The Blackmail Club

by David Bishop

  “I’ve painted all my life. Now my work ends up being used as forgeries.” He lowered his eyes.

  Jack sat forward. “Mr. Flood, we aren’t the police. In our eyes you’re a victim, just like the National Portrait Gallery. We want you to help us find the criminal who conned you and stole four of America’s art treasures.”

  “I’ll help any way I can, but I must be guilty of something.”

  “Gullibility, for certain,” Jack said. “But at times we’ve all been bitten by that bug. You are a painter, a master copyist, lied to by a master criminal. It’s true you wanted the fee. The criminal counted on that.”

  “Wait a minute. My signatures were on the backs of the canvases. Isn’t that how you found me?”

  “Your signatures had been chemically removed.”

  He rubbed his arms as if he were cold. “I can’t return the fee. I’ve used it to pay debts.”

  “Would you like another cup of water?”

  “No, thank you, Mrs. Miller. Forgive me, Ms. Burke.”

  He got up and walked a path worn in the wooden floor planks by countless past walks by himself and those who had occupied the loft for decades before. When he reached the far side of the room, he gazed down into the river.

  Jack went to him and spoke softly. “This is no longer about you. It’s about finding the criminal. It’s about recovering the portraits.” He paused, hoping his comment had taken root. Then said, “Tell us about when he contacted you.”

  Flood paced as he talked. “The first call came about eighteen months ago. We discussed the assignment. The next morning I found an envelope under my door stuffed with fifty thousand dollars, half the agreed fee. He even threw in extra to cover the costs of the portrait transparencies I would need.”

  “Didn’t the whole thing seem odd?” Nora asked.

  “Sure. It seemed odd; it was odd. And I let him know that the next time he called. But the way he explained it, made it seem okay.”

  Jack, still standing by the window, asked, “What date did you find the envelope under your door?”

  Flood reached onto a shelf behind him and picked up a black appointment book. He rambled on about the bills he had paid with the money while flipping the pages.

  “The man told me about the limits of cash you can deposit into a bank without having to complete forms, and that I should keep most of it in cash. Ah, here they are. I got the first half of the fee on September sixteenth, the year before last. I made a few deposits from the seventeenth through the twenty-fifth, in several different accounts, and held the rest in cash.”

  “How did the caller explain the need for secrecy?”

  “He told me right off that it was an odd assignment.” Flood went to the water cooler and leaned his crossed arms over the top of the bottle. “He said his client was a wealthy businessman from the Middle East who loved America and did a lot of business with us. That some of the radical Islamist elements in his country were starting to accuse him of being too close to America.”

  Flood pulled free another cup, filled it with water, and drank it down. “The caller explained the portraits were of the four American presidents who had been assassinated in office. The Middle Eastern businessman planned to hang them in his palace. Then, when the radicals came, he could make incendiary statements. The only good American president is a dead president, like that. He’d then remind the extremists that he donated a part of his profits to help fund Islamic fundamentalism. It was all for show, he explained, so they would not see him as an American sympathizer.”

  “The good financier of terrorism,” Jack snarled.

  Flood raised his hands. “I didn’t do it to aid terrorists. I’m just a simple painter.” As if a puppeteer had relaxed the strings, his arms fell limp to his sides.

  Jack had seen many American soldiers killed with weapons paid for by Middle Eastern businessmen who financed the terrorists while claiming to be moderates themselves. Entire governments in that part of the world played that game.

  “What else?” Nora asked.

  “The man would not give his name. We could not meet. He would make all payments in cash.” Flood’s face turned ashen. “It was weird. I grant you that, but it was plausible … Wasn’t it? He came through with the rest of the money.”

  “I’m not going to judge you.” Jack said, in an unconvincing tone.

  Nora took the lead to give Jack a moment to chill out. “Tell us about how you gave him the paintings and how you received the other half of your fee?”

  Flood crushed the empty paper cup he still held. “I agreed to be finished in sixteen months. Believe me that was a breakneck pace. The paint must be layered and time is needed to let the paint age at several points in the process. He called this past January to confirm I was on schedule.”

  “Were you?” asked Nora.

  “Yes.” Flood said, continuing to squeeze the crumpled cup as if it were a hand-exercise ball. “We agreed I would deliver them on February sixteenth. He told me to cover my paintings in white paper and put them in the back of my van. I was to park at the Ritz Carlton on the Avenue of the Americas, just south of Central Park. He said, ‘In hotel parking lots, people take things in and out of the backs of vehicles all the time. You will not raise anyone’s attention if you do it exactly the way I’m telling you.’

  “I was to park away from the hotel building, near other parked cars, but in a spot where the spaces on each side were empty. ‘Get a duplicate key to your van,’ he said, ‘and lock all the doors. Put the original key on top of the right front tire and keep the duplicate key with you.’”

  “Then what”

  “He told me to walk south until I got to the Museum of Modern Art. I was to go inside for an hour and then walk back to my van. He promised to leave my other fifty thousand under the front seat. He made me repeat all his instructions about the hotel, the keys, and the museum.”

  “And he had left the rest of your fee?” Nora asked.

  “Just as he promised. I remember taking a deep breath. If he had been a crook, he would have taken my paintings and not paid me. Wouldn’t he? So, I figured his bizarre story had been true.”

  “Or he considered that you might call the cops, and his plan to substitute the forgeries for the originals would be scuttled. He couldn’t cheat you without cheating himself.”

  “I didn’t think of it that way, Mr. McCall. I didn’t know he planned to swap them and steal the originals. I saw the rest of the money as validating the whole thing had been on the up and up.” Flood tossed his balled up cup at the corner waste basket. It bounced off the wall and rolled under a chair. He came back and sat on the couch, turning to Nora. “You must not have had any trouble finding me. There are only a couple of other copyists capable of duplicating the artists’ differing styles as well as being knowledgeable about the methods of trompe l’oeil.”

  “What?” Nora asked.

  “Trompe l’oeil is the art of visual deception. It includes things such as creating the appearance of the cracks that time leaves in paint, and boring fake worm holes in frames. I did all that. I even oven-baked the copies to make them indistinguishable from the originals without thorough scientific examination.”

  “What else can you tell us about the man who hired you?” Jack asked, not caring about the technical art mumbo jumbo.

  “Nothing.” Flood raised his eyebrows. “The man had his paintings. I had my fee.”

  Chapter 41

  Courtesy of the rising sun and New York’s tall buildings, Jack drove out of Manhattan through alternating blasts of warm sun and cool shadows.

  After a few nervous glances he looked right at Nora. “About last night—”

  “It was good for me. How about you?”

  “That’s not what I meant. I mean—”

  “Jack. You’re an attractive man, and I’m a woman who claims the same rights men have enjoyed for eternity. It was clear you were struggling with your growing desires, and we’re partners so we’re supposed to h
elp each other, right?”

  “I don’t think that falls within partnership duties.”

  “Hey, Jack. I wanted you. It’s that simple. Helping you get over the hump and have sex again after losing Rachel was just an extra. Said plain, you had to be horny and I didn’t want you falling into the wrong hands. Look. I’m not reading anything else into it. Okay?”

  “I don’t know what to say,” Jack replied. “Thanks for the help. It was great. You’re a gorgeous woman and a wonderful lover. All of that, but I don’t want it to affect us working together. You know?”

  Nora reached over and gently kneaded the short hair at the back of Jack’s neck. “It won’t, not unless you go and start getting silly about it. Look. Nothing has changed. Let’s agree it was just a one-night stand.”

  The hum of cars reverberated as he drove through the Holland Tunnel. Coming out the other side, he asked, “Is that how you see last night?”

  Right then the ringer on her Candy Robson phone played its melody. Nora answered and listened for a moment, then enunciated through silent lips, “It’s the blackmailer,” before speaking into the phone. “I’m driving, gimme a minute to pull over.”

  Jack stopped the car. She tilted the phone so they could both hear.

  “Listen up, Candy Robson, you’ll wanna hear this.”

  Jack heard Nora’s taped voice give the details of a real hit and run killing that Nora had found in the police reports. He then heard her confess Candy Robson’s guilt, her negligence, her heavy drinking prior to it, and to having fled the scene. Her words also showed a lack of concern for anything other than preserving her cash. In short, she had been a grade-A blackmail target. Jack gave her a thumbs-up for her performance.

  “My God!” Nora shouted in Candy’s ditsy voice. “That quack doctor promised me everything was confidential. How’d you find out? And just who in the blooming hell are you?”

  “Shut the fuck up and listen good. I’m only gonna say this once. I want one million bucks, half in hundreds, the other half in fifties. No sequential bills. No new money. Put it in a black fabric sports bag and—”

  “I don’t got that kind of money.” Nora said in the uneducated style of Candy Robson.

  “Listen, rich bitch, that tape has the whole story. You didn’t care about the old broad you flattened. You married your old man for his money and then fucked him to death, so cut the bullshit or I’ll demand two million. Don’t worry. You got plenty left.”

  “I’ve seen movies about blackmail. You’ll never stop. You’ll keep coming back for more.”

  “Quit whining. You gave up your options when you drove off after running down that old lady. You’ll only pay me once. I won’t come after you again.”

  “You leave me little choice. Where do I put my money?”

  “Listen up. I won’t repeat these instructions.”

  She and Jack pressed their heads together. Jack held the phone. Nora poised to take notes.

  “You got tomorrah, Friday, to get the cash. On Sunday, put the bag with the mil in your trunk. At eleven A.M. sharp, park your car at the National Cathedral. It’s way out Massachusetts Avenue. Take Wisconsin and turn just before the Episcopal Church House. Turn left at the parking sign and drive two-thirds of the way down. Angle-park on the left side near the tree with the black leaves. You’ll see six cement steps leading up to a small grass area on the south side of the Cathedral.”

  “Slow down,” Nora told the blackmailer, “I ain’t no secretary.”

  The man waited a beat. “Do not arrive before eleven. It’s now 6:04. I’ll wait while you set your watch to that time; do it now.” He paused, and then went on. “Follow the stone path that’ll be ahead of you to the left, not the brick path that angles right. Continue past a small pool to an open-air fountain enclosed on three sides by a block wall. Face the fountain. Step onto the bench to your left and drop the bag over the wall.” He paused again.

  “Return to your car, but don’t leave. From there, walk past your car to the long set of steps on your left. Walk up those fifty-one steps, cross the street, and continue up the stairs on the other side. That will take you to the south portal of the Cathedral. Enter. Stay one hour. Then leave by the northwest door. Walk back around to your car and go home to Jackson Hole. If you never return to DC, you’ll never hear from me again. But if you return, ever, your pals in Wyoming will be going to your funeral.

  “You’ll be watched all the time. My gunman will have you in his scope. If you don’t follow these orders to the letter, you’re fucking dead. If you bring anyone with you or call the cops, I’ll know, and this tape on which you confessed running down the lady will find its way to the same cops you talked to.”

  Before the sun rose Friday, Jack took Max and drove onto the grounds of the National Cathedral. Drummy had gone by to pick up Nora so he could check the remote and camera at her house before joining them at the cathedral. There still had been no pictures taken, but the equipment all checked out to be in proper working order.

  The cathedral has a grandness crafted by past geniuses who, working without computers, had molded majesty into block and concrete.

  The blackmailer would not be loitering at the cathedral two days before the payoff. Still, they all had dressed like tourists, wore hats, and carried cameras. They took lots of pictures to camouflage the ones they really wanted, the route Nora had been ordered to follow; the possible positions from where the blackmailer might watch; and the various paths he might take to and from the payoff drop.

  Two hours later, back at MI, they spread out those photographs, discussed their alternatives and finalized their plan. Drummy would arrive very early to set up cameras to cover Nora’s approach, the fountain entrance and interior, as well as the possible directions from which the blackmailer might approach the drop. Drummy would then stay out of sight in an unmarked van in the parking lot that Nora would drive through. A tire on his van would be punctured to explain its presence in the lot.

  Jack would take a position in the tree on the south rim of a grassy area about the size of a football field. From there he could watch the entrance to the fountain room where Nora would leave the payoff.

  Max would hide near the entrance to the fountain in an area thick with shrubs fronted by a sign identifying them as English Boxwood.

  They were as ready as possible and their excitement was palpable. Tomorrow should be the day for which they had been waiting, the day during which they would stop accumulating questions and start compiling answers. Maybe, hopefully, the day they would meet the blackmailer.

  Before leaving Jack called Mr. Trowbridge and also Alan Clark to confirm the blackmailer had not, once given, called them to change the location or time they were to leave their payoffs. He hadn’t. Hopefully, the blackmailer would not do so this time either.

  Chapter 42

  The backs of Sarah Andujar’s hands were bandaged, her lower arms heavily scratched, some having scabbed over.

  “Hello, Jack. Hello, Nora. Thank you for coming. I am eager to hear your progress report.”

  “What happened?” Nora asked looking at Sarah.

  “Oh, it is nothing, more embarrassing than anything.” She led them toward the back.

  Jack and Nora stopped and stood still as soon as they stepped down into the sun room. Sarah’s prized rose bushes had all been hacked off. Jack gently put his hands on the old woman’s shoulders. “Sarah, is that how you hurt your hands and arms?”

  “Oh, all right; I’ll tell you. I kept seeing Christopher standing out there among the roses. I called to him but he did not answer. He always seemed just beyond where I was so I kept cutting. I know it sounds crazy, but I just lost it. I had no idea what I was I doing until I found myself sitting in that garden chair, exhausted, with my pruning shears on my lap and my wonderful rose bushes all over the ground.”

  “Have you seen a doctor?” Nora asked.

  Sarah shook her head. “I put ointment on the cuts and scratches and bandages. It’s no
t as bad as it looks; they’re healing well.”

  “I believe Nora was referring to a psychiatrist,” Jack said, “perhaps Dr. Radnor? Your husband trusted him.”

  “Odd as it may sound, despite my husband being a psychiatrist, I do not believe in it.”

  Sarah shooed her guests into the study while she went into the kitchen to get them all some refreshments. A few minutes later she wheeled in a serving cart with a pot of coffee, a pitcher of hot tea, and a tray of buttered croissants. She acted as if they had just arrived and the garden issue had never been discussed.

  “Thank you for coming. I am pleased you have made enough progress to warrant giving me a report.”

  Jack and Nora sat in two Eisenhower chairs with peach colored cushions while Sarah poured coffee for Jack and, assuming Nora would want tea, poured the two of them a cup. Then she sat in a chair across from her guests.

  “I hope we didn’t give you false hopes,” Nora began. “We believe in giving our clients progress reports even if there is no progress. In this case, we’ve had some, but only in a general way.”

  “Please tell me.”

  Jack sat forward. “You were right. We know, or are very sure, Chris was blackmailed. As of yet we cannot say by whom or over what.”

  Sarah stared at Jack. “Is there anything else?”

  “Other people have also been blackmailed.”

  “Others?” She squeezed a lemon wedge over her tea, hard enough that some of the spray touched a few of the unbandaged scratches on her arm, causing her to grimace.

  “We can’t say who,” Jack said, “but yes there were others.”

  “I can imagine their misery.” She stirred her tea, tamped the spoon on her napkin and rested it on her saucer.

  “Frankly, some deserve your sympathy.” Nora smiled thinly. “Some don’t.”

  Jack blew on his coffee and took a first sip. “We’ll know more before we’re done.”