Natalie's Art: a Frank Renzi novel

by Susan Fleet

  But at one o'clock today the Saab had returned to Mission Hill and parked outside her apartment. Creepy. Was Gregor staying at her apartment?

  At that point she had put on her blond wig and her little black dress and left the hotel. Famished, she went to a French restaurant and devoured a Salmon Nicoise salad. Not as good as she’d eaten in Paris, but close, chilled poached salmon, fresh green beans, hard-boiled eggs and Calamari olives, served with a flaky croissant. Afterward she'd thought about doing her TKD workout at the gym. Her arm felt much better, hardly any pain. But caution had prevailed. Better to stay hidden in the hotel.

  Now it was six o'clock. She sat on one of the blue-velvet easy chairs, turned on the TV and tuned in a Boston station. The news jingle sounded. The Gardner heist was the lead story. The three security guards were still missing. The officer in the second cruiser had been released from the hospital. “Police believe he may have been drugged,” the announcer said. “Results of the autopsy on the second officer have not been released.”

  No mention of the woman in the police uniform she'd seen in the mini-van. Murdered by Nicholas. Where was the van now? Were the bodies of the other security guards inside it, too?

  The anchorwoman introduced a clip of a noon press briefing. A grim-faced female FBI official said, “The insurance companies will not pay to ransom the stolen paintings. If the thieves are watching, we urge them to return the four paintings. Leave them in a safe place, call our tip-line and tell us where they are. No questions asked.” An 800-number scrolled across the bottom of the screen.

  Fat chance, Natalie thought. Gregor wouldn't return the paintings, nor would Nicholas. She doubted Gregor had ever intended to ship them to Pym. Nor did Pym, apparently. Earlier she had checked her bank balance. Pym had deposited a half million dollars into it, just as he'd promised.

  A new graphic on the screen caught her eye. Murder at Mission Church. “A Vietnam War veteran was found murdered early Saturday morning at the Mission Church,” said the newswoman. Footage of police vehicles outside the Mission Church appeared on the screen. “Robert McDermott, sixty-one, had been stabbed multiple times. Police ask anyone with information to call the District-Four station. One of McDermott's friends said McDermott had mental health issues and alcohol problems and had been homeless for years.”

  Natalie muted the TV. Goosebumps rose on her arms and her heart pounded. A man stabbed multiple times at the Mission Church, two blocks from her apartment. Would the cab driver remember her?

  Nicholas had gashed her arm with a knife. Did he kill the man in the church? But why would Nicholas be in the church? Why kill a homeless veteran? Then, in a sudden flash, it came to her. Nicholas must have hidden the paintings there and the man saw him.

  An icy chill wracked her. Suddenly, she didn't feel safe.

  She was certain Gregor had told Nicholas to kill her. Gregor didn't leave witnesses around to squeal to the cops. She should pack her things and leave Boston now. Pym had wired a half million dollars into her bank account. She had her new passports.

  She rose from the chair, went to her duffel and took out the passports. Ling Lam and Liang Lam. Her photographs were on the passports now, but all she could see were the smiling faces of Pak Lam's twins. His son, the Little League pitcher, and his daughter, the talented violinist.

  Her eyes misted with tears and her throat thickened.

  Rival gang members had murdered his adorable twins in 1984. For twenty-six years Pak Lam had kept their passports. Now he had given them to her, saying she was his adopted daughter. And he was her adopted father, a man she respected and cared for deeply. A man far more honorable and loving than her own father had ever been.

  The thought of confronting Gregor terrified her, but she couldn't leave Boston now. She had promised Pak Lam she would find the stolen paintings and return them to their rightful owners.

  Such a promise could not be ignored. It was a matter of honor.

  CHAPTER 33

  Monday July 13, 2014 – 9:20 AM

  With his fists jammed in the pockets of his slacks, Frank leaned against the door opposite Marta's desk. She was on the phone, scribbling on a yellow legal pad, saying, “Certainly, sir. What time do you need her?”

  Blah, blah, blah. The phone had rung nonstop ever since he and Rafe had arrived ten minutes ago. Rafe was studying an art print on the wall above the sofa, could have been a connoisseur at an art gallery were it not for his size and his outfit, a large black man in a black running suit, packing a gun.

  The instant Marta put down the phone Frank crossed the room and planted his palms on her desk. Before he could speak the phone rang again. “Leave it!” he barked.

  Marta shrank back in her chair, as though she'd been cornered by a rabid dog.

  “Twice I asked you about Stefan Haas. Both times you blew me off. Stop dicking me around. Tell me where he is or we’ll get a search warrant and see what's in those file cabinets.”

  Marta tensed, her neck corded, frowning at him now. “I’d like to see some identification, Mr. Capone.”

  He flashed his NOPD creds. “Homicide Detective Frank Renzi, New Orleans PD. Detective Hawkins is with Boston PD. Tell us how to contact Mr. Haas.”

  “I can't. He's away on business.”

  “Gimme a straight answer!” Frank exploded. “Where on business?”

  She raised a hand as if to ward him off. “I don’t know! I don’t have his itinerary.”

  He looked at Rafe, who picked up his cue. “Ease up a little, huh?” Rafe said as he went to the desk. “I’d hate to see you get in trouble, Marta. We got no bone to pick with you. But we need to talk to Mr. Haas.”

  Vertical frown lines appeared between her well-groomed eyebrows. She swiped a wisp of blond hair off her forehead, picked up a felt-tipped pen and began doodling on her legal pad.

  “You must have some idea where he is,” Rafe said. “What airline does he fly? When’s he coming back?”

  “I’m not a secretary! Mr. Haas makes his own arrangements. I don’t know when he’ll be back. He’s on a recruitment tour. We need more interpreters.”

  “What happened to Ursula?” Frank asked.

  Marta said nothing, doodling on the legal pad, geometric shapes, angry black lines.

  “Stefan Haas died in London,” Frank said. “Gregor Kraus killed him and stole his identity.”

  Marta paled visibly, blood draining from her face like water down a toilet. “That is absurd!”

  “Show us his picture.”

  Dots of pink appeared on her cheeks. “I don’t have to show you anything.”

  “You’re doing dynamite business,” Frank said. “All those phone calls? You must have a brochure with a picture of Stefan Haas.”

  Marta scowled. Clamped her lips together. Drew another triangle on the legal pad.

  “Where's Gregor Kraus?” Frank said.

  “I don’t know what you're talking about.” She licked her lips. “Mr. Haas hasn’t been in the office—”

  “You must know how to reach him. What if there’s an emergency?”

  More doodles appeared on the notepad, a rectangle and a trapezoid, thick black strokes.

  “Come on, Marta. Give us a phone number where we can reach him and we’ll stop bothering you.”

  A muscle worked in her jaw. “I don’t have one. Mr. Haas is ... difficult to reach.”

  He glanced at Rafe, got back a glum look.

  “Okay,” Frank said. “We'll get started on the paperwork for the search warrant. Maybe we'll have the IRS check your tax returns, have INS go over the immigration papers of the women who work here.”

  He saw a flash of panic in her eyes. He took out his business card and put it on the desk. “Tell Gregor Kraus to call my cellphone. If I don't hear from him by noon, we’ll be back with a warrant.” He jerked his head at Rafe and they left.

  Inside the elevator, Rafe cocked an eyebrow at him and said, “Capone? What’s that about?”

  Frank grinned. “John Ca
pone. You know, Al Capone's nephew. I use it as cover when I want to throw my weight around. How come you were ogling the print?”

  Rafe shrugged. “I liked it. The kid looked like he was having fun. Boy With Lute by Franz Hals.”

  “Franz Hals? Interesting. Someone stole a painting from the Franz Hals Museum in the Netherlands. The security guard was murdered later. Kelly and I talked to his widow in London.”

  “Huh,” Rafe said, frowning. “You think that's the stolen painting?”

  “No. But it's a strange coincidence.”

  Rafe looked at him, somber-eyed. “Ursula’s dead and so is Stefan Haas. Seems like Gregor’s a killer, and Marta's a tough nut to crack. Heavy duty shredder behind her desk, won’t be finding anything useful in the Global Interpreting trash.”

  “Which means we better get in there with a search warrant before anything gets shredded.”

  “You really think we can get a search warrant?” Rafe said.

  “I don't know, but I'll try. Marta's full of shit. There's no Stefan Haas and she knows it.”

  “You think Gregor Kraus will call you?”

  Frank smiled grimly. “Yeah. When pigs fly.”

  _____

  Gregor sat at the kitchen table in Valerie's apartment, methodically squeezing his Iron-Man grippers. He should eat something but he had no appetite. He put down the grippers, poured a dollop of Remy Martin into his coffee and took a sip.

  Planning the Gardner heist had been a challenge, but knowing it would bring a rich reward had sustained him.

  He slammed his fists on the table. His plan was brilliant. But he had left the execution to others.

  Valerie and Nicholas Kwan. Traitors, both of them. Kwan he would deal with today. But what about Valerie? Where was she?

  He could scarcely believe he had entertained the notion of sharing his triumph with her. Years ago he had celebrated with Marta but had quickly tired of her. Valerie was different.

  Last night he had slept in her bed, sniffing her scent on the pillow. An exquisite pleasure, he had to admit. He closed his eyes and pictured her at the Gardner gala, her lithe body encased in the slinky gold dress he'd bought her, fueling his enchantment. Staying with her at the hotel in Dedham had increased his desires. Desires that Valerie had rudely rebuffed.

  She didn't understand. He wanted to share his success with her. Celebrate at an elegant hotel, share a cognac and watch her almond eyes light up in admiration as he detailed his audacious plan. Then he would take her to bed. His cock stirred, an insistent ache in his groin, fueled by memories of Valerie. Her well-toned arms and long slim legs as she worked out at the hotel fitness center, and later that night at dinner, her trim body in that sexy dress, enticing cleavage ....

  Glorious memories, interrupted by the chime of his cell phone.

  His heart surged. Was it Valerie? He snatched up the phone, saw the ID. Shit! Marta.

  “What is it?” he said.

  “Gregor! That man came here again. This time he showed me his badge. He's a homicide detective from New Orleans. A Boston cop was with him. Merde! I knew he was a cop—”

  “Calm down, Marta. Stop dithering. I’m busy.”

  “Gregor, you don't understand! The New Orleans cop knows about Stefan Haas.”

  His neck prickled. “What does he know?”

  “He said Stefan Haas died in London. He said you killed him and stole his identity. You, Gregor.”

  He breathed deeply to calm himself. “He has my name?”

  “Yes. Gregor Kraus, he said.”

  “How does he know my name?”

  “I don't know! I didn't tell him. H-h-he just knew.”

  Gregor clenched his fists. This could be a problem. He had used Stefan's credit card when he'd registered at the Dedham hotel, and again when he'd rented the getaway car for Kwan.

  “He left his card. Homicide Detective Frank Renzi. He said if you don't call him by noon, they'll get a search warrant to look at our files.”

  Also troubling, but obtaining a search warrant would take time. “They were bluffing. What reason do they have for a search warrant? If they come back, stonewall them.”

  “I can’t!” Her shrill voice lanced his ear.

  He heard her, breathing hard, awaiting his response. He forced a smile and used his persuasive voice. “Sure you can, Marta. You’re the smartest woman I know.” Except for Valerie.

  “I saw the news about the Gardner heist,” Marta said. “Did you steal those paintings?”

  Just as he'd feared. Marta suspected him. “No, but I wish I had. They are worth millions.”

  “I know what they're worth,” she snapped. “For God’s sake, Gregor, do something about this cop!”

  He massaged his eyes, considering his next move, and everything became clear. “I will, but we must plan our moves first. Meet me at the office tonight at seven o'clock.” He clicked off without waiting for an answer.

  But time was the enemy. Meet Marta at seven. However, he had to get the paintings first.

  He studied his hands, scarred but powerful. It wouldn't take long to persuade Kwan to tell him where they were.

  _____

  Two hours later he parked the Saab in front of Burt's cottage in Providence. He got out and retrieved the bag of groceries he’d bought to appease Kwan: fresh fruit and vegetables, cartons of milk and cream, packets of gourmet coffee. His snub-nosed Smith & Wesson was in a holster strapped to his ankle, readily available if Kwan pulled his nasty-looking knife. He’d worn a pair of gray slacks and a navy-blue blazer today. The loose-fitting jacket concealed the Taser strapped to his hip.

  Carrying the grocery bag in one hand and a newspaper in the other, he went to the door and rang the bell. A full minute passed.

  Irritated, he banged on the door. A slat in a window blind parted.

  Seconds later Kwan opened the door. His beard was gone and his head was shaved, which emphasized the ugly scowl on his face.

  “I bought you some groceries,” Gregor said, “fresh fruit and vegetables, and gourmet coffee.”

  “Coffee,” Kwan sneered.

  The punk was wearing faded jeans and a white T-shirt, no sign of a knife. Of course not. Kwan had the paintings, a weapon more potent than any dagger. In the living room, a portable TV with a crude antenna stood on a footlocker in front of the sofa, and newspapers lay on the floor with Gardner heist headlines.

  “When do we get the money?” Kwan asked.

  “Where’s the car?”

  “In the garage. When do we get the money?”

  “Show me.”

  With an angry hiss, Kwan turned and went in the kitchen. Gregor followed him and set the groceries on the counter. He’d forgotten how filthy the place was, and the stench of cat urine was overpowering in the sweltering cottage. He opened the door beside the refrigerator, peered into the garage and saw the rental car.

  “How long do I have to stay in this dump? I need cash. I used all I had to buy the TV set. Because you tell me nothing, Stefan. You want to keep me in the dark!”

  He shut the door to the garage and pulled out some bills. “Here’s two hundred.”

  “That's not enough. I need more.”

  “Where are the paintings?”

  An insolent smile appeared on the punk’s face.

  He peeled off five twenties and handed them over. “Where are the paintings?”

  Kwan snatched the bills and leaned against the cellar door opposite the sink.

  Were the paintings in the cellar?

  “The Manet is in the bedroom,” Kwan said.

  “Show me.” He followed Kwan to a bedroom with a single bed and a maple dresser. Propped against the wall beyond the bed was Manet’s portrait of his mother, Madame Manet with her dour expression and implacable gaze. His heart jolted. There was a jagged tear in the canvas below her chin! He could never sell it in this condition and he couldn't very well hire someone to repair it.

  A slow-simmering rage rose inside him. Kwan would pay for t
his.

  “Where are the others?” he said in a quiet voice.

  “Why should I tell you?” Kwan said, leaning against the doorjamb with a sullen look on his face. “The insurance companies won’t pay to get them back.”

  “Of course they will.” He waved the Boston Herald, the prop he'd brought to convince the punk. A photo of the Gardner was on the front page. “The cops were bluffing. The insurance companies are desperate to get the paintings back. They’re waiting for us to contact them.”

  Kwan's sour expression softened and excitement appeared in his eyes. “When do we get the money?”

  “Soon. But I can’t negotiate with them until you show me the other paintings.”

  “Hsss! You take me for a fool. The paintings are worth millions and you offer me two.”

  Waving the newspaper to distract him, Gregor unbuttoned his jacket, circled the bed and slowly approached Kwan. “Where are the other paintings?”

  “Never mind. I will tell you when the insurance companies are ready to pay.”

  Holding the punk’s gaze, he edged closer and slipped his hand into his jacket. “How much do you want?”

  Kwan's eyes glittered with greed. “Ten million.”

  He whipped out the Taser and zapped 20,000 volts into the greedy bastard’s neck. Kwan's head snapped back. His body jerked violently, shuddered, then sagged.

  He shoved him down on the bed and zapped him again. Kwan moaned. Then his lips twisted in a grimace and his eyes rolled up into his head.

  Gregor nodded in satisfaction. Excellent. His persuasion kit was in the trunk of the Saab. It would only take a minute to get it.

  CHAPTER 34

  1:10 PM

  Natalie fanned herself with a newspaper, sweating as the merciless midday sun beat down on the the black Toyota Corolla. It belonged to Feng's brother, but Pak Lam had loaned it to her. She didn't know why Gregor had stayed at her apartment last night, but when the Saab left its parking spot this morning, she had followed it. Texts to her iPhone mapped its route out of Boston to Route 95 south to Providence. There, Gregor had stopped twice, once at a hardware store, then a grocery store.