by Scott Soloff
I stood up and looked him straight in the eye. "Now, sir, what's it going to be?"
Williams took his right hand off the gun. Closed his coat. He took a step towards me. Mistake.
"Grrrrr." I don't have to tell you, do I?
Fortunately, at that exact moment, a fourth man strolled into the kitchen. "Williams, get the fuck out of here. Now! Officers, you may go too. I'll take care of this."
Number four was a handsome man in his fifties. Average height, dark hair with an erect posture. He introduced himself as Detective McKee. Ignatius McKee.
"Call me Mac", he said.
"Picker”, and we shook hands.
"Sorry about Williams. He's not a bad sort, just not too bright. Which is even more the reason you should be careful. Stupid and a gun is a dangerous situation."
"Well, I don't have a gun and I can be pretty dangerous myself."
"Yeah, I noticed." He head swiveled on his neck. Glanced at K and then at the Rotties. “Would they really have, you know, killed them?”
“Couldn’t stop them if I wanted to.”
Mac shook his head and grinned. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
I introduced Detective Ignatius "Mac" McKee to Kelly and Mrs. Murphy and invited him to breakfast. He graciously accepted. He asked me about the incident at my place and I filled him in. The only thing that I left out was the motivation for the intrusion.
"So," he asks, "You can think of no reason why those two gentlemen came into your home brandishing guns?"
He really did say 'brandishing'. "No, the only thing that I can tell you is that they were looking for a painting. I have plenty of those and suggested that they take their pick. One of them searched the house while the other covered us with the gun. But, to be perfectly honest with you, I have no idea what they wanted."
Mac looked at me skeptically. "Okay. That's that then. Here's my card and if you remember anything else give me a call."
He thanked us for breakfast and rose from his chair. I have to say that if this was a version of good cop and bad cop that these guys were doing it very well.
"Mac, one more thing before you go. Walk with me back to the house."
Walking out the kitchen door I said, "Kato, come," and I heard the beast get up and follow me out.
"Some dog you have there."
We walked across the grounds and in the front door. In the living area I opened the draw to the desk and pulled out a small white envelope. Handed it to the Detective.
He opened it and removed two box seat tickets to the next Phillies game. "What's this for? Bribing an officer of the law?"
"Just want to express my gratitude for the fine work of the local police department. Enjoy the game."
"Thanks, I will."
Detective McKee was halfway out the door. "Oh, Mac, there is just one small favor..."
"What's that?"
"I'd like to know who those two guys are when you find out, if it's not too much trouble."
He frowned. "You know that I can't tell you their names."
"Not their names," I replied, "I want to know who they are."
"Sure, not a problem. Try to stay out of trouble. I'll be in touch." And, he was gone.
May 1975 Switzerland
"I'm pleased that we have this opportunity to meet." Karl was a large man with an aristocratic bearing. Round head, silver hair and cold blue eyes.
Simon looked out the wall-to-ceiling window. He could see the Piz Bernina, the Eastern Alps, south of the town; St. Moritz.
Jean Pierre did some research after "Mr. Smith" set up this meeting. Karl Terenz Engelond, Sr. was a German industrialist with fingers in a great many pies.
"I've been looking forward to this myself." Simon's smile had no warmth to it whatsoever.
"Well, I want you to know that all of your terms are quite suitable, almost. I have one small question. I believe that I understand, but if you would be so kind as to clarify." Engelond spoke perfect English wish a precise, clipped accent. "Explain what you mean by 'contingency contract'."
Last week, Simon flew home to spend some time with Elisabeth and Connor. His entire career had been built around living a double life. It had never been a problem before. A new development had complicated matters beyond his comfort zone. Emily was pregnant.
"Quite simple, really. I'm committed to completing this project. However, everything relies on two principle players; the artist and the inside man. If, for any reason whatsoever, one of them becomes unavailable; we stop. Any monies remaining from your initial investment are returned. And hopefully, we part on good terms."
Simon took in the entire room. Jean Pierre's dossier on Engelond listed information about his family; a wife and young son. Apparently they were still together. But from what he could see, there was no evidence of them at the chalet. Karl was alone here; no family, no associates and most important, no bodyguards. The only precaution taken was a cursory pat down when he arrived.
"Hypothetically, what if I found that unacceptable?"
Simon removed a cigar from his pocket; rolled it in his mouth and looked directly into this man's eyes. "Mr. Engelond, you hired me for a reason. I offered your Mr. Smith the names of other men fully capable of performing this job. If I'm not mistaken, you chose me for one simple reason - my jobs are undetectable. There is no such thing as a perfect crime; however, if the parties involved do not know one has been committed, well, then there is no crime to investigate. If the original players have to be replaced, the risk of detection rises to unacceptable levels."
The living area was large; perhaps 25' x 40', decorated with glass, chrome and leather. The walls were covered in expensive art from different periods. Engelond taste was obviously eclectic. The object that most interested Simon was the large crystal ashtray on the coffee table before him.
"You're referring to Mr. Koch specifically?"
Simon's brain went into high speed. Engelond was monitoring the operation. Was this a good thing or a bad thing? The answer arrived in a millisecond. Good thing. He didn't miss a beat... "Absolutely. If anything happens to Mr. Koch; if he has an accident, a stroke or even changes his mind... it doesn't matter. Too much exposure."
"And if he goes to the authorities?"
"We'll know about it. His office and home are tapped; plus he's under twenty four hour surveillance."
Engelond passed Simon a slim leather attaché. "Twenty million in bearer bonds. Your thinking is sound and I accept your terms."
Bearer bonds are unregistered securities. There are no records kept of either ownership or eventual transactions. The practical application here is that whoever physically has possession of the bonds owns the instrument. Particularly helpful in instances where one wishes anonymity.
"Then we're in business." Simon stood and they shook hands. "The next time we meet, I'll have your painting."
Simon returned to the London the following morning.
We say goodbye
Monday was the funeral. Kelly and I walked into the church. There were at least a couple of hundred people there to remember our friend, Anthony DeAngelo, Sr. We took a pew directly behind the family.
Before I left the house I went into the stables. Selected a Doo Wop original oil painting and wrapped it in butcher paper. Hid it not-so-carefully in the closet of the master bedroom. Left the security system turned off. Turned the hidden cameras on. I told Mrs. Murphy that we would be gone most of the day and to keep Zena and Zeus indoors.
I took Kato with us.
The church was filled with family. There were uncles and aunts, cousins, nephews and nieces. Plenty of people from the neighborhood and close friends. TJ and the girlfriend of the month was seated with us. A lovely Chinese woman.
I recognized many of the people there, but not all. As a precaution, I had TJ set Jaw-long up across the street from the church with a digital camera. Later, Jaw would continue filming the crowd at the cemetery.
Millie DeAngelo and her sons, their wives and children s
at in the front pew as a line of mourners shuffled passed and offered their condolences. You already know that Anthony, Jr. is the eldest. He was accompanied by his wife Angela and their two boys. Anthony's younger brothers were there as well. Michael, Alberto, Paulo and Giovanni. All have wives except for Giovanni, who is attending college in Boston.
I took to this opportunity to remember Doo Wop.
DW got his nickname from the fact that he would sing Doo Wop songs to himself in his studio while he painted.
Doo Wop is a style of music derived from both rhythm and blues and jazz. It originated in the larger cities of the east coast. A Doo Wop group would typically consist of five members. This included a bass, a baritone, two tenors and a lead. And, the subject of the songs was love.
More specifically, Doo Wop music is a certain type of vocal group harmony. It combines various vocal parts, nonsense syllables, a very simple beat and may or may not be accompanied by instrumentation. It was especially popular in the 1950s and 1960s.
To this day a Philadelphia Doo Wop Festival is held annually which Anthony would attend every year.
The song that I most often heard him singing was "I Wonder Why" by Dion and the Belmonts.
As a young man, he demonstrated a brilliant talent as an artist. Initially, he was quite content to work on his craft and turn out paintings, improving as time progressed. While still in his twenties he had managed to become a world class artist.
But he became frustrated. Anthony and Millie married young and started a family. He struggled as an artist and while he achieved great critical acclaim, commercial success eluded him. Finally, desperate for security and stability for his young family, Anthony turned to making 'copies' of famous artists.
These were not copies in the usual sense. Instead of reproducing the works of famous artists, Anthony DW DeAngelo would study and practice the techniques of those artists. Then, and only when he had mastered a particular style, would he create a brand new picture in the style of a certain artist.
Wait, it gets even better. To complete the illusion of authenticity, a provenance for this new work of art would be fabricated. This 'provenance' could consist of any series of documents which would explain both the origin of the work and its history up to the present time. It would even explain, if just implicitly, why this work of art had remained hidden all of these years.
The pièce de résistance would be to insert this newly manufactured, but aged, documentation into existing works residing in the archives of educational, cultural and religious institutions.
This entire process from creating works of art with old canvases, handmade pigments and brushes to cannily crafted and well placed documentation was designed to prevent any blow back.
And, it worked. Well, at least until the guys from the FBI's Art Crimes Unit stepped in. At which point the entire enterprise was put on hold for decades until Doo Wop gets it into his thick head to create his masterpiece.
A brand new, previously undiscovered work from that 17th century Dutch Master, Johannes Vermeer. Number 37.
It cost that poor bastard his life.
As the service nears the end, Detective Ignatius 'Mac' McKee slides into pew.
"What can I do for you, Detective?” I whisper.
He hands me a folded piece of paper. "Here are the names that you requested."
I raised one eyebrow. I thought he couldn't give me the Tweedle's actual names.
In answer to my unasked question he said, "You didn't get it from me."
"Oh," he adds, "You'll be arrested when you step foot outside the church."
June 1975 London
"Wherrrrre did you get that?"
It was a bright, sunny day; the temperature in the low 80s. Uncle Moe had showed up just as Simon and Elisabeth were finishing breakfast.
Moses tilted his huge head as a grin spread across his face. "I bought an estate in East Anglia. The guy that I made the deal with was a funny fellow, kind of scruffy, if you know what I mean. Knew an awful lot about antiques, I'll tell ya. The car was in the shed. Thought you might like it."
The Morgan sat parked at the curb in front of the townhouse. A '66 Plus 4 with Triumph engine; Zenith carbs; 4 speed trans; chrome wire wheels; leather bonnet strap; ash wood frame and Brooklands steering wheel. And of course, finished in that wonderful British green.
"Uncle Moe, like it? I love it. How much do you want for it?"
A family owned car company that has persevered since the 1920s manufacturing automobiles the way in which the Morgan family conceives that they should be and in the process, ignoring those that disagree.
"Tis a gift laddie. Drive it in the best of health."
Connor came toddling out the front door. Simon grabbed him around the waist and put him in the passenger seat. They went for a joy ride through the neighborhood.
Moe went into the kitchen to wait. Elisabeth put on some coffee. "Uncle Moe, I don't know what to do. I have to talk to somebody though. Perhaps you can help."
"I'll try my best lassie."
"There's something different about Simon. He's been preoccupied. I thought that I should wait until it passed. But it hasn't, what do you think?"
"Probably only business. I wouldn't be puttin' much stock into it."
"No. No, I don't think that it's business. Please don't say anything, but I think that there's another woman."
"I'd not be an expert, dear, but if you're right, well, sometimes men must be allowed their little indiscretions."
"Maybe you're right. I don't know, he's a good husband and God knows that he's a good father. He dotes on that boy. I'm not sure what to do."
"For the time being, maybe wait and see is the best policy."
"Please don't say anything, I feel so foolish."
Simon walked into the kitchen, Connor was squealing with joy. The men took their coffee into the sitting room.
"This Karl Engelond is trouble, I can smell it." Simon lit a fresh cigar; sipped his coffee.
"Aye, lad, he's a bad one. You'll be needing a contingency."
"He's got men watching the situation in the States."
"That's good, lad. Ye can use it to your advantage."
"The thought has crossed my mind. Even so, if this isn't handled properly it will end badly. Very badly."
"Well, son, there's your answer. There's only one thing that you can do."
"I know, Uncle. There is one thing that I absolutely have to do."
I get arrested
They put me in an interrogation room.
Two police officers brought me in. The booking sheet read as follows:
Last Name: Picker First Name: NFN
DOB: 3/21/1976
Height: 6' Weight: 160 lbs
Hair: Blonde/Brown Eyes: Brown
The Sergeant had a difficult time with the 'No First Name' thing but eventually gave up. I tried to explain that my mother never got around to giving me one.
When the service ended the first thing I did was hand Kelly the folded piece of paper.
The next thing that I did was say, "Huh?"
After a moment’s thought I added, "Mac, what are you doing here? This isn't your jurisdiction."
"As a courtesy Picker. Those two guys that you knocked unconscious are feds. They don't take kindly to that sort of thing. They wanted to pick you up here so that there wouldn't be a scene with those killer dogs of yours."
"Who's outside, local or federal?"
"Philly cops."
I pause to consider my options. "Not a problem."
We're walking toward the exit at the back of the church. I turn to Kelly and hand her my cell phone. "Call Larry and have him meet me at the police station."
I notice that TJ is directly behind me, looking as cool and collected as a cucumber. Nothing seems to rattle him. "TJ, go up to the house and grab the security tape, make a copy and bring it to Larry at the station. Kelly, here, take my car keys. You can pick me up in a couple of hours."
The interrogation ro
om was sparse, containing one scarred wooden table with a few molded plastic chairs. Up in the corner of the room was a camera and I assumed there was a microphone somewhere. One wall contained a large set-in mirror that was probably one-way like you see on television.
For several minutes I paced the floor. After some time I sat in one of the chairs determined to set in for the long haul. Approximately thirty minutes into my wait I look up and across the table. Moses is sitting there humming something that I don't recognize.
