As for “Heavenly,” I was beginning to wonder if the name was something the lady had given herself, not unlike Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
“My Lord,” I said, “I could use some help.”
“McKenzie, I wouldn’t give you the time of day.”
“It involves a Stradivarius violin worth four million.”
“Probably six million, maybe more if it were sold at public auction. And my answer is, go fuck yourself. I apologize for my language.”
Heavenly gave him one of her patented smiles.
“He does bring out the worst in people,” she said.
“Tell me about your shoulder.”
“I was shot three days ago.”
“While searching for the Countess Borromeo?”
“Yes.”
Cid glared at me as if I were the one who pulled the trigger.
“McKenzie saved my life,” Heavenly added. It wasn’t entirely true, but I appreciated the gesture.
Cid’s demeanor softened somewhat; Heavenly had that effect on people. Still, he was a businessman.
“What’s in it for me?” he asked.
Heavenly slipped a bundle of fifty-dollar bills out of her sling and set it on the table. El Cid stared at it for a good ten-count before looking her in the eye.
“Is this your money or McKenzie’s?”
“Mine.”
“Keep it.”
“My Lord—”
“Dave. Please. Call me Dave.”
“Thank you, Dave.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Who would—” I said.
Cid cut me off.
“I was talking to her,” he said.
“We know the Countess was stolen on commission,” Heavenly said. “The thief was hired to acquire the item and hand it over to a facilitator, like yourself.”
Cid bowed his head. I think he preferred “facilitator” to “fence.”
“Possibly the facilitator had a buyer lined up,” Heavenly said. “Possibly he intended to place the Countess in a vault for a few years and then find a buyer. Possibly he meant to hide it until the statute of limitations expires, pretend to discover it at a garage sale, and sell it at auction. Possibly he meant to sell it back to the insurance company and now is stuck with it.”
“Possibly,” Cid said.
“Who? Who would have the resources for a gag like that?”
“Besides me?”
“I am willing to pay $250,000 for the violin’s safe return, no questions asked,” I said. “I can get the money in thirty minutes.”
“Shut up, McKenzie.”
“Yes, McKenzie,” Heavenly said. “Adults are talking here.”
Cid grinned broadly. Apparently, it pleased him no end that Heavenly was taking his side against the man who ratted him out to the cops two years ago.
“There are only a few people I can think of,” Cid said. “The Martin brothers in L.A.—Bryan and Brandon; ’course they’re both a couple of perverts. There’s Kevin Stein in New York, Lawrence Sahulka in Toronto, Doc Young in Philly, Missy Comapt in Atlanta—”
“Tell me about Doc Young,” I said.
“His real name is Tim Young. Everyone calls him Doc. He’s not good-natured like me, McKenzie. Fuck with him, he’ll blow your brains out.”
“How do I get ahold of him?”
“You go to Philadelphia and arrange a face-to-face,” Heavenly said. “He doesn’t talk on the phone.”
“Not since Edward Snowden did his thing,” Cid said.
“Do you know him?” I asked.
“Let’s say I know of him,” Heavenly said.
“Does he know you?”
“In this business you keep track of talent,” Cid said. “If I know Heavenly, Doc knows her. Hell, he might even have heard of you.”
* * *
“Why Philadelphia?” Heavenly asked.
We were back in my Mustang and maneuvering through the Minneapolis traffic toward my condo. It occurred to me that I lived less than three miles from El Cid’s place of business. I found the information very disconcerting.
“We need to start somewhere,” I said.
“Yes, but why there?”
“The prefix of the phone number inputted into the cells that the Voice sent to you and Ruland—215 is Philadelphia.”
“I should have checked that myself, careless. Are you sure you only scored thirty-one on your ACT?”
“Now you sound like Maryanne Altavilla.”
“’Course, that doesn’t mean the Voice is from Philadelphia. Only that the burner phones were purchased and activated in the area.”
“Something the old man used to say—The race isn’t always to the swift nor the battle to the strong, but that’s the way to bet.”
“Something my old man used to say—Fuck you if you can’t take a joke.”
“Sounds like a helluva guy.”
“I could tell you stories,” Heavenly said.
“Anytime you’re ready.”
“Have you ever been there—to Philadelphia?”
“No.”
“I have. I know people.”
“What people?”
“The kind of people who do business with people like Doc Young. Believe me, your usual charming ways aren’t going to impress them at all.”
“Have you ever worked with Doc?”
“No—and I have no desire to, either. He’s not a nice man.”
“What we’ll do—”
“I’ll handle it.”
“You will?”
“Like I said, I’ve been there before. I’ll get us in, set us up, arrange to meet Doc, then get us out again, preferably in one piece.”
“You can do all that?”
“Trust me.”
“Okay, I will.”
“All I ask is that you don’t get me shot again.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Please.”
* * *
Paul Duclos couldn’t sit still—or stand still, either, for that matter. He had requested a progress report and I agreed to meet him at his home on Sunday. We moved to his luxurious kitchen because that’s where the coffee was; Renée Peyroux insisted on joining us. Once there, he started pacing back and forth while his wife and I sat at the table and watched.
“You still don’t know where she is,” Duclos said. “No one claimed the reward, no one came forward … Donatucci said someone would. He said, offer a reward, he said … I thought it would be done by now; thought I’d have her back by now … It’s like a bad traffic accident that doesn’t end, that keeps going on and on in slow motion, until … Is she gone, McKenzie? Gone forever?”
“Paul, please sit down,” Peyroux said.
He ignored her and kept pacing except for those moments when he halted long enough to drink his coffee. He refilled his mug three times while I was sitting there. Instead of taking it black as he had before, he now half-filled the mug with sugar. The man’s condition had deteriorated some since last we spoke—his skin was pale, his eyes bloodshot, and his hands shook. He reminded me now of a junkie going through withdrawal. I attempted to give him something to hold on to.
“I’m going to Philadelphia tomorrow,” I said. “Have you ever been there?”
“Many times. Kimmel Center. The Countess and I once played a charity thing on the Rocky Steps at the Philadelphia Museum of Art.”
“There’s a man there—I think he arranged to have the Countess stolen.”
“Why doesn’t he sell her back, then?” Duclos asked. “Is it the money? Does he want more money?” He turned on his wife. “This is your fault. Because you refused to pay a ransom. How could you do that? How?”
“Please,” she said.
“I don’t think he actually has the violin,” I said. “The man in Philadelphia. I think something happened before he could take possession. I’m hoping he’ll tell me what before someone else gets shot.”
“People are being shot?” P
eyroux asked.
“One dead, one wounded.”
“Oh, no.”
“I don’t care,” Duclos said. “I don’t care if a hundred people get killed. No, no, no, listen to me. I don’t mean that. I don’t mean … Please, McKenzie. What am I going to do?”
Peyroux called his name; asked him to sit with her yet again. Duclos wouldn’t even meet her eyes.
“I need her, McKenzie,” he said. “Don’t you understand? McKenzie…” He set down the coffee mug and showed me his trembling hands. “I can’t play. Not a note. I don’t know how. Without the Countess I’m nothing.”
“Yes, you are,” Peyroux said. “I was in Duluth, remember? Friday night at Symphony Hall. First row center. You were brilliant.”
“It’s a lie.”
Peyroux turned in her chair to face me.
“When I heard about the theft, I drove up there,” she said. “I brought Paul’s old violin, the Jacob Stainer that he used before the foundation lent him the Countess Borromeo. He never played better.”
“It doesn’t have the same sound,” Duclos said.
“It was beautiful.”
“What do you know? You know nothing about music. You know nothing about musicians.”
“I know you.”
“Stop it. Stop it, stop it, stop it.”
“Paul—”
“Do you know what this is about? McKenzie, do you? As long I was the Maestro, I came first. I was the world-famous violinist who married the pretty rich girl. Now she’s in charge. The rich girl married to the failed musician. She likes it that way. Don’t you? Don’t you, sweetheart?”
“How many times do I have to say it—I didn’t marry you because you could play the goddamned violin. I don’t love you because you play the violin.”
“That’s just great, because I can’t play anymore.”
“You can.”
“Not without the Countess.”
Duclos left the kitchen. Peyroux’s body convulsed with anguish; the words she spoke were barely discernible.
“I love him so much,” she said. “This shouldn’t be happening. What can I do? What can I do, McKenzie?”
I had a few thoughts, yet I kept them to myself.
“I should leave,” I said.
Peyroux pulled herself together; dabbing her eyes with the linen napkin she had taken from the counter when she had poured her coffee, and I thought, She’s as strong as she looks.
“Are you married?” she asked me.
“I’m in a committed relationship.”
“That’s not the same thing. It would still be easy for you to walk away.”
I doubt it, my inner voice said.
“But when you’re married,” Peyroux said. “When you’re married, everything you think, everything you do is filtered through the prism that is your partner. A good day isn’t complete until you tell him about it. A bad day can’t be made better without his help. When he’s happy, you’re happy. When he’s not, you’re miserable. You never make plans without consulting him first. The simple act of buying clothes—will he like this color; is the skirt too short for him, not short enough? At night, you reach across the bed to touch him, reassure yourself that he’s lying next to you. If he’s not, you snap awake, your heart racing, until you realize, oh, he’s in New York, he’s in London; you’ll talk to him tomorrow—can’t wait to ask how did it go, did the other musicians play up to his standards, did he receive a standing ovation like usual, did he play an encore? ‘Shave and a haircut, two bits’ always leaves them cheering. And you wonder—does he feel the same way you do? Sometimes the answer is no. He’ll ask where are you, what are you doing, but not often; not as often as you like because he’s so wrapped up in what he’s doing, so devoted to his mistress the Countess Borromeo and you accept that, you live with that because that’s the way he is, the way he was when you married him, and there’s no changing him; you wouldn’t change him even if you could, yet at the same time … You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you, McKenzie?”
“I think I do.”
“One day you should explain it to me, then, because—I don’t want you to go to Philadelphia. I don’t want you to search for the Countess at all. It’s not worth it. Let it go.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“Why not?”
“There’s a dead man in Duluth and a wounded girl in my condo in Minneapolis. Someone has to answer for that.”
“Are you really that person?”
“’Fraid so.”
SIXTEEN
Trenton Mercer in New Jersey was the smallest airport I had ever seen. We had taken Frontier Airlines there, departing through the tail of an Airbus onto the tarmac. Baggage claim was an air-conditioned garage; the luggage was piled near the door while passengers waited against the far wall. I carried our bags to the parking lot; Heavenly held tight to her nylon carry-on. I didn’t know if it still contained the $50,000. If so, the TSA agents in the Cities hadn’t noticed. Perhaps they were distracted by the ounce of lead in Heavenly’s shoulder. It set off first the X-ray imaging machine and then a couple of handheld metal detectors. I don’t know how she explained the bullet—we had gone through security separately—yet when she finished, the agents were so solicitous, they arranged to drive her to the departure gate on a golf cart. It took me fifteen minutes to catch up.
There were more sheriff’s deputies hanging outside the Trenton Mercer terminal than taxicabs. They recommended we catch a shuttle that eventually carried us to an off-site car rental agency. Heavenly signed for a blue Ford Focus under the name Caroline Kaminsky. She gave me the keys, saying she would navigate while I drove. A few minutes later, we were on Interstate 95. I didn’t ask Heavenly where we were going or how we were getting there, yet it wasn’t a matter of trust. I just didn’t want to give her the satisfaction.
I-95 became the Delaware Expressway when we crossed the river into Pennsylvania. I followed it into Philadelphia. Heavenly told me to take the Independence Hall exit, so I did. She directed me to Callowhill to Sixth Street to Lombard to Tenth Street. The streets were very narrow, and most of them one way; cars were parked on either side, allowing room for only one lane of traffic, and I thought the Philly cops probably didn’t get many high-speed chases in this part of town unless they were on bicycles.
Following Heavenly’s instructions, I parked in the first empty space I found on a long block jammed with tall rowhouses that harkened back to the turn of the last century. Brothers played hoops in an asphalt park surrounded by a high cyclone fence across the street; there was a coffeehouse on the corner. I carried the bags half a block to our brownstone. I saw no other places to park.
“This part of town, parking spots are prime real estate,” Heavenly said. “You see an empty space, you take it. If you try to find something closer to your destination and don’t, by the time you circle the block the space will be gone. Guaranteed.”
She climbed the concrete steps to the door of the brownstone and unlocked it with a six-digit code pressed into a keypad that she had apparently memorized. She held the door open for me. It locked behind us. There was a bowl of fresh fruit on a small table inside the dim entryway, positioned in front of a giant mural depicting Betsy Ross sewing the first American flag while General Washington played with a small child that I assumed was Betsy’s daughter. Heavenly took an apple as if she had expected it to be there and led me past the mural to a narrow spiraling staircase. We climbed it to the top floor. There was another door with another keypad. Heavenly inputted the code—this one only four digits long. The door swung open. I stepped inside and set the bags on the floor of an ancient kitchen; at least it would have seemed ancient if not for the refrigerator, stove, microwave, coffeemaker, dishwasher, garbage disposal, pots, pans, and dishes.
“In case you’re wondering, this is a bed-and-breakfast,” Heavenly said. “Only we will not meet our hosts. They will not meet us. Oh, and the breakfast is continental.” She opened the refrigerato
r door to reveal two small bottles of milk and various juices, pastry, bagels, English muffins, and fruit. She set the apple on the shelf and closed the door. “It’s a far cry from the Queen Anne. On the other hand, Connor’s food was far too rich. I bet I gained five pounds.”
“Bet you didn’t.”
Heavenly stepped into the room beyond the kitchen. I followed and found a king-sized bed beneath an ornate canopy, a double bed enclosed on three sides by metalwork, a large armoire, a dresser with a marble top and mirror, a couple of tables and chairs, and a rocking chair. There was a tiny bathroom with a black-and-white tile floor and a walk-in shower. Light came from huge windows with a view of the street. Everything looked as if it had been built when the country was new.
Heavenly dropped her nylon bag on top of the king-sized bed.
“Dibs,” she said.
* * *
“Okay,” I said. “We’re in Philly.”
“Specifically, the Bella Vista neighborhood in South Philadelphia,” Heavenly said. “In case you’re thinking of sending Nina a postcard.”
We were sitting in the tiny courtyard behind the brownstone, surrounded by well-cared-for plants and drinking merlot from a bottle provided by the unseen owners of the B&B.
“Do we have a plan?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Do we?”
“You seem to know your way around. I take it you’ve done business here before.”
“Last time, I recovered a Gibson Les Paul Black Beauty electric guitar that was stolen from Jimmy Page in 1970.”
“Jimmy Page from Led Zeppelin?”
“The one and only.”
“No kidding? What did you get for that and who paid you?”
“I’ll start answering your questions when you start answering mine.”
“We should get something to eat. How are the Philly cheesesteak sandwiches?”
“Here they just call ’em cheesesteaks, and they’re about as ubiquitous as brats are in Minnesota and Wisconsin. There are a couple of joints in the neighborhood—Geno’s and Pat’s—that have been battling for cheesesteak supremacy since the beginning of time; Pat’s King of Steaks claims to have invented them.”
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