Next to Last Stand

by Craig Johnson

  Lori snickered, and I continued toward the kitchen door, swung it wide, and looked into the room, lit by a single light that hung over the center island. The DCI tape still cordoned off certain areas, and the room looked exactly as it had when I’d been here last with the exception of the things the investigators must’ve hauled off for further analysis, not including the half-finished sandwich and glass of milk.

  “Maybe they ran when they heard you rearranging the furniture.”

  I sighed. “You have that piece of paper that shows how to get to the vault?”

  “I do, oh great leader.” Lori snickered again as Vic, tiptoeing toward the library-conservatory in the back, pulled a piece of paper from her pocket and unfolded it.

  Giving one last glance at the crime scene, I had a niggling feeling but, not being able to discern what was causing it, sighed again and followed the two women.

  Vic approached one of the bookcases and then consulted the sheet of paper before reaching up and pulling a hidden lever that caused the eight-foot installation to make a noise and bump out about three inches. “Wow, now this is getting to be like a real mystery.”

  Reaching over, I pulled the side of the case and pivoted it open like a door as fluorescent lights kicked on in a concrete stairwell that led to a metal doorway below.

  “All right, who’s staying up here?”

  Lori shrugged. “I might as well, that way if anybody shows up, I’ve got an actual reason to be here.”

  I gestured for Vic to go ahead. “After you, my dear Alphonse.”

  She smiled and then led with the Midnight Bronze Glock 19 Gen 4.

  There was nothing particularly interesting about the steps, walls, or ceiling, but as we got closer to the door, we could see the thing was securely anchored into the walls with a heavy steel facing and an electronic keypad where a knob should’ve been.

  Vic consulted the paper and then tapped in the numbers—the keypad lit up and then beeped at us.

  “What does that mean?”

  She glanced at me and then pushed the door open, the automatic lights flickering to life inside. “After you, Alphonse.”

  Stepping around her, I nudged the heavy door back and looked in. The basement vault must’ve run a quarter the length of the house with shelves of canvases in the awakening lights. “Holy frijoles.”

  Vic stepped in beside me and held up a hand to feel the air. “I’m guessing temperature and humidity controlled.”

  We moved a little closer to the stacks, and I could see that none of the paintings were actually finished. “What in the world?”

  Turning, I approached an area where there were numerous easels and painting supplies and you could see more works of unfinished art. “It’s a factory.”

  Vic came over, holstering her sidearm. “Fakes?”

  “Yep, and very good ones.” I stood. “But who? Serge didn’t strike me as the artistic type.” Turning, I looked past an examination table not unlike the one at the Bradford Brinton and could see a cot and blankets near the wall along with a bottle of water, a towel, and a half mug of tea. “Somebody’s been staying here.” Kneeling, I felt the mug. “Cold.”

  Vic joined me. “Serge?”

  “Possibly.” Walking back to the door, I got ahold of that niggling thought and called up to the Sheridan County investigator. “Hey Lori?”

  Her voice echoed down. “Yeah?”

  “Do me a favor and check and see if that sandwich in the kitchen is fresh and if the glass of milk is cold.”

  “Be right back.”

  I turned to Vic. “Habeas corpus.”

  “Count Philippe von Lehman?”

  “We never found a body, just blood and prints, and I find it hard to believe that the count would’ve given Serge the combination to this vault.”

  She glanced around. “What if Serge killed him?”

  “Still no body.”

  “You really think he killed Serge?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She shrugged. “Klavdii Krovopuskov?”

  “A lot of those Russian oligarchs are buying up this Soviet-era art and repatriating it, and I’m guessing that the count found a way to sell the fakes back to the Russians.” I glanced at the enormous collection.

  Lori’s voice called from above. “Sandwich is fresh and the milk is cold.”

  I moved toward the door. “Somebody’s here.”

  “No joke.”

  She suddenly appeared in the doorway with someone behind her, who nudged her forward into the room with us as he stayed in the doorway. “He got the jump on me.”

  He aimed the pistols on us. “Sorry about all this, but you haven’t left me many choices.”

  Lori purposefully moved in front of Vic as my undersheriff slipped a hand down by her sidearm; I stepped in the other direction. “Maybe you’d like to tell us what’s going on here, Count?”

  He looked a little worse for wear and tipped his head, the fluff of hair swaying to the side as he stood there in his bathrobe and slippers. “I know this is where the guilty party usually doles out the details of his dastardly plan, but I’m sorry to disappoint you in that I’m completely innocent.”

  I stepped forward. “Funny, from here you don’t look it.”

  He shook his head and reached out to close the door. “Look, I’m not going to shoot any of you if I don’t have to . . .”

  “That’s what you call innocent?”

  Leaning against the door, he placed more of it between us, only his head, gun hand, and foot showing. “I didn’t hurt anybody.”

  “Then explain to me what’s going on—if you’re truly innocent then you have nothing to fear from me.”

  He barked a laugh. “You’re not the one I’m worried about, trust me.”

  “Then who?”

  “I’m sorry to cut this short, but I’m afraid I have to go.”

  “What, you have to get back in your coffin before the sun comes up?” He and I both turned to see Vic with her arm outstretched, the 9mm leveled at the count’s head. “Drop the gun, fucktard.”

  He paused for an instant. “I can’t.”

  “Then we play catch with lead.”

  He slammed his shoulder into the door as she fired. The door closed with a thud, all three of us there in an instant trying to pry the thing open. I turned to Vic.

  “Quick, the combination.”

  We could hear screaming and a litany of profanity from the other side. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”

  She pulled the paper from the back of her jeans. “I think I got him.”

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”

  Lori listened at the door. “Too bad you didn’t get him in the mouth.”

  “Fuck!”

  Vic punched the numbers into the keyboard, and we waited, but nothing happened. She consulted the piece of paper again and punched the numbers in once more, but still nothing happened. “He must’ve jammed it.”

  I called into the door. “Philippe, can you hear me?”

  “Fuck!”

  “Look, open the door, and we’ll get you some help.”

  “Fuck!”

  “A bullet wound is a very serious injury, and we’ll need to get you to a hospital . . . Look, if you’re really innocent, we can help you.” There was whimpering, but nothing more from the other side. “Philippe?”

  “What?”

  “Where are you hit?”

  “My foot. The bitch shot off my big toe!”

  I glanced at her, and she shrugged. “I was trying to keep him alive.”

  I spoke into the door again. “Is there a lot of blood?”

  “My toe is gone, and I’m bleeding to death out here!” There was silence for a moment. “You bitch, why did you shoot me?”

  She tapped the barrel o
n the metal door. “Fuck you, asshole. In about a minute I’m going to start throwing rounds through this door and it ain’t going to be your toe this time.”

  I bit my lip. “Philippe, open the door.”

  “No.”

  Lori pulled out her cell phone. “As much as it grieves me, I guess I better call the boss.”

  I spoke into the door again. “Philippe, we’re going to have to call someone.”

  “There’s no service down here . . . Fuck. Really, my toe?!”

  Lori glanced up. “He’s right, no bars.”

  “These were brand-new slippers.”

  “Philippe, just open the door and sit down and we’ll do something to stop the bleeding—standing on it is only going to make it worse.” There was some indiscernible mumbling. “Philippe?”

  Nothing.

  Vic reholstered her weapon. “It’s a solid door, and I don’t think the 9mm would go through.”

  I looked around. “Well, he can’t get far on one foot.”

  Lori peered up and down the aisles of half-finished artwork. Raising her phone, she started off. “I’ll check and see if I can get reception anywhere down here.”

  I glanced at Vic. “Maybe we can find another door or something.”

  We started off, each going to the perimeter and walking the length of the subterranean room. At the far end we met, trading off and switching directions until we headed in opposite paths up the aisles.

  The amount of faux art was stunning, the variation in styles and subject matter no less so. Whoever had been manufacturing the stuff had been doing it for some time and had been very thorough in their reproductions.

  “Walt?”

  I walked quickly down the aisle and peered through an opening where Vic stood. She pointed. “Air vent.”

  “Big enough to get through?”

  “For me.”

  “What if it’s just the heating and cooling?”

  She shrugged. “Might still lead out of the basement.”

  “We need a screwdriver.”

  “There were tools on that worktable. And a ladder by the wall.”

  * * *

  —

  “T-25 Torx.”

  I handed the bit up to her and watched as she put it in the battery-powered drill. “Who knew you were this handy?”

  “Four brothers and a father back in Philadelphia who thought you were slave labor until you escaped.”

  “How did you escape?”

  “Took the Nelson-Denny Reading test for the police department.” She unscrewed the last batch and used a chisel that was in her other hand to pry the metal. “Watch your head.”

  The thing came loose and crashed to the concrete floor between me and Lori. “You’re lucky you have a skinny undersheriff.”

  We watched as she pulled out her Maglite, shimmied her way into the duct, and climbed out of sight. “It’s a long run to the end of the room, and then it goes up, I think. I’ll know better when I get there.” We listened as she thumped along in the duct, following her progress until we got to the wall where the door was, and she paused. “It’s a reach, so I’ll just have to climb up it to see where it goes next.”

  Standing there, waiting, we listened to the thumping and banging as she made her way out of our hearing.

  Lori folded her arms and leaned against the doorjamb. “So, you think he did it?”

  “No, he’s a nuisance, but I don’t think he’s a killer.”

  “Then who is?”

  “Good question. The interesting thing is that he stored up his own blood and faked the murder, so who the heck was he so afraid of?”

  “This Klavdii Krovopuskov?”

  “Maybe.”

  She leaned against the wall. “Have you met this guy?”

  “Once—over in Cody.”

  “And?”

  “He didn’t strike me as a killer, but then I’ve been wrong before.”

  She laughed. “When?”

  There was a loud noise from upstairs, a noise great enough to carry through the house and down the concrete stairwell to us. “Were those gunshots?”

  “Sure sounded like it.” We both placed an ear against the door, but there was nothing more. “Okay, if we don’t hear anything in the next couple of minutes, as much as I dread the thought, I’m going to have to go up in the ventilator shaft.”

  Lori shrugged. “I’m smaller than you.”

  I stepped back, glancing down the corridor just as all the lights in the place went out. “Well, hell.”

  “It’s going to be hard to find that ventilator duct in the dark . . . No, wait . . . There’s somebody coming down the stairs.”

  Placing an ear against the door, I could hear someone’s footfalls on the concrete. “Vic?”

  The keypad began beeping as someone began punching the numbers and, after a moment, the door bumped open into the side of both our heads as the lights flickered back on.

  Vic swung the door the rest of the way and looked at Lori. “I hope that wasn’t a brand-new Suburban you were driving.”

  15

  “You’re sure there was someone else in the vehicle with him?”

  “Positive. Believe me he wasn’t driving without that missing toe.”

  There was blood all over the place, dribbling up the steps and across the den, kitchen, and through the dining area into the main room where he must’ve stopped to talk quickly with someone. He’d continued through the door onto the front lawn where we now stood, watching the sprinkler system in the side yard making halos in the overhead lights.

  “Well, there’s no way out of it now.” I turned to Lori. “However you want to phrase it, we need an APB on your vehicle.”

  I watched as she pulled out her phone and dialed 911. “I’ll tell ’em I had an inkling and was having dinner over at the Wagon Box with you guys and asked you to back me up—that is if I even tell them you were here at all.” She shrugged. “What’s the whippersnapper going to do, fire me?” She held the phone to her ear. “I was supposed to retire, and I’m the highest decorated officer on Six-Week-Wonder’s staff. Let him try.” She spoke into the phone. “Hi Terry, it’s Lori, and yes I’ve got an emergency. Actually, what I’ve got is an interesting situation involving grand theft auto . . .”

  She wandered away as I looked back at Vic. “Any ideas who it was?”

  “Hard to tell with those tall headrests, even with the interior lights on.”

  “Man, woman?”

  “Who knows?” She turned and looked down the road, holstered her weapon, and placed hands on hips. “What are they after?”

  “The Custer painting.”

  She continued walking around as if she were looking for something. “You’re sure?”

  “It’s the only thing that makes any sense. The count is sitting on a bunch of fake Russian artwork, and the only potential buyer for something that big is on his way back from Helsinki in his private jet.”

  She nodded but continued inspecting the lawn. “Somebody really just wants that painting.”

  Lori reappeared. “My guys are on the way, so you guys better scoot.”

  “We can’t just leave you here.”

  “Sure you can. Look, this place is going to be crawling with Sheridan SD in a matter of moments; besides, they can give me a ride home.” She punched my arm. “Go catch some bad guys.”

  “Thanks, Lori.”

  She called after us as I moved toward my truck, Vic still checking the ground. “Make sure they spell my name right in the paper.”

  I sat in the truck for a moment and thought about what could’ve driven Philippe von Lehman to fake his own murder. Who could he have been trying to frame?

  I buckled up and fired the ten-cylinder of the Bullet to life as Vic climbed in the other side. “Where the hell do you
suppose he thinks he’s going to go?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “How can he think he’s going to get away?”

  “Once again, I have no idea.”

  “On a private jet, say the one that’s winging its way here from Helsinki as we speak?”

  “Seems possible?”

  “So, the airport?”

  “No.”

  “Think he’d be stupid enough to go to a hospital?”

  “Not really.”

  “The Home?”

  Slipping the truck into gear, I pulled out of the wooded area and back onto the main road leading south at a brisk pace.

  “You know, if we were in my new truck we could go faster.”

  “Uh huh.” I glanced at her. “You mind if I ask what you were looking for in the count’s yard?”

  She pointed up her index finger like a barrel and blew away the imaginary gun smoke. “The toe, of course—I’m going to need a key chain for my new truck.”

  * * *

  —

  It was late as we pulled into town. I took the north exit, drove down the main drag, and glanced toward the Blue Gables, hoping to possibly see a silver Suburban with bullet holes in the back. “So, what kind of damage did you do to the Chevrolet?”

  “Not enough to keep it from running, obviously.” She shrugged. “Took out the back window and one in the rear door, so I don’t think I got either of them, if that’s what you’re asking?”

  “No. I was hoping the vehicle would break down.” Slowing, I looked around the parking lot, but the place appeared to be buttoned up and slumbering.

  “So, Bass says he’s supposed to look in the safe-deposit box first thing on Monday morning.”

  “Then what?”

  “I think he’s planning on heading back to Los Angeles.”

  “With the million bucks?”

  “I’d imagine.”

  “Well, I wish him luck.”

  “What did Nikita have to say about the painting?”

  I glanced at her. “Katrina said that the count had made arrangements with Charley Lee to buy the Custer painting and had even paid him, but then the old guy had died.”