by Susan Fleet
He paused as two police vehicles with flashing lights and loud sirens passed him. “Police won't let us near the museum, but as you can see behind me ...” The picture zoomed in on the Gardner and several police vehicles parked outside. “There is heavy police presence here. In addition to the Vermeers, a Rembrandt and a Manet were stolen from the Gardner collection. I'm told that the Boston office of the FBI will lead the investigation, assisted by Boston police. Back to you, Deb.”
Natalie muted the sound, trying to make sense of it. Nicholas must have stolen the Rembrandt and the Manet after she put the Vermeers in the mini-van. She replayed the conversation she'd just had with Gregor. Where are the paintings, he kept saying, not “Where are the Vermeers?”
Now it was clear why Gregor had refused to tell her any details about the plan. All along he had been planning to steal four paintings, not two. That's why he'd told Nicholas to kill her. But Nicholas had double-crossed him.
She had no idea where Nicholas was, but he'd better watch his back.
Nicholas didn't know how ruthless Gregor could be. Gregor would track him down and kill him.
CHAPTER 29
Providence, RI
Nicholas attacked his beard with a pair of scissors, hacking off clumps of wiry hair and flushing them down the toilet. He glanced out the window. It was still dark. His temples throbbed with a dull ache. He had tried to sleep, but each time he dozed off, he jolted awake, drenched in sweat, his heart pounding. The familiar nightmare armed guards and snarling dogs chasing him, drawing closer and closer.
He lathered his face with soap and shaved prickly stubble off his face. He had already shaved his head. Now he was as bald as Larry Ho. The thought amused him. Never again would he have to deal with the fat man and his obnoxious jokes. He finished shaving and studied his reflection in the mirror. Excellent. A far cry from his former appearance.
He left the bathroom and went in the kitchen. Stefan's hideout stank of cat piss and body odor, a shitty little kitchen with filthy appliances, a tiny bedroom and a living room with a dilapidated couch. But no radio and no television set. He believed this was no accident. Stefan didn't want him to know what the cops were doing.
His cellphone rang. He studied the faceplate. Stefan's number.
“Yesss,” he answered.
“Nicholas, you have done a dangerous thing. Dangerous and stupid.”
“Steal the paintings and wait for the money, you said. That is stupid. How do I know you won’t keep the money?”
“Where are the paintings?”
“You said the Manet is our insurance. I am looking at it now.” He wasn't. The Manet was propped against the wall in the bedroom. Unfortunately, the canvas had a three-inch tear in it.
“The paintings are there? In the safe house?”
“The Manet is.”
“Where are the others?”
“In a safe place. I’ll tell you where when the insurance companies agree to the ransom. The paintings are my bargaining chip.”
Silence on the other end. Nicholas could hear him breathing. Stefan was pissed. Tough. “This place is a dump and there’s no TV. What are the cops are doing?”
“The Boston stations are covering the story, but the cops aren’t saying much.”
“What about the guards? Did they show my picture?”
“No. Nicholas, these paintings need special care—”
“Stop worrying about the fucking paintings! Get the money!”
“If you want money, the paintings must be in good condition. You can’t negotiate the ransom, but I can. I know how to deal with the authorities—”
“But you need the paintings to do it.”
Another silence. Then, “What happened with Scorpio? You were supposed to kill her.”
Nicholas ground his teeth. If he ever saw that bitch again, he would slice her to bits. But Scorpio was Stefan's problem, not his. And Stefan was more worried about the paintings.
“Where’s the car?”
“In the garage.”
“Good. Don’t use it. It’s stolen. If you get stopped—”
“Why didn’t you tell me that before?”
“Stay in the cottage until I get there. I need to see the paintings before I talk to the insurance officials.”
“When are you coming?”
“Soon. And the paintings better be there.”
A click sounded in his ear. Nicholas pounded the kitchen counter with his fist as murderous thoughts raged in his mind. Stefan was giving him orders again. After he got the money, he would kill the bastard. Stefan's blood would flow like a river. The death of a thousand cuts!
He flung open the cellar door and pounded down the stairs, inhaling the odor of gasoline and oil and grass clippings. Opposite the stairs a 250-gallon oil tank stood between an oil furnace and a gas-powered lawn mower. Jagged cracks split the basement floor, and cobwebs draped the wood beams overhead. The Lacemaker, The Milkmaid and the Rembrandt Self-Portrait were stacked against the wall beside a workbench cluttered with tools. Stefan hadn’t said when he was coming, but he lived in Boston. It would take him at least an hour to get here.
A bare bulb with a pull-chain dangled over the workbench. He turned on the light and studied the tools: claw hammers, screw drivers, a rusty hand saw, jars of nails and a metal tape measure. One by one he carried the paintings to the workbench, measured them, and jotted the measurements on a slip of paper. The Milkmaid was 16 inches wide, 18 inches tall. The Lacemaker was smaller: 8 inches by 10 inches. The Rembrandt Self-Portrait was the largest: 15 inches wide, 24 inches tall.
He raced upstairs to the bedroom, dumped the contents of his gray-fabric suitcase on the bed and measured the suitcase: 25 inches by 30 inches. Without the frames, the canvases would easily fit inside it. He took the suitcase downstairs to the workbench and got to work.
_____
In his office at Global Interpreting, Gregor closed the cellphone. Kwan said the paintings were in a safe place. Did he really think he would get away with this? Rage clogged his throat. He had conceived the perfect plan, but Kwan had betrayed him.
Kwan had the paintings, but the idiot didn’t understand how fragile they were. Centuries old, they required the proper temperature and humidity to maintain their condition. He had to get them away from that miserable ...
Unable to think of a suitably vile epithet, he splashed more Remy Martin into a brandy snifter, gulped it down and felt the fiery liquor burn his throat. The cognac should have been his reward for a difficult job well done, but Kwan had double-crossed him.
His punishment for ignoring one of his rules. Trust no one.
After leaving the storage locker in Revere, he had driven to the apartments he'd leased for Kwan and Valerie. The paintings weren't in Kwan's apartment. No surprise there. They weren't in Valerie's apartment either, but her belongings were gone, which meant she had been there since the heist. From there he had driven to Global Interpreting. He had taken a long hot shower to erase the stink of the corpses. This soothed his aching muscles, but had not quelled his fury.
He lit a cigarette and sipped his cognac. Where was Valerie? During their phone conversation he had asked her twice, but she hadn't told him. He had been deliberately vague when he asked about the paintings. Valerie said she had put the Vermeers in the van. He had said nothing about the other two. Nor had she. Maybe Valerie had not conspired with Kwan after all.
He puffed the Gitaines and blew smoke. Marta would have a fit if she knew he was smoking in here, but screw Marta. She had no key to his office. It wasn't as comfortable as he would have liked, just large enough to hold a good-sized desk and a royal-blue sofa that converted to a pullout bed. The adjoining bathroom had a shower stall.
He flicked ash from the Gitaines into the glass dish on his desk and massaged his temples. Every instinct told him to drive to Providence now and force Kwan to tell him where the paintings were. But stress had sapped his energy. Lack of sleep, Kwan's knife against his throat, eluding th
e police. Not to mention the fury that consumed him when he discovered the paintings weren't in the van. He needed to rest and plan how to deal with Kwan. One thing was certain. He couldn't go there tomorrow.
The cottage was in a residential area and the neighbors would be home on a Sunday. They might hear Kwan's screams.
Gregor studied the angry red scars on his hands. In London he had spent years coaxing information out of people. He could not recall a single instance in which he had failed to obtain what he wanted. He was looking forward to torturing Kwan. The rat-bastard would suffer before breathing his last. By the time he finished with him, Kwan would be begging to die.
Kwan was too impulsive to negotiate with the insurance companies. Even if they agreed to pay, the process could take weeks, and Kwan was a hothead. Impatient. Anxious to flee the country.
Damn Kwan to hell! Not since he'd been in prison had he felt such rage and hate. In prison he had lived by his code. Always be in control. Always take revenge. Trust no one. His fatal error.
And that wasn't his only problem. Marta never came here on the weekend, but on Monday she would. By then the Gardner heist would dominate the news. Marta might suspect he had a part in it. He would deny it, of course. And there was another problem. The cop who had come here asking to speak to Gregor Kraus. Marta said she had told him nothing, but eventually she might crack. He had to get rid of her.
And if some cop was looking for him here, his office crash pad was no longer safe. He took a final puff and stubbed the Gitaines out in the ashtray. He would sleep until noon. Then he would pack his belongings, lock the office and find somewhere else to stay.
Valerie's apartment had a television set with a cable connection. He would sleep in Valerie's bed. Too bad she wouldn't be in it.
But he had more important things to do. On Monday he would go to Providence and get the paintings from Kwan.
_____
Natalie shut off the TV and drank some bottled water. Before talking to Gregor and seeing the news report, she'd been ready to fall asleep. Now she was wide awake, her mind reeling. When she'd told Pak Lam she intended to return the paintings to their rightful owners, she'd meant the two Vermeers. But four paintings had been stolen from the Gardner, and she had no idea how to find them.
Pym had ordered her to steal the Vermeers, but she doubted that he'd told Gregor to kill her. It now seemed clear that Gregor intended to double-cross Pym. A dying man, if she could believe what Gregor had said.
She glanced at the clock. 4:45 AM in Boston, 9:45 AM in London. She turned on her cellphone and dialed Pym's number.
He answered on the second ring. “Valerie, what's happening? I haven't heard from Gregor. Did everything go as planned?”
“No. The insider guard tried to kill me. Was that part of the plan?”
“Valerie! How could you think such a thing? Are you all right?”
“I am now. When he attacked me, I ran away.”
“What about the Vermeers? Tell me what happened!”
“Gregor was supposed to pick me up after I left the Gardner, but the insider guard told me to put the Vermeers in a van that was parked in the courtyard. I did, but then he came at me with a knife. I managed to get away, but I don't know what happened to the paintings.”
There was a long silence. “Hold on a moment.”
She heard a series of harsh coughs. Finally, Pym came back on the line and said, “Sorry, Valerie. My cough is acting up again.”
“Gregor told me you were ill. Is that true?”
“Gregor told you this?”
“Yes. He said you were—” Should she tell him? Why not? Things couldn't get any worse. “Gregor said you were dying.”
“Well, we're all dying, aren’t we? But I'm going to die sooner rather than later.”
“I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were so ill.”
“No reason you should. But I'm angry that Gregor told you. How did he find out?”
“I don't know,” she lied. “Has he called you?”
“No, he hasn't. You have no idea where the Vermeers are?”
“No.” She took a deep breath. “Jonathan, they stole four paintings, not just the Vermeers.”
“Four?” Pym said, his voice full of outrage. “And Gregor has them?”
She hesitated. Gregor might not have them, but he wouldn't rest until he got them back. “Maybe. Or maybe the guard has them. I get the feeling they're working together.”
Another silence. More coughing. At last, Pym said, “Valerie, I'm dying. The only thing that has kept me alive is knowing that I would be able to savor those two glorious Vermeers before I die.”
Puzzled, she frowned. “You? What about the collector?”
A soft chuckle. “I am the collector, my dear. The paintings are here in my basement museum.”
Stunned, she sat there, speechless. The stolen paintings were in Pym's mansion? The idea sickened her. The incredible risks she had taken, stealing priceless paintings and killing two men, all for the pleasure of Jonathan Pym. How dare he?
“After I die, the paintings will be returned to their rightful owners, the museums or the private collections from which they were stolen.”
“All of them?”
“Every single one. I'm going to make you an offer, Valerie. Hear me out before you respond. I'm a dying man but I might yet live to see the Vermeers. Gregor should have called me, but he hasn't, which means he intends to keep the paintings and sell them on the black market. I know your distaste for violence, Valerie, but I will pay you handsomely to find Gregor, kill him and ship the Vermeers to me as soon as possible. If you agree to this, I will wire a million dollars into your bank account.”
She thought about it. One million dollars was a magnificent sum. All she had to do was find the Vermeers, ship them to Pym and kill Gregor. It didn't take long to make her decision. After the Ashmolean heist she had vowed never to kill another person as long as she lived and she intended to abide this. Not that she felt any sympathy for Gregor. But she wasn't going to kill him.
She wasn't going to ship the Vermeers to Pym, either. She didn't know how many paintings he'd stolen, but it sickened her that he had done this for his own selfish pleasure. She would do her best to find the Vermeers and the other two paintings.
When she did, she would return them to their owners.
“Well?” Pym said, impatiently. “What do you say, Valerie? If you agree to my proposal, I'll wire half the money into your account today. To prove that I'm serious.”
“And after you die all the paintings will be returned to their owners?”
“Yes. I've already added a clause to my will. Every single painting will be returned to its owner. Valerie, you've been a fine companion for two years. Please do this one last thing for me. You won't regret it, I promise. Say yes and I'll wire a half million dollars into your bank account right now.”
“All right, Jonathan. I'll do my best to get them.” That was no lie.
“Thank you. Call me when you have them and I'll tell you how to ship them to me.”
“All right,” she said and ended the call. She didn't feel the least bit guilty about implying that she had agreed to his proposal.
Why should she? For two years Jonathan Pym had been lying to her about far more serious things.
CHAPTER 30
Frustrated and angry, Frank sat in a police car parked in front of the Gardner. He hadn't smoked a cigarette in years, but he wanted one now. The sky was still dark, the moon hidden behind a blanket of clouds, but lights blazed inside the Gardner.
Four paintings had been stolen, which confirmed his theory. Natalie Brixton and Gregor Kraus had been planning an art heist in Boston.
And he had failed to stop them.
Hank Flynn had called at 3:15 AM to give him the bad news. Frank drove to the station and one of Flynn's detectives drove him to the Gardner. When they arrived, Flynn was outside on the sidewalk, arguing with a grim-faced woman with long dark hair, the Assistant Specia
l Agent-In-Charge of the Boston FBI office, as it turned out. The FBI would lead the investigation. After a testy exchange, the ASAC had waved Flynn into the museum.
But Frank Renzi had to stay outside.
Unable to sit still, he got out of Flynn's cruiser and jogged across the street. No traffic on the Fenway. The street had been blocked off to divert cars away from the museum. The rain had stopped but the air was hot and muggy, not a hint of a breeze. He paced the sidewalk, berating himself. He should have warned the Gardner security director. If he had, it might have prevented the robbery.
Maybe he should call DCI Stanford. 4:45 AM here, 9:45 AM in London. But he had no information, dammit. He had to wait outside like a lowly civilian while Hank Flynn viewed the crime scene. He wanted in on the investigation, but that wasn't likely to happen with the FBI running it.
At the corner of Palace Road, a uniformed officer stood beside one of the cruisers that had been stationed outside the museum overnight. Another guarded the cruiser on Evans Way. According to the detective who'd driven Frank to the Gardner, the cops had failed to make their all-clear calls at 2:00 AM. No call from the security guard, either. The first responders had found both cops in their cruisers. One was dead. The other was unconscious and had been taken to Boston Medical Center.
Frank paced the sidewalk, sorting pieces of the complicated puzzle. Four paintings missing from the Gardner. Ursula, a Global Interpreting translator, also missing. Stefan Haas was the Global Interpreting manager, allegedly, but Frank was certain Gregor Kraus had killed Stefan Haas in London and stolen his ID.
Stolen art. Stolen identities. The common thread? Gregor Kraus, the man who wasn’t there.
He visualized the Vermeer he'd seen the night of the gala. The Milkmaid was gorgeous, light glinting on the woman's goldenrod yellow blouse and a loaf of crusty bread. That reminded him of the curious incident at the reception, his feeling that someone was watching him, catching a glimpse of a woman in a gold lamé dress leaving the room with a man in a tux. With gloves on his hands.
