“You want to be my marriage consultant?”
“Well, why not?”
“I don’t even know your educational background or your experience in this area.”
“We can discuss that later. Tell me about your first husband.”
“All right. His name is Jack Crane. He was even worse than Tennyson. He knocked me around when I was pregnant with Beth. The first and last time. I called Dillon and he was there in a flash, and he beat Jack senseless. Loosened three of his perfect white teeth. Cracked two ribs. Two black eyes and a swollen jaw. Then Dillon taught me how to fight so if he ever came around again, I could take care of him myself.”
“Did he ever come around after you divorced him so you could beat him up?”
“No, dammit, he didn’t. I don’t think he was scared of me. He was scared Dillon would get every FBI agent in Chicago on him and he’d be dead meat. You know, Simon, I don’t think having a consultant to select new criteria would help. You can be sure that I thought long and hard about Tennyson, given that Jack was a wife beater.”
“You didn’t think long enough or hard enough. You have trouble with criteria, Lily, and that’s why you need a consultant, to keep your head screwed on straight, to see things properly.”
“Nope, it’s more than that. I’m simply just rotten at picking men. Your counseling me wouldn’t work, Simon. Besides that, I don’t need you. I’ve decided that I’m never going to get married again. So I don’t need to consult you or anyone else about it.”
“A whole lot of men aren’t anything like your first or second husbands. Just look at Savich. Do you think Sherlock ever has any doubts about him?”
He felt her shrug. “Dillon is rare. There are no criteria that fit him. He’s just wonderful, and that’s all there is to it. He was born that way. Sherlock is the luckiest woman in the world. She knows it; she told me so.”
She was quiet for a moment, and he could feel her relaxing, warming up, and it was driving him nuts. He couldn’t believe what he was saying to her.
She said into his neck, “You know, I’m beginning to think that once I marry a man, he turns into Mr. Hyde. He sinks real low real fast. But I guess you’ll tell me it’s because of my lousy criteria, again.”
“Are you saying that all guys would turn into a Mr. Hyde?”
“Could be, all except for Dillon. But you see my point here, Simon. Don’t be obtuse. With both Jack and Tennyson, I didn’t believe either of them was anything but what I believed them to be when I married them. I loved them, I believed they loved me, admired me, even admired my Remus cartoons. Both Jack and Tennyson would go on and on about how talented I was, how proud they were of me. And so I married them. I was happy, at least for maybe a month or two. About Jack—he did give me Beth, and because of that I will never regret marrying him.” Her voice caught over her daughter’s name. Just saying her name brought back horrible memories, painful memories she’d lived with for so very long. It had been so needless, so quick, and then her little girl was gone. She had to stop it, cut it off. It was in the past, it had to stay there. She pictured Beth in her mind, decked out in her Easter dress of the year before, and she’d been so cute. She’d just met Tennyson. She sighed. So much had happened and now poor Simon was caught up in all of it. And he suddenly wanted her?
She said, “You can’t possibly want to consult with me on this, Simon. I think you could say we’ve got a situation here; we might die at any minute—no, don’t try to reassure me, don’t try it. You know it’s very possible, and you’re trying to take my mind off it, but talking about Jack and Tennyson isn’t helping.”
He just kept holding her and said finally, nodding against her hair, “I understand.”
“Stop using that soothing voice on me. You know you’re not thinking straight. You know what? I think God created me, decided He’d let me screw up twice, and then He’d keep me safe from further humiliations and mistakes.”
“Lily, you may look like a princess—well, usually—but what you just said, that was bullshit. I intend to make use of some proper criteria. You’ll choose really well next time.”
“Just forget it, Simon. I’m the worst matrimonial bet on the planet. I’m warm now, so you can get off me.”
He didn’t really want to, but he rolled off and came up on his elbow beside her. “This bare mattress smells new. I can make out more of the room now. It’s nice, Lily, very nice.”
“We’re at Olaf’s house, somewhere in Sweden.”
“Probably.”
“Why did…”
She let the words die in her mouth when the bedroom door opened, sending in a thick slice of bright sunlight. Alpo walked in, Nikki behind him. “You are awake now?”
“Yes,” Simon said, coming up to sit on the side of the bed. “Don’t you guys believe in heat? Is Olaf trying to economize?”
“You are soft. Shut up.”
Lily said, “Well, we don’t have your body fat; maybe that’s the difference.”
Nikki shouldered Alpo out of the way and strode to where Simon was sitting. “You get up now. You, too,” he said to Lily. “A woman does not speak like that. I am not fat; I am strong. Mr. Jorgenson is waiting for you.”
“Ah,” Lily said, “at last we get to meet the Grand Pooh-Bah.”
“What is that?” Nikki asked as he stepped back so they could get up.
“The guy who controls everything, the one who believes he’s the big cheese,” Simon said.
Alpo looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded. “We will go see the Grand Pooh-Bah now.” He said to Lily, “He will like you. He may want to paint you before he kills you.”
Not a happy thought.
25
Bar Harbor, Maine
It had been nearly a whole day, and there was no sign of Tammy Tuttle or Marilyn Warluski. There’d been dozens of calls about possible sightings, all of which had to be investigated, but so far, nothing. It was the biggest manhunt in Maine’s history, with more than two hundred law enforcement people involved. And always there in Savich’s mind was Lily and where she was. Whether she was alive. He couldn’t bear it and there was nothing he could do.
He was nearly ready to shoot himself when Jimmy Maitland called from Washington.
“Come home, Savich,” he said. “You’re needed here in Washington. We’ll get word on Tammy sooner or later. There’s nothing more you can do up there.”
“She’ll kill again, sir, you know it, I know it, and that’s when we’ll get word. She’s probably already killed Marilyn.”
Jimmy Maitland was silent, a thick, depressed silence. Then he said, “Yes, you’re right. I also know that for the moment there’s nothing more we can do about it. As for you, Savich, you’re too close now. Come home.”
“Is that an order, sir?”
“Yes.” He didn’t add that he was calling from Savich’s house in Georgetown, sitting in Savich’s favorite chair, bouncing Sean on his knee, Sherlock not two feet away, holding out a whiskey, neat, in one hand and a graham cracker in the other. Jimmy hoped the cracker wasn’t intended for him. He needed the whiskey.
Savich sighed. “All right. I’ll be back in a few hours.”
If Sean had decided to talk while his father was on the phone, Jimmy would have been busted, but the kid had been quiet, just grinning at him and rubbing his knuckles over his gums. Jimmy hung up the phone, handed Sean to Sherlock, and said as she gave him the whiskey, “This is a royal mess, but at least Savich will be home sometime this evening. He’s really upset, Sherlock.”
“I know, I know. We’ll think of something. We always do.” She gave Sean the graham cracker.
Jimmy said, “Savich feels guilty, like he’s the one who’s failed, like the murders of all those people, including our own Virginia Cosgrove, are his fault.”
“He always will. It’s just the way he is.”
Jimmy looked over at the baby, who was happily gumming the graham cracker. He said, “Sean reminds me of my second to ol
dest, Landry. He was a pistol, that one, gave me every gray hair I’ve got on my head. If you ever get tired of this little champ, just give me a call.”
He downed his whiskey and stared for a moment at the marvelous Sarah Elliott painting hanging over the fireplace. “I’ve always wondered about the soldier in that painting, wondered what he was thinking at that moment when he was frozen for all time. I wonder if there was someone at home who would grieve if he died.”
“Yes, it’s excellent. Has Dillon kept you in the loop about Lily and Simon?”
“He told me earlier that Agent Hoyt found the flight plan for a private Learjet owned by the Waldemarsudde Corporation that took off from Arcata airport bound for Gothenburg, Sweden. The CEO is Ian Jorgenson, son of Olaf Jorgenson, the collector we believe is involved in all this.”
Sherlock nodded and said, “Did he also tell you that we think his son is a collector as well?”
“Yes,” Jimmy said. “Interesting, isn’t it, that Charlotte and Elcott Frasier were also taken? Or maybe they went willingly because the jig was almost up for them here. Tennyson is still in Hemlock Bay. There’s not a shred of evidence yet to connect him to the attempts on Lily’s life or Mr. Monk’s murder, or any of the rest of it. Seems to me that Lily’s husband is his parents’ dupe.”
“Maybe so,” Sherlock said. “It doesn’t matter. Lily’s divorcing him. Oh yes, Dillon has already called two cop friends he has in Stockholm and Uppsala. We know that Jorgenson has a huge estate in Gothenburg called Slottsskogen, or Castle Wood. It’s about halfway up the coast of Sweden on the western side. Dillon said that one of his friends, Petter Tuomo, has two brothers in the Gothenburg police. They’re on it. We haven’t heard anything back yet.”
Jimmy said, “Good, things are moving. Does Savich have friends all over the world?”
“Just about, thank God.” She sighed, kissed Sean, who was wriggling to get down, and shook her head. “Everywhere we look, there’s something horrible ready to fall on our heads. We’re terrified about Lily and Simon. We’re praying that Olaf Jorgenson hasn’t killed them.”
“I can’t see why he’d bother to kidnap them if he wanted them dead, Sherlock. There’s got to be more going on here than we know.”
Gothenburg, Sweden
An hour later, bathed, warm, and in fresh clothes, Lily and Simon preceded Alpo and Nikki down a massive oak staircase that could accommodate six well-fed people at a time. They were led to the other side of an entrance hall that was a huge chessboard, black-and-white square slabs of marble, with three-foot-tall classic carved black-and-white marble chess pieces lined up along the walls.
They walked down a long hall, through big mahogany double doors into a room that was two stories high, every wall covered from floor to ceiling with books. There were a good half dozen library ladders. A fire burned in an exquisite white marble fireplace with an ornately carved mantel that was at least two feet wide and covered with exquisite Chinese figures. There was a large desk set at an angle in the corner. Behind the desk was a man not much older than fifty, tall, blond and blue-eyed, fit as his Viking ancestors. He was tanned, probably from days spent on the ski slopes. The man rose as Simon and Lily were brought in. He looked at them, his expression gentle and sympathetic. She drew herself up. That was nonsense, and she wouldn’t underestimate him. The man nodded, and both Alpo and Nikki remained by the door.
“Welcome to Slottsskogen, Mr. Russo, Mrs. Frasier. Ah, that means Castle Wood. Our city’s largest park was named after this estate many years ago. Won’t you sit down?”
“What is the city?”
“Sit down. Good. I’m Ian Jorgenson. My father asked me to greet you. You both look better than you did when you arrived.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” Lily said.
“Your English is fluent,” Simon said.
“I attended Princeton University. My degree, as you might imagine, is in art history. And, of course, business.”
Lily said, “Why are we here?”
“Ah, here is my father. Nikki, bring him very close so he can see Mrs. Frasier.”
Lily tensed in her chair as Nikki pushed a wheelchair toward them. In the chair sat an impossibly old man, with just a few tufts of white hair sticking straight up. He looked frail, but when he raised his head, she saw brilliant blue eyes, and they were cold and sharp with intelligence. The brain in that head was not frail or fading.
“Closer,” the old man said.
Nikki brought him to within inches of Lily. The old man reached out his hand and touched his fingertips to her face. Lily started to draw back, then stilled.
“I am Olaf Jorgenson, and you are Lily. I speak beautiful English because, like my son, I also attended Princeton University. Ah, you are wearing the white gown, just as I instructed. It is lovely, just as I hoped it would be. Perfect.” He ran his fingers down her arm, over the soft white silk, to her wrist. “I want you to be painted in this white dress. I am pleased that those American buffoons failed to execute you and Mr. Russo.”
“So are we,” Lily said. “Why did they want to kill us so badly, Mr. Jorgenson?”
“Well, you see, it was my intention to let the Frasiers deal with you. I understand they bungled the job several times, for which I am now grateful. I hadn’t realized what you looked like, Lily. When Ian showed me your picture, I ordered the Frasiers to stay away from you. I sent Alpo and Nikki to California to fetch you back to me. They were clumsy also, but it turned out not to matter because you, my dear, are here at last.”
Lily said slowly, “I don’t look like anyone special. I’m just myself.” But she knew she must look like someone who mattered to him, and so she waited, holding her breath, keeping still as his fingers stroked her arm, up to her shoulder. She saw that his nails were dark and unhealthy-looking.
The old man said finally, “You look exactly like Sarah Jameson when I first met her in Paris a very long time ago, before the Great War, when the artistic community in Paris broke free and flourished. Ah yes, we enraged the staid French bourgeoisie with our endless and outrageous play, our limitless daring and debauchery. I remember the hours we spent with Gertrude Stein. Ah, what an intelligence that one had, her wit sharper than Nikki’s favorite knife, and such noble and impossible ideas. And there was the clever and cruel Picasso—he painted her, worshiped her. And Matisse, so quiet until he drank absinthe, and then he would sing the most obscene songs imaginable as he painted. I remember all the French neighbors cursing through the walls when he sang.
“I saw Hemingway wagering against Braque and Sherwood—it was a spitting contest at a cuspidor some eight feet away. Your grandmother kept moving the cuspidor. Ah, such laughter and brilliance. It was the most flamboyant, the most vivid time in all of history, all the major talent of the world in that one place. It was like a zoo with only the most beautiful, the wildest and most dangerous specimens congregated together. They gave the world the greatest art ever known.”
“I didn’t know you were a writer or an artist,” Simon said.
“I’m neither, unfortunately, but I did try to paint, studied countless hours with great masters and wasted many canvases. So many of my young friends wanted to paint or to write. We were in Paris to worship the great ones, to see if perhaps their vision, their immense talent, would rub off, just a bit. Some of those old friends did become great; others returned to their homes to make furniture or sell stamps in a post office. Ah, but Sarah Jameson, she was the greatest of them all. Stein corresponded with her until her death right after World War Two.”
“How well did you know my grandmother, Mr. Jorgenson?”
Olaf Jorgenson’s soft voice was filled with shadows and faded memories that still fisted around his heart, memories he could still see clearly. “Sarah was a bit older than I, but so beautiful, so exquisitely talented, so utterly without restraint, as hot and wild as a sirocco blowing up from the Libyan desert. She loved vodka and opium, both as pure as she could get. The first time I saw her, anoth
er young artist, her lover, was painting her nude body, covering it with phalluses, all of them ejaculating.
“She was everything I wanted, and I grew to love her very much. But she met a man, a damned American who was simply visiting Paris, a businessman, ridiculous in his pale gray flannels, but she wanted him more than me. She left me, went back to America with him.”
“That was my grandfather, Emerson Elliott. She married him in the mid-1930s, in New York.”
“Yes, she left me. And I never saw her again. I began collecting her paintings during the fifties. It wasn’t well known for some time that she’d willed paintings to her grandchildren, such a private family matter. Yes, she willed eight beautiful paintings to each child. I knew I wanted them all for my collection. You are the first; it is unfortunate, but we managed to gain only four of the originals before the Frasiers became convinced that you were going to leave their son, despite the drugs they were feeding you. They knew you’d take the paintings with you, so they decided to kill you, particularly since your husband was your beneficiary after your daughter’s death.”
“But I didn’t die.”
“No, you did not, but not for their lack of trying.”
“You’re telling me that my husband was not part of this plot?”
“No, Tennyson Frasier was their pawn. His parents’ great hopes for him were dashed, but he did manage to make you his wife. It’s possible he even fell in love with you, at least enough to marry you, as his parents wished.”
She’d been so certain that Tennyson had been part of the plot. She asked, “Why didn’t you just offer me money?”
“I knew you would turn me down, as would your siblings. You were the most vulnerable, particularly after your divorce from Jack Crane, and so I selected you.”
“That’s crazy. You invent this convoluted plan just to bilk me out of my grandmother’s paintings?”
“Sarah’s paintings belong with me, for I am the only one who can really appreciate them, know them beyond their visual message and impact, because I knew her, you see, knew her to her soul. She would talk to me about her work, what each one meant to her, what she was thinking when she was painting each one. I fed her opium, and we talked for hours. I never tired of watching her paint, of listening to her voice. She was the only woman I ever wanted in my life, the only one.” He paused for a moment, frowning, and she saw pain etched into the deep wrinkles in his face. From the loss of her grandmother or from illness?
The FBI Thrillers Collection Page 26
