“Touch me, and they’ll be charging me with murder,” I said through gritted teeth. He pulled his hand back.
With that, I pulled out the chair, sat down, crossed my arms, and refused to say anything else. An hour later, they took me out to the street and let me go.
Chapter 11
One of the Chamber Security goons drove me to my hotel. The people at the front desk didn’t act happy to see me, but they did give me a key card.
The room was a mess. My clothes were tossed around, and every piece of equipment I owned, including my phone, tablet, and computer, were missing. So was my purse, with all my identification and credit cards.
I used the room phone to call my dad and tell him what had happened. He said he would find me a Chicago lawyer.
After taking a shower, I took the stairs to the floor above me and picked the lock on the housekeeping room using a piece of wire I took from the electric cord of the ice machine. Climbing up shelves stacked with fresh towels and sheets, I moved a ceiling panel and pulled down the suitcase I’d stashed there.
I felt somewhat better with a pistol, knives, a tablet, a burner phone, a spare set of identification, and a valid credit card. The rest of the weapons and the fake IDs stayed in the suitcase. After stuffing it back in the ceiling, I returned to my room and began a search on the tablet.
It didn’t surprise me that the museum robbery hadn’t made the news.
The phone rang about two hours after I talked to Dad.
“Miss Nelson? I’m Orlando Ortega. MegaTech asked me to call you. I understand that you might need a lawyer.”
“Yes. Are you employed by MegaTech?”
“No, I’m not,” he said. “I’m a criminal lawyer they keep on retainer. My understanding is that you are also independent.”
“That’s correct. I’m independent of MegaTech.” That was important. Although Dad was retired from the corporation and they’d take care of him to his grave, I wasn’t part of their ‘family’ past graduating from university. “My business is incorporated, though, and I’m a paid-up member of the Chamber.”
“Then you understand that my rates are five hundred credits an hour.”
“Mister Ortega, I may need a criminal lawyer. I definitely need someone who isn’t afraid to sue the Chamber of Commerce and possibly the Art Institute of Chicago. I have the money to pay.”
“I would be most happy to be of service.” I could hear the shark’s smile in his voice.
“Then please come to the Winston Hotel, and bring a camera.”
He showed up forty minutes later with a young woman in tow. Ortega was a weaseley sort of man with dark red hair and a mustache. The top of his head came to my chin. To my surprise, he was a vampire. I tried to control my smile as I thought, Here’s someone who won’t mind going after blood.
His assistant introduced herself as Molly McGuire. She was about my age, mid-twenties, as flame-haired and voluptuous as my mother, and I detected a bit of an Irish accent. She took one look around and said, “Oooh, I like what you’ve done with the place. Hotel rooms are so cold and impersonal unless you redecorate.” Then she started taking pictures of everything.
I couldn’t help but laugh. My clothes were scattered across the room, the bed was torn apart, and the closet looked like a bomb had gone off inside it.
Ortega listened to my story then asked, “What is your most pressing concern?”
“They’ve stolen everything of value. My phone, tablet, computer, all of my equipment, and my weapons. The computer alone has hundreds of thousands of credits worth of proprietary software tools and data. I not only want it back, I want them enjoined from accessing or copying any of it. My client files are confidential.”
“And after that?”
“I have a half-million credit contract with the museum. I don’t want them backing out on it. And if they do, I’m concerned about my reputation. I’d want to sue them for defamation. Sorry I can’t provide you with the contract, because the Chamber’s thugs took my copy.”
“And the Chamber?” he asked with a sparkle in his eyes.
“Assault, theft, false arrest, kidnapping, humiliation, and whatever else you can sue them for. I may be an indie, but I pay my dues to the Chamber, so there should be some kind of breach of contract.”
“I can start as soon as I receive a ten thousand credit retainer,” Ortega said.
I fished in my pocket and handed him my credit card.
Ortega and Miss Molly finished up and left. I tidied up the room, put on a jacket, and hiked over to the museum.
Jess had her back to me looking in an open filing cabinet when I walked into her office. “Is Deborah in?” I asked.
She whirled around, her eyes wide and a frightened expression on her face.
“What are you doing here?”
I gave her the kind of grin that scared men in bars. “I work here. I have a contract. Now, is Deborah in?”
Jess stammered and cast enough glances at Deborah’s closed door to let me assume her boss was in. I didn’t ask if she was busy or if she wanted to see me.
I beat Jess to the door and walked into Deborah’s office. She looked up from whatever she was working on, and the blood drained from her face. Taking a seat in front of her desk, I said, “If I wanted to rob museums, I’d make a lot more money than I do designing security for them. But I don’t. I think great art is one of the things that keeps us halfway civilized. I’ve always loved this museum. I’m grateful I can come here and see the beauty it contains. I can’t do that in rich people’s private collections.”
I leaned forward and spoke slowly. “I didn’t steal anything from this museum. Not even a paperclip. But I’m damned sure going to help you find who did.”
She relaxed slightly. “I’m sorry, Libby, but surely you can understand our suspicion, considering how the works were stolen and what was stolen.”
“No, I can’t. I don’t know what was stolen, how it was stolen, or when it was stolen. No one has told me a damned thing, just accused me of being a thief.” I do righteous indignation well. I’m especially good at it on those rare occasions when I’m innocent.
Deborah blinked at me, then sighed. “The custodian’s closet trick. The thief took six pieces, including that Lalique necklace you drool over every time you pass it.”
“Oh, no.” I felt sick. “Not that.” I thought furiously, then said, “That was a stupid thing to steal. You couldn’t wear it anywhere because it’s instantly recognizable.” I tried to imagine what someone would do with that necklace. “Deborah, truly unique jewelry doesn’t have a resell market. Usually major pieces are broken up, the gold melted, and the stones sold separately. But the stones in the Lalique piece aren’t inherently worth very much. The necklace is simply a work of art. What else was taken?”
“A Modigliani, two Renoirs, a Degas, and a Monet.”
“Were they all in the same section of the museum?”
“In the same wing, but not on the same floor. The necklace was on the fourth floor, the Modigliani on the third, and the French artists on the second.”
I mulled that over. “So, it wasn’t just a quick snatch. The works were targeted. I’ll bet my virginity that the theft was commissioned.”
She finally smiled. “Do you remember where you left your virginity?”
I grinned back at her. “In a dorm room at the University of Toronto. I’m sure someone has swept it up and tossed it in a rubbish bin by now. Can I see the list?”
She picked up a piece of paper from her desk and handed it to me.
Jeanne Hébuterne
Amedeo Modigliani
1919
Oil on canvas
36 x 28 3/4 in. (91.4 x 73 cm)
Necklace
René-Jules Lalique
ca. 1897–99
Gold, enamel, opals, amethysts
Overall diam. 9 1/2 in. (24.1 cm) 9 large pendants: 2 3/4 x 2 1/4 in. (7 x 5.7 cm) 9 small pendants: 1 3/8 x 1 1/4 in. (3.5 x 3.2 cm)
<
br /> The Dance Class
Edgar Degas
1874
Oil on canvas
32 7/8 x 30 3/8 in. (83.5 x 77.2 cm)
Two Sisters (On the Terrace)
Pierre-Auguste Renoir
1881
Oil on canvas
39.6 in × 31.9 in (100.5 cm × 81 cm)
The Grands Boulevards
Pierre-Auguste Renoir
1875
Oil on canvas
20 1/2 x 25 inches (52.1 x 63.5 cm)
On the Bank of the Seine, Bennecourt
Claude Monet
1868
Oil on canvas
32 1/16 x 39 5/8 in. (81.5 x 100.7 cm)
I recognized the pieces. But… “This list doesn’t make sense,” I said.
“Not as a whole, no,” Deborah said. “The Monet and the Degas might bring three or four hundred million at auction, as would Renoir’s Two Sisters. The other Renoir might be worth a few million at most. The Modigliani, well, I can see that a collector might want it. It is one of his most famous works. Maybe two hundred million.”
“Over a billion credits,” I breathed. “I didn’t realize it was so much.”
She shrugged. “It’s been ages since works like this have hit the open market. As you said about the necklace, you can’t display them in public, so your guess about having a collector commission the theft makes sense. I can’t think of a collector of impressionist art who has that kind of money, though.”
“Or a collector so eclectic,” I said. Indeed, it looked like a list my father might put together from different orders by different collectors. I’d hit a private collection once with a list. I bypassed some of the most valuable pieces in favor of someone’s personal favorites.
“Who’s investigating?” I asked. “Other than the Chamber and the police, of course.”
An expression of disgust passed over Deborah’s face. “The insurance company. The police didn’t even recognize the names of any of the paintings.”
“How did they steal them? You said someone hid in a custodian’s closet?”
“Hid someplace. After the housekeeping staff went home, he, or they, shot the guards with tranquilizer darts. Then they took the paintings, waited for the replacement guards to come on shift, and shot them. Exactly the way you did it.”
I glanced toward my report sitting on the corner of the desk.
“Did Wilson implement any of the changes we recommended?”
Deborah shook her head. “We were still arguing about them. He maintained that your demonstration was just a circus trick and no one could ever pull it off.”
“Have you fired him?”
She shook her head.
“Why ever not?”
She bit her lip and said, “I don’t know.”
I shrugged. “Easier to shoot the messenger? Blame me?”
The stricken expression on her face told me that was exactly the plan.
“Well, I still have a contract to harden your computer systems. If you would please tell the Chamber to give me back all my equipment, not to mention my phone and my bank card, then I’ll go back to work.”
“Things are still under investigation.”
“Then my lawyer will be filing suit for breach of contract. I will also be going to the press about this robbery, the fact you were warned about the security weaknesses, and that you did nothing about them.” I leaned forward and put my elbows on her desk. “Let’s get something straight here. I’m not playing scapegoat for anyone.”
Her eyes took on a hard glint. “Are you threatening me?”
“No, those were promises. I’ve already engaged a lawyer who should soon be talking to the Chamber. I thought you might be reasonable and save both of us money, but I see that you’d rather spend the museum’s money than take any blame for your negligence.”
I stood and said, “Your call, Deborah. The press will love the angle that you’re accusing me because you’re a jilted lover.”
As I walked out her door, I turned and saw her picking up the phone. I would have given a lawyer’s retainer to know whom she was calling.
My route back to the hotel took me through the park surrounding the museum campus, across Michigan Avenue, then three blocks past the Symphony, stores, restaurants, old government buildings, and new office buildings. The day was humid, windy, and generally nasty.
The assassins were amateurs. I spotted the guy following me as soon as I crossed Michigan Avenue. He talked on his phone as he walked, so I wasn’t surprised when a second man with a gun stepped out from between two buildings on the next block.
He didn’t indicate what he wanted me to do, so I had to guess. Probably go with him somewhere so he could kill me without witnesses. Instead of playing his game, I shot him in his right shoulder and he dropped the gun.
I blurred my image and dropped to the sidewalk as I whirled about to face my follower. He stared with his mouth open at his buddy while struggling to pull his pistol out of his pants pocket.
I shot him in that pocket. He screamed, lurched, and fell down. I left him writhing around on the sidewalk and turned my attention back to the first man.
My image still blurred and hugging the wall of the building next to me, I sprinted up to him, grabbed him by the hair, and dragged him into the space where he’d been waiting.
“Who hired you?” I asked as I pushed the barrel of my pistol between his eyes.
“I don’t know,” he practically screamed. It must have been scary to have a woman he could barely see pointing a gun at his head.
I lowered the pistol and shot him in the knee. Disregarding his scream, I moved the gun back up to point at his face. He and his friend were both louder than my silenced pistol.
“Let’s try this again. You tell me everything you know, and I don’t blow your balls off. Fair enough?”
“I don’t know who the money man is,” he sobbed. “Joe Wilson hired us, but he ain’t got no money.”
“How much were you paid?” I asked.
“Five grand in advance, five grand after the job’s done.”
I was insulted. “How do I find Wilson?” I pulled out my phone, punched record, and put it next to his mouth.
My informant stuttered out a phone number, a rough address, and the name and location of a bar. I also collected his name and that of his buddy. I searched him and found a picture of me, taken by one of the museum’s security cameras. After taking his wallet and his phone, I peeked around the corner and found several people clustered around the wounded man.
Time for me to go. Inching out onto the street, I moved slowly next to the wall until I reached the next street over. I heard sirens as I unblurred and hurried to the hotel.
Without my computer, I only had my spare tablet to access the infonet. Everything took longer, and I didn’t have the tools to get me into secured databases. It still didn’t take long to find a Joseph Breshard Wilson living on the street my assailant gave me.
I decided I was getting cynical, because it didn’t surprise me that Joe’s brother was David Wilson, the chief of security at AIC.
Chapter 12
I didn’t have the same confidence going out into Chicago to roust someone as I would have had in Toronto. I didn’t know the neighborhoods, and most maps don’t tell you if your destination is in the middle of Vampireville or an area where druggies regularly kill each other over a pair of shoes.
On the other hand, taking a taxi would leave tracks, and I wasn’t on a mission I could easily explain to any sort of authority.
The bar my unlucky assassin told me about was a different story. I looked it up on the infonet and disregarded the reviews about the quality of the food. Nothing in the other reviews suggested that a death wish was required to enter the neighborhood. A number of nearby establishments were equally silent about their murder and mugging rates. I couldn’t find any news stories or police reports highlighting the area.
With that sketchy background information, I
morphed into a thirty-five-year-old man, who looked exactly like one of my mother’s ex-boyfriends. I walked a couple of blocks to catch a train and then a bus to Lou’s Lounge. The surrounding neighborhood looked marginally respectable. At least none of the buildings were burned out or falling down, the people on the streets wore shoes and filter masks, and some of the men shaved occasionally.
The difference between a neighborhood pub and a dive bar has always been difficult to define. Lou’s was a dive bar. A few lights needed fixing, the floor could have used a good cleaning, and the washrooms’ lack of basic hygiene was apparent before you opened their doors. The liquor behind the bar was basic, and I had no interest in finding out what they were pouring from under the bar. The clientele was a little rough, a little loud, and a little crude. To be generous.
I asked a couple of people if Joe had come in yet, and a waitress directed me to a back corner near the washrooms. Why anyone would want to sit that close to them was a mystery.
The family resemblance between Joe and his brother Dave was apparent, though I estimated Joe was ten years younger. He looked pretty happy, partying with two girls half his age. My cynicism raised its head again. Joe looked like a guy who had just come into some unexpected money.
“Hey, Joe,” I called out as I approached his table. “I heard you’re a man who can get things done.”
He preened. “Some people think so. It depends on what you need done.”
I slid into the booth on the other side of him and the girls. “Maybe your friends should go take a powder.”
I received an up-and-down look, then he turned to one of the girls. “Why don’t you go order another bottle of champagne for us.”
Both girls got up, each of them gave him a kiss on the cheek, and headed toward the bar.
“So, what are you looking for?” he asked with a smug grin.
“Sonny and Huang told me you’re the guy to see for a hit.”
His grin lost some of its smugness as his eyes nervously danced around the place.
Chameleon Uncovered Page 9
