by Susan Fleet
“I understand.” His face betrayed no emotion, but his eyes were tinged with sadness.
A tap sounded on the door and the white-haired man appeared, carrying two boxes. He put them on the table, bowed deeply and left. Lam opened one box and took out a small object the size of a Zippo lighter. “This is the tracking device. It is magnetized on one side. Attach it inside the rear bumper of the car you wish to track. The instruction booklet explains how to activate it.”
Lam opened the other box and removed a small flat cellphone. “This is the latest iPhone, much better than the previous model. Slightly bigger than a pack of cigarettes, but less than a half inch thick.” Lam smiled. “All my associates insisted on having one. After you set up the tracking service, the device will send a text to your iPhone whenever the car moves. On the Internet a Google Earth map allows you to enter the GPS coordinates and map the location. Zoom in for the street view. Zoom out for the big picture.”
She could hardly believe it. A tiny bug and this magical cellphone would allow her to track Gregor. “Perfect! I didn't know such a thing was possible. How much do they cost? I am happy to pay you in cash.”
“As you wish. Fifteen hundred for the bug and the iPhone. I will have the Beretta for you tomorrow. You can pay me when you pick it up. One thousand dollars.”
She took out a roll of bills and paid him for the bug and the iPhone.
“Is there anything else?”
The moment of truth. The Beretta and the bug were important, but the next item was crucial. Her heart pounded.
It had been many years since she cared what someone else thought of her. But this dignified man with the scarred face and the melancholy eyes had moved her deeply. What would he think?
“I may need to leave the country fast. With a new passport.”
Lam frowned. “From Boston?”
“No. Given the security restrictions since 9-11 that would be unwise. But I need a new passport and a new identity. If possible, one that will disguise my gender. Could you get me a passport for a male?”
Lam gazed at her for several seconds. “Where will you go?”
“Somewhere in Europe.” She didn't want to tell him where.
His eyes searched her face. “I will see what I can do. You must be here on a dangerous mission.”
You have no idea how dangerous. To mask her fears, she beamed him a happy smile. “As a teenager I chose birds and mountains to protect me. Now that I have met the Mountain Man, I am sure it will go well.”
His expression softened and his eyes grew warmer. Now she could see what a handsome young man Pak Lam had been, before someone disfigured his face.
He wrote something on a slip of paper and gave it to her. “My cellphone number. When I answer, you must say 'Hello Mountain Man.' I will know it is you.”
She rose and bowed deeply. “Thank you, Mountain Man.”
He inclined his head. “Remember, the most perilous journey begins with a single step.”
CHAPTER 9
Saturday June 26, 2010 – Boston
Nicholas leaned against the wrought-iron fence that enclosed a small park near Boston Medical Center. At the far end two kids were playing on swings. Even at this distance their high-pitched squeals irritated him. In the center of the park Jamilla Wells sat alone on a bench surrounded by pigeons pecking at dirt. He’d followed her and her snot-nosed brat here from her apartment.
Two women pushing baby strollers passed Jamilla, but she didn’t look up. When the women reached the sidewalk, Nicholas put on his mirrored Ray-Bans and strode across the weedy grass to the bench. The pigeons flapped their wings and scattered. “How you doing, Jamilla?”
Startled, she shank away from him.
“I’m a friend of Larry’s. I saw you at his restaurant yesterday, remember?”
She stared at him. Her eyes were dark brown and very large. “If you say so.”
He gestured at the swings. “That’s a cute little boy you’ve got there.”
She looked over to make sure the kid was okay, then turned to face him, frowning now. “What about it? Why don’t you take off them shades so I can see your eyes?”
The insolent bitch. He removed the Ray-Bans and stuck them in the pocket of his windbreaker. As he sat down beside her, shrieks of laughter came from the swings.
“Jaylen,” she yelled. “Be careful!”
The brats were on one swing now, one seated, the other standing. Jamilla’s little monkey was pushing them. If they didn’t shut up, he’d go over and belt them. “I’ve got a job for you. It pays good money.”
“What kind of job?”
“I need someone to set up some street action.”
She inched away from him, her eyes wary. “What’s that got to do with me?”
“I need someone to start a ruckus outside the Northeastern dorm on the Fenway. You know all the gangs. You were a cop, right?”
Her eyes drifted away. “Used to be. Not any more.”
“You still have your uniform?”
She hunched her shoulders and her knee bounced up and down in a jerky motion. “What’s it to you?”
He wanted to slap her. The bitch was talking tough, but he knew she was interested. “If you don’t have the uniform, I can’t use you.” He pulled three fifty-dollar bills out of his pocket.
Her eyes widened. “Yeah, I still got it.”
“Good. Line up six gang-bangers for the rumble.”
“I ain’t about to start no rumble.”
“Hsss! Not you, the bangers. You pay them fifty apiece. The leader gets an extra fifty to make sure they show up.”
She took out a stick of gum, peeled off the wrapper, stuck the gum in her mouth and chewed deliberately. “How much for me?”
He made her wait, stroking his beard, hearing the distant siren of an ambulance headed to Boston Medical Center. “Five hundred.”
She stopped chewing and stared at him. “Five hundred to set up a rumble? What is this, some kinda scam?” She dug at her scalp with her nails, scratching.
Why was she playing hard to get? She was desperate for money, trading food stamps for cash to buy nose candy. “Okay, forget it.” He made as if to leave the bench.
“Wait.” Forehead creased in a frown, she picked a cuticle on her thumb. “Okay, but I ain’t talkin’ to no bangers with my uniform on.”
“Of course not. That’s for another job.”
“What other job? I don’t get it.”
“Just do what I said. Line up the gang-bangers. Make sure the leader is reliable.” He fixed her with a hard stare. “No crackheads, understand? No junkies.”
She clamped her lips together and nodded. He gave her a fifty-dollar bill. “That’s for the leader. Make sure he keeps quiet.” He dangled two more fifties. “These are for you.”
She snatched the bills and stuck them in her pocket. “When do I get the rest? You said five hundred.”
“Line up the gang-bangers. I’ll meet you here in three days with another hundred.”
“Then what?”
“You give the setup to the leader.”
“How can I do that, I don’t know what the setup is?”
His irritation escalated. “I told you. They start a ruckus outside the Northeastern dorm on the Fenway. You come to this park every day with your boy?”
She chewed her gum, jaw working. “Not every day. What if it’s raining?”
“I will call you. Write down your number.” He took out a pen and a notepad, waited as she scribbled a number. “You live alone?”
“Hey, you payin’ attention? I live with my son.”
“I know that. Does anyone else live there?”
She hesitated. “Not really.”
He put both hands around her scrawny forearm and gave her a skin burn. She tried to pull away, but he tightened his grip. “If you lie, I will find out. I know where you live. You and your boy.”
She stared at him, bug-eyed, nostrils flared, breathing hard.
He
released her arm, and she jerked away. “Okay. I’ll get your damn ruckus goin’ for you.”
He watched her run toward the swings. He’d scared the bat-piss out of her. He would tell her about taking out the cops later. Money simplified everything. He would have to get more from Stefan.
“Stefan, the mastermind,” he muttered.
Stefan was an arrogant prick, but he had money.
_____
To avoid the crowd of shoppers on the lower levels, Natalie took the elevator the fifth floor, the floor with the offices, one being Global Interpreting. The elevator doors opened onto a hall with embossed wallpaper and plush green carpeting. A sign opposite the elevator directed her to the offices: a real estate agency, a travel agency, a financial planning business and several others.
Global Interpreting was Suite 610. She passed a vacant office with a “Lease Now” sign on the door. Ten yards down she stopped at the Executive Travel Agency. Shades covered the glass door. Opposite it was Suite 610, Global Interpreting. No lights in the office, but no shade on the door. She peered through the glass. In the dim light, she could see a rectangular desk facing the door, nothing else.
But so what? She wasn't here to see the office. She was here to find Gregor's car. If he worked at Global Interpreting, as Pym had implied, he must have a parking space. She returned to the vacant office. The sign gave the real estate agent's name and a telephone number.
She took out the iPhone Pak Lam had given her. Already she loved it. The screen was small, but she could use it to access the Internet when she didn't have her laptop. She dialed the number and waited.
After two rings, a cheerful female voice said, “Premier Real Estate, Arlene speaking.”
“Hi, Arlene. I'm an associate at Richardson and Son, an estate planning firm. We're looking to expand our office and I see that you have a vacancy at Copley Place.”
“Yes. Suite 625. It's a lovely office, 22,000 square feet and completely renovated since the last tenant. New carpeting and new wallpaper. We offer 24-hour security, and, as you know, it's a prime location.”
“Does it come with any parking spaces?”
“One comes with the lease, but for an additional monthly fee you can add another one.”
“Where are they located?”
“Up one flight on the sixth floor. The space for that unit is 303.”
“How much is the rent?” She didn't care, but she didn't want to arouse the woman's suspicions.
“It's a steal at 50,000 dollars a month. Your clients will love it.”
“Thanks very much. I'll talk to my boss and get back to you.”
She hung up and pumped her fist. If Suite 625 had a parking space in the garage, Global Interpreting probably did too. She went to the elevator, thumbed the call button and waited impatiently, visualizing Gregor's olive-green Saab with the New Jersey license plate.
The elevator dinged and the polished brass doors parted on an empty car. She hit the button for the sixth floor and the doors closed. Ten seconds later they opened on a vast parking area with a ramp in the middle. She eased into the garage and checked for a security guard. She didn't see one. No security booth either. Maybe there was one at the downstairs exit. Her ploy had gotten her the parking information, but it might not help her today. Most of the offices were closed.
She walked along the rows of diagonal spaces hunting for number 303. Halfway down one wall she found it. The space was empty. All ten spaces along that wall were empty. Where was Gregor's Saab? She walked the perimeter of the garage. No olive-green Saab with a New Jersey plate. Then she remembered what Pak Lam had said. A perilous journey begins with a single step.
The Saab wasn't here today, but tomorrow it might be. Or the next day. Monday. The day she had to meet Gregor. At noon she would be standing outside the Boston Public Library. The library where she'd read the newspaper articles about Frank Renzi and his troubles. Problems that had driven him out of Boston to settle in New Orleans.
She pictured him in the New Orleans alley after she shot him. Did he still think about her? Part of her wanted to believe he did. The other part, the rational part, desperately hoped he didn't.
Dealing with Gregor was bad enough. She didn't need Frank Renzi hunting for her. In New Orleans, or Boston.
_____
Providence, Rhode Island
Gregor parked in front of a white one-story cottage on a residential street on the East Side of Providence. Every house on the street looked like it belonged to bikers or welfare recipients. He got out of the Saab, went up the walk to the front door and pressed the bell.
A hanging plant stand beside the door held a flowerpot with wilted orange marigolds. Burt couldn't even remember to water the flowers, much less bathe himself.
Burt opened the door, a six-foot-two hulk in a sweat-stained T-shirt with piggish eyes and a hair lip that had never been repaired. Reeking of body odor, he held a can of Miller in one hand. Gregor pushed past him into the living room. It stank of cat piss, and newspapers and magazines littered the soiled beige carpet. He shuddered to think what the kitchen looked like. A worn couch faced a flat-screen television set. He would have to get rid of the TV before Nicolas came here after the heist.
“I'm going to need to use the house for a few days.”
Burt frowned. “How come?”
“Someone else needs to stay here.”
“When? I gotta check in with my probation officer once a week.”
“What happens if you don't?”
“I get in trouble,” Burt mumbled. Burt was an ex-con fresh out of prison, a pedophile to boot. His sister owned the place but let Burt live here, the perfect setup for a safe house. A month ago he had put Burt on the Global Interpreting payroll, listing him as a driver. Happy to collect seventy dollars every week, Burt asked no questions. Why would he? Sex offenders had huge problems finding jobs.
“How'd you like to get in trouble in Florida? I've got a plane ticket for you and a hotel reservation.”
“What do I do for money?" Burt said.
Gregor wanted to punch his ugly mouth, but forced himself to remain calm. Always be in control. “I'll give you three hundred dollars cash before you leave. You'll only be there a few days.”
With a sullen nod, Burt said, “Whatever you say, Mr. Haas. When do I leave?”
“Soon. I'll let you know.” Unable to bear the stench of cat piss and Burt's disgusting body odor, he left the house and drove off. Inevitably, his thoughts turned to the heist and what failure would mean. Pym's insufferable orders and incessant demands would continue. Worse, his dream of living the good life would go up in smoke.
The Vermeers were worth millions. The others were equally valuable. Stealing them entailed enormous risks. If the heist went bad, he might wind up in prison, or dead. He took out a Gitaines, lighted it and blew smoke out the window. Nothing would go wrong as long as he stuck to his rules. Always be in control. Always take revenge. Trust no one. Nicholas was a snake. He didn't trust Valerie, either. Controlling them was exhausting, a never-ending chore.
But Burt was an ex-con. He would do as he was told.
Everything was under control.
CHAPTER 10
Saturday June 26, 2010 – London
They had their first argument at 11:15 AM. After they checked into their hotel, Kelly wanted to take the Tube to DCI Stanford's office. Frank wanted to take a taxi and get there fast. To placate her, he promised her they would do the “London experience” tomorrow.
Twenty minutes later they entered the Arts and Antiques Unit office. To Frank, it didn't look much different from the District-4 homicide detective office, four desks sat in the middle, metal file cabinets lining the walls. Two men in civilian clothes were working the phones, another was on his computer. DCI Stanford was expecting them and came out of his office immediately, an imposing man with brilliant blue eyes, reddish brown hair and an engaging smile that softened his craggy face.
“Detective Renzi, we meet at last. An
d this must be your colleague.”
“It is,” Frank said. “Kelly O'Neil. Great detective and a terrific interviewer.”
“Happy to meet you both,” Stanford said. “Come in my office and I'll give you the latest info on the Ashmolean heist. Such as it is.”
Stanford's office was small and unpretentious and smelled of pipe tobacco. Pinned to a bulletin board on one wall were fliers with color photographs of art works labeled STOLEN. Thanks to their phone conversations, Frank was already convinced that Stanford was a good investigator, a no-nonsense type with a sense of urgency about solving cases. Meeting the man and seeing his workspace confirmed this.
Once he and Kelly settled into the chairs in front of Stanford's desk, Stanford said, “How was your flight? You must be jet-lagged.”
“A little,” Kelly said, “but this is my first trip to Europe so I'm running on adrenaline.”
“Me, too,” Frank said. He took out a three-by-five card and gave it to Stanford. “Here's the contact information for the detective that worked the Gardner heist in 1990. He's retired now, but he was one of the first detectives on the scene and he worked with the FBI on the case. I told him to expect your call.”
Stanford beamed. “Thank you so much! That case has confounded the experts for twenty years. Thirteen art works still missing, including Rembrandt's only seascape and a Vermeer. I'll ring him as soon as I catch a breather from this Ashmolean case.”
“Have you got any leads?” Frank asked.
“Nothing solid I'm afraid.” Stanford took out a spiral notebook. “Let me run down what we've done since I spoke with you last.” He glanced at Kelly. “Or should I start at the beginning?”
“No need,” Kelly said. “During the flight Frank told me everything he knew about the case.”
“Excellent. The doctor finally let me interview the Security Director. The knock on the head fractured his skull, but he's on the mend. Unfortunately, he couldn't tell me much. The last thing he remembered was the security guard letting him in. After that nothing.”
