#37 (picker mysteries)

by Scott Soloff

  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 room 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.

  "This is another fine mess that you've gotten yourself into laddie."

  I realize that I'm being recorded and wonder if I want to be seen talking to myself. Oh, what the hell. "You missed a beautiful service Uncle."

  "Aye, son, but I've been to enough. No need to attend anymore."

  Something was eating away at me, nibbling at the back of my brain. I needed to get a handle on what was happening. "Uncle Moe, I've been playing defense ever since this whole mess began. What do you recommend?"

  There's something that you have to understand about Uncle Moe. While it is true that he is a ghost, he is not all knowing. Just like those of us still bound by our mortal coils, Moses Aronson is limited to the things that he can see and experience. And while his limitations are less than ours, he is not able to go anywhere he pleases. I do not pretend to know the laws that govern disembodied spirits, but experience suggests that Moe is tethered to me and my half brother. In turn, this appears to place restrictions on where he goes and what he perceives.

  "Talk to Connor."

  Several years ago I didn't even know that I had a brother. One September evening I get a phone call out of the blue. Some lawyer in Great Britain

  "Mr. Picker, my name is Harold P. Smythe. I'm a solicitor in London representing the estate of the late Simon Jones. The reading of the will is the day after tomorrow. I realize that this is terribly short notice, and while it is not technically necessary, one of Mr. Jones' final requests was that you be present for the reading."

  I thought for all of thirty seconds and said, "No problem. I'll be there."

  Smythe provided the time and address of the reading and, as the Brits say, rang off.

  Two days later, late morning, I arrive at Heathrow. Walking out of the terminal I see a man holding a sign with my name in large, black letters. He's wearing a black suit and I assume that Smythe sent a driver.

  "I'm Picker," I tell him and offer my hand.

  "Connor," he responds. His black suit is well tailored and expensive. Jones' shirt is quality as well and his tie is silk. The watch on his left wrist is a vintage Patek Phillippe. Maybe he's not a driver after all. Either that or chauffeurs make very good money on this side of the pond.

  Outside in a no parki
ng zone is a cream colored Morgan Plus 4. Connor throws my backpack behind the front seat. We get in and take off like bats out of hell. Nice car.

  "What do you think?" he asks.

  "Beautiful."

  And that ends our conversation. Forty minutes later we pull up to 150 Piccadilly.

  "There's a room booked and paid for in your name. Get cleaned up, have some lunch. I'll pick you up at three."

  At the front desk the clerk offers a pleasant smile. "Welcome to the Ritz, Mr. Picker. Your room is ready."

  Needless to say, the room is very well appointed. I take a quick shower and put on clean jeans, a white dress shirt, linen sports jacket and white sneakers.

  I'm greeted at The Restaurant, yes, that's what they call it, by the maitre d'. There is a small sign to the right that reads 'gentleman are required to wear a jacket and tie; jeans are not permitted'. He ignores my attire, beams at my arrival and tells me, "Mr. Picker, what an honor. Your father was an old friend of this establishment and we shall miss him terribly. Please come this way."

  Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather. I order from their vegetarian menu. Minestrone soup, a goat cheese salad, saute gnocchi with wild mushrooms. For desert, some fresh fruit and coffee.

  At precisely 3:00pm Connor comes walking towards me. "Ready?"

  I stand and start for the front door. Connor takes a detour and leads me to The Ritz's Cigar Shop. The clerk seems to know him and makes polite conversation. Connor picks up two Cuban cigars and hands one to me.

  I protest. "I don't smoke."

  "You do now." Pissant. Well, what the hell. When in Rome and all that stuff. So we fire them up, get in the Morgan and proceed to the reading of the will.”

  My reminisces were interrupted. The door to the interrogation room opened. I was free to go.

  July 1975 Philadelphia

  He held the photograph up to the light.

  "What do you think?" Anthony had been working feverishly since March. Three dozen 8" x 10" glossy, colored photos had arrived in the mail after the deal had been struck with Price Koch. The museum had documented every square inch of Van Gogh's 'Montagnes a Saint-Remy' for future reference and insurance purposes. It was from these that DeAngelo worked to create copy number one.

  Simon swiveled his head from the full on photo to the canvas and back. The left side of his mouth rose; a smirk, and nodded his head. "Brilliant. Will it stand up to scrutiny?"

  Simon was uncomfortable with this deal from the very beginning. He and Jean Pierre had talked for hours working out the details; stripping away everything that was unnecessary and making a plan that was as elegant as possible.

  "Yes and no." Anthony glanced at Simon. "Framed, displayed on the wall in the gallery, perhaps the only person that could tell the difference is Vincent. And, as you know, he is no longer with us. At some point in time, someone somewhere will have to do some conservation to the picture. Even then, the likelihood of detection is unlikely. Maybe one in ten thousand, probably higher. The problem lies with chemical analysis."

  "How so? The canvas is from the right period, the pigments were made from scratch, where's the problem?"

  Anthony's head dropped slightly, closed his eyes halfway and said, "The pigments. Yes, they were made from scratch. Here's the problem. Radioactivity. There is more in the atmosphere today than in Vincent's time. The pigments are distilled from natural products grown in soil. The soil's radioactivity level is higher. It will show up. But, these tests are expensive, they take time, some destruction of the painting is necessary; however small. The reality is that these tests will never be run."

  Jean Pierre had suggested limiting exposure as much as possible. He was adamant. Anthony DeAngelo was to go nowhere near the museum. Same with Simon. The weak link in the entire process was to fall upon Price Koch. If anything were to go wrong, it had to be there.

  "And if the tests are run?" Simon wanted to cover all bases.

  "A couple of things. First, the results will be inconclusive. Historically speaking, for every expert that claims the painting is fake there will be one that asserts its authenticity. Secondly, and once again this is based on historical precedent, even if the museum believes it to be a fake, well, they'll be too embarrassed to admit it. Quite the contrary. They'll defend it. There's too much money at stake, not to mention their reputation."

  Simon was happy with the artist's analysis. "What's the next step?"

  "Almost done, chief. We age it, in that big ass pizza oven that you bought. Another week, perhaps two. Then she'll be all set. What do you want me to do about the frame?"

  "Nothing."

  This was another detail that Jean Pierre contributed to the plan. Simon was visiting JP's villa in the south of France during the hatching phase. "The less moving parts, the better," he suggested. "The beauty of it is that the present frame adds to the illusion."

  "Call me when it's ready." Simon turned to leave. "Oh, Anthony, one more thing. I need some way to distinguish it from the original. Something additional, not something taken away. Something small that only you and I know about."

  "No problem, boss."

  Phase one was nearly complete.

  One chief of staff, an ADA and a mystery man

  The conference room at City Hall had a long, coffin shaped mahogany table with about twenty chairs. There were three exquisite crystal chandeliers, oriental carpets and walls covered with oil paintings of long dead city officials.

  "Mr. Picker, I'm so glad that you could join us." I was shown into the room by a lovely Latina secretary with dark hair, a light brown complexion, an incredible figure and four inch spike heels. The man speaking introduced himself as the mayor's chief of staff.

  "My name is Charles Barker. This is Assistant District Attorney Margaret Moore." Barker nodded to a mid-thirties woman with mousy brown hair cut shoulder length. She wore black rimmed glasses and a green skirt with a matching jacket.

  They offered their hands. I just stood there. To my right was Laurence W. Finegold, both my friend and attorney. Larry is a junior partner with the prestigious Philadelphia law firm of Dewey, Cheethum and Howell.

  CB: "Shall we sit down."

  Everyone took a seat at the table except for me and a gentleman standing over by the window facing Broad Street. No one had bothered to make the introduction. Larry pulled a laptop from its case and set it up.

  ADA MM spoke up. "Mr. Picker, I apologize for the manner in which you have been treated. When the FBI requested that we take you into custody we had no idea that you were harassed by rogue federal agents."

  I stood there and said nothing.

  Apparently, during my brief incarceration, TJ had recovered the security footage from the house. If either the police or any federal agency had searched the premises, they would have found the cameras but not the recordings. When activated, the cameras record nearly everything both inside and immediately outside my house. These recordings include rather clear audio. However, while the cameras are on the property, the actual devices that record the footage are located in a secure room up at the main house.

  The powers that be had ample opportunity to view those tapes. What they witnessed were two men that came into my home, held Kelly and me at gunpoint and searched the property. Equally, if not more important, they failed to identify themselves as federal agents.

  COS: "Of course, it goes without saying, that all charges against you are to be dropped."

  I stood there and said nothing.

  ADA: "Naturally, in return for dropping the charges we would appreciate it if no one spoke any further about this matter. Additionally, we want a statement in writing which indemnifies the government of any wrong doing. And, we would like to have procession of all of the recordings."

  I stood there and said nothing. Larry, on the other hand, took this occasion to speak up. "First, and this is non-negotiable, we want all of the booking materials, including but not limited to photographs, finger prints and printed material to be ha
nded over to us. All digital information erased and a written statement that no charges have been or will be filed against my client in regards to this matter. That includes federal, state and local authorities.

  "In return, my client will not file a lawsuit. As for gagging my client, I'm afraid that it's too late."

  Did I mention that TJ is rather handy with computers? During my brief stay with the local authorities TJ managed to accomplish the following:

  He went online with a proxy server, this to elude detection. Set up a new Gmail account and in turn a new YouTube account.

  I finally spoke up. "Those security recordings will go live on the internet in," I looked at my watch, "five, four, three, two, one. Now!"

  Additionally, TJ ordered some Fiverr gigs. Fiverr is a web based service where you can hire people to perform various services for five bucks. In this instance, he arranged for the YouTube url to be tweeted to over a hundred thousand followers with the hash tag, 'Federal Agents Go Rogue'.

  To add insult to injury, the names of the agents were annotated to the video thanks to the information provided by Detective McKee at the church.

  Charles Parker shook his head and said, "Oh, shit." Miss Moore looked as though she was about to burst at the seams.

  The unnamed man in the corner said, "You don't know the trouble that you've caused."

  "Then you shouldn't have fucked with me." I turned and left the room.

  August 1975 New York City

  "There was nothing unusual about my childhood, Doc."

  It had taken weeks for Price to find a therapist beyond his social circles. He was highly skeptical. Patient confidentiality and all that crap. He didn't buy it for a minute. People talk.

  "Price, we have to start somewhere. The homosexual thing, personally, I don't consider that a problem. Young men, very young men, boys even, that's another story." Doctor Abraham Baron Cohen M.D., Ph. D., was a Jewish, liberal, progressive, Manhattan East Side therapist. Heavy hooded eyes, hooked nose, ruddy complexion, combined with a penetrating stare.