It was just a theory, but it hit me hard in view of the Cobb connection to the murals. Of course, there was no way Gallagher could know about the murals or that its story was bound up with the Cobb family. But I couldn’t help but feel thrilled by the notion that, by chance, my fire story and the murals story just might be linked.
It would have been a big scoop for me if I wrote up the Norm Hicks Jr arrest. But maybe if I waited, there’d be an even bigger scoop ahead. I phoned Gallagher on my way back to the city.
‘OK,’ I told him, ‘I went out to Wheaton and looked around.’ I told him my theory that an industrial firm, such as Cobb Industries, had maybe started the Watomi Lake fire to burn out the community there, then acquire the land cheap.
‘You’re good, Joan. I continue to be impressed. We’re thinking along the same lines. We’re investigating the inflammables. A number of companies out there have been dumping into the lake at night.’
‘Will you keep me up to date?’
‘Will you hold off on firebug zero until we go in for an indictment?’
‘Will you give me exclusive advance notice?’
‘I promise you’ll be the first to hear.’
I told him I’d have to check with my editor, but I was fairly sure he’d approve.
‘I’m glad, Joan. Soon as we met, I knew we could work together.’
That afternoon, with Josh’s approval, I wrote an article, the gist of which was that the summer fires were under intense investigation, that outside investigators had been brought in and that they were working from a secret location.
I wrote that the team was looking closely at the destructive Watomi Lake fire, which, according to a high-ranking member of the investigative unit, may have been set to look like the work of a psychotic arsonist, but in fact may have been started for financial reasons.
With Gallagher’s permission, I quoted him as follows, identifying him as the same high-ranking source who, for security reasons, did not wish to be named:
We are particularly distressed by Watomi and other fires we believe were set by people using the summer fires as a cover. For example, two fires were deliberately set at the homes of environmental activists. It seems there’s an egregious element here that’s taking advantage of the rash of summer fires to target people they don’t like for political and ideological reasons. We’re looking very hard at people who might harbor such motives.
When I turned in my piece, Josh loved it.
‘Since this guy, Gallagher, admires persistence, stay persistent,’ he advised. ‘You’re on to a major story, Joan. Don’t let it get away.’
My piece ran the next morning, three columns wide on the front page below the fold:
CITY TERRORIZED BY SUMMER FIRES WHILE ARSON INVESTIGATORS EXAMINE MULTIPLE MOTIVES
An Investigative Report by
JOAN NGUYEN
Congratulations poured in all day, including from Jase, Hannah and Tally. And, yes, I admit, I was thrilled!
Hannah Sachs
Jase and I checked into the Metropol on a Sunday afternoon, having booked the same room Jase stayed in before. The view of the front of Galerie Susanne Weber was even better than I expected. If all went as we hoped, the kindly go-between would turn up at the gallery the next day, pulling his roller-wheel suitcase with a new ragdoll inside.
As we settled in, I kidded Jase about whether he was planning to meet up with his gallery assistant friend.
‘I expect you’ll want to spend the evening with your old snuggle-bunny,’ I taunted.
‘Connie’s a sweet kid,’ he said. ‘I still feel bad about deceiving her.’ He smiled at me. ‘No need since we’re here together.’
Hmmm. I shrugged, even as I was looking forward to him making a move on me. Things had been kind of strained between us since our visit to Abiquiú, but so far on this trip our relations seemed to have improved.
Meantime, we had business to transact. We knew we needed professional help if we were to follow the go-between successfully. Through my brother, I’d contacted a local detective agency, Privatdetektiv Matthias Becker, about hiring a car and driver skilled in vehicle-to-vehicle surveillance. Herr Becker himself agreed to take on the job. That evening we were set to meet him for drinks to discuss what we had in mind.
He turned out to be a retired military officer who’d worked in Swiss Army CID. He was a big bear of a guy with granite-blue eyes, short-cropped gray hair and an excellent command of English. At a café-bar up the street, he told us that most of his work consisted of domestic investigations initiated by client spouses suspicious of their mates. This involved discovering whether the other spouse was engaged in extramarital activity and/or determining his/her financial assets in preparation for a divorce.
‘It’s ugly work, but, as I tell my wife, someone needs to do it. I’ve been threatened numerous times by angry men resentful that I’ve pried into their affairs. I laugh at the ones who make threats. It’s the ones who eye me quietly I find dangerous.’
Jase told him that working with us would not be dangerous.
‘It’s a straightforward shadow job, right?’ Becker asked.
I nodded, told him about the Ragdoll Artist and our belief that her go-between would turn up at Galerie Susanne Weber the following morning.
‘The object,’ Jase explained, ‘is not only to identify her, but to obtain a photograph to compare with this one taken twenty-five years ago.’
Jase showed him the old Times-Dispatch photo of Courtney Cobb.
‘You’re probably wondering why we think it’s the same person,’ I said.
He nodded. ‘I am, but I make a point of not prying into my clients’ business. Unless, of course, I think there’s something illegal involved.’
‘Nothing illegal,’ I assured him. Then I explained why, based on her artwork, we believed the Ragdoll Artist and an American girl might be one and the same.
I liked the way he perked up at that. Jase and I had discussed how much of our search we would disclose, agreeing that the more confidence we placed in Herr Becker, the more likely he’d do a good job for us. We agreed that we’d describe our quarry, but not reveal the identity of our informant, the snuggle-bunny, from whom Jase had found out about the go-between.
‘Interesting case,’ Becker said when I finished. ‘You’re hoping this go-between will lead you directly to the artist. It occurs to me that if there’s an exchange involving cash, he may take it straight to a bank. Or he may wait a while before contacting the artist. What’s your plan if he doesn’t go straight to her?’
‘We’ll improvise, make a quick decision,’ Jase explained. ‘I’ve done a lot of that in my career.’
‘Let’s use first names, if that’s all right,’ I said. ‘I’m Hannah. He’s Jason.’
Herr Becker grinned. ‘Call me Matthias. And don’t worry. Even if we lose him, and I’ll do my damnedest to see we don’t, I’ll have his plate number. Then it’s an easy matter to run it through the Federal databank.’
We agreed to meet again early the following morning. Matthias and a female operative (I loved that he used that term) would park in front of the Metropol. I’d get into the backseat. Meanwhile, Jase would observe from our room. If/when the go-between showed up, Jase would record his arrival on video, then join us in the car. If the go-between set off on foot, the operative, named Hilda, would follow him. If the go-between hailed a cab or stepped into a parked vehicle, we’d drop Hilda off, then follow the gentleman to wherever he went.
In the best Swiss tradition, things proceeded as planned. Matthias and Hilda were waiting for me in a nondescript car. Hilda turned out to be a pretty brunette who looked about sixteen years old. When I asked her age, she proudly told me she was twenty-two.
‘She’s my niece,’ Matthias said. ‘The kind of young woman you’d see walking on the street around here.’
At ten a.m. a kindly-looking middle-aged man with a pointed beard and a roller-wheel suitcase stepped out of a taxi and rang the bell
beside the gallery door. A middle-aged woman, evidently Frau Weber, opened the door, gestured him inside, then peered up and down Zuerichstrasse in a surreptitious manner, like a character in a crime show satire. Apparently satisfied no one was watching, she followed him inside and latched the door.
Jase, observing them through the zoom lens of his video camera, recorded their encounter, or as much of it as he could see through the front window of the gallery.
‘Based on their gestures, I got the impression that they might have had something of a spat,’ he told us when he came down to the car. ‘Perhaps the kindly gentleman tried to up his price or the lady tried to lower hers.’
The go-between looked calm when he appeared in the doorway. He and Frau Weber exchanged air kisses, then he walked with his suitcase up the block as if looking for a cab. Hilda got out of the car and started to follow him. Meantime, Frau Weber again peered suspiciously up and down the street, an obvious signal she’d been up to no good. Satisfied as before, she nodded to herself and went back inside.
The three of us chuckled at her absurd behavior.
‘That’s what we call “a tell,”’ Jase said.
When a cab stopped and the go-between got in, Matthias signaled Hilda to return to the office.
We followed the cab to a garage on the edge of town, waited in our vehicle while he paid off the driver and went inside. A couple of minutes later he reappeared in the driver’s seat of a big silver sedan.
‘For sure our go-between’s not just a courier,’ Matthias said. ‘That’s a Maybach S-650, one of the most expensive cars in Europe.’
The go-between sped off. We followed him.
‘He’s heading to Zurich,’ Matthias told us. ‘The car’s from there and we’re on A-14 which connects to A-4 then goes straight to the city. It’s about a forty-minute drive.’ He activated his dashboard speaker phone, called Hilda and instructed her to run the plate. A couple of minutes later the answer came back.
‘The car’s registered to a Doctor Franz DeJonghe d’Ardoye of the Privatklinik DeJonghe, situated between Männedorf and Meilen on the eastern shore of Lake Zurich,’ Hilda said. ‘Please hold while I check the internet.’
‘We call that shore the Gold Coast,’ Matthias explained, ‘because it’s bathed in sunlight all winter long, and because of the very high price of properties there.’
Hilda came back on. ‘OK, I found it. Privatklinik DeJonghe specializes in long-term psychiatric care.’
Jason grinned at me. ‘Bingo!’
We followed the Maybach to the gate of a walled villa on the lake side of Seestrasse. The gate swung open, the Maybach drove in, and the gate closed immediately behind. Impossible to see in from the road. The wall was high and the vegetation dense. Matthias pulled over, brought out his laptop and accessed a satellite image of the property. We made out a compound consisting of a large main house, outbuildings, rectangular pool, tennis court, small woods and, down at the lake, a marina and boats.
‘Quite the luxurious clinic,’ Matthias said. ‘Switzerland is famous for places like this, where rich people can stash disturbed family members.’
‘And then forget about them?’ I asked.
‘Sometimes that too,’ Matthias said.
We asked him to find out what he could about the clinic. He agreed, drove us back to Meilen, then stopped at the centrally located café.
‘In a small town, this is always the best place to make inquiries.’
We waited in the car while Matthias went in to speak with the cashier. He was smiling when he came out.
‘Most of the clinic personnel live here in town. After work they hang out at a tavern called Schwarze Katzenbar, The Black Cat. It’s just a couple blocks away.’
‘A bar’s a good place to meet people and get them to talk,’ Jase said.
‘The best place,’ Matthias agreed. ‘Let’s go there and see what we can find out.’
The sign above the door of Schwarze Katzenbar showed the silhouette of a black cat on patrol. The tavern was nearly empty. We went to the bar, ordered sandwiches and beers. I peered around while Matthias chatted with the bartender.
I wouldn’t describe it as a dive. It struck me as more of a cozy neighborhood pub, complete with dartboard, booths, and a wall sporting a dozen large taxidermy-mounted freshwater game fish interspersed with assorted Lake Zurich memorabilia.
Matthias introduced us to the bartender. ‘This is Peter. He owns the place. He named it the Black Cat after he saw that name on a bar in an American movie.’ We shook hands. ‘He says the clinic people usually come in after six. He’s heard a couple of them complaining about the head doctor. If I come back then, he’ll introduce me around. As I’m sure you know, discontented employees make excellent sources.’
Matthias helped us check into the Beau Séjour au Lac, a luxury hotel famous, he told us, for its excellent cuisine. We sat around the lobby listening to his private-eye war stories, then, once the sky began to darken, headed back to Schwarze Katzenbar.
The place had filled up. There was a convivial hum. We took a booth against a wall, then Matthias excused himself.
‘Sit tight while I work the room,’ he said. ‘If I find a good source, I’ll bring him or her back.’ He winked at me. ‘I think a her would be better, don’t you. Hannah?’
‘They usually are,’ I agreed.
We watched, impressed by his light-footed moves as he worked his way down the bar, evidently introduced by Peter to likely prospects, exchanging friendly greetings, finally taking a stool beside a forty-something woman and engaging her in what looked to be light-hearted banter. After a while they both turned toward the booth. Matthias pointed us out. We waved, and the woman waved back. They spoke a while longer, then he guided her to our table.
‘This is Frau Zellweger. She speaks excellent English.’
‘You can call me Thérèse,’ she said, showing us a smile. She was blond, had big blue eyes and a soft, lightly accented voice.
‘Thérèse knows the Ragdoll Artist,’ Matthias said. ‘She sees her every day.’
Jase showed her our photo of Courtney. ‘Yes, that’s her,’ she said. ‘We call her Agnès.’
When I asked if she’d be willing to take some pictures of Agnès, Thérèse said she’d be glad to.
‘Great!’ Jase said. ‘Can we pay you something for your trouble?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m happy to help. I don’t believe Agnès is her real name, but that’s the name she answers to. She’s American and, I believe, a sad soul. I’m happy someone’s interested in her. This gives me hope that someday she may be rescued.’
I seized on that. ‘You think she needs rescuing?’
‘I do,’ Thérèse said. ‘She’s been in the clinic a long time. I’ve worked there seven years and she was there long before I came.’
‘Thérèse says the man driving the Maybach was Doctor DeJonghe,’ Matthias said.
‘He never lets anyone else drive that car,’ Thérèse confirmed.
Her distaste for the doctor was unmistakable. But to be sure and to make her complicit, I asked her point-blank what she thought of him.
‘He’s a scoundrel,’ she said, tightening her lips, ‘a despicable man. As I know all too well,’ she added, suggesting severe disillusionment, perhaps prior intimacy gone bad. ‘Anything you can do to help dear Agnès escape his claws, please count on me to assist.’
She spoke with such force that I didn’t doubt she meant every word.
‘I’m here with friends,’ she told us. ‘I must get back to them.’
We arranged to meet during her lunch hour the following day. She’d take photographs in the morning and bring them to our hotel.
‘What do you think?’ Matthias asked as we watched her drift back to the bar.
‘It’s been an amazing day,’ Jase told him. ‘Everything fell into place. We couldn’t have done any of it without you, Matthias. Hilda, too. You’ve been terrific.’
‘It’s been fun for me
too, Jason. Finally, an interesting case. Don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything else.’
He dropped us at the Beau Séjour au Lac, we embraced, then watched him as he drove off, heading back to Lucerne.
That night Jase and I made love. It had been a while. It felt good to again be in his arms.
‘Your snuggle-bunny really came through for you,’ I told him later as we rehashed the day. ‘The guy turned up just as she said. Evidently, you give great cuddle.’
‘Do you really think?’ he asked.
‘Why don’t you give me a sample?’
He did. As he held me, we giggled together over the door antics of gallerist Susanne Weber.
Thérèse showed up as promised just after noon with a half dozen photos on her cellphone, which we transferred to ours. We then invited her to lunch with us in the hotel dining room where we ordered the house specialties: Lake Zurich fish soup followed by delicious pike-perch fillets in potato crust.
As we ate, Jase placed his phone on the table to record, with her permission, everything she cared to tell us about Dr DeJonghe, the patient named Agnès, and another patient named Johnny who had recently befriended Agnès.
Thérèse Zellweger
Dr DeJ – I despise the man! Reasons? Many! For one thing, he’s a selfish lover. Back in the days when we were involved, he was solely interested in his own pleasure and cared not a whit for mine. Oh, he pretended to! He’s quite the actor! But when I complained, he’d twist things around and put the blame on me.
‘Your fault,’ he’d tell me. ‘You’re denying yourself pleasure. Many neurotic women are like that.’
Typical! But what else should I expect from such a Great Psychiatrist!
This was four years ago. We haven’t touched one another since. He’s moved on to other clinic employees – Nora, Noemi, and probably others I don’t even know about.
Not that I care! Let’s be clear about that!
For another thing, the man’s a phony – false right down to his core. I could give you plenty of examples, but I can see you’re really interested in this business with Agnès. Even there he showed himself false. He told her he was keeping her dolls safe for her, that he was concerned that if she left them around, someone would steal one and give it to his kid, and clearly her dolls weren’t meant for kids. Ha!
The Murals Page 17
