Natalie's Art: a Frank Renzi novel

by Susan Fleet

  “Okay, I admit it got a little tense. The guy was holding a knife to the woman's throat. But I distracted him with a few choice words.”

  “Like what? Drop the knife asshole and let the woman go?”

  “I don't remember, but he let her go and charged me. I whacked him in the head with my SIG. End of story.” He smiled at her. “Happy now?”

  Kelly sipped her beer. He could see the wheels turning. Early in their relationship her concerns about the dangers he faced on the job had been an issue. Until he'd delivered his I-am-who-I-am speech. “Cops are trained to run toward danger. That's our job. I'm not going to change who I am. I'm a cop.” He was still a cop and his attitude hadn't changed. Do what you gotta do to protect innocent people and put the scumbags in jail.

  “How was your day?” he said. Kelly worked in the NOPD Domestic Violence unit. That was no cakewalk, either. Every cop knew a domestic violence call was dangerous. Could be nothing, could be a nutcase with a gun ready to use it.

  She stifled a yawn. “Not as exciting as yours. Paperwork mostly, getting women and their kids into safe housing after they leave their idiot boyfriends or husbands.”

  “What's with the yawn?” He ran a finger over her forearm. “Does that mean you're too tired?”

  She leaned closer and whispered in his ear, “Don't be a wise-ass.”

  He laughed. “Want a burger? You might need it. I've got plans for later that don't include sleeping.”

  “Sure,” Kelly said, deadpan. “With sweet-potato fries. For extra energy.”

  After they ordered, Frank said, “I just got an interesting report from a London detective.”

  “What, you're chasing international criminals now? That's new.”

  Not new, he thought. For two years he'd been checking the Interpol website, searching for leads on Natalie Brixton. “He sent me the file on a series of art heists with a similar MO. The thieves get into the museums and walk off with a painting or two. Old Masters, he said. What does that mean?”

  Before joining NOPD, Kelly had studied art in college, but she wasn't a painter. She made metal jewelry—earrings, tie clips and broaches—and decorated them with enamel paint in various colors.

  “Hey, it's been years since I studied art history, so don't hang me for the dates, but Old Masters are paintings done centuries ago by European artists, Michelangelo and El Greco in the sixteenth century. And seventeenth-century Dutch artists like Rembrandt and Vermeer.”

  “Thanks for the tutorial. Now I won't feel like a dunce when I talk to him. The most recent heist was in London, four months ago. A witness saw the robber leave the museum and told the police he was sure it was a woman.”

  “Strange,” Kelly said, “but it happens. Remember the woman last year who robbed those banks?”

  “I do. Flashed a toy pistol at the tellers and told 'em to give up the money. She was smarter than the idiot we nabbed yesterday, had her own getaway car. But they got her eventually.”

  Twirling a lock of dark hair around two fingers, Kelly gazed at him with those sea-green eyes.

  “The witness in London didn't see the robber's face, but he said she had a very distinctive walk.”

  Kelly went still like a bird dog on point. “You think it was Natalie?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “But that's crazy. She killed three men here. After she got away, wouldn't she be smart enough to lie low and hide? Why would she steal art?”

  “I've got no clue, but if it's Natalie, I'm going to get her.”

  The message in Kelly's eyes was crystal clear: Are you crazy? Quit while you're ahead. “Frank, that woman is trouble. So what if she had a tough life? She killed those men and she tried to kill you!”

  “I don't think so. She could have, but she didn't.”

  “Bullshit. She shot at you intending to kill you and hit your leg by mistake.”

  He saw the bartender coming with their burgers, but now he didn't feel like eating, didn't feel like arguing with Kelly either. The bartender set down platters of burgers and fries, saw their grim expressions and left.

  Studiously ignoring him, Kelly squirted ketchup on her plate, dipped one of her fries into it and ate it.

  He leaned over and nibbled her earlobe. Judging by her expression, she couldn't decide whether to laugh or yell at him. “What?” she said.

  “You weren't there. You don't know what she was thinking and neither do I. For two years it's been bugging the hell out of me. The murder cases are still open–-three here, one in Boston. I want answers. I want to know where she went. For two years, I haven't had a single lead. Now I do. Come on, Kelly. Help me celebrate. If Natalie's doing those art heists in Europe, I'm going to get her.”

  She looked at him, poker-faced, as though she was debating with herself, making a decision. At last she pulled him close and gave him a hug. “Congratulations on the lead, Frank. I hope you get the answers you're looking for.”

  Not saying she hoped he'd find Natalie, he noticed.

  He leaned over and kissed her on the lips. “You're the best, Kelly. Eat up, so we can go home and have a proper celebration.” He meant it. He cared about her a lot. Most of the time they were on the same page. Not this time, but he didn't need her permission to hunt for Natalie Brixton. If she was involved in these European art heists, he intended to track her down and ask her some questions.

  First on the list: why didn't she kill him when she had the chance?

  CHAPTER 3

  Sunday June 20, 2010 – 10:15 AM – London

  Halfway into her run, she yanked off her headset and jammed it into the pocket of her shorts. Forget the language tape. How could she concentrate on vocabulary words and verb tenses?

  She had to ditch the gun and plan her escape.

  Clad in white running shoes, her feet pounded the sidewalk. The sun was hidden behind thick clouds, another gray morning in London. She hated the damp, dreary weather. Not only that, you had to drive on the wrong side of the road, and the food was awful, starchy and bland. Although he employed a top-notch chef, Pym favored chops and steaks laden with thick gravy.

  In the beginning, living with Pym was relatively pleasant. Private quarters, her own car to drive. Best of all, no one knew she was here. The cops were looking for Natalie Brixton not Valerie Brown, and Pym was easy to please, no excessive demands, sex once a week, often not even that. During her free time she could go to libraries or movies and maintain her Taekwondo skills at a gym in London's Chinatown.

  But the Oxford heist had changed everything. Art thefts attracted a certain amount of attention, but a dead museum guard would draw far more scrutiny, details that might reach certain homicide detectives in Boston and New Orleans. Spurred by this worrisome thought, she lengthened her stride.

  On the opposite sidewalk, three people were walking their dogs: a long-legged wolfhound, a miniature Schnauzer and a beautiful Golden Retriever. For them, this was just another Sunday. Take Fido for a stroll on an upscale street lined with huge mansions, go home and relax with the London Times. Would it contain an article about the Oxford heist and the murder? Theoretically, her time was her own until noon, when Pym called to ask if she wanted anything special for lunch, a subtle reminder that he expected her to join him at one o'clock for his midday meal.

  No lunch with Pym yesterday. He'd probably assumed she was sleeping, but after their tense confrontation, she had tossed and turned for hours. Finally, she had gotten out of bed and compulsively wiped every inch of the Beretta with alcohol soaked swabs to erase any latent prints. Then she'd made herself a pot of green tea and considered her options.

  Keep doing art heists? Or get out while she could and disappear?

  But Pym wouldn't just let her go, he'd send Gregor after her, and Gregor was ruthless.

  A horn tooted as a white delivery van passed her, the male driver leering at her legs and red shorts. She ignored him and kept running. She had to dump the Beretta where no one would find it, but that would require a car, a
nd she would have to tell Pym where she was going, a requirement he had insisted upon when he'd given her the Mini-Cooper. Another problem to solve.

  Pym hadn't called her to have dinner with him last night, either. Was he angry about her parting shot? Get someone else to steal your paintings. With Pym, it was difficult to tell.

  She'd met him two years ago. The manager at the escort service in Paris had given her a new passport with a new name—Valerie Brown—and sent her to London with glowing references. The manager of the London branch was delighted when she said her specialty was art.

  “Perfect,” he'd exclaimed. “I've got just the chap for you, very high class, very well educated and ...” The manager waggled his eyebrows. “Very rich.” His name was Jonathan Pym.

  An older man, Pym appeared rather frail, five-foot-five and thin, with knobby wrists and fingers. His skin was pale and so were his eyes, a pallid gray-blue. During their first “date” he quizzed her about art. What painters did she like? Did she prefer watercolors or oils? What was her favorite art period? As if it were a job interview. Later, the reason became obvious. He wanted her to steal paintings for him.

  Horns blared, jolting her back to reality. Traffic was backed up behind a moving van double-parked outside a large brick-front mansion. She turned and jogged toward Pym's mansion, the mantra in her head keeping time with her feet. Dump the gun. Get out now. Dump the gun. Get out now.

  When she moved into his mansion, Pym had given her a cellphone and told her to keep it with her all the time, in case he wanted to speak to her. Bullshit. Dog-walkers used leashes to keep their canines in check. The cellphone was Pym's electronic leash. Registered in his name, it allowed him to monitor the calls she made and received. Last year she had befriended a Vietnamese man at her gym. Although her mother was American, her father was Vietnamese. When she said she needed a disposable pay-as-you-go cellphone, he sent her to Chen, an older Chinese man with a long white beard, the leader of one of London's Chinese Tongs. Chen had asked no questions. An hour later she had her cellphone.

  Too bad she couldn't call him today, but that would be impolite. In Asian cultures politeness and respect for elders was important. On Sunday Chen stayed home with his children and grandchildren. But tomorrow she would ditch the Beretta, go to Chinatown and ask Chen to get her a new passport and a new identity. She had no idea how long this might take. In the meantime, she would concentrate on being Valerie. Be who they want you to be. Act smart, but not too smart. Be charming but deferential.

  But when she got her new passport she would disappear. Her heart soared like a bird. Free at last!

  She rounded a curve. Pym's mansion was two blocks ahead. Inside the pocket of her shorts, Pym's cellphone vibrated against her leg. She slowed to a walk, took out the phone and answered.

  “Hello, Valerie. Where are you? Still running? I saw you leave earlier.”

  Spying on her, as usual. “Yes, but I'll be home in five minutes.”

  “Good. One of my business associates has invited us to his country estate. He's on the board of trustees for the Tate Museum, and his wife is quite charming. The limousine will be ready at twelve-thirty.”

  Damn! Why was he springing this on her now? “I'll need to take a shower and fix my hair.”

  “Right, and pack a bag. We'll be staying with them for a few days.”

  Shocked, she lowered the phone. A dull ache pounded her temples. Stay at a country estate for a few days? That would derail her plans and delay her escape. “But I have a dentist appointment tomorrow.”

  “Cancel it. I've already accepted their invitation.”

  “Why didn't you tell me about this before?”

  “Valerie, I think you are forgetting something. You work for me. Your appointment will have to wait.”

  His icy tone of voice frightened her. “When will we be back?”

  “Tuesday. Come along now or you'll make us late,” Pym said, and ended the call.

  A black cloud of despair destroyed her upbeat mood. Her escape plan would have to wait. Worse, for three days she would have to endure Pym's company around the clock. Torture.

  _____

  7:35 PM – London

  Detective Chief Inspector Leonard Stanford got the emergency call at six-fifteen. His boss never called on the weekend, so he knew some nasty bit of business was up. Worse than nasty, as it turned out.

  Stanford flipped on the light in his office and draped his tweed jacket on the wooden coat rack beside the door. Six feet tall and 210 pounds, he used his imposing physique to intimidate reluctant witnesses. But his colleagues in the Art and Antiques Unit relished his wry humor and pointed jibes. To retaliate, they teased him about his prominent ears, which his reddish-brown hair failed to hide.

  Littered with yellow messages slips, his desk stood in front of a window. Beyond the glass, lights from nearby buildings stood out against the inky darkness. He massaged his temples, fighting an incipient headache. Too many gin and tonics at his in-laws' house. After dinner they'd played whist, a torture mercifully interrupted by the emergency call. His mother-in-law was lovely, but his father-in-law, a pensioner, complained incessantly. The government was corrupt and all the politicians were nutters.

  Stanford couldn't figure out how the man had managed to produce such a wonderful daughter. He'd married Priscilla thirty years ago and they were still keen for each other, got along better than their two Welch corgis. Priscilla was an only child and so was he. Maybe that's why they got along, each of them busy tending their careers. Priscilla ran an interior decorating business.

  With a heavy sigh, Stanford sank onto his well-worn leather chair and powered up his computer. During the wee hours yesterday morning thieves had got into the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford, a hundred kilometers northwest of London. They'd stolen a Rembrandt, but the buggers hadn't stopped at thievery. They'd shot the overnight guard and whacked the museum security director in the head. One dead, one in the hospital with a fractured skull.

  He heard noises in the outer office. Apparently he wasn't the only one in the Criminal Investigation Division working overtime.

  His door opened and Detective Inspector David Carpenter entered his office and said, “Hi, Len, you heard the news?”

  Stanford was grooming Carpenter, a promising young detective, to be his second in command in the Art and Antiques Unit. “Yes. Bloody Christ, steal the goddam painting but don't start killing people. How'd you hear?”

  “The BBC did a newsflash at six o'clock about a disturbance at the museum. No details. Nothing about a shooting. Figured I'd come in and see if I could lend a hand. Who did they kill?”

  “The overnight guard.”

  “Wasn't there another theft at that museum a few years ago?”

  With a nod of approval, Stanford said, “You've done your homework. Six years ago, before you joined the Art and Antiques Unit. In January 2004, they stole a Rembrandt, never recovered. But nobody got shot. No one killed during any of these other heists either, but I suppose it was only a matter of time. Can you write up some sort of benign statement for the press, a disturbance at the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford, no further details presently available, something like that?”

  “I'm on it,” DI Carpenter said. “Anything else?”

  “Yes. If the phones start ringing, which they're bound to do once the press gets wind of it, I'm not in.” He winked. “Unless, of course, it's the Prime Minister. In that case, tell him I'm working my arse off.”

  Carpenter grinned. “Right, sir. But at least it's not on our patch.”

  “If it's related to these other heists, it will land in our laps anyway.”

  Carpenter tossed him a mock-salute and shut the door.

  He punched up the number for the Detective Chief Superintendent.

  “Wolfe.” A curt bark. DCS Elliot Wolfe got to the point fast and expected his subordinates to do the same. His deep voice suggested a large heavy-set man. In fact, Wolfe was five-foot-six and skinny as a pencil, a pipe smoker wi
th stern blue eyes.

  “DCI Stanford, here. I'm in my office. What's the word in Oxford?”

  “A bloody nightmare. Security guard reported for his shift this morning, went inside, saw the bodies and called police.” Wolfe barked a curt laugh. “But we suspect he called the museum director first. He was there when the police arrived. They interrogated the guard, poor bloke was out of his mind, swore he didn't touch anything, but of course he did. Bloody fool called from the phone inside the museum.”

  “Anything from the security cameras?”

  “Nothing useful. The cameras were shut down at two-fifteen A.M.”

  “An insider guard?” Stanford said. That was one theory about these heists.

  “Either that or the thieves forced him to do it. Either way, we've got no video and no pictures.”

  “What did they steal?”

  “A Rembrandt worth millions. The museum director is doing an inventory to see if anything else is missing. The Oxford detectives tried to keep a lid on it. You know the drill, in case the robbers contact the museum and ask for ransom. But twenty minutes later the bloody reporters were on it like a pack of hounds. The museum director told them there'd been a disturbance. Right lot of good that will do.”

  “My assistant tells me the BBC ran a newsflash on it at six o'clock.”

  “I saw it, and it will only get worse. A security guard dead? A missing Rembrandt? We're in for it.”

  “Indeed we are.” Stanford had worked the Art and Antiques Unit for fifteen years, and for some reason, the public and the media, most of whom didn't care a whit about art, never tired of hearing about art thefts and the rotters who stole the paintings. “What can you tell me about the murdered man?”

  “Security guard, shot once in the back of the head. Cold-blooded bastard, whoever did it.”

  “Any witnesses?”

  “Not yet. No tongue-wags eager to dish up an eyewitness account. The Oxford police are still interviewing neighborhood residents. We'll see if anything turns up. The security director seems like a conscientious bloke. The guard who discovered the robbery said he used to show up unexpectedly sometimes, especially on the overnights.”