by Susan Fleet
“Did the guard knock him out?” Kelly asked.
“The poor bloke couldn't even tell me that,” Stanford said. “But his doctor said this wasn't unusual, happens quite often after a blow to the head. Bottom line, there's no evidence the Security Director was involved in the heist. No unusual change in his financials, no unexplained phone calls. Looks like he picked the wrong night to check on the overnight guard and wound up with a fractured skull.”
“What about the guard?” Frank asked. “Anything hinky there?”
“His flat mate was hysterical when the detectives spoke with her the first day. Alicia Rathbun, age twenty-six. She claimed he had nothing to do with the theft, but two days ago I interviewed her and got a different story. By then she'd got over the shock.” Stanford checked his notes. “The guard's name was Mitchell Warren, age thirty, but she called him Mitch. She said the week before the robbery he seemed nervous, got a few phone calls but if she was in the room, he'd go outside. She claimed he didn't tell her anything about the heist, and I tend to believe her.”
“Did you check the phone records?” Kelly asked.
“Yes,” Stanford said. “Five incoming calls from a cellphone number. Unfortunately, it was one of those disposable pay-as-you-go types, no record of the owner. But Alicia made an interesting comment. She said Mitch was the adventurous type, liked to flirt with danger.”
“How long were they together?” Kelly asked.
“A bit more than two years.”
“Long enough for her to get a feel for his walk-on-the-wild-side tendencies,” Frank said. “Maybe he was in on the heist and wound up dead like the guards in those earlier heists.”
“I'm afraid it looks that way.”
“What can you tell me about the witness who saw the woman?” Frank said. “I want to talk to him.”
Stanford frowned. “Well, I can give you his name but you won't be talking to him. Three nights ago he was out walking his dog and got hit by a lorry.”
“He's dead?” Frank exclaimed, aghast.
“Yes. Not only that, it was a hit and run. The driver didn't stop.”
Frank glanced at Kelly, who widened her eyes. To Stanford, he said, “You said these art heist gangs are ruthless. Maybe they killed him. Who knew about the witness?”
Stanford pursed his lips, clearly unhappy. “Too many people, I'm afraid. The London police, my squad and Lord knows who else. We didn't release his name to the media, but there was a conference about these art heists that day here in London.”
“The day the witness got killed?” Frank said, his mind churning with possibilities.
“Yes. A group of trustees on the boards of several art museums put it together, art lovers and wealthy philanthropists most of them. They invited various law enforcement officials to speak about the heists. Security experts, detectives who specialize in finding stolen art, and several officers who investigated some of the heists. No telling who might have opened their mouth.”
“To someone with money and a hankering for art?” Frank said.
“You think the mastermind might have been there?” Stanford said.
“We can't rule anything out,” he said, deliberately using the inclusive we rather than you. He wanted in on this investigation.
“What's the story with this woman you're hunting?” Stanford asked.
“Natalie Brixton, age thirty-two. Two years ago she murdered a former CIA agent in Boston, and three men in New Orleans.”
“Frank was lucky he wasn't one of them,” Kelly said. “She shot him, too.”
“You don't say!” Stanford said. “No wonder you're after her.”
“Nothing serious,” he said. “A flesh wound in my leg. But I think she's in on these art heists. Several years ago she worked for an escort service in Paris. As an enticement, they have their girls specialize in a particular area. Natalie's specialty was art.”
“Guess I'd better add Natalie Brixton to my list of suspects,” Stanford said.
Frank showed him the composite sketch of Natalie and a copy of her driver’s license photo. “Can you check and see if she entered the UK sometime after August 2008?”
“An attractive woman,” Stanford commented.
“Don't be fooled,” Kelly said. “She'd as soon shoot you as look at you.”
Stanford nodded. “Duly noted. Is she Asian?”
“Part Vietnamese on her father's side,” he said. “Her mother was murdered when she was ten.”
“Have you got a passport number for her?” Stanford said.
“No.”
“Okay. I'll try to check the entry records, but with only a name and no passport, it might be difficult.” Stanford sighed. “I wish I'd paid more attention to Sonja Wynkoop. It's looking more and more like she was right. Her husband was murdered.”
“When do we talk to her?” Kelly asked.
“I've set up an appointment for you to see her tomorrow morning at eleven. She's flying into London sometime today, staying with her cousin tonight.” Stanford's intercom buzzed. He frowned, punched a button and said, “What's up, David?” And after a pause, “Put her on.”
Kelly leaned closer and whispered, “This is incredible, Frank. Million dollar paintings stolen and all these murders?”
He nodded, half-listening to Stanford, who said, “Right, luv. I'll be there in an hour or so.” He replaced the receiver and said, “Sorry, that was my wife. One of our dogs is in a bad way, just had surgery at the veterinary. It's crazy how attached one gets to these animals …”
“We'd better let you go then,” Frank said. “How do we contact Sonja Wynkoop?”
Stanford scribbled a phone number and an address on his notepad and gave it to Frank. “I'll call and tell her you're here.”
“Thanks,” Frank said. “We'll call her to confirm when and where. Thanks for your help and the new information.” He gestured at the photograph on Stanford's desk, a striking woman and two small Welch Corgis. “Go see your wife and make sure your favorite dog is okay.”
“Will do,” Stanford said. “Let me know how it goes with Sonja.”
_____
London
He padded barefoot across the plush Persian carpet and sank into his armchair, exhausted. Solitude at last. No need to put on a front for his business associates and employees. His most vexing employee was in Boston. Gregor got things done, but he was difficult to control and his methods were ruthless. Even now he could barely contain his outrage.
Ordering Valerie to kill the museum guard and the Security Director. She hadn’t killed the Security Director, but the death of the security guard might sully the reputation he had worked so hard to acquire.
Gregor believed that Jonathan Pym stole art at the behest of wealthy collectors willing to pay huge sums for the paintings.
True, but he was the wealthy collector. Only he knew the paintings were here in his basement museum, a twenty-foot-square, climate-controlled space. He had designed it himself, supervising the workmen as they installed cherry-wood paneling and ornate moldings on the walls, befitting the masterpieces he intended to hang there. The room had no windows, but recessed lighting in the vaulted ceiling spotlighted his beauties.
And what beauties they were! His beloved Old Masters. Rembrandt self-portraits, painted at various stages of his life. An Officer Bowing to a Lady, by Terborch, the lady in her finery, a low-cut silver gown with gold accents. The Virgin and Child in Egypt, an exquisite tempura-on-canvas by William Blake. He adored the Franz Hals, a laughing boy with long curly hair, sparkling eyes and rosy red cheeks, a toddler, four or five years old. Happy and healthy. The painting brought him great joy.
It helped him forget his own miserable childhood.
Best of all was his Vermeer. Woman in Blue Reading a Letter. Seeing it brought tears to his eyes. The perfect stillness. The limpid blue of the woman's jacket. Her fierce concentration on the letter in her hands. What message did it contain? A mystery. Every painting Vermeer had done was a mystery, a p
uzzle to be contemplated for hours. Two weeks from now he would have two more. If he lived to enjoy them.
A series of coughs wracked him, a violent spasm that brought up a wad of phlegm. He peeled tissues off the thick wad he always carried and spat into them.
He studied the woman's blue jacket, the swollen mound of her belly. Was she pregnant? Fortunately, he'd never had children.
If he had, they might have inherited his deadly disease. As a child he’d always been sickly, small for his age, unable to play sports, prone to nosebleeds and respiratory ailments. He hated going to doctors, but three years ago, plagued by nosebleeds, coughing spells and fatigue, he'd made an appointment with his physician.
After a brief examination, Dr. Thaddeus Montgomery had ordered blood tests. A week later, his secretary called and asked him to come in the next day. When Montgomery entered the room, Pym could see the bad news on his face. But Montgomery put on a cheerful front.
Thanks to the test results, he now knew the reason for Pym's fatigue and nosebleeds. “You've inherited Fanconi Anemia, but you're one of the lucky ones. Some are intellectually stunted and many of them die before they're twenty. I'm surprised you weren't diagnosed before.”
Then Montgomery launched into an explanation of how the disease was transmitted. Pym tuned him out. One of the lucky ones? He'd never been lucky in his life. Everything he had, every pleasure, every possession, every human contact was his because he'd earned it.
“You've already outlived most people who have this disease,” Montgomery had said. “Most don't make it to thirty. You're fifty-five. If we work together, we can keep you going for a few more years.”
Favoring him with a jovial smile. The bastard.
Later, Pym had researched Fanconi Anemia, a genetic disorder. A diagram with stick figures explained it. When an unaffected “carrier” father and an unaffected “carrier” mother had children, there were four possible outcomes. The child would be unaffected. Two children would be carriers. The fourth would inherit the disease.
Pym, who'd never been lucky in his life, had been unlucky even before he was born. Thanks to the cosmic lottery, both his parents had carried the gene for the disorder. Statistically, he'd had three out of four chances to escape the disease. But he hadn't. A death sentence.
He struggled to his feet, went to a sideboard and poured Louis XIII Remy Martin Cognac into a snifter. He swirled the liquid in the glass, sniffed the fumes, took a sip and felt the fiery liquor burn its way down his throat. Other than Dr. Montgomery, no one knew he was dying. Well, everyone died in the end. But his demise would come sooner rather than later.
He sank into his chair and cupped the snifter in his hands. After receiving that nasty bit of news he had gone to see his solicitor. Alistair Tibbs was a senior partner at Cartwright & Tibbs, a prestigious law firm that handled financial matters for business magnates. Without revealing his health status, he’d given Tibbs several directives to alter his will. Tibbs was privy to some of his shadier dealings, though not the art thefts. A man to be trusted, Pym believed.
Still, he'd written one directive himself and had Tibbs notarize his signature without reading the contents. A mystery, like the contents of the letter Vermeer had placed in the woman's hands.
The others were straightforward. Upon Pym's death, Tibbs was to liquidate his assets: his mansion and automobiles, his stocks and his import-export business. Twenty percent of the proceeds would go to his loyal employees: those who worked for his business and those who served him at his mansion. After much reflection, he had left twenty percent of the proceeds to Gregor. After all, were it not for Gregor, he would not have his glorious collection.
He hadn't decided what to do about Valerie. For two years, she had been a fine companion, charming and agreeable, and considerate in bed, especially when his fatigue allowed him infrequent release. He had no illusion that Valerie was in love with him, nor he with her. Recalling their farewell fuck the night before she flew to Boston, he smiled. That night he had actually performed quite well.
He leaned back in the padded chair and shut his eyes, recalling his first encounter with a prostitute.
Forty years ago, after cashing his first paycheck, the pittance he earned as a janitor, he'd worked up his courage and asked a girl for a date. Her ruby-red lips and ponderous breasts excited him. They’d met at the cheap cafeteria where he ate his meals. He took her to see La Dolce Vita, a Fellini film featuring Anita Ekberg with her incredible boobs and seductive smile. Afterward, he'd walked the girl—he no longer remembered her name—home. She let him kiss her, but when he tried to touch her breasts, she slapped his face. Humiliated, he ran away.
The next day he asked one of the other janitors how to find a prostitute. An older boy with a Cockney accent, Ron laughed. “Wot? You still a virgin? Come on then, laddy. After we get off work I'll take to you one.”
That night he'd had his first sexual experience. The prostitute, not much older than the girl who'd slapped him, made everything easy. After he paid her, of course. When she put her mouth on his penis, he came right away. But she didn't laugh at him, she seemed pleased.
Pym opened his eyes and drank some cognac. Why was he thinking about those sordid days in London? Because he was going to die soon? Forty years ago, he'd been a penniless teenager, a callow, inexperienced youth of fifteen. Now he was a wealthy man.
He yawned and rubbed his eyes. He should go to bed and conserve his energy. Last week Dr. Montgomery had told him his bone marrow was failing but offered a last ditch solution. A hematopoletic stem cell transplant. The best donor would be someone in his family. Struck by the bitter irony, Pym had struggled not to laugh aloud.
His family? Montgomery had no idea who his real family was.
The last time he'd seen his father was when Mum dragged him to Winson Green Prison in Birmingham. At fifteen, he was the man of the family. Mum was an alky, buying cheap wine at the supermarket and drinking herself into a stupor every night. His sister wasn't with them. Charlotte was twelve, too young to visit a prison.
How he'd loathed that place, a forbidding brick monstrosity surrounded by a barbed-wire fence. He hated the trapped feeling when the doors slammed shut, hated the guards with their hard eyes and pistols, hated the visiting room where prisoners in leg-irons met their visitors. It stank of piss and sweat and rancid food. Most of all, he hated the look on his father's face, bleak with despair as he slumped in his seat across from them. Maximilian Beecham. Not Max-a-million, that's for sure. His father, “Max” to his friends, had been unable to support his family with his con-man schemes.
Two days later, the fifteen-year-old man-of-the-family packed his few belongings in a cardboard suitcase, left the house in the dead of night and took a train to London. For weeks he had lived in fear: sleeping in Tube stations, begging for money on street-corners, avoiding the toughs who preyed on weaker boys. Finally, he lied about his age and got a job at the Victoria & Albert Museum. One day while he was sweeping floors in the basement he saw a small painting and got an idea.
His father had once helped a man fence a stolen painting, an East German named Kraus, who bragged about stealing art from Jewish families for the Nazis. Kraus had kept one and brought it with him when he immigrated to London. Back then, Pym had been an impressionable ten-year-old. What he remembered: After Max fenced the painting for Kraus and took his cut, they had decent food to eat for almost a month.
The next time he cleaned the basement, he had stolen his first painting, a small portrait. A shady art dealer gave him two hundred quid for it—a dazzling sum in those days—and asked if he could get more. Two weeks later, when no outcry arose over the missing portrait, he stole another. But years of hardship lay ahead.
With an abrupt motion, Pym drained his cognac. Did Charlotte have children? he wondered. Did she have Fanconi Anemia? Boys and girls were equally likely to inherit the disease. If she didn't, would she agree to donate her healthy stem cells to him?
He studied the Verm
eer. Woman in Blue Reading a Letter.
Would he live to see his new Vermeers?
Maybe he'd write Charlotte a letter. But what would he say? Dear Charlotte, this is your long-lost brother, the one who's been sending you money all these years. Now I've got a fatal disease and I need your help. A wee stem cell transplant should do it. How about next week?
Rubbish. He would do no such thing. He would tell Dr. Montgomery he'd been unable to find his relatives.
Let fate decide.
CHAPTER 11
Sunday June 27, 2010 – London
At 9:15 AM Frank and Kelly walked into the Jane Austin Tea Room, a small shop with a display counter, four tables and the delicious aroma of fresh-baked pastries. Sonja Wynkoop sat at a window table, an attractive woman in her forties with rosy cheeks and short blonde hair.
As they took the chairs opposite her, she said, “I despise tea, but they make good coffee here, now that I've told them how to do it. So. Would you like a nice big cup of coffee?”
A strong-willed woman, Frank thought, smiling at her. “That would be perfect.”
“Three large coffees, please,” Sonja called to the woman behind the counter. “Cream and sugar on the side.” Then, regarding them with her azure-blue eyes, sharp with intelligence, she smiled. “DCI Stanford has sent me two detectives from America. One is Italian, the other Irish. A good combination.”
Kelly laughed. “Actually, I'm the Italian. Frank's half Italian and half Irish. A volatile combination.”
Forget nationalities, Frank thought. He had no time for chitchat. Their flight left in three hours and he wanted to talk to Stanford before they went to the airport. “We're anxious to hear your story, Mrs. Wynkoop. Tell us about your husband.”
Her smile disappeared, replaced by a grim expression. “They killed him!”
Kelly elbowed him, a sharp rebuke. “His name was Pieter, wasn't it? What was he like?”
Stylishly dressed in a royal-blue skirt and matching blouse, Sonja sank back in her chair, lost in thought. At last, she said, “My Pieter was a good man. Hardworking and honest. Until he got mixed up in this terrible business at the museum.”
