The Monarch

by Jack Soren

  In a matter of hours the killer would have a nickname.

  And a following.

  DESPITE THE DAMAGE Cummings’s bodily fluids had done to the edges of the painting, Wagner found it beautiful and sad at the same time. The group of medieval judges on horseback in the foreground seemed to be milling around in a confined space, waiting for something; the cliff and castles in the background overlooked and judged the judges. But what was most peculiar was the way they all looked off the canvas at something. Wagner wished he knew what they were looking at, but at the same time he was somehow glad he didn’t.

  After he and Matthews brought the painting down to the Crime Scene Reconstruction Room where it could hang to dry away from prying eyes while they waited for the Cloisters curator, Benoit, to show up, they’d stepped back, sat down, and had been staring at it in reverent silence ever since.

  “Joan and I saw this on our trip to Belgium a few years ago,” Matthews said. It was weird, because just then Wagner had been thinking about his wife, Patti. He couldn’t wait to get away from this thing.

  “Yeah?” Wagner said. He was a little tired of hearing about their globetrotting. He and Patti went to Florida every few years. They stayed at the same motel and ate at the same restaurants. He liked it that way. And he didn’t bore anyone with the details.

  “Somehow it seemed . . .” Matthews leaned forward. “Smaller.”

  “That’s spatial reference,” a voice behind them said. They turned around and saw Evans with Benoit. The curator wasn’t looking at them, but was transfixed by the painting. Even so, he waved his hands and stepped closer to it as he spoke. “You no doubt saw it in its proper context. The Just Judges is actually part of a polyptych known as the Ghent Altarpiece. Officially, the title of the piece is The Adoration of the Mystic Lamb, in reference to the central painting. It was probably closed when you saw it, Director. In its full glory, when opened, the polyptych consists of twelve separate paintings.

  “But this panel is the most infamous. And it would seem its lore is not quite over yet.”

  “A polyptych?” Wagner said.

  “A work made up of several paintings on a set of hinged panels that can open and close,” Matthews said.

  “Very good, Director,” Benoit said. Wagner thought the compliment pissed Matthews off more than it fluffed his ego.

  “Okay,” Wagner said. “Then how did part of a painting from Belgium get inside our friend upstairs?”

  “The real Just Judges was stolen in 1934,” the curator said, moving closer to the painting. “A replica was painted to take its place in the polyptych for display.”

  “Makes sense. Easier to explain a fake than it is to explain a big friggin’ hole,” Evans said.

  Wagner said, “That still doesn’t—­”

  “The replica is on loan to The Cloisters,” Benoit said, finally turning around to face the trio of FBI agents. “I can’t tell you what was involved in even getting the replica here. I’m sorry for what happened to Mr. Cummings, of course, but this is a tragedy of grander proportions. I can just imagine what Belgium is going to say when I call them and tell them we didn’t even notice it was missing.”

  “I’m sure Cummings would feel for you. If he could feel,” Evans said.

  “The killer must have knowledge of the art world, then,” Matthews said, “if he grabbed the one painting that was worthless to use as the murder weapon.” Wagner knew what Matthews was really saying was that the museum staff was back on the suspect list.

  “Oh my, Director, it may be a replica, but it’s by no means worthless. It’s certainly not worth the millions the original would be if it ever turned up, but private collectors would pay tens of thousands for the replica if it ever went up for auction. Which now, I’m afraid, is a moot consideration,” Benoit said.

  “Tens of thousands?” Evans said.

  “Maybe more,” Benoit said. He kept looking at them, but Wagner could tell he wanted to turn back to the painting. Wagner exchanged a glance with Matthews and knew they were both thinking the same thing, but it was Evans who voiced it for them.

  “Somebody really wanted to make a loud noise we couldn’t ignore with this one. A television personality vic and an expensive painting as the murder weapon.”

  Mozart’s Requiem broke the room’s mood as it played from Benoit’s pocket. The curator took his cell phone out and looked at Matthews. The director nodded and Benoit answered it, turning away from them for privacy.

  “Director?” an agent said from the door. Matthews excused himself.

  “Any sign of the Burrows woman?” Wagner asked Evans when they were alone.

  “Nada. NYPD is setting the town on fire looking for her, though. Have to give them points for that.” Wagner expected Evans to try to save face for the cops. “So, you okay on this?” Evans asked, nodding toward Matthews.

  “Not even a little,” Wagner said. Matthews returned, his face saying good news wasn’t on the agenda. “What?”

  “MBC-­News got the go ahead from their lawyers. FBI counsel got most of the package declined for now, but they’re hitting the air in an hour with a piece on the murders. Time’s up.”

  “Fuck,” Wagner said.

  “Well, check again. That’s impossible!” Benoit stomped over to the painting after shouting into his phone. “Connie, I’m standing right . . . my God.” Benoit reached a shaking hand out and touched the painting near the bottom before the blood left his face.

  “Mr. Benoit?” Wagner said, but the unsteady curator paid no attention to him.

  Then Benoit inhaled like a fist had hit his breadbasket. The phone fell from his hand and clattered to the floor as he slumped to his knees in front of the painting, his arm shooting out for purchase. Evans stepped in, catching him. The man looked up, sobbing.

  “Take it easy, buddy,” Evans said a moment before Benoit grabbed his chest with his other arm. His eyes rolled back in his head and he keeled over, slamming to the floor with an audible crack.

  “Jesus! Benoit!” Evans fell to his knees and rolled him over, pressing his fingers to his neck. “Shit, no pulse,” Evans said to Wagner.

  “Get the doc in here. Quick!” Matthews said to an agent by the door as Evans cleared Benoit’s airway and started CPR.

  Wagner picked Benoit’s phone up off the floor. He could still hear a woman’s voice coming from it, calling Benoit’s name.

  “This is Agent Wagner with the FBI. Who is this?” Wagner demanded. “What did you say to Benoit?”

  “It’s Connie Baker, Agent Wagner. From the museum. What’s happening there?” She sounded genuinely concerned.

  “What did you say to Benoit, Ms. Baker?”

  “Nothing. I mean, I just told him there was a mistake.”

  “What kind of mistake?”

  “The replica of The Just Judges isn’t missing, after all.”

  “You’ve got the painting there? You’re sure?”

  “I’m standing right in front of it,” Connie said. Wagner looked at the dripping painting and felt his own heart rate skip a beat.

  “But if the replica is there, then that makes this—­”

  “Agent Wagner,” Special Agent Duke Roberts, Evans’s partner, called from the doorway. “You better come out here. Jesus, what did you do to the museum guy?”

  Wagner’s head spun. Spangler and Matthews ran in past him and knelt beside Benoit. Spangler took over for Evans, who stood up and moved beside Wagner, catching his breath. Evans leaned in so no one could hear him.

  “Fucker’s gone,” he said.

  “Who’s gone? What’s happening, Agent Wagner?” Connie’s voice begged from the phone. Evans grimaced.

  “Joe, you really need to come out here,” Duke said again.

  “What is it, Duke?” Evans asked.

  “That woman’s out here.”

 
; “What woman?” Wagner said.

  “Emily Burrows. The one the NYPD lost.”

  “Told you they’d find her,” Evans said with a smile.

  “No one found her,” Duke said. “She just walked in off the street.”

  “Agent Wagner!” Connie shouted from the phone. “What is going on?!”

  “I wish to hell I knew.”

  TWENTY MINUTES AFTER Wagner asked Emily Burrows to take a seat in one of the small conference rooms, he returned with vending machine coffee and tea. Getting the beverages only took a minute, but letting her mind work on itself in the solitude was his real goal. That, and an attempt to get background information on her. They had some, but it would be morning before they’d had time to do a full workup. He needed to finish up before the news broadcast ran. It didn’t give him much time.

  “Tea with milk, right?” Wagner said, placing the tepid paper cup in front of her. He took a seat at the head of the table.

  “Ta,” she said with a slight smile.

  He smiled warmly and sipped his own cooling coffee as he watched her. She was taller than he’d expected. She didn’t wear any makeup to speak of, but she had a fresh-­faced look; her reddish-­brown hair clean and shiny. It bounced slightly when she turned her head too quickly, which she was doing quite a bit. She was nervous and fidgety, but for all he knew that was her normal demeanor. She smelled faintly of powder and lilacs, which unfortunately reminded him of Benoit.

  Why isn’t she asking why she’s here?

  “We just need a ­couple of things for the record before we start, Miss Burrows,” Wagner said, opening his notebook. One of the envelopes sent to the media sat on the table. He hadn’t decided yet if he’d use it or not.

  “Which record is this?”

  Wagner ignored her question and continued. “Your full name is Emily Katherine Burrows. You live at 145 Jackson Place, Apartment 3E. In Washington Heights. You’ve lived there for two and half years. You’re a writer and you’re here on a work visa from the UK that expires next month. Is that all correct?” Wagner asked.

  “Uh, yes,” she said.

  “Anything else you want to say, anything you think I should know before we begin?”

  She shook her head, the curls bouncing.

  “What about Detective Minelli? The NYPD officer sent to bring you here. Anything to say about ditching him?”

  “Oh, I didn’t ditch him. I . . . I’m afraid I just got turned around in the crowds on the street. I tried to find him, but when I couldn’t I assumed you’d want me to just come here. As I did,” she said, playing with her scarf as she talked.

  “Uh-­huh,” he said. He sat quietly and just looked at her for a minute. He made some notes and then picked up his coffee and leaned back. “Why’d you leave Interpol?”

  “To write,” Emily said, shrugging. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “What kind of writing do you do?”

  “True crime books and articles,” Emily said.

  “Anything I would have heard of?”

  “No, I doubt—­”

  “Does it pay good money?” Wagner noticed her eyes widen slightly.

  “It pays fine. Nothing special,” she said. She reached for the tea, but took her hand back without picking it up. Wagner made a decision then. He reached into the envelope.

  “When did you write . . . this,” he said, placing The Monarch’s Reign on the table between them. She had no reaction to it, which Wagner thought spoke volumes. She’s not asking why she’s here because she already knows. But how?

  “About two years ago,” she said.

  “I see. I’ve looked at the summary on the back of the book, but I have to be honest, I haven’t had time to read much of it, yet,” Wagner said, turning the book over to show the blurb he was talking about. “The greatest thief you’ve never heard of,” he said, reading the bold text on the glossy cover. “What exactly does that mean? And what does it have to do with this symbol?”

  “I first heard of it during my time at Interpol,” she said. “There were rumors—­I think you call it chatter here—­about a network of black market collectors. They were anonymous, powerful, and dangerous, from all accounts. They didn’t care where their items came from, and in fact, would circulate lists of items they wanted.”

  “To what end?” Wagner asked.

  “For all intents and purposes, they were shopping lists. High-­caliber thieves would steal the items on the lists, knowing they had a, well, very motivated buyer willing to pay top dollar for items they would usually find impossible to fence. During our investigations, we started to hear about something else. Someone else, actually.”

  “A thief,” Wagner said, tapping the blurb.

  “Not just a thief, the thief. The only one with the moxie to steal from the stealers. About sixteen years ago this thief the collectors dubbed The Monarch first appeared. He’d steal items back from these collectors and anonymously return them to their rightful owners.”

  “Like Robin Hood,” Wagner said, his notebook abandoned.

  “Not quite. Just like the collectors, The Monarch operated anonymously, but he used surrogates to collect finder’s fees from museums and insurance companies. Huge fees.”

  “How huge?”

  “Over the years? Hundreds of millions.”

  “Of dollars?” Wagner said.

  “Yes.”

  “The collectors must have loved him,” he said.

  “Like a plague,” she said. “They started offering rewards for The Monarch, some of them higher than the value of the works he’d taken. They were, to put it mildly, enraged. But it didn’t work. For sixteen years The Monarch, well, reigned over them. And then about five years ago, poof. He stopped. No one knows why. A few collectors apparently tried to take the credit for stopping him, but their claims never checked out. And to this day, no one knows The Monarch’s true identity.”

  “Amazing,” Wagner said, turning the book over in his hands. He realized he wasn’t going to get any sleep tonight. “But why did they call him The Monarch?”

  “It’s in reference to the monarch butterfly.”

  “Of course,” Wagner said, tapping the book’s cover art.

  “He left it on the walls of the private vaults after each theft. But they got it wrong,” she said, catching Wagner off guard. He looked up into Emily’s eyes and for the first time he saw a strength in them. She’d been through some sort of ordeal to find out what she was about to tell him.

  “How so?” Wagner asked.

  “The Monarch’s symbol is actually an African symbol.”

  “African?” Wagner said in surprise. He hadn’t seen that coming. “What does it mean?”

  “The one who burns you, be not burned.”

  “What does—­”

  “It’s a symbol of forgiveness.”

  “Forgiveness?”

  “There’s no way to know for sure, but I like to think that before The Monarch became The Monarch, he did something he thought was terrible. Being The Monarch was his way of seeking forgiveness. And rather than punishing the collectors and the thieves, he’d forgive them and give them another chance. But it’s all in my book.”

  Wagner shook his head and decided it was his turn to tell her something.

  “Miss Burrows, I have something to tell you, which may shock you,” Wagner said. He beat the newscast by a few minutes, giving her an overview of what he was already starting to think of as The Monarch case, including the distribution of her book to the media. Through it all she nodded quietly, only seeming taken aback by the distribution of her book, not the murders themselves. But there was nothing conclusive in her behavior. He didn’t have a baseline for her so for all he knew she reacted the same way when asked for directions.

  He said, “Does it concern you that the subject of your
book—­the only book on the subject—­is a killer?”

  “He’s not a killer,” she said too fast.

  “If what you just told me is true, then you don’t know that. You don’t even know if The Monarch is a he or a she,” Wagner said.

  “Let’s just say it’s a hunch. Regardless, I spent two years getting inside The Monarch’s head. I may not have discovered his true identity, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know him. Believe me. And I can guarantee you he had nothing to do with these atrocities,” she said. Wagner noted the defensive tone in her answer. She’s actually offended.

  After a quick double knock on the conference room’s door, Evans stuck his head in.

  “It’s starting. Just the prelim stuff, but it could be important.”

  “I’ll be right there,” Wagner said, closing his notebook and suppressing a sigh. He took one of his business cards out of his pocket and handed it to her. “I’d like you to come downtown tomorrow so we can continue our conversation, if it’s not too much trouble. Say ten o’clock?” Wagner said. Of course, it wasn’t an option, but he wanted to see what she’d say, given a choice.

  “Oh, um, sure. That would be fine,” she said, standing up. She wrapped her scarf around her neck and waited for him to dismiss her. She wants out of here. At least that’s normal. Wagner made a decision then that went against all protocol, but with her reactions throughout their brief interview, he needed to see her reaction to one more thing.

  “If you have another minute, I’d like your impressions on something that just turned up. We’re not sure what to make of it, but maybe you’ll have some ideas,” Wagner said.

  Emily agreed and he led her down the hall to the Crime Scene Reconstruction Room, nodding to a few ­people along the way. A ­couple of NYPD uniforms stood outside the door while they waited for the armored car to transport the painting to FBI Headquarters at 29 Federal Plaza.

  “It’s not a body, is it?” Emily said with obvious revulsion.