Natalie's Art: a Frank Renzi novel

by Susan Fleet

“And this London cop says a woman is involved?”

  “Right. Witnesses at a castle in Scotland saw a blonde grab a painting, run outside and jump in a getaway car. Natalie wore a blonde wig when she shot Peterson, remember? We got security video of her leaving his room.”

  Vobitch tapped his pen on his desk. “What's the date of this heist when they saw the woman?”

  Damn. He hadn't had time to check and see where Natalie was then. “In 2005. I forget the exact date.”

  “Well, it's something.”

  “You wanted a solid lead. I just gave you one.”

  After an agonizing wait, Vobitch said, “Might be enough. How long do you need?”

  His heart surged. Seal the deal, spring the other part later. “Three days. Leave on a Friday, fly back Monday. Hey, I'll work Fourth of July weekend. I'll buy you lunch at Nathan's South every day for a month.”

  Nathan's South was similar to Nathan's in New York. Deli sandwiches, dill pickles and dynamite potato salad, conveniently located two blocks from the D-1 station. Frank figured this was why Vobitch had his office here. They'd already named a sandwich after him. The Vobitch: Corn beef on rye, Swiss cheese and sauerkraut.

  “Okay,” Vobitch said, “but you better come back with something good.”

  “We will.”

  Vobitch frowned. “We? Who's we?”

  “Me and Kelly.” At least he hoped she was going. He hadn't asked her yet.

  “Are you out of your mind? How am I gonna talk the bigwigs into letting two detectives fly to London?”

  “I want her to interview the widow of the security guard that died of a drug overdose. Kelly's great with women. That's why she's working Domestic Violence. Not only that, her father's got a contact on the London police force, remember? Ian Attaway.”

  Vobitch shook his head, half-smiling. “Good thing you're not going to Ireland. Kiss the Blarney Stone, no telling what you'd talk me into.”

  _____

  7:15 PM – New Orleans

  Frank lay on his side watching Kelly. Her eyes were closed and she had a smile on her face. Post-coital bliss, he hoped. He never understood guys who wanted to make love, roll over and go to sleep. He liked to make love before dinner, have round two for dessert. Eager to spring his surprise, he traced a finger over her flat stomach.

  She opened her eyes. “Hungry? I've got leftover chicken.”

  He leaned down and kissed her lips. “My favorite detective was so spectacular tonight—at least an eleven on a scale of one to ten—I'm gonna take you on a trip.”

  Her lips widened in a grin. “Yeah? Where? Drive across Lake Pontchartrain for some Chinese?”

  “Nah. How about London?”

  “Get out. You're joking, right?”

  “Nope. Is your passport up to date? We leave on Friday, fly back on Monday.”

  “Frank, I can't just take off and go to London. I'll have to clear it with—”

  “I already cleared it with Vobitch. He'll talk to your boss.”

  Her eyes lit up. “Wow! I've never been to London.” Then she frowned. “Wait. I bet this has to do with work.”

  “Correct. Which reinforces my decision to take my savvy detective-lover with me.”

  “Natalie,” she said, frowning now. “You think she's in London.”

  He rolled off the bed and pulled on his shorts. “Come on. I'll tell you about it over a glass of wine.”

  While Kelly put the chicken in the oven, he poured two glasses of Chianti and told her about the latest art heist, the murder and the guards who'd died under suspicious circumstances.

  “I'd love to go to London,” Kelly said, “but what's the plan?”

  “Stanford seems like a good guy. We got talking about the Gardner heist and I told him I could hook him up with someone who worked the case. In exchange for interviewing that widow.” He raised his wineglass in a mock-salute. “Actually, I want you to talk to her. You're great with women. That's what convinced Morgan Vobitch to let us go. Stanford said he'd bring her to London to talk to us. And dig this. The London cops are just as territorial as we are. So I told DCI Stanford about your father's contact, Detective Inspector Ian Attaway.”

  Several years ago Kelly's father, Chicago Police Captain Rico Zavarella, had helped Attaway nab the man who'd stolen luggage from three British tourists at O'Hare Airport.

  “Can you get your dad to give Attaway a call, ask him to put in a good word with Stanford's boss?”

  “Sure, if it helps us get to London.” Kelly wrapped her arms around his neck. “You know, you can be very devious sometimes.”

  He pulled her closer, inhaling her scent. “Nothing wrong with devious if it gets me what I want.”

  “What if we don't find anything that confirms your theory about Natalie?”

  He waved a hand, as though he'd considered the possibility and accepted it. Fat chance. He felt like a bloodhound, tracking the scent, closing in on his prey. The elusive and alluring Natalie Brixton.

  “Vobitch will be pissed, but look at it this way. We'll spend three days in London and we can put European Art Heist Investigation on our resumes.”

  Kelly shook her head, grinning at him. “Liar, liar, pants on fire.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Wednesday June 23, 2010 – 10:15 AM – London

  She stared out the window of Pym's limousine. Traffic was impossible, red two-decker tour buses, London taxicabs, cars and vans headed for Heathrow Airport. Beside her, Pym was calm and relaxed. She wasn't. She was frustrated and angry and, she had to admit, deeply afraid.

  He still hadn't told her where she was going. It was maddening.

  Usually after they had sex, she returned to her quarters on the third floor, but last night he had insisted that she sleep with him. She hated that. She could never sleep with someone else in bed with her. Well, she'd slept fine after Wilhem made love to her, but that was years ago. An unhappy lifetime ago.

  While she was in the shower this morning, Pym had ordered breakfast sent to her quarters. So he could help her pack, he'd said. Nonsense. He didn't want to let her out of his sight. She should never have told him she wanted to say goodbye to her friends. But she had no friends now. Her only friend lived in Texas. She hadn't seen Gabe since she'd left fifteen years ago after she settled the score with her cousin. Gabe had gotten her the gun.

  An angry horn blast sounded as Pym's driver cut off a car to take the exit for Heathrow Airport. In five minutes they'd be at the departure terminal. Why was he torturing her like this?

  The wheat toast with strawberry jam she'd eaten for breakfast sat in her stomach like a stone. Where was he sending her?

  As though he'd read her thoughts, Pym reached into the pocket of his suit, took out a British Airways folder and handed it to her. “Have a nice time in Boston, Valerie.”

  She felt like a giant hand was crushing her chest. Boston. Her worst fear.

  “I hear it's a lovely city,” Pym said cheerfully. “But you won't be there long. In a couple of weeks you'll be back in London with me.” His pale gray eyes hardened. “If everything goes well, that is. Make sure you don't kill anyone this time.”

  “Killing the security guard wasn't my idea, Jonathan.”

  He gestured at the Plexiglas partition that separated them from the driver, a warning to silence her. “So you said.”

  He took a cellphone out of his briefcase. “Activate this when you land in Boston. Gregor has the number and so do I. No one else must have it, understand?”

  “Yes.” A sick feeling invaded her gut. She should have followed her instinct this morning when Pym was in her bedroom. Dig out the Beretta hidden in her clothes hamper and shoot him. But what would that accomplish? His flunkeys would have set upon her like a pack of rabid dogs.

  “Use this cellphone only to call me. My number is already programmed into it.”

  Giving her orders. Did he expect her to salute? She clenched her teeth. If she wanted to escape, she had to be smart. Strong. Devious, even.
>
  “Gregor will call you after you land, so make sure you activate the phone right away. It's about time you met him. He will tell you about your assignment.”

  Gregor. The name sent chills down her neck. She didn't want to meet him, didn't want to talk to him, didn't want to take orders from him. Gregor was evil. And how could she steal a painting in Boston? The cops were already after her for killing Oliver.

  “What is the assignment?”

  “Gregor will explain everything.”

  “But I don't have his phone number. What if there's an emergency?”

  Pym glared at her. “There better not be an emergency. If there is, don't call Gregor, call me.”

  “But you'll be in London. I need a way to contact Gregor.”

  After a moment, Pym said, “In an emergency you can contact him through my Global Interpreting Office. It's in Copley Square, near the public library.”

  Copley Square. The Boston Public Library, where she'd done her research on Frank Renzi, who wanted to arrest her for three murders in New Orleans. Two years ago he had almost caught her, and the Boston cops were after her, too. Now Pym expected her to steal a painting there, and follow Gregor's orders. The thought terrified her.

  The limousine pulled to the curb outside Terminal Five, and the driver got out. A short man with a powerful build and a dark beard, he opened her door. Hot humid air hit her, flavored with fumes from idling cars. Dressed in her travel outfit, a white blouse under a black silk pantsuit, she got out and stood on the sidewalk where the driver had placed her suitcase and carry-on bag.

  Smiling broadly, Pym put his arms around her. His idea of affection.

  “Have a good trip, Valerie. I can't wait for you to get back.”

  With a supreme effort, she forced a smile. Couldn't wait for her to come back with whatever painting she had stolen. Maybe she wouldn't. Maybe she could make her escape from Boston.

  To hell with Jonathan Pym and Gregor and stealing paintings.

  She bent down and kissed his cheek. Be who they want you to be. “Thank you, Jonathan.”

  _____

  She joined the queue for the British Airways counter and checked her suitcase. When Pym wasn't looking, she had slipped her laptop into it. She shouldered her carry-on bag and passed through security without a problem. No one was hunting for Valerie Brown.

  According to the departure board, her flight was boarding in ten minutes, but if she hurried, she might have time to make a phone call first. Racing past other passengers towing suitcases, she reached her boarding gate, breathless and sweaty. The gate attendant was at the podium, announcing that first class passengers would be boarding momentarily.

  She rushed back to the deserted gate she'd passed on the concourse. She set her carry-on bag on a flat table between two leather seats, unzipped it and took out the cellphone she'd hidden in one of the interior pockets. Her cellphone, not Pym's. Standing beside a window overlooking the tarmac, she dialed a number.

  One ring. Then another, and another. After the fifth ring, a voice said, “Yes, what is it?”

  “Hello, Chen. It's Valerie. How are you today?” Feigning politeness, when she wanted to scream, Help me!

  “I am well, Valerie, and you?”

  “I'm at Heathrow about to board a plane and I need your help.”

  “Where you go?” Chen said. English was not his native language.

  “My employer is sending me to Boston for an assignment and I need a favor.”

  “Ah. Boston. What you need?”

  “A contact. Someone who can help me.” She paused. “You know how it is with this man I live with.”

  “Not a nice man,” Chen said. “Boston. Hmm. I think I know a man who can help you.”

  A great weight lifted from her shoulders. Boston was an ocean away but Chen knew someone who would help her. Moments later she programmed a name and number into her cell, put it in her carry-on and returned to her gate.

  Her head was throbbing, a relentless ache that set her teeth on edge.

  She was exhausted, but she'd never be able to sleep on the plane.

  Seven hours and fifteen minutes from now she would land in Boston, a city she never wanted to see again.

  _____

  Boston – 3:45 PM

  Gregor Kraus glared at the waiter standing beside his table. Moments after taking his first satisfying puff on a Gitaines Brunes, the two white-haired biddies pecking at plates of lettuce at the next table had given him nasty looks, flapping their hands at the smoke drifting their way. The waiter, a skinny college kid with a snotty attitude, had told him smoking wasn't allowed in the restaurant.

  But he wasn't inside the restaurant, he was in the seating area outside.

  He dropped his cigarette on the ground and stared into the waiter's eyes. Saw one of his eyes explode in a mist of blood and gore. Imagination was a wonderful thing. Still, many years ago he had seen just such a thing happen. He was the one who had pulled the trigger.

  “Thank you,” the waiter muttered, and bustled away.

  Gregor put down enough cash to cover the bill. No tip. Maybe he'd take the snifter with him, sit on a nearby bench and enjoy the rest of his Remy Martin with a fresh Gitaines. But if the waiter saw him leave with the snifter he might call the police. That wouldn't do. First rule: Do nothing to attract attention, not with the next heist only two weeks away. At the Gardner Museum no less. This would be a challenge, but well worth it.

  The robbery at the Gardner in 1990 was the most notorious art heist in the world. The FBI and many others were still searching for the paintings. Some said they were worth five-hundred-million dollars.

  He downed the last of the brandy, threaded his way through the tables and strode to a nearby wooden bench. The Quincy Market was a tourist magnet. Inside the massive two-story structure were specialty food shops, trendy boutiques and pricy restaurants. Outside, along a wide expanse of red-brick pavement were towering shade trees, tall poles with globe lights, and pushcarts offering souvenirs. A steady stream of people passed him. Many wore Red Sox caps or black-and-yellow Bruins jerseys or green Celtics T-shirts.

  Boston was a sports-crazy city, worse than London with its idiotic soccer fans. Gregor had no interest in sports. Such a juvenile activity, grown men pretending to be tough. He took out the packet of Gitaines, lighted one, exhaled a cloud of smoke and studied the scars on his hands. Old scars, but still hideous, angry patches of red skin.

  One day when he was five, Papa had taken him to the stove in the kitchen, turned on a gas burner and held one of his hands over the flickering blue flame. Even now, forty years later, he could still remember the searing pain, excruciating pain that consumed him.

  For an instant, he'd been too shocked to react. When he began to shriek, Papa released his hand and slapped his face. “Aufhören zu heulen!” Papa said in German. “Etwas schwer werden!” Stop crying! Be tough!

  Sobbing, he'd stared at his hand, the skin below the thumb already blistering. Heartbroken, he wanted to say: “Papa, why did you do this?” But he didn't dare.

  Gregor puffed his cigarette. Even now, on a sunny afternoon in June with a breeze wafting faint odors of the sea, the memory of that pain sent a shock-wave through him that shriveled his scrotum.

  Every few weeks, Papa had repeated this agonizing ritual. One night the burns became infected, oozing pus. Papa took him to the hospital. When the doctor examined his hands and asked how it happened, Papa, staring at Gregor, had replied: “I told him not to touch the stove, but the boy never listens.”

  Even then Gregor knew enough not to contradict him. He began to anticipate when it might happen again, reading the signs. A grim expression when Papa came home from work. Violent cursing. Silence as the two of them ate the dinner Papa prepared. The last time Papa held his hand over the flame, Gregor forced himself not to cry out, clenching his teeth so hard one of them broke. “Good,” Papa said. “You are ready.” And so, a month before his eighth birthday, he had joined the London gang
that Papa worked for. Papa was their enforcer.

  Gregor drew deeply on his cigarette and turned, intending to blow the smoke at the two old hags. They were gone, but so what? He had more pressing problems to solve.

  Nicholas Kwan, for one. The little shit was beyond irritating, questioning whatever he said. Kwan was a ruthless bastard. That's why he'd hired him to do the dirty work. But he didn't trust him. “Never turn your back on a Chinaman,” Papa had said, and Papa was right. Though Gregor hated to admit it, Asians were smart. Cunning. An Asian would smile at you even as he contemplated sticking a shiv in your back.

  Marta was another problem, always complaining. She'd been in Boston since January, setting up Global Interpreting, another front for Pym's shady deals. Gregor puffed his Gitaines. He knew why Marta was angry. Her apartment was operated by the YWCA, the Young Women's Christian Association, which meant Marta couldn't entertain her lovers there.

  His cellphone vibrated against his chest. He took it out and checked the ID. Marta. Sometimes it almost seemed like she could tell when he was thinking about her. Especially the bad thoughts. If only he could ignore her. But that would not be wise. Marta knew where the bodies were buried, so to speak.

  He punched on and said in a quiet voice, “What is it?” Even when he was angry or threatening someone, he never raised his voice. A quiet voice was far more effective. Intimidating. Terrifying.

  “Gregor,” she said, “I need to hire another translator. Now that we have more clients, I sometimes have to work four or five nights a week.”

  “You have two girls. That is enough.”

  “It's not enough! In the beginning I had three—”

  “If you had treated Ursula better, she would not have quit.”

  “She didn't quit! She left one night and never came back.”

  “Marta, people leave their jobs when they are unhappy.”

  “But she didn't even pick up her last check—”

  “Stop complaining. I am busy now. I will talk to you later.”

  “When? Will you be here tonight?”