by Susan Fleet
When she reached the Saab, Gregor got out, frowning at her. “Where have you been?”
“Working out at the YMCA on Huntington Avenue.” She didn't want him knowing what she did in Chinatown, or that she had a helpful contact there.
He stared at her, expressionless. At last he said, “Come upstairs. We need to talk.”
“Why can't we talk out here?”
“You know why,” he snapped. He marched to the front door and waved her into the foyer.
Butterflies fluttered in her stomach as she unlocked the door. Her iPhone was in her gym bag, but she couldn't remember if she'd left anything incriminating on the kitchen table. As they climbed the stairs to her third-floor apartment she tried not to think about the Beretta in her bedroom closet.
She unlocked her door, went inside and put her gym bag on the floor beside the kitchen table. Relieved that she hadn't left any telltale papers on it, she said, “What do you want to talk about?”
Gregor didn't answer. Instead, he began opening her kitchen cupboards. When he'd checked every one, he said, “You eat healthy food. You will probably live to be a hundred. Pack some clothes, Valerie. We stay in a hotel tonight.”
She felt like he'd kicked her in the gut. Not tonight! She had to get her documents from Pak Lam.
“Why?”
“To prepare for the job.”
A feeling of dread chilled her. “When is it? Tonight?”
“We discuss this later at the hotel.”
Infuriated, she stared at him. Imagined the TKD spin move she'd practiced this morning. Saw her foot strike his head. But Gregor was big and strong and her gym shoes weren't that sturdy. If she didn't put him down with one kick, he might put her down, permanently. “Gregor, I'm not staying in the same room with you.”
He smiled, leering at her. “Why not? We could have some fun.”
She reached in her pocket and took out the cellphone Pym had given her. “I'm calling Jonathan.”
Gregor's eyes hardened. “Put that away. Don't threaten me. You killed a man in London. You may think I have forgotten, but I have not. I am sure the police would love to hear about it.”
She clenched her teeth to keep from screaming. Just as she'd feared. Gregor was using the murder at the Ashmolean Museum to blackmail her. Keeping her under control.
“What's the old man like in bed? Is he a stud?”
“That's disgusting, Gregor.”
“He's dying, you know. A month from now he'll be in his grave.”
“I don't believe it. Dying from what?”
“He inherited some sort of fatal disease from his parents. I convinced the woman who works for his doctor to tell me about it.”
Shocked speechless, she stared at him. Pym was dying? Maybe her escape would be easier than she'd thought. To hide her elation, she put on a sad-face. “That's too bad. He's a nice man.”
“No he's not. You don't know who he really is.”
“So? Who is he?”
Gregor gazed at her, expressionless. “After he's dead, you and I could continue these art heists and make a lot of money. We would make a good team.”
She knew his offer was a smokescreen. If Pym was dead, why would Gregor cut her in on anything? After she delivered the two Vermeers, he'd probably kill her and the insider guard. Nicholas, the man who'd looked at her with hate in his eyes.
“Maybe,” she said. “I'll think about it.”
“Get your suitcase and start packing.”
Damn! She had to bring the iPhone, but where would she hide it?
“I need to use the toilet.” Before he could say anything, she grabbed her gym bag, went in the bathroom and locked the door. Her heart pounded. She had to hurry or he would wonder what she was doing.
She took her first-aid kit out of the medicine cabinet, tore off four strips of adhesive tape and stuck the ends to the sink. She took the iPhone out of the gym bag, her lifeline to Pak Lam. She set it to Vibrate, taped it to her abdomen, flushed the toilet and left the bathroom.
Her heart almost stopped. Gregor was pawing through the clothes in her closet. If he decided to look inside the shoebox on the top shelf with the ammo and the Beretta, she was done for.
“What are you doing?” she demanded in an outraged voice.
He held out one of her dresses, the one with the low-cut jade-green top and short white skirt. “I like this one. Bring it with you,” he said, gesturing at her suitcase, which lay open on the bed.
A familiar mantra sounded in her head. Be who they want you to be. Anything to distract him from the shoebox in the closet.
She slid the dress off the hanger, folded it and put it in the suitcase. Her blond wig sat on a Styrofoam form on the bureau. Would he let her take it? She went to the bureau, took out four sets of underwear and her black running suit and put them in the suitcase.
Gregor leaned against the door jam, watching her. “Bring the shoes you wore to the gala.”
Wordlessly, she slid the spike heels into a plastic bag, put them in the suitcase and returned to the closet. The black pumps she wore for the heists sat on the floor of the closet, built for running, with reinforced-steel inside the two-inch heels. A well-placed kick with those shoes could be lethal. But when she picked them up, Gregor said, “Not those. They are ugly. Wear your gym shoes for the job.”
“These are better.”
“Why must you always argue with me, Valerie? Do what I say.”
Mentally cursing him, she put down the black pumps and picked up her duffel bag.
Gregor yanked it out of her hands. “What is this?”
“For the job. The tin snips are in it. To cut the wires that attach the paintings to the wall. And latex gloves, so I don't leave any prints.”
After a cursory glance inside, Gregor tossed the duffel on the bed. She jammed it into the suitcase. There were other things she wanted to bring. Her blond wig. Extra money. The Beretta and the hollow-point slugs. But Gregor was watching her every move.
She zipped the suitcase closed. Gregor towed it into the kitchen and gestured at the cabinet under the sink. “You want to feed your pet rat? The big one you told me about at that Chinese restaurant?”
She wanted to kick him in the balls. “Don't make jokes. Where are we going?”
“First we do some errands. Then we check into the hotel.”
____
Seated by the window in his motel room, Frank sipped espresso from a take-out container. It was 9:30 AM in Revere, 2:30 PM in London. Fifteen minutes ago he had called DCI Stanford to tell him the latest developments. “Can you get the file on Stefan Haas?” he’d said. “I don't have the exact date and location, but his mother didn't tell me much. They found him in an alley near a nightclub and his wallet was missing.”
“I'll have someone in the Homicide Division check the cold-case files. Shouldn't be hard to find.”
“Did you get any info on Natalie Brixton?”
“Nothing yet, but she might be using a different name.”
Studying the snapshot Sofia had given him, he said, “I'm pretty sure she's the blond in the snapshot Stefan sent his mother, which means she was in London before he was murdered. Maybe they went out clubbing. Can you post some fliers with the composite I gave you in some clubs and ask people to call if they recognize her? It's a longshot, but maybe someone saw her and overheard the name.”
“Will do, Frank. If Gregor Kraus is in Boston posing as Stefan Haas, he's up to no good. This Special Exhibit at the Gardner worries me. Ten priceless paintings make a terrific target.”
It worried Frank, too. Gardner officials and Boston PD had instituted extra security measures for the exhibit, but that didn't reassure him. “Anything new on the Ashmolean heist?”
“No,” Stanford said, “Not a peep from my underworld contacts. Almost three weeks and the bloody trail is colder than a dead fish. If I get anything, I'll call you straight away. When I get the file on the Haas murder, I'll call you with the details.”
Frank had thanked him and ended the call. His cellphone bill was going to be brutal.
He finished the espresso and tossed the container in the wastebasket. His cell rang. He checked the ID and answered.
“Hey, Kelly, how's it going?”
“Better than yesterday. Sorry I couldn't talk, but I had to get this woman away from her boyfriend. He beats her but she won't leave. She's an alcoholic and he buys her booze. I wish I was still on vacation in Boston.”
“Me, too. I miss you.”
“I miss you, too, but I figure you've been busy. Did you talk to Stefan's mother?”
“Yes, and I got some useful information.” He recapped his conversation with Sofia Haas.
When he finished, Kelly said, “You think Gregor killed Stefan and stole his ID?”
“Yes. Right now I'm looking at a snapshot Stefan sent his mother. Stefan and Natalie.”
“Get out! Are you sure it's her?”
“Yes. In a blond wig, like the one she wore in the security video two years ago.”
“The Peterson murder,” Kelly said. Back then she'd been working Homicide.
“Exactly. I think she's getting ready to steal a painting from the Gardner.”
“Natalie and Gregor,” Kelly said. Her unspoken words: Be careful, Frank.
Kelly was afraid Gregor would kill him, but he wasn't going to let that deter him. “I'm positive Natalie is in Boston, but I've got no way to find her. Yesterday I went back to Global Interpreting. When I asked Marta if Natalie ever worked there, she gave me a blank stare. But when I dropped Gregor's name, she almost shit her pants. She recovered fast, though. Still wouldn't give me squat.”
“Can you check the RMV records? Maybe he's using Stefan's driver’s license.”
“Good thinking. I'll do that. What's up for the weekend? Wanna come back to Boston?”
“Frank, I can't keep flying up there.”
“Why not? We could have another Welcome-to-Boston reunion.”
Kelly laughed, a low throaty sound. “Tempting, but I'm assigned to the Domestic Violence hotline. Penance for my holiday weekend escape. Have you told Vobitch your latest theory?”
“No. I figure let sleeping dogs lie. If I call him, he'll just lean on me and tell me to come back.”
“True. There was a murder in the French Quarter last night, so he's probably getting heat. Have you been back to Santorini's? Those scallops were delicious.”
“No. Maybe I'll have lunch there today.”
“I'll be working all day Saturday and Sunday,” she said. “Call me Sunday night.”
“Will do.” He closed his cell and studied the snapshot. Stefan Haas and Natalie. Where the hell was she?
Somewhere in Boston. He was certain of it.
_____
She sat in the Saab, fuming as Gregor meandered through downtown Boston. Traffic was horrendous, but he didn't seem to care. They passed a sign for the theater district and a sign for Chinatown.
Were her documents ready? Even if they were, she had no way to get them. Tonight, she’d be cooped up in a hotel with Gregor.
“Want to stop in Chinatown?” Gregor said, glancing at her.
Her heart jolted. Could he read her mind? Maintaining a neutral expression, she said, “You're driving, Gregor. You decide.”
He gave her a peeved look but said nothing and entered the Callahan Tunnel, a mile-long, two-lane tube below Boston Harbor. They emerged from the tunnel in East Boston near Logan Airport, but Gregor followed the signs for Revere.
Fifteen minutes later, he parked outside a sprawling two-story storage facility. “Stay in the car while I am in the office,” he said, giving her a stern look. “I will be watching.”
Fine by her. There might be security cameras in the office. Did he think she might disappear like a puff of smoke? If only she could.
When Gregor returned to the car, he drove back the way they had come. After they crossed a railroad bridge, a sign pointed toward Logan Airport, but Gregor went straight. Two blocks later they stopped at a traffic light. On the corner, a huge sign with a racehorse on it said Suffolk Downs.
When the light changed, Gregor said, “You like to swim?”
She looked at him, mystified. “Swim?”
“Yes, Valerie,” he said sarcastically. “Swim. You get in the water and move your arms and legs.”
“I don't have a bathing suit.”
He chuckled, a sinister grating sound that set her teeth on edge. “So? We can go skinny dipping.”
He seemed to be enjoying himself. She wasn't. Leaving Boston before the heist was impossible now. Gregor was taking her to a hotel to make sure she followed orders. Steal two paintings from the Gardner, so wealthy art connoisseur could have them to himself.
They came to a rotary and the sea-green ocean appeared, extending for miles. Her escape-hatch city was an ocean away. Depressed by the thought, she focused on their route. They passed a sign: Revere Beach Historical Site. On their left, cheap restaurants sold pizza and beer and submarine sandwiches. To the right, a sandy beach stretched out as far as her eye could see. Happy toddlers frolicked in the surf and people lay on blankets soaking up the sun.
Carefree beach-goers on a hot summer's day without a worry in the world. Too bad she wasn’t one of them.
“Time for lunch,” Gregor said, and pulled into a parking lot.
Inside Santorini's restaurant the odor of fried fish permeated the air. Two dozen tables filled a large sunlit room with a wall of windows facing the ocean. She wasn't hungry but she'd better eat. No telling what might happen later. She chose the baked scallops with rice pilaf and coleslaw. Gregor ordered the most expensive item on the menu, a double lobster roll, with French fries and coleslaw.
It was only 11:30 and the place wasn't crowded. They took a table by a window. “You like seafood?” Gregor asked.
“It's healthier than beef,” she said, and stared out the window. That ended that conversation.
A perky young waitress delivered their food. On her plate a mountain of fat scallops sat atop a bed of rice pilaf. She cut one in half and tried it. Delicious. Sweet and succulent and cooked to perfection. Gregor set upon his lobster rolls like a starving man. In less than a minute the first one disappeared.
He dipped a French fry into some ketchup and ate it. “The lobster is good, but the French fries are pitiful. I have eaten much better ones in Brussels. Pomme frites, the Belgians call them.”
When was he in Brussels, she wondered. Did he and his previous partner steal a painting there?
Gregor devoured the second lobster roll and set his plate aside. “Where is your mother?”
The question blindsided her. Tears stung her eyes. For more than twenty years, she had thought about her mother almost every day. Every October on the anniversary of her death, she followed the ritual of her Vietnamese ancestors. She built a shrine around a snapshot of her mother—the only one she had—lit some incense and told Mom she loved her.
What would happen in October this year? Would she live to do it again?
She looked out the window at a rainbow-colored kite floating high above the beach. It looked like one of those blow-up mattresses people used when company came to visit, but the kite was concave-shaped to catch the wind. She wanted to get on it and fly away.
She turned and looked at Gregor. “My mother is dead. Someone murdered her.”
His eyebrows rose in surprise. “Who? Your father?”
“No. I don't ask about your parents, Gregor. Don't question me about mine.”
“As you wish. We need to leave, Valerie. Finish your lunch.”
How could she eat in the company of this vile man? She felt like a prisoner. Gregor, the control freak, was her keeper. Abruptly, she pushed back her chair, strode to the entrance and went out to the car.
Gregor followed her outside, frowning at her and unlocked her door. As they drove along the beach the silence was deafening. When Gregor followed the signs to the airport, her heart surged. If t
hey stayed at one of the airport hotels, maybe she could sneak out and take the T to Chinatown and get her documents.
But Gregor took the left-hand fork to the Williams Tunnel. “Where are we going?” she asked.
He didn't answer. When they exited the tunnel, he got on the Expressway South and they zoomed through Dorchester past a marina, then an enormous gas tank with paint splashed over it.
“Enjoying the sights?” Gregor asked. “Or did you see them when you were here before.”
She gritted her teeth. “Yes, I am enjoying the sights. I have not been here before.”
To avoid his gaze, she turned and looked out the window.
Thirty-five silent tension-filled minutes later, they left the highway in Dedham and entered a rotary. Gregor took the second right. At a fork in the road, one arrow pointed to an industrial park. The other pointed to the Hilton Convention Center Hotel.
Her heart sank. Was this where they were staying? Miles from Boston in the middle of nowhere?
A curving road took them to a ten-story hotel beside a large parking structure. A large sign listed the amenities: a restaurant, a lounge, a breakfast cafe, a swimming pool and a fitness center. All the comforts of home, except for one thing.
She had to stay here with Gregor, a man she feared and detested, with no way to escape. No public transportation, no money and no gun.
A black cloud of despair settled over her.
CHAPTER 22
Friday July 9, 2010 – 1:35 PM – Dedham, MA
The hotel fitness center on the second floor had top of the line equipment: ten treadmills, a two-tiered rack of weights, and Nautilus machines to tone every muscle in your body. Natalie had spent forty minutes on a treadmill, working up a sweat. Now she was on the rowing machine, toning her biceps and back muscles.
Two conventions were meeting at the hotel and some of the attendees were working out on their lunch hour. A petite blond with a ponytail was on the machine beside her. What would the woman say if she told her the man in the corner lifting weights would kill her if she didn't steal two paintings tonight?
Clad in shorts and a T-shirt, Gregor thrust a large dumbbell over his head, grunting audibly. His chest was massive and muscles bulged in his biceps and hairy thighs.
