Natalie's Art: a Frank Renzi novel

by Susan Fleet

  He came at her again, thrusting the knife at her midsection.

  She spun away. If she didn’t put him down fast, he would kill her.

  Gathering herself, she did a spin move and launched a TKD kick with all the force she could muster. Her foot struck his jaw and he fell to the ground. She grabbed the duffel bag and ran.

  Behind her, Nicholas yelled, “You bitch!”

  But she didn't look back, running as fast as she could toward the street. The wrought-iron gate was open. She plunged through it onto Tetlow Street and ran toward Huntington Avenue, her feet pounding the sidewalk. Her arm throbbed, but she didn't dare stop to see how badly he'd cut her.

  She kept running. Not another pedestrian in sight. No cars either. A good thing. Soon the cops would know about the robbery, and she didn't want anyone remembering a woman running away from the museum. She glanced over her shoulder. No sign of Nicholas. Of course. Why bother to chase her? He had the Vermeers. She didn't know what he planned to do with them, but that was the least of her worries.

  At the corner of Huntington Avenue, she stopped, gasping for breath. Her arm was on fire, burning with pain. She had to tend to it. There was a 24-hour Dunkin' Donuts a few doors down, but she didn't dare go inside. A car approached her on Huntington Avenue, driving fast. She ducked into a recessed doorway. Off in the distance, she heard other sirens, a lot of them.

  The car passed her. No flashing lights, no siren. Relieved, she opened the duffel and took out the windbreaker. Standing as far back from the sidewalk as possible, she took off her black turtleneck.

  Blood oozed from a jagged three-inch gash in her right arm. She wrapped her turtleneck around the wound, put on the windbreaker and sagged against the wall. Her head was woozy, and her legs felt weak. Several times she had jogged from the Gardner to her apartment, but she couldn't do that now. She would never make it up that steep hill.

  Maybe she could take a cab. Would the twenty dollars in her wallet be enough to get her there?

  She tugged the hood of the windbreaker over her head, put on her dark glasses and stepped out of the doorway. Not a taxi in sight. She started walking, each step more difficult than the last, her legs trembling. She turned to look behind her and saw headlights.

  A car moving fast. Was it a cop? No, it was a taxi! Waving her left arm, she went to the curb.

  Mercifully, the cab slowed and stopped. She opened the back door and climbed inside.

  “Hi,” she said. “I've only got twenty bucks. Can you take me to the Mission Church?”

  The driver, a young white man, studied at her in the rearview mirror. “Okay, that should be enough.”

  When the taxi drove off, she sank back against in the seat, clutching her right arm. The church was at the top of the hill, two blocks from her apartment. She felt like a wounded animal, desperate to get home. Her apartment wasn't much of a home, but it was all she had. At least she could tend her wound and get more money. And the gun.

  But she couldn't stay there. Gregor knew where it was and he probably had a key. Overwhelmed by exhaustion, she leaned her head back against the seat. All along she'd known this job would be dangerous. It had turned into her worse nightmare.

  _____

  Grunting with each step, Nicholas dragged Falcone’s body out of the cafe onto the slate floor. The slob had to weigh at least two hundred pounds. He hauled the body across the gravel driveway, dropped it on the ground beside the van and climbed into the rear compartment.

  The overpowering stench made him gag: sweat, urine, feces and the coppery odor of blood.

  Please don’t hurt Jaylen, please. The ex-cop, pleading with him. Until he'd slit her throat. Now her body was in the rear compartment with Lawson's, but her blood was on the front seat. He'd better grab some towels in the cafe and use them to mop up the blood.

  Sweat dripped down his nose and his hands were damp inside the latex gloves. He mopped his face on his sleeve. His cheek throbbed. Falcone's nails had broken the skin. He touched his aching jaw. When the bitch kicked him, he couldn't believe it. Using a martial arts move like the ones Jackie Chan did in his movies, she had slammed her foot against his jaw.

  The bitch was lucky. If he hadn't been so worried about the timetable, he would have caught her and sliced her to ribbons.

  He checked his wristwatch and cursed. 1:48. Twelve minutes from now the dispatcher would expect an all-clear call from the cops in the cruisers and the security guard.

  Nicolas bent down and grabbed Falcone's arm, yanked him upright and put both hands under his armpits. Falcone's uniform was soaked with blood. In fact, Falcone's blood was all over the museum: the Dutch Room, the second floor hall, the elevator, and the first floor hall. When Stefan found out, he'd be furious, but by then Stefan would have more important things to worry about.

  Bracing his feet against the frame, Nicholas heaved the body into the compartment, dragged it forward and dropped it beside Lawson and the ex-cop. He removed the bloodstained surgical gloves, threw them on the floor of the van, put on a clean pair and ran back to the Cafe.

  The Manet and the Rembrandt were propped against the wall beside the emergency exit door. Stefan's precious paintings. Grasping the splintered frame of the Rembrandt in both hands, he ran outside and put it on the floor of the rear compartment.

  The wind and the rain had died down, but the misty drizzle was just as annoying. The air was thick with humidity. He mopped his forehead on his sleeve and returned to the Cafe. The Manet was the largest painting, encased in a heavy frame. He picked it up with both hands and lugged it out the exit door. Halfway across the slate floor he slipped and fell to his knees. A jagged shard of wood pierced his palm.

  He dropped the Manet. The painting skittered across the slate floor and landed in a flowerbed.

  Cursing, he scrambled to his feet. The Manet lay face down in a puddle beside a shrub. He turned it over. The surface gleamed with moisture and clumps of dirt clung to the canvas. Worse, there was a big tear in the canvas. Stefan would be furious.

  “Stefan can piss up a rope,” he muttered. He carried the Manet to the van, put it on the floor beside the Rembrandt and shut the doors.

  Sirens wailed in the distance. Fear jolted his heart into a jagged rhythm. Then he remembered the riot. The sirens were cop-cars heading for the Northeastern dormitory. The bitch had done one thing right at least. He wondered where her little monkey was. But that wasn’t his problem.

  He checked his watch. 1:54. He was way behind schedule.

  Meet me by 2:15 and don’t be late. Too bad. Stefan would have to wait until he secured his bargaining chip.

  _____

  She took two extra-strength Excedrin, gulped the rest of the water and set the paper cup on the bathroom sink. Her head throbbed and the pain in her arm was worse. It had taken every ounce of her energy to climb the three flights of stairs to her apartment.

  Clad in her sports bra and black running pants, she went in the bedroom and lay on the bed. She had to get out of here fast, but she wanted to take her belongings with her. Her suitcase was at the hotel in Dedham. The duffel bag might hold the Beretta and the ammo, but not much else.

  When she sat up, she felt dizzy. Focus. She had to focus. And get out of here.

  She staggered to the closet. Unable to raise her right arm, she took the shoebox off the shelf with her left hand. It was so heavy she almost dropped it. She put it on the bed beside her duffel and went in the bathroom.

  Her gym bag was on the floor beside the tub. She'd forgotten it was here. She opened the medicine cabinet. The only items inside were the first-aid kit and her over-the-counter meds. She put them in the gym bag and noticed the paper cup on the sink. Fearing the cops might use it to trace her, she crumpled the cup, put it in the gym bag and looked around. Satisfied that nothing incriminating remained, she grabbed a hand towel and carried the bag into the bedroom.

  She packed the ammo boxes into the duffel, wrapped the Beretta in the towel and put it in the duffel with t
he ammo. All that remained in the shoebox was the cash she'd withdrawn from her bank. She stuffed it into her wallet and tucked the wallet in the duffel.

  Exhausted, she sank onto the bed. The room was stifling, but she didn't dare open the window. The black turtleneck was still wrapped around her right arm, sodden with blood. She needed clothes. At Gregor's insistence, her fancy outfits were at the hotel. If the cops traced his credit card, they would find them, but she doubted they would. Gregor was using a credit card with the name Stefan Haas.

  She went to the bureau, put the rest of her underwear in the gym bag and added the black pumps with the deadly two-inch heels. In the closet were two pairs of pants, her little black dress with the short skirt, and four short-sleeved T-shirts. She stuffed them into the gym bag.

  Her arm throbbed. The wound needed attention, but if she went to a hospital, they would report it to the cops. Another wave of dizziness hit her. She sank onto the bed, too tired to think. She had to leave, but where would she go?

  There was only one solution, one she didn't want to use, but what choice did she have?

  She took out her iPhone, punched in a number and waited.

  After three rings, a voice said, “Yes?”

  “Hello, Mountain Man,” she said, and held her breath.

  “Natalie. What is wrong? You have not come for your documents.”

  “I'm hurt. A man tried to kill me. He cut me with a knife, but I got away.”

  “Wah!” Pak Lam exclaimed. “A knife? Where did he cut you?”

  “My right arm. It's bleeding a lot.”

  “Where are you now? I will send someone to get you.”

  “At my apartment in Mission Hill. I'm afraid the man will come here and find me.” Not Nicholas, Gregor.

  “Give me the address. Wait inside. Feng will call you when he gets there.”

  “Thank you,” she said. She gave him the address and punched off.

  Tears filled her eyes. Now she didn't feel so alone.

  The Mountain Man would help her.

  CHAPTER 27

  Gregor lowered the car window and flicked his cigarette onto the rain-slicked roadway. Although the rain had slackened, it hadn't stopped. To his left beyond a grassy median, traffic was sparse on the Jamaicaway, a sporadic procession of cars, their wipers working against a steady drizzle.

  He’d been here more than an hour, an agonizing wait, the minutes ticking by slower than snails inching through mud. Now it was 2:05. Kwan should arrive soon if all had gone as planned, and there was no reason to believe it hadn’t. He resisted the urge to smoke another Gitaines. A bottle of fine cognac awaited him in his quarters at Global Interpreting. He would wait and celebrate there.

  At 2:10 headlights flashed as a vehicle circled the rotary behind him. A compact car, not the van. Where was Kwan?

  He visualized the paintings, two Vermeers worth millions, the Rembrandt Self-Portrait and Manet's portrait of his mother, Madame Auguste Manet. Her dour expression set his teeth on edge, but this was an important painting, worth a large sum of money.

  Rain splattered the roof of the car, and wind whipped the branches of the oak trees along the street. He checked his watch. 2:15. Still no sign of Kwan. Two compact cars followed by a red Jeep circled the rotary. No Chevrolet mini-van. Kwan would pay for his tardiness.

  At 2:25 more headlights swept the rotary, a dark boxy-shaped vehicle. Gregor pumped his fist. The Chevrolet mini-van!

  Without slackening speed, it veered onto the side road and passed his black Chevy. Alarmed, Gregor flicked the headlights on and off. What the hell was Kwan doing?

  The van's brake lights showed red as Kwan double-parked beside a white station wagon four cars ahead of him. Moments later, Kwan jumped out and sprinted toward him. Gregor got out and stood beside the Chevy.

  “You're late,” he snapped. “Do you have the paintings?”

  “They’re in the van. Give me the keys so I can get out of here.”

  Alarmed by the punk’s behavior, Gregor studied his face. His fears escalated. There were scratches on his cheek. His jaw looked swollen, and there were stains on the front of his uniform. “What are those scratches on your face? What happened?”

  “Nothing. Give me the keys!”

  He tried to calm himself. Forced himself to speak in a quiet voice. “Is that blood on your uniform? I told you to use the garrote.”

  Agitated, Kwan paced around in tight circles, his eyes glittering dangerously. “I had to knife the ex-cop. Stop questioning me. The whole city is crawling with cops. We have to get out of here now!”

  “Not until I check the paintings to make sure they are in good condition.”

  Without warning, Kwan thrust a knife at his face, sidestepped and kicked the back of his legs. Stunned by the sudden attack, he lost his balance and fell to his knees.

  “Don't move or I will slit your throat.”

  Gregor froze. He could not see the knife, but he could feel the blade against his throat, a serrated edge pricking the skin. He had no doubt Kwan would kill him. He'd seen street punks in London with eyes like that, murderous eyes, and Kwan was deadlier than any street punk. Kwan killed for sport.

  To placate him, he said, “What are you doing, Nicholas? We are partners. You take the paintings. I deal with the insurance companies and get the money.”

  “If we are partners, why do you treat me like a servant? Questioning me. Telling me I'm late. Where are the keys? I want to get out of here.”

  The pressure on his throat increased, tiny needles of pain. Kwan was out of control. “Calm down, Nicholas. The keys are in the ignition. I gave you the directions to the safe house in Providence. Go there and wait for me to call you.”

  “Your precious paintings are in the van with the bodies. Get the money or you’ll be dead, too.” Kwan pushed him to the ground, jumped into the car and drove off without turning on the headlights.

  Shaking with fury, Gregor struggled to his feet. The nerve of the bastard, threatening him with a knife! A snub-nosed Smith & Wesson was in the holster strapped to his right ankle, but Kwan's attack had taken him by surprise. Next time he would be ready.

  Kwan was a dead man and his death would not be quick or easy.

  Sirens interrupted his vengeful thoughts. Flashing blue lights lit up the Jamaicaway, police cars on the northbound side racing toward Boston. He caught a glimpse of the black Chevy as it pulled onto the Jamaicaway headed south. Nicholas was hell-bent on escape.

  He'd better do the same. He ran to the mini-van and climbed behind the wheel. A sour stink hit his nostrils. Urine and feces. The dead lose control of bodily functions. But he was alive. His audacious plan had succeeded! Four priceless paintings were in the rear compartment.

  But there was still work to be done. Drive to the storage facility in Revere. Take the paintings out of the van, put them in the trunk of his Saab and hide the Chevrolet mini-van in the storage locker. Then he would drive to Boston.

  An hour from now he would be celebrating in his quarters at Global Interpreting, savoring a fine cognac and smoking a Gitaines.

  _____

  This time when Natalie arrived at the Royal Dragon, Pak Lam threw open the door, frowning, his dark eyes full of concern. A sharp pain shot up her arm and she grimaced. Grasping her elbow to steady her, he helped her inside. Feng, the man who'd driven her here, spoke to him in a torrent of Chinese. Lam nodded and said in English, “Bring her bags to the spare room.”

  Five minutes later she was lying on a bed with a soft mattress and clean, fresh-smelling sheets. Pak Lam stood by the bed, his forehead grooved with worry lines. “Doctor Wu will be here soon to tend your wound. How did this happen? Who did this to you?”

  The question she had been dreading. Woozy from the pain, she pointed at the water glass on the table beside the bed. Lam helped her sit up and handed her the glass. “Never mind,” he said. “You don't need to tell me now. You must rest.”

  She drank some water and gathered her courage. It didn't
matter if she told him now or later. Either way, he would think badly of her. And her shameful deeds.

  “Tonight I stole two paintings from the Gardner Museum. My boss would have killed me if I didn't.” Tears filled her eyes and her throat thickened. “I know it was wrong to do this.”

  Lam said nothing for several seconds. At last he said, “To steal art from a museum is indeed a bad thing. This deprives others of their beauty. But you say he forced you. He holds a sword over your head?”

  She knew he didn't mean a literal sword. This was a common figure of speech in Asian cultures, and an apt description of her situation. Gregor knew she had stolen other paintings and killed a man.

  “Yes.” Exhausted, she sank back against the plump white pillow. She didn't want to tell him about the murder at the Ashmolean. Stealing art was bad enough. Stealing someone's life was far worse.

  Footsteps sounded in the hall. Dressed in a dark suit, a tall distinguished-looking man with black hair entered the room, carrying a black satchel in one hand. A short middle-aged Chinese woman in a white cotton robe followed him.

  Pak Lam bowed. “Thank you for coming so quickly, Doctor Wu. Someone has knifed this woman’s arm.” Gesturing at the white-robed woman, he said, “My assistant will bring you whatever you need.”

  Doctor Wu spoke rapidly in Chinese and the woman left the room. Then he set his black satchel on the table beside the bed, took out a pair of latex gloves and turned to her. He didn't smile, but his dark eyes were warm and kind.

  “I must examine your wound. I will try not to hurt you.”

  He put on the gloves and unwrapped her turtleneck, her makeshift bandage. His hands were gentle as he manipulated her arm, bending it at the elbow, turning it side to side. It hurt, but not too badly.

  “There are no damaged muscles or tendons,” said Doctor Wu, “but I must clean the wound so that it will not become infected.”

  The woman in the robe returned with several white towels and a basin of water. Doctor Wu gave her a packet of herbs. “Boil them for five minutes, pour the broth into a clean basin and bring it here.” Then he took a syringe out of his medicine bag. “This will numb your arm while I debride the wound.”