by Susan Fleet
She took out a stick of gum, put it back when she saw Nicholas enter the park. She tried to stay calm, but as she watched him stride across the weedy grass, her guts turned to liquid.
He planted himself on the bench beside her. He had on a windbreaker and jeans, same as yesterday. No sunglasses today, dark eyes fixed on hers. Terrifying eyes. “Are the 'bangers set?”
“They're set.” she said, hugging her arms to her chest.
“How many?”
“Six. Like you said.”
“Okay. You only talked to the leader, right?”
“Yeah.” She knew the punks Zipper would use, but she wasn’t about to give up their names to this creep. She swallowed hard. “He wants to know when.”
“I told you. On a weekend.”
“Okay, but if it’s this week—”
“Not this weekend. I will let you know.” He dangled a hundred-dollar bill in front of her, but when she reached for it, he jerked it away. “You still have your uniform, right?”
She wanted to scratch his eyes out, stuck her hands in her pockets so she wouldn’t. “Yeah. So what?”
“You’ll need it for another job that night. I need you to take out a couple of cops.”
“Are you crazy?” Her voice rising in a banshee wail.
“Quiet! You want your kid to come over and hear this?”
She looked over at the swings. Jaylen was still playing with his friend. While his mother made deals with a gangster. She tried to look the bastard in the eye. Couldn’t.
“Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?” she mumbled.
He gave her the hundred-dollar bill. “It’s dark. You’re in your uniform, the cop’s in a cruiser. You zap him with a stun gun, drug him and he passes out.”
She stared at him, incredulous. “Are you crazy? I can't do that!”
“Hssss! Shut up and listen! You do the first one, walk around the building to the cop in the second cruiser and do the same thing.”
“Walk around what building?”
“Never mind. When the time comes I will tell you.”
Her heart hammered her chest. Just thinking about it made her break out in sweat. “No way.”
“Why not? You need money. You hate cops.”
“Who told you that?” Only cops she hated were the big-shots that shit-canned her.
“Never mind. Will you do it?”
She thought about the farmhouse in Georgia. “How much? You said five hundred, but this deal with the cops? That’s dangerous.”
“Stop complaining. Seven-fifty for the whole deal. Set up the ruckus and put the two cops to sleep.”
“Seven-fifty is shit money, do something like that. What if the cops see my face? They’ll identify me later. Jesus, I’ll go to jail!”
“They will remember nothing. I guarantee it.”
“Seven-fifty isn't enough, I gotta do something like that.”
“It’s more money than you’ve seen in a while, isn’t it? Think about your boy. He needs clothes and some decent shoes. You should buy him some toys.”
A cloud of guilt descended on her like a prickly woolen blanket. Jaylen never complained, but sometimes his eyes got a certain look when he saw the other kids with their toys. She scratched her scalp.
“Two thousand.”
“Fifteen hundred.” He dangled another hundred.
She snatched the bill. “Okay. Fifteen hundred.”
“Tell no one about this.” He aimed a finger at Jaylen and cocked it like a gun. “I’d hate to see anything happen to your boy.”
Fear sucked the air from her lungs. The prick-bastard would kill Jaylen in a New York minute, wouldn’t even blink. She nodded.
“Good. Next week you get another hundred.”
“When next week?”
“I will call and let you know.”
_____
Frank sipped his coffee and leaned back in his chair. It felt like old times, hashing over a case with his boss, Lt. Colonel Harrison Flynn, in his office. Hank looked older than the last time he'd seen him two years ago, seemed like he'd lost weight and his skin looked sallow. But his Irish-blue eyes were the same, had lit up like high-beam headlights when Frank told him what he'd learned in London.
“Sounds like you're onto something,” Flynn said.
“Yeah, but I still don't know where she is.”
Flynn smiled. “I might have a lead on her.”
He sat bolt upright in his chair. “Tell me.”
“I only heard about it this morning or I'd have told you before. A State cop patrolling Logan Airport thinks he spotted her.”
“Jesus! Here? In Boston?”
“Yes. Last Wednesday, the twenty-third of June, he saw her leaving the international terminal. Unfortunately, he couldn't follow up on it. Big accident in the roadway. By the time he handled that she was gone.”
Frank could hardly believe it, his heart doing cartwheels in his chest. “She's here to do an art heist! Can you check the international arrivals ninety minutes prior to when he saw her?”
“I can, but what if she's using a different name?”
“Tell them to check female passengers traveling alone. If it's her, we're in trouble. There are dozens of art museums in the Boston area.”
“True,” Flynn said, “and a big show is set to open at the Gardner Museum this weekend. The trustees want to raise money to increase the reward for the paintings that were stolen in 1990. Currently, the reward is five million. They’re looking to double it. To pack in the art lovers, they arranged to have several world-famous museums, mostly in Europe, lend them a dozen distinguished paintings.”
Recalling Kelly’s tutorial in art history, Frank said, “Old Masters?”
Flynn shrugged. “I'm not up on art terminology, but they're famous paintings worth big bucks. Two of them are Vermeers, one from the Louvre, another from the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam.”
“Last time the guards let the robbers in. What's the security setup?”
“Heavy. In 1990 there were two overnight guards. For this exhibit, three guards will be on duty overnight and two police cruisers will be parked outside the museum 24-7. The head guard has to call in a fail-safe code every hour on the hour. Same with the cops in the cruisers.”
Frank scratched his jaw, his thoughts racing. Kelly had boarded her return flight to New Orleans this morning. He'd changed his ticket, figuring he'd talk to Hank and fly back tomorrow. But Hank's information changed everything. No way was he going back to New Orleans if Natalie was in Boston.
Flynn yawned and massaged his eyes. “You really think Natalie’s here to steal art from the Gardner?”
“Since she escaped in 2008, there have been four art heists in the UK, most of them near London. I think she's working with a gang of art thieves. If that State Trooper saw her, I guarantee she's not here on vacation. She's here to steal art, and the show at Gardner would be a great target.”
“I'll notify the Special Operations Unit,” Flynn said. “Maybe they can add some extra patrols.”
“What about the guards? Who vetted them?”
“The Gardner Museum officials, I presume. Why?”
“My London contact is pretty sure insider guards were involved in some of the heists over there. Not all of them, but several.”
Flynn jotted notes on his notepad and smiled at him. “Guess you're not flying back to New Orleans tomorrow, huh?”
“Good guess. I'm staying at a low budget motel in Revere.” Frank checked his watch. “Right about now Kelly O'Neil is probably telling my boss why I'm not there. He's a good guy, used to be with NYPD, but he's not going to be happy about it.”
CHAPTER 13
Tuesday June 29, 2010 – 10:12 AM – Boston
Natalie took the stairs to the sixth floor and eased into the garage. Five minutes ago when she walked past the Global Interpreting office, the lights were on and she chanced a quick peek inside. An attractive blond woman had been seated at the desk. No sign of Gregor, bu
t he might be in another room. She hoped.
Now that it was a workday the garage was full. She walked down the wall to the right of the stairs. And there it was! The olive-green Saab. She took the tracking device out of her purse, but then she heard a car coming up the ramp. She ducked into the stairwell to stay out of sight and stifled a yawn.
Last night Pym had called her shortly after midnight, just past six AM London time. He probably did it on purpose, hoping to wake her up. He hadn't. She'd been lying in bed, fretting about the heist. Without any pleasantries—no hello and how are you—Pym had asked how the plans were going. When she said Gregor wanted her to go to a party at the Gardner, Pym said, “I know. I got him the tickets. I want you to make sure you know where the Vermeers are.”
That was all he cared about, his precious Vermeers. How much he was getting for them, she wondered.
“Everything else okay?” Pym had asked.
“Gregor didn't tell me much about the job.” Hoping Pym would tell her when it would be.
“I'm sure he will when the time comes. I'll call you again after the party,” Pym had said and hung up.
She peered through the window in the stairwell door and saw a woman with a briefcase walk to the elevator. As soon as the woman got in the elevator, she went back in the garage and trotted to Gregor's car, parked nose out in space 306. Holding the tracking device in one hand, she squatted beside the passenger side rear bumper, placed the device inside the bumper and heard a faint click.
Mission accomplished. Whenever the Saab moved, she would get a text on her iPhone. She couldn't follow Gregor, but at least she'd know where he was, and if she ever needed a car, she could always rent one.
She rose to her feet and returned to the stairwell. First she would go downstairs and locate the exit where the cars left the garage. Then she'd go back to the fifth floor and scope out Global Interpreting.
_____
Marta Ludwig hung up the phone, sank back in her chair and rubbed her arms. After talking to the Swedish car mogul she felt like taking a shower. Sven was a pig. The other two girls refused to work with him. Maybe she'd ask Gregor to scold him.
But she knew he wouldn't. This morning he'd barely spoken to her. After she opened the office at nine-thirty, he had come down the hall from his office and said he was going out for breakfast. He seemed distracted these days, irritable to the point of hostility. She couldn’t figure out why. She had to handle all the problems. Maybe it was a mid-life crisis. Or a new mistress.
She took a mirror out of her purse and examined her face. Smooth skin, no lines around her eyes. Not bad for thirty-nine. She still attracted younger men, but most of them were uncultured idiots and useless in bed. It had been four years since she’d slept with Gregor, but she still hoped to rekindle their relationship. She would never forget the exquisite delights of his tongue. The memory made her crotch wet.
The office door opened, interrupting her sexual fantasy. A dark-haired man with a rugged build approached her desk. His sports jacket was off-the-rack, but his shoulders filled it well. He had an angular face, high cheekbones and deep-set dark eyes with a hard look about them.
Cop, she thought. She held his gaze without speaking.
The man smiled, but his eyes were cold. “Good morning. I need a translator and a friend of mine recommended Global Interpreting.”
“One of our clients?”
“A friend of a client. I need someone who speaks Dutch.”
She mentally cataloged their Dutch clients. Two, but both spoke English. This man had glossy black hair and olive skin. He didn’t look Dutch and his story sounded phony.
“What sort of services do you require, Mister ...?”
He stood there, silent and still, studying her like one of those lions on a National Geographic TV show before it attacked an antelope.
“Capone,” he said. “John Capone. I’ve got some Dutch documents that need translating.”
“We don’t do written translations. And we don’t have any Dutch interpreters.”
“What about Stefan Haas? He's Dutch, isn't he?"
Her heart thudded. Why was he asking all these questions? “Mr. Haas isn’t an interpreter, he's the manager. I’m afraid I can’t help you, so if you’ll excuse me, I need to make some calls.”
Right on cue, the phone rang. Merde! If the caller was a client, things could get sticky. She let it ring, hoping the man who called himself John Capone would leave. He didn’t.
She gritted her teeth and took the call. “Global Interpreting. May I help you?”
“Hallo there, Marta, how’re you keeping?”
She recognized the voice, one of their best clients, a British banker. “What can I do for you, Evan?”
“If I could get you to do me, I’d be in heaven. S’pose that’s not possible, eh?”
“No, but tell me what you need and I’ll arrange it.” She looked up. The man she believed was a cop smiled at her. The arrogant bastard. She finished the transaction with the Brit and hung up.
Capone planted his hands on the desk and leaned forward, his dark eyes locked on hers. “I need a German interpreter, too. Can you give me some names?”
To avoid his relentless gaze, she studied the zigzag scar on his chin, stark white against the dark stubble on his jaw. She gave him a faux smile. “We never give out names of our employees. For their safety. I’m sure you understand.”
“For their safety. Sure.” He circled the office, checking out the black leather sofa and the tubular steel end tables, and returned to her desk. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Haas.”
“He’s not here.”
“When will he be in? I’ll come back.” Spoken with an edge to his voice.
“I’m not sure. I’ll have him call you.” When hell freezes over.
Conscious of her racing heart, she opened a folder and leafed through some papers.
“Don’t you want my number?”
She glared at him and picked up a pen. He rattled off a number and she wrote it down.
“Thanks. Have a nice day, Marta.”
She watched him leave, her armpits damp with sweat. How did he know her name? There was no name plaque on her desk. Damn! The first few months had been lucrative, but after Memorial Day all hell had broken loose. The obnoxious Swede. Ursula quitting unexpectedly. Gregor’s fits of temper. Now this. She didn’t know what the man was up to, but it didn’t involve translations. She was certain he was a cop.
And Gregor was no help.
Sometimes he wouldn't even answer her phone calls.
The phone rang. Merde! She hated this job. She pasted on a smile and picked up. “Global Interpreting. May I help you?”
_____
Natalie studied the exit for the parking garage. No payment booth and no security. The people who rented parking spaces probably had a device to get them into the garage, but if she rented a car to follow Gregor, she wouldn't. She would have to find a place to park, someplace with a view of the exit. Across the street a narrow alley faced the exit. She could park there, but it would be tight. She might have to park on the street. The exit road forced the cars to turn right. She walked down the roadway and scanned the street. All the metered parking spaces were full.
Damn. Parking was always a problem in Boston.
She circled the building and entered Copley Place via the waterfall entrance that faced the Boston Public Library. An escalator took her to the second floor, a large air-conditioned space with leafy green plants and plump easy chairs grouped around a grand piano. She found an elevator and hit the call button. Time to check out Global Interpreting.
When the doors opened four women in business attire got off. She stepped inside, punched the button for the fifth floor and studied her student disguise in the polished-brass doors. Her Northeastern T-shirt and the Red Sox baseball cap. Gregor didn't like it, but she did. It made her look younger. Harmless. See? I’m no murderer.
When the door opened, she stepped out and turned right towa
rd Global Interpreting. Her heart almost stopped.
Unable to believe her eyes, she gasped. Frank Renzi was walking toward her.
Panic-stricken, she went to the nearest door, opened it and plunged into an office, heart pounding, her hands sweaty. Did he see her? She had on her student disguise, but still.
Her breath came in shallow gasps and she felt lightheaded. She couldn't think, couldn't breathe.
“May I help you with something?”
Startled, she realized the woman behind the counter was looking at her. Then she noticed the posters of Rome, Paris, Tokyo and other famous destinations. This was a travel agency.
“Are you all right?” the woman asked, frowning, clearly concerned.
“I'm sorry. I just got some bad news ...” She trailed off helplessly, afraid to turn around. Afraid she would encounter the relentless eyes of NOPD Homicide Detective Frank Renzi.
“I'll get you some water.” The travel agent, an older woman in a stylish mauve dress, went to a water cooler, dispensed water into a paper cup and brought it to the counter.
“Thank you,” she said, gratefully. Anything to make it seem like she was just an ordinary person in a travel agency office, not the woman Frank Renzi wanted to arrest for killing four people.
She drank the water and set the cup on the counter. “Thank you,” she said again. “That helped a lot. I may have to fly to Rome to meet my brother. He's there with my mother and she's very ill.”
“I'm sorry to hear that. Would you like me to check the flights?”
“Yes, please. The least expensive one, if possible. I'm a student and I don't have much money.”
“Of course. I understand.” The woman smiled. “Let me see what I can do for the Red Sox fan.” She went to a desk with a computer console and began tapping keys on the keyboard.
Steeling herself, Natalie turned and risked a glance at the hallway outside the office door.
No one was there.
_____
When Frank got downstairs, Rafe Hawkins was waiting for him near the escalator. “Let's take a walk,” Frank said.
