establishment the other day where I figure Albert Barnes had once placed a small painting, looked like a stack of cubes. I could never quite understand what the old boy was tryin to convey with his outlandish ideas of where certain paintings and such should be displayed. He was an odd duck for sure. Anyways, it seems I can do ya a favor and see that the missin item can find its way back to its rightful place.”
“Are you referring to ‘The Pitcher’?”
“Oh, is that what that’s supposed ta be?”
“Flynn, are you telling me you’ve recovered the Braque?”
“Well, in a way of speakin. Let’s put it this way, I’ve been retained to arrange the return of your property in exchange for a proper reward.”
“And what exactly are you asking?”
“Seein as I must accept a certain degree of responsibility for the current state of affairs, I’m waiving my normal commission. So I can assure the safe return of the item in question, for $1.5 million dollars. Harlan, the price is not negotiable. You know the Braque could fetch ten times that on the black market. I suggest you talk with your people and get the appropriate authorization. Tell the insurance folks I’m the one who called ya, I think you’ll find them receptive. Time is of the essence. I’ll call you in 24 hours and let ya know where to wire the funds.”
Levy still wanted Shona to go away with him. Of course Shona didn’t believe starting a new life could be accomplished by the mere act of moving to a new location. And she was far from trusting this double agent as the person with whom she should attempt to shed her former existence, if that indeed was really possible. As far as she knew, no one had told the police where she was hiding. Levy had assured her he hadn’t disclosed her whereabouts to either the Mossad or the CIA. In the days since the kidnapping and rescue of the boy, despite her doubts their relationship had become something more than an acquaintance of necessity, but she wasn’t exactly certain where it was headed. Last night when they parted they kissed goodnight. The moment of intimacy felt natural but maybe she had to keep up her guard.
Bill Miller could tell that something was troubling her. She seemed distracted and out of sorts. “What’s bothering you?”
She shrugged, “It’s nothing.”
“I haven’t seen that young man who asked you out on the date, what’s his name?”
“Marty.”
“Yes Marty. He didn’t come in today. Did the two of you have a fight or something?”
“No. He’s very nice.”
“Carrie?”
“I’m fine…really.”
Her mind wandered back to last night and their first kiss.
Ichowitz and McElroy totally struck out with Helene Kastanski. She denied knowing anything about any of the bodies or why her brother-in-law would have buried anyone in the cellar of the butcher shop. She stonewalled them at every turn.
When they were finishing up Ichowitz asked, “Mrs. Kastanski, did you ever hear from your husband after he left you and your son?”
For a moment her face grimaced with a bitter smile and then returned to the scowl with which she had confronted them for the entire interview. “No, not a word.”
“What do you think?” McElroy asked as they returned to the car.
“I think Helene knows a good deal more about the bodies and why her brother-in-law buried them than she claims. I also think she knows what happened to her husband.”
“Then why did she deny it?”
“I dunno.”
“Maybe we’ll have better luck with her son Jerry.”
“I hope so.”
“I’ve confirmed the funds were wired to the bank in Zurich.”
“So where’s the Braque?”
“A messenger will be droppin off a package this morning.”
“Is he bringing the painting?”
“No, it’s in a safe location. I gave ya my word. You’ll have the Braque in your hands within the hour.”
Harlan Johnson had taken a huge risk in trusting Flynn. As Flynn had suggested he needed the help of the insurance company people who put up a big chunk of the money to convince his employers that it was worth the gamble. When Harlan disclosed that Michael Flynn was the broker they agreed that based on their prior dealings with Flynn he had always kept his word. In the past this had saved the consortium of insurance companies that covered museums, collectors and galleries around the world hundreds of millions of dollars.
He waited anxiously for the package. As promised within an hour of the call the UPS driver delivered an envelope. In it was a bank vault key and directions to a venerable banking institution on the Main Line in Bryn Mawr, a suburb nine miles from Center City Philadelphia where the old money crowd kept some of their fortunes. Harlan and two of his men drove to the institution and recovered the painting to the relief of Harlan’s employer and the insurance c
ompany executive who had put up the ransom money.
They met in the back room of Duffy’s bar. Shona and Levy were ushered into the room by Duffy’s lieutenant Quinn, “They’re clean,” he said. Duffy nodded and the young man left the room and closed the door. Duffy was seated at his normal place at the head of the conference table with Flynn to his right.
Duffy pointed to the chairs on his left, “Make yerselves comfortable.”
“Ms. Cohen, yer money has been wired to a bank in Zurich. Here’s the account number and passcode. Ya can make arrangements to collect the funds whenever it’s convenient,” Flynn said as he slid the papers across the table.
“Thank you,” Shona replied.
“And thank you, both of you, for helping me rescue my son. I believe that concludes our business.”
“Gentlemen, there’s something we’d like to discuss with you,” Shona said.
Flynn waited.
“Both of us would like to leave our past behind us. Can you help us get away?”
“I imagine there are a lot of people who would like to find you,” Flynn commented.
“Me and my associate will talk it over and get back to ya,” Duffy said ending the meeting.
Flynn could tell from his expression that something was bothering Duffy. “What’s wrong?”
“Why should we be stickin our nose into this? I mean there’s nothing in it for either of us.”
“They stuck their necks out for me.”
Duffy nodded, “True, but there’s something about this that doesn’t sit well.” He paused and studied Flynn. After several seconds he shook his head and said, “If it’s what ya want, I’ll go along.”
The next morning Flynn waited until Shona left the coffee shop. “I’ve a message from Duffy. He told me he’d go along with my recommendation to help you and your friend. Are you sure about him?”
She looked away, “To be honest, I don’t know. But let me ask you something, when you asked me to help you with Nooris, did you trust me completely?”
He smiled and replied, “No not completely.”
She turned back and smiled.
“I’ve a word of advice fer you. I think ya should plan on leaving as soon as possible. Sooner or later the police, and whoever, will be looking for you, if ya get my meaning.”
She nodded. “And I’ve a word of advice for you.”
“What?”
“Courtney Wells.”
“What about her?”
“She’s been in the Cup quite often. She looks awfully sad. I think she misses you.”
Flynn shook his head. “She’ll get over it. Believe me, she’s better off without the likes of me.”
“If you say so.”
Chapter 48
Ichowitz had last seen Jerry Kastanski twenty years ago when he testified at Heilman’s trial. Back then Jerry had been a slender young man, who looked much younger than his age. Ichowitz remembered how frightened he was when they confronted him in the church cellar, held him at gunpoint and asked him how he had gotten into the crime scene. He chalked up the young man’s reaction to having the police question him with weapons drawn. He remembered that Kastanski had also been a disaster as a witness at the Heilman trial.
Twenty years later and thirty pounds heavier, Jerry appeared to Ichowitz to react with a much greater degree of concern than the present circumstances warranted. Was Kastanski nervous because he was hiding something?
“Mr. Kastanski we’d like to ask you some questions about an investigation we’re conducting regarding the bodies that were found in the construction site on Delaware Avenue. Is this a convenient time?” McElroy asked after showing his credentials.
“Will this take long? I was just getting ready to go out?” Kastanski replied, his eyes darting back and forth from McElroy to Ichowitz.
“It shouldn’t take much time,” McElroy replied calmly. “Where were you going?”
Kastanski looked panicked, beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. After a long pause he responded, “Just some errands.”
“Is it OK if we come in?”
He stood at his doorway again contemplating his response. “Do I have to let you in my house?”
“No, we can take you to the station house and interview you there if you prefer,” McElroy responded in a matter of fact manner.
He hesitated, stepped aside and the two detectives entered his house.
“What a great place,” McElroy said. “Have you lived here for a long time?”
Kastanski hesitated again obviously caught off guard by the innocuous question.
“I’ve lived here all of my life.”
“That’s very rare,” McElroy commented as he walked down the central hallway and looked around. Ichowitz walked towards the front room and said, “This looks like a comfortable room. Is it all right if we sit here and talk?”
Kastanski seemed disoriented as he tried to keep track of both of the detectives.
“Mr. Kastanski is it OK?” Ichowitz asked again.
“I guess so.”
“I don’t know if you remember me, but we met many years ago,” Ichowitz continued.
Kastanski shook his head, “No I don’t remember meeting you.”
“It was a long time ago.”
McElroy walked into the room, interrupting Ichowitz, “Is it all right for me to use your rest room. You don’t have to get up. I’ll find it,” he said and walked out before Kastanski could respond.
“As I was saying,” Ichowitz went on. “It was a long time ago. My partner and I were assigned to investigate the horrible murders that happened in the butcher shop your uncle owned on Frankford Avenue. You were a young man back then. Me too,” Ichowitz said with a sigh.
“Your uncle rented the shop to a man who claimed he ran a church there. I’m sure you remember what happened.”
“Yes, yes of course, it was a terrible thing that happened there.”
Ichowitz noticed Kastanski becoming more agitated when he brought up the Heilman case.
McElroy returned to the front room and shook his head, signaling that his cursory search of the premises had been inconsequential. McElroy sat down on the opposite side of Kastanski.
“Did you come here to ask me about that?”
“In a way,” Ichowitz replied.
“I don’t know anything about what happened there.”
“Yes that’s what you told me twenty five years ago.”
Kastanski nodded his head.
“Do you remember me now?” Ichowitz asked.
“No, I’m sorry.”
“Mr. Kastanski, you seem nervous,” McElroy interjected. “Is there something wrong?”
Kastanski appeared to be in full panic mode as he turned to face McElroy.
“Mr. Kastanski?”
“No, nothing’s wrong. I just don’t like to think about what happened at the church.”
“Is it all right if I call you Jerry?” Ichowitz asked.
Kastanski turned to face Ichowitz, “Sure I guess.”
“Do you remember that we found two bodies buried in the cellar of the church?”
He nodded.
“Do you know who was buried there?”
“The girls killed in the church.”
“We thought that too. But it turns out that wasn’t the case.”
Kastanski began to tremble.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” McElroy asked. “You seem upset. Can I get you some water?” McElroy got up and left the room before he could answer.
“Jerry can I tell you something?” Ichowitz asked. “I probably shouldn’t be sharing this information, but I wanted you to know that we spoke to your uncles and your mother about what happened at the church. We know that the two girls buried there were not the girls who were killed there.”
“Did my mother tell you that?”
Ichowitz ignored the question. McElroy returned with a glass of water and handed it to Kastanski.
“Do you know who was buried in the church cellar?” Ichowitz asked.
“No, no I don’t,” he answered and took a drink of water.
“Jerry do you know where the two girls who were murdered at the church were buried?”
Kastanski choked on the water.
“What’s wrong Mr. Kastanski? Do you know where they were buried?”
He shook his head and continued to cough.
“OK Jerry. Are you sure you don’t know where they were buried?”
Ichowitz looked over at his partner.
“Mr. Kastanski, thanks for your time. We appreciate your answering our questions. Our investigation is still ongoing. If you don’t mind we may come back and ask you some additional questions. Is that all right?”
“Yes, sure.”
“What the hell was that all about?” McElroy asked as soon as they got in his car.
“Dunno, but Jerry sure knows a great deal more than he was letting on.”
“Damn straight. That’s why I agreed with your signal to cut it off before he spilled something important. We didn’t Mirandize him, so if it turns out that we get anything out of him we don’t want some shyster getting it thrown out on a technicality. ”
“Let’s just sit here a while and see what that squirrel does,” Ichowitz said.
Ten minutes later they saw the front door open. When Kastanski saw the two detectives sitting in the car parked outside of his house he slammed the door shut.
“Well I’ll be damned.”
“Should we go back in?”
“No, not yet. Let’s call the district and have them dispatch a patrol car here and keep an eye on this bird.”
Fishtown: A Jack Regan/Izzy Ichowitz Novel Page 22
