by Susan Fleet
Gregor touched her arm. “The reception is that way,” he said, pointing. Gregor, the control freak.
Annoyed, she said, “Let's go see El Jaleo first. It's one of my favorites.” Her art history teacher in Paris had raved about the painting and she was eager to see it. When Gregor looked at her, mystified, she said, “It's by John Singer Sargent. A famous Boston artist.”
“As you wish, Valerie. Lead the way.”
She took him to the Spanish Cloister adjacent to the courtyard, a long narrow corridor with a tiled floor. At the far end, a high Moorish arch with scalloped edges framed an enormous painting, lit from below by floodlights. John Singer Sargent’s masterpiece.
Her teacher had called it a symphony in black, gray and white. She had seen the photographs. The real thing took her breath away. Inside a dim-lit tavern three black-suited men sat in an amber cone of light, strumming guitars, their black hats casting shadows on the wall. Beside them, a man clapped his hands, his eyes fixed on a larger-than-life finger-snapping flamenco dancer with a billowing white skirt.
“Looks like they’re having a great time,” she said.
But Gregor wasn't looking at the painting. He was leering at her cleavage, exposed by the plunging neckline of her dress. “So am I. It is good to relax and enjoy life now and then.”
Relax and enjoy life? How could she? Soon she would be here again. To steal two paintings.
_____
To avoid the traffic jam near the Gardner, Frank's taxi driver dropped him off a block away. At 7:15, he joined a line of people on Palace Road waiting to enter the museum. Five minutes later he reached the employee entrance. No sign on the door, but he knew what it was. Hank Flynn had given him a floor plan of the museum. A security camera was mounted on the wall above the door.
Would Natalie be here tonight? If she planned to steal a painting, she might. He studied the people in the line, men in tuxedos, women in their finery, none of whom looked like Natalie. He'd rented a tux for the evening, had to buy a white dress shirt to wear with it.
The line inched closer to the corner, close enough to see the TV cameras outside the entrance, filming the VIPs as they left their limousines. He doubted Natalie would be one of them. To avoid the cameras, she would probably stand in line with the peons like him.
The woman in front of him turned and smiled at him. “I can't wait to see Vermeers,” she said.
She appeared to be in her 60s, gray hair, cornflower-blue eyes, slender and smart-looking in her fancy blue dress and lacy white wrap. “I'm retired now, but I used to teach art history. I saw the Vermeers in Amsterdam and Paris with my husband. I wish he were here to see the exhibit, but he died two years ago.” Scarcely pausing for breath, she said, “Have you been to the museum before? Mrs. Gardner built it herself, you know. She was quite a gal, very adventurous for her day.”
“Tell me more. I like adventurous women.” And some background on the Gardner might be useful. The museum where thieves had stolen paintings worth hundreds of millions of dollars. The museum he feared Natalie was targeting for her next heist.
The woman smiled and offered her hand. “My name is Lee.”
“Nice to meet you, Lee. I'm Frank. Tell me about Mrs. Gardner.”
“Isabella Stewart was born in 1840. Her parents were wealthy and sent her to private schools and a finishing school in Paris. Then she married Jack Gardner. His family was rich, too. In 1863 they had a son, but he died in 1865.”
“After the end of the Civil War.” He didn't want her to think he was history-challenged.
“Yes. Mrs. Jack—that's what everyone called her then—was grief-stricken, so the doctors told Jack to take her on a tour of Europe. That's when she began buying art. After her father died and left her two million dollars, she became a serious collector.”
Frank turned and studied the line behind him. No sign of Natalie.
“Are you looking for someone?” Lee asked.
“Just checking to see how long the line is.”
Lee gestured at the limos lined up at the curb. “Those are the VIPs. We're the hoi-poloi. I got my ticket from the Mass College of Art president.” She looked at him expectantly.
He smiled and said, “Tell me more about Mrs. Jack.”
“Gladly! They wanted to build a bigger house for their collection, but in 1898 Jack died. That didn't faze Isabella. She bought a parcel of land on the Fenway. An architect helped her design this museum. It's similar to a palace she saw in Venice. In 1901 she moved into an apartment on the top floor. Two years later she opened her collection to the public.”
Eager to get inside, Frank eyed the entrance. He wanted to check out the security arrangements, but his main preoccupation was Natalie. He wanted to see if she was here.
“When Isabella died in 1924,” Lee said, “there were 2,500 objects on display. Rare books, antique furniture, photographs and scads of important paintings. Her will stipulated that nothing be added to the collection nor sold, but it didn’t prohibit temporary exhibits like this one.” She flashed a triumphant smile as they reached the door. “Which means we get to see the Vermeers!”
She gave her ticket the guard. Frank followed suit and they entered the museum. “Enjoy the Vermeers,” he said.
“Thank you, I will. And so will you!” Lee said, and joined the line for the Special Exhibit.
Frank perched on a nearby stone bench and studied the courtyard. Enclosed on four sides, it was four stories high. Mrs. Jack's former residence on the top floor was dark, but lights were visible on the second and third floors. None of tonight's guests would see those rooms, however.
This afternoon when he picked up the ticket Hank got him, Hank told him guards would be posted at the elevators and stairways. No one allowed upstairs. If Natalie was here to case the joint, that might thwart her. Unless she planned to steal a painting from the Special Exhibit.
Frank studied the glass skylight, recalling a movie he'd seen. A gang of jewel thieves had lowered themselves from a helicopter and attached explosives to a skylight. After they blew, the thieves got inside and stole the jewels. But nobody in their right mind would try that here. Anyone looking to steal art from the Gardner would arrive in the dead of night. That was the MO for the London heists.
But in those heists only one security guard worked the overnight. During the Special Exhibit, three security guards would be on duty overnight. How would Natalie deal with that? Would she shoot them?
The line for the Special Exhibit was longer than before. He decided to go to the reception. Maybe Natalie would be there.
_____
She could have gazed at El Jaleo for hours, but Gregor quickly tired of it. “We go to the reception now,” he announced.
Not just a control-freak, she decided, a killjoy as well.
“How do you like my wig?” he said. As if this was a date.
“It looks fine.” In fact, given his dark eyes and rough features, the dirty-blond wig looked ridiculous.
“I asked you to wear your blond wig, but you didn’t. Is that your own hair?” He reached over and stroked her French twist.
“Don't touch my hair!” she hissed.
He smiled and took her hand. When she tried to pull away, he tightened his grip. “We are supposed to be lovers, Valerie. Smile.”
She gritted her teeth and said nothing.
The reception was in an outdoor courtyard, illuminated by large orange Japanese lanterns, fragrant with the scent of peonies, and jammed with people. They appeared to be in a festive mood. She wasn't. She wanted to check out the Special Exhibit, go home and fall into bed. Alone.
Gregor plucked two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter's tray and gave her one. She took it but didn't drink any. She needed to stay alert. The insider guard would be at the Special Exhibit and she wanted to assess his manner and memorize his face.
A linen-draped table beside the door held a two-foot-tall swan carved out of ice, surrounded by platters of pink jumbo shrimp. Gregor speared
the biggest shrimp with a toothpick, dipped it in cocktail sauce and put it in his mouth.
She was too jumpy to eat anything. What if a State trooper or a Boston cop came in and recognized her?
Positioning herself with her back to the door, she scanned the room. Decked out in their finery, two dozen guests mingled in the courtyard, murmured conversations as wealthy patrons talked to influential politicians, she assumed. Most held wine glasses and clustered around tables laden with finger sandwiches, crackers and cheese platters and an assortment of dips and chips.
Her gaze fell upon a tall man in a tuxedo at the far end of the courtyard, standing beside a table with his back to her. Her neck prickled. Glossy black hair. Muscular shoulders. He half-turned and she caught a glimpse of his profile. A hawk-like nose and a prominent chin.
Frank Renzi. Fear iced her veins.
“Gregor, we have to get out of here.”
“Why?” he said, frowning at her.
“I just spotted a cop.”
“How you know he's a cop?
She rushed out of the courtyard without answering.
_____
Frank looked up from the floor plan he'd been studying. He got the feeling someone was watching him. Alert for any telltale motion, he scanned the room and saw nothing unusual. Until he noticed a well-dressed couple leaving the reception, a woman in a gold lamé dress, medium height, short dark hair. Wearing a tuxedo, the man was tall and rugged-looking, with dirty-blond hair.
A quick glimpse and they disappeared.
He put his bottled water on the table and shoved the floor plan in his pocket. This afternoon, Hank Flynn had given him a book about the Gardner Museum. Conveniently located on one page was a detailed floor plan of the exhibition rooms on the first, second and third floors, followed by descriptions of the paintings in each room. Appalled, he said, “This is like a blueprint for a heist.”
Flynn shrugged. “And readily available in the museum bookstore.”
He had copied the one-page floor plan and brought it with him.
The Gardner was open every day but Tuesday. Normally it closed at 5 PM, but they had extended the hours for the Special Exhibit. Between the hours of 11 AM and 9 PM, timed-tickets would allow people into the exhibit, twenty at a time. The last entry was at 8:30 PM. Those viewers had to leave the museum by 9 PM.
But tonight the exhibit would stay open until 9:30.
It was only eight o'clock, plenty of time for him to see the paintings and check out the security.
_____
She strode down the hallway in her spike-heeled shoes, trying to put as much distance between her and Renzi as possible.
Hurrying to keep up, Gregor said, “You have been in Boston before. What happened?”
When she didn't answer, he took her wrist and squeezed.
“Let go or I will scream.” Fat chance. If she screamed the security guards would come running. The last thing she wanted. But Gregor wouldn't want that, either.
He let go, but leaned closer and said, “You lie. You keep things from me that endanger the job! Come, we must go to Special Exhibit.”
No, no, no. A thousand times no! Go into a tiny room with only one exit and have Frank Renzi come in there and spot her?
“I don't need to see the exhibit. I know what the paintings look like!”
He grabbed her arm. “Slow down, Valerie. You are attracting attention. The insider guard needs to know what you look like.”
“Fine. But I'm not going inside.”
When they reached the Special Exhibit, two couples stood in line behind a maroon rope. A guard in a blue uniform stood at the door. He saw Gregor and gave a tiny nod. He appeared to be Asian, which surprised her. He had short black hair and a full beard, not too tall, an inch or two shorter than she was.
“Scorpio,” Gregor murmured as they passed him. The man's eyes flicked to her face. His eyes were dark and flat. Killer eyes.
“Let's go,” she said to Gregor. “Now.”
But when she turned to head for the exit, her heart almost stopped. Renzi! Twenty yards away at the far end of the corridor approaching the Special Exhibit.
“Meet me outside on Evans Way,” she said and ran for the ladies' room.
_____
When Frank got to the Special Exhibit, a short, stern-faced guard held a coiled rope in his hand. “No one can enter now,” he said, his dark eyes flat and expressionless. “The room is full.”
A nametag on his navy-blue uniform jacket said Daniel Leone. A thick beard covered much of his face and his jet-black hair was slicked back in a pompadour.
Moments later a young couple left the exhibit, and the surly guard let him in. The first thing Frank noticed: an armed police officer stood in each corner of the room. This would continue for the duration of the exhibit, but not after closing hours. Then there would only be three security guards, two on patrol, one at the security desk. None of them armed.
The next thing he noticed was a gorgeous painting. He read the tag on the wall. The Milkmaid by Johannes Vermeer, on loan from the Rijksmuseum. It was stunning, light shimmering over a crusty loaf of bread, a wicker basket, and a stout woman in a goldenrod-yellow blouse, pouring milk from an earthenware jug into a bowl.
Another Vermeer was also in the exhibit, The Lacemaker, on loan from the Louvre. Seeing them up close, the purpose of the exhibit hit home. In 1990, the only Vermeer in New England, The Concert, had been stolen from the Dutch Room on the second floor. None of the stolen paintings had been recovered.
To increase the reward for their safe return, Gardner officials had convinced ten museums to loan them priceless paintings and were charging top dollar for people to see them. Ten priceless paintings.
A tempting target for a gang of art thieves.
_____
She stayed in the toilet stall as long as she could, but there were only three and people were waiting. When she flushed the toilet and left the stall, an older woman in a frilly blue dress immediately took her place.
She went to the sink and ran warm water over her hands, trying to warm her icy fingers. A woman in a dazzling green gown came to the sink beside hers. “I love your dress,” the woman said.
Getting into deception mode, she said, “Thank you. It's not my favorite, but my husband bought it for me.”
The woman smiled. “Isn't that always the way?”
To avoid further conversation, she hurried out of the restroom. Where was Renzi? She peeked around the corner. Two people stood outside the Special Exhibit. Frank Renzi wasn't one of them.
She had to get out of the museum, but she couldn't go past the Special Exhibit. Renzi might be in there. That meant she had to take the long way around to the exit. Every fiber of her being told her to run, but she forced herself to walk. Attract no attention. She sauntered past the gift shop, the reception in the courtyard, and the museum entrance.
At last she came to the exit and breathed a sigh of relief. Now she had to meet Gregor. She would have to fend off his advances when he took her home probably, but that seemed inconsequential now.
Frank Renzi, the hunter, was in Boston. And she was his prey.
CHAPTER 17
Friday July 2, 2010
Natalie stepped out of the shower stall, toweled off, put on her clothes and carried her gym bag to the women's dressing room. Usually a forty-five-minute Taekwondo workout invigorated her body and cleared her mind. Not today. Seeing Frank Renzi at the Gardner last night had shaken her to the core. Even now she felt sick to her stomach.
Last night she hadn't slept, lying in bed, her mind in turmoil. She had escaped from the Gardner without Renzi seeing her, but then she had to endure Gregor's interrogation when he parked outside her apartment. This time he wasn't interested in sex. He had grilled her about the cop. “When were you in Boston before?” he asked. “How do you know this cop?”
She hadn't told him, of course. She'd made up a story. The cop was after her for something she'd done as a teenager, spinning G
regor a modified version of the fairytale she'd given Pym.
She took a comb out of her gym bag. Her long black hair was soaking wet and full of snarls. There were hair dryers here, but she decided to sit outside in the sun to dry her hair. She needed to think.
There had to be a solution to her predicament and she needed to find it. Fast.
She perched on a wooden bench facing the kiddie playground. The sun felt good, easing the bone-chilling fear inside her. Oblivious to the happy shrieks of two little kids playing on the slide, she assessed her situation. One fact was inescapable. Frank Renzi was in Boston.
Three days ago, she'd seen him leave the Global Interpreting office. After recovering from her initial shock, she had rationalized her fears. No one could connect Natalie Brixton to Global Interpreting. Renzi wasn't hunting for her. He was there to investigate Jonathan Pym. Or Gregor.
But there was no way to rationalize his presence at the Gardner last night, an invitation-only party for VIP's to view the Special Exhibit before it opened to the public. There was only one reason for Renzi to be there. He thought someone might try to steal a painting from the Gardner. The sick feeling in her stomach grew worse.
Did the London cops have information that Pym hadn't told her? Information about her? Not Natalie Brixton, Valerie Brown, the woman who had shot a man at the Ashmolean Museum.
But how would Renzi know about the art heist at the Ashmolean? She massaged her throbbing temples. So many questions with no answers. Including the biggest one of all. When did Gregor plan to execute the heist?
The Special Exhibit had opened today, just in time for the Fourth of July celebrations. Millions of people would spend the holiday in Boston. This year July Fourth fell on Sunday. The Boston Pops would play a concert on the Esplanade followed by a fireworks display. Monday would be the legal holiday.
