by Blake Banner
Dos Santos jumped to his feet. Emma went white. Hugh Duffy saw dos Santos first and smiled at him amiably. “Why, hello! I didn’t expect to see you here. It’s been a long time…” He advanced toward him with his hand held out, and as he did so, he caught sight of Emma. He started saying, “Oh, forgive me…” then stopped and did a kind of double take. Her expression was one of absolute horror. He faltered, stared at me, and then back at Emma. “Tammy?”
She shook her head furiously. “No!”
Dos Santos’ jaw dropped. “What?”
I picked up a glass and poured a generous measure of whiskey into it. I handed it to Duffy. “Sit down, Mr. Duffy, and have a drink. You are going to need one.”
He stared at me and then at the glass, like he didn’t understand what either of us were doing in his life. Then he sat. I put the glass in front of him. He ignored it and shook his head at Emma.
“Your hair… you look so different. What happened? Why… I don’t understand.”
I sat again and put the box on the table in front of me. “It is a rare gift that some actors have. Boris Karloff had it; Meryl Streep was another. It’s a kind of chameleon effect, where they take on a role to such an extent that they actually become a different person. The change inside is so profound that they actually appear to change physically. But with Tammy, I think it went deeper even than that, didn’t it, Emma? Because I don’t think even the Tammy you met, dos Santos, was the real Tammy. I don’t think there ever was a real Tammy. I think there was just a hollow shell, searching for an identity, sustained by an unquestionable talent for drama.
“The first thing that struck me about your house, when I went there, was that there was absolutely no identity in it. Just the picture of your parents, the books by Stanislavski, and a couple of self-help books. Not a single thing to show who Tamara was. Only the scrapbook.”
“I am not Tammy. I am Emma.”
Duffy stared at me. “What is going on, Stone. Who is Emma?”
“Emma? Emma was Tammy’s sister. She died when Tammy was five. But recently, I suspect Tammy has revived her, to keep herself safe in a world where everybody she loves gets snatched away from her. In the end, she came to rely so much on Emma’s strength that she became Emma completely, and Tammy, in fear for her life, hid away inside, where nobody could find her.”
Emma curled up in her chair and began to sob. Dos Santos still looked like he’d seen his own ghost. “How did I not see?”
“It struck me yesterday, when you said you had only seen Tammy very briefly. Even then, I figure you were focusing more on what Hugh Duffy was going to be seeing than on what you were actually seeing at the time. With two years in between, some skillful makeup, and Tammy’s talent, I thought it was possible she could pull the wool over your eyes. Even so, she took the precaution of seeing you out on the terrace, by moonlight. It also made sense of why she was more keen to kill you than to get your money. When we had you nailed down and ready to deal, instead of closing, she went and blew the whole thing by trying to kill you. It made sense when I realized, if you had recognized her at any point, she would be screwed three ways to Sunday.
“The same applied to Baxter, didn’t it, Emma? Somehow he had tracked you down and worked it out. The day I met you, he had just been in to let you know, and start putting the squeeze on you before handing you over to dos Santos. That afternoon I followed you to Baxter’s office. I didn’t realize it at the time, but while I was waiting downstairs, you were up there shooting him through the heart. That’s your favorite shot, right? That’s how you feel—why shouldn’t they?” I shook my head and gave a mirthless laugh. “Once it dawned on me, it all made sense. The way everybody described Tammy was a perfect description of Emma. Looking at Tammy’s photograph, Emma looked exactly like her older sister. Only it was actually her.”
I turned back to dos Santos. “She needed you dead. With you and Baxter out of the way, she would be free to exploit her expert husband and sell… the box.”
“Husband?” It was Duffy. He was staring at her. She was still curled up sobbing into her hands.
“I’m sorry to be brutal, Mr. Duffy, but she has two of them. One back in San Francisco, the other in Manhattan.”
He shook his head, bewildered. “Why?”
I nodded. “That is not so easy to explain, Mr. Duffy. But let’s start by acceding at last to Mr. dos Santos’s repeated request.”
Emma looked up. Her face was drenched, but she was one of those very rare women who do not go puffy and red when they cry. She looked even more beautiful. I pushed the box across the table toward dos Santos. His eyes were bulging, and his hands were trembling.
Emma was shaking her head. “Stone, no…”
I glanced at her. Her cut glass English was gone.
There was a shriek from dos Santos. He was on his feet. “What is this? What is this shit? What are you trying to pull, Stone?”
I smiled at him, then at Emma. “Isn’t that what this whole thing has been about? The da Vinci portrait of Clarice Orsini? The brand-new wife of Lorenzo Medici?”
Dos Santos screamed. “What? This?” He held up the painting, smashed it on the floor, and stamped on it. His face was red, and I could see veins standing out on his head and his neck as he slammed his heel down again and again. “This piece of second-rate shit? This piece of fucking shit?”
He stopped, panting, and glared at Emma. “Where is it?”
I reached down beside my chair and pulled up Tammy’s birthday present. “I happen to know that Tamara Gunthersen was born Tamara Hunter, in West Sussex, England, on March 16, 1995. So this was never going to be her birthday present. Also, you are Tamara Gunthersen, so there is that too. So if this is not her birthday present, what is it?”
I turned to Duffy. “I take it you are not familiar with that picture, Mr. Duffy, and that it never went missing from your collection.”
He shook his head. “It is a very second-rate imitation. I have never seen it before.”
“How about this?”
I pulled on the bow and peeled back the paper to reveal a very exquisite wooden box of what seemed to be Byzantine design. Duffy was frowning at it with curiosity. Dos Santos was trembling and sweating, and Emma’s face was creasing up. “John, please…”
I opened it up. It contained a small, beautifully illuminated bible and a cup ground out of polished stone.
Duffy nodded. “Yes, that’s mine. It is the Thomas de Ahisi Bible. It is priceless. And the cup…”
Dos Santos cut across him. His voice was like the voice of a snake. “It is not yours. It belongs to the Holy Mother. You are not even a Catholic; you are an unholy Protestant. That treasure belongs by right to the Holy Roman Church. It is the sacred Holy Grail in which our Lord Jesus Christ converted water into wine, his holy blood.”
I raised an eyebrow at him. “This is the Holy Grail? How can you possibly know that? There must be thousands of stone cups like this. You can’t even carbon-date it.”
“It has provenance.”
“It has provenance?”
Duffy, who was still staring at Emma, nodded and glanced at me. “It’s true. It has an unbroken line of documents going all the way back to St. Peter. He took it to Rome and handed it over, upon his death, to the leader of the Christian church who took over from him. Thus it was handed down to successive church leaders until it was given to the Emperor Constantine.”
Dos Santos took over. “When Constantinople was overrun by the infidels, the cup was rescued by a Spanish knight, Don Rafael de Aragon, Marques de Soto Maior. It was preserved at his castle in Galicia until the eighteenth century, when it was stolen by the then marques’s youngest son, who took it to Mexico, possibly planning to sell it. As an act of penitence, the Marques de Soto Maior devoted his life, his wealth, and his castle to the purpose of accumulating sacred treasures for the Holy Mother Church. There is a Cardinal always in residence overseeing the treasures. And it has been my life’s work to track down and reacq
uire the Grail.”
Duffy looked at him curiously, then turned to me. “It was not until 1856 that my great-great-grandfather won it in a poker game from that thief’s grandson. I have examined the provenance and had it looked at by experts. It is almost certainly real.” He turned back to dos Santos. “And I am sorry, Mr. dos Santos, but it is not for sale.”
I laughed. “Oh, Mr. dos Santos does not intend to buy it from you, Mr. Duffy.” I reached out and pulled the box back. “He employed Tamara Gunthersen to show up at your house and seduce you so that she could steal this treasure and hand it over to dos Santos. But she got other ideas and thought she’d take it for herself instead and sell it on the open market.”
Dos Santos gave one of his hysterical screams. “Enough! I can’t take it anymore! Enough talk! Talk! Talk! You have what you wanted! You have asked your fucking questions! Now give me the box!”
I pointed at the laptop. “Press the button and show me the transaction has gone through. Then you get the box.”
His eyes were wide. He hesitated a fraction of a second, then hit the Enter key and spun the computer so that I could see. I had just become a multimillionaire. I smiled at him and then at Emma.
“Geronimo dos Santos, Tamara Gunthersen, I am placing you both under arrest on multiple charges of murder, attempted murder, conspiracy to murder, and theft. You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say may be taken down and used against you in a court of law.”
And then all hell broke loose.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Dos Santos slammed the case shut, stood, and swung it violently at my head. I put up my arms to protect myself, and the case struck my shoulder. Emma—Tamara—let out a piercing scream and leapt at dos Santos as he grabbed for the box on the table, scratching at his flabby face with her nails.
I got to my feet shouting, “Sit down! Both of you!” But dos Santos put all his four hundred plus pounds into a huge backhander that sent Tammy sprawling across the room. I reached for him, yelling, “Give me some backup here!” Outside, car doors slammed and feet pounded the blacktop. Dos Santos heard them too, and despair, added to his massive weight, made him a formidable opponent. He put his hand on my face and heaved. I crashed back into my chair. Next thing, he was reaching under his jacket, and he had a sleek, black Sig Sauer p226 in his hand, waving it around like an aerosol.
I shouted, “Stand down! He’s armed!”
He glared at me and hissed like a fat snake. “Mozart! You were recording the whole thing! I should shoot you dead right here and now. Tell them to withdraw, or the first to die will be your precious billionaire. Next will be Tammy, and after that, you. Do it!”
“Pull back, Dehan. You know what to do.”
He put the box in the hip pocket of his jacket and waved the gun at Duffy. “Up, you. Come on! Up!” Duffy got uncertainly to his feet. “Open the door and step out. Remember, I have you covered at every step.”
He grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and shoved him toward the door. Duffy opened it and dos Santos hustled up close to him, with the Sig shoved into his lower back. They stepped outside and moved slowly down the steps. I stood in the doorway.
“Dehan, I want a unit following dos Santos. As soon as he is clear, you need to get in here and take Tammy into custody.”
As I said it, I heard a scream like a banshee with a hornet in her ass, and a freight train slammed into me from behind and sent me crashing down the stairs. I sprawled on my face and saw Tammy’s feet pounding the path toward my gate. I had a piercing pain in my head, but I scrambled to my feet and staggered after her. That was when I saw she had my kitchen knife in her hand and was racing like a thing possessed toward dos Santos, who was standing by a silver Aston Martin Vanquish. I shouted without thinking.
“Tammy! No!”
Dos Santos turned, grabbed Duffy, and hurled him at Tammy. Duffy stumbled, reached for Tammy’s shoulders, and gripped her, searching her face, “Tammy, sweetheart, listen to me. Leave it—this is not for you. Let him keep it. We can fix this. I have connections…”
She was doing a kind of dance, trying to get around him, trying to get past him at dos Santos, who was wrenching open the door of his Vanquish. Suddenly she was screaming, “Get out of my way!” She lunged, he grappled with her, and the knife flashed, once, twice, three times, and Duffy was sinking to his knees.
I was halfway across the road and turned back, racing for my Jag, bellowing, “Move in! Move in! Get a paramedic here now! Call an ambulance! Man down! Man down!”
I heard the Vanquish’s tires scream, and as I clambered into the Jag, I saw Tammy jumping over the door of her open-top Mercedes. I heard the sirens wailing behind me and took off after dos Santos. He screeched into Neill Avenue as I accelerated after him. A vintage Jag, however cool, is no match for a modern Aston Martin supercar. As long as we stayed in the city, I had a chance of staying with him, but once he hit the freeway, I didn’t have a hope in hell. I radioed in.
“In pursuit of a silver Aston Martin Vanquish headed east on Neill Avenue toward Benjamin Nolan. Request a chopper.”
By the time I had finished, he was already jumping the lights at the junction and thundering north on Nolan. I followed to the tune of honking horns and squealing brakes. I knew what was coming next.
“He’s headed for the junction with the Bronx Pelham Parkway.” That would lead him to the New England Thruway. If he did that, I would lose him. “Have you got me that damned chopper?”
“Working on it, Detective.”
Ahead, I saw him hit the Parkway and take the corner at sixty miles an hour. The car cornered flat and stuck to the road like it was nailed to it. The massive V12 on a Vanquish will hurl it from zero to sixty in just over three seconds. I took the corner and floored the pedal, but the Aston Martin was moving away from me like I was stationary. In a few seconds, he was going to hit spaghetti junction. If he took the I-95, he would vanish in seconds.
“Dispatch! Where is that damned chopper?”
I hit a hundred and ten miles per hour as I crossed the bridge. Ahead, he must have been doing a hundred and fifty, because he was pulling away from me at forty miles per hour at least. But he didn’t take the I-95 turn off. He rocketed under the New England Thruway and kept going, east and north. And suddenly, I knew where he was going.
I’d been checking my rearview, and now I saw Tamara’s Mercedes closing in on me.
“Dispatch, request immediate backup, headed north on Pelham Bridge Road. Suspect headed for the islands at New Rochelle.”
“Copy that.”
Tamara passed me doing a hundred and thirty. I was creeping up to one twenty, but I didn’t think the old Jag could give me much more.
We had to slow as we hit Shore Road and the sleepy suburbs that surround it. Soon, I was cruising through the town with Tammy a few yards ahead of me. I was scanning left and right. I knew he was here. I could feel him.
Then I saw the Vanquish. He’d dumped it in the Marina Parking lot. Ahead of me, Tamara had seen it too and was dithering. I dropped into second, gunned the engine, and thundered past her on her right. Then I spun the wheel and turned down Town Dock Road onto the docks, with Tamara screaming on my heels.
He was there, on the jetty, clambering into a small speedboat. I screeched to a halt by the steps that led down to the quay and jumped out. I heard the Mercedes skid to a stop behind me. Then Tamara’s voice:
“Freeze!”
I turned just in time to get pistol-whipped across my head. My head was having a bad couple of days. I sank to my knees. Through a haze of pain, I saw Tamara running down toward dos Santos’s launch. I heard shouts and feet running and turned to see a group of men coming toward me. I pulled myself to my feet and held up my badge. “NYPD. I need a launch! Now!”
A big guy with an Italian face frowned at me. “I got one. You okay, pal?”
I pointed at dos Santos. “Follow that speedboat…”
“Seriously?”
“Yes!
”
“Okay! I’m Tony.”
Down on the jetty, things were not going as dos Santos had planned. He was pulling out of the harbor and moving off at speed, but Tammy was standing behind him, holding a gun to his head.
We clambered into Tony’s speedboat and took off after them. They turned into the Glen Island strait and accelerated toward Huckleberry Island. They were maybe a hundred yards ahead of us, slapping across the water and raising great plumes of spray as they went, holding their position. We were not gaining on them. I turned to Tony.
“What the hell is on that island?”
He looked bemused. The wind whipped his words away as he spoke. “Nothing. It’s deserted.”
Now they were banking, looping into a long curve around the northern tip of the small landmass. Whatever they were after was clearly on the other side.
“There is a natural bay around there,” he shouted. “Maybe they have a yacht.”
“Can’t you go any faster?”
“She’s at top speed!”
As we came around the headland after them, I saw what dos Santos had come for. It wasn’t a yacht. There was a broad bay with a sandy beach, as Tony had said, and sitting in the bay, bobbing on the gentle waves, was a twelve-seater seaplane. Dos Santos was approaching it fast, and somebody on board was opening the door and firing up the rotors.
Tony grinned. “If I ram him, will the city buy me a new boat?”
“Don’t put yourself at risk, Tony. We stand down. We let them get away.”
“Are you kidding?”
He aimed the prow of the boat at the seaplane and accelerated to top speed. Dos Santos was pulling up by the near float. I was searching in my mind, trying to anticipate what the hell Tamara thought she was going to do. She heard us approaching and turned to look. She raised her gun to careful aim and fired. The shot went wide. Dos Santos was reaching up frantically for the door. I saw Tamara lean against him. She pressed the revolver against his back and fired. Suddenly she had her hands to her face, screaming. The gun went over the side, and she was on her knees, shaking dos Santos like she couldn’t believe he was dead, making out we had shot him. Hands were reaching down for her from the plane.
