by Susan Fleet
Providence
Gregor opened the five-pound Kitty Litter bag and poured the white pellets around Kwan’s body. Kwan had double-crossed him. In the process he had ruined the Manet and damaged the Rembrandt. A crackling funeral pyre would be his reward.
Wielding the power of life or death was not new to him. That was how he controlled people. Even hardened mobsters cowered in the face of death. Those who didn't capitulated when he threatened their loved ones. Think how guilty you will feel after I kill your son or your wife or your lover. Even the toughest criminal cared about relatives and lovers.
But love was a trap, one that would not ensnare him.
Kwan appeared resigned to his fate, lying on the floor, eyes closed, expression serene. Give the punk credit. The pain in his knees must be fierce, but Kwan didn't moan or cry out. Gregor wondered what he was thinking. Not that he cared.
When the Kitty Litter bag was empty, he went upstairs to the bedroom. The implacable eyes of Madame Auguste Manet confronted him. Eyes that elicited a familiar feeling, but whose eyes were they? A sudden realization hit him like a thunderbolt. Not the eyes of Manet's mother, his father's eyes. He studied the scars on his hands. For years Papa had burned his hands with merciless precision, withholding approval, denying him his love. To control him. He had never been able to please Papa. But Papa was dead. Now he was in control.
Seething with fury, he carried the Manet down to the cellar and propped it against the wall opposite Kwan's head. Using the container of gasoline that powered Burt's lawnmower, he sprinkled gas over the pellets. Trailing a stream of gasoline behind him, he went to the stairs and turned for a last look at Kwan.
The bastard was watching him, his eyes glowing with a fierce intensity. Kwan knew what was coming. “Prepare to die, traitor. No one double-crosses Gregor Kraus and gets away with it.”
He mounted the staircase, dousing the step below him with gasoline. When he reached the top, he set the container on the kitchen floor. Burt's cottage was about to go up in flames. The cops would know the fire was set, of course. They would identify the charred bones in the cellar, but they couldn’t connect Kwan to him. Eventually, they would find out that Burt was employed as a driver for Global Interpreting. But he would take care of Burt tomorrow at JFK airport.
In the kitchen, he found a hand towel, folded it, and dropped it on the top step of the cellar stairs. He took out a Gitaines. How long would it take for the cigarette to burn down to the filter?
Long enough, he decided. He took a clothespin out of his persuasion kit, lighted a cigarette and sucked in a deep drag. The tip glowed angry red. He clipped the cigarette filter to a corner of the kitchen towel and visualized the orange-red flames licking at Kwan’s body.
A pity he couldn’t stay and watch, but he had more important things to do.
_____
Natalie mopped perspiration off her forehead with a tissue. Damp with sweat, her T-shirt clung to her back. The Toyota's front windows were open, but not a breath of air was stirring. She didn't dare start the car and run the air conditioner, fearing this would attract attention.
Earlier, she had followed Gregor to the bus station. Parked at the end of the row behind the Saab, she saw him hurry into the station. Twenty minutes later, carrying a gray-fabric suitcase, he came back to the Saab, took what appeared to be a toolkit out of the trunk and got in the Saab. Five minutes passed. Then he got out of the car, put the suitcase and the toolkit in the trunk and drove off. Careful to keep her distance, she had followed him back to the white cottage.
This time she had parked on the other side of the street—the sunny side, unfortunately—in front of a blue ranch house. The window blinds were closed to keep out the sun, but her black Toyota had been parked here too long. If someone inside saw it, they might come out and ask why she was there.
She heard a high-pitched yip and checked the side mirror. A stout older woman in a sleeveless dress and a straw sunhat came around the corner, walking a small dog with short brown hair and a curly tail. The dog strained against the leash, its pink tongue lolling from its mouth.
Natalie sank lower in the seat and watched the dog sniff at a maple tree and lift his leg. Willing the woman not to look her way, she grabbed the newspaper on the passenger seat to hide her face. No worries. The woman was intent on Fido. Tugging on his leash, she continued along the sidewalk without looking at the Toyota.
Excellent. Natalie straightened. Conscious of the time, she checked her watch. 2:15. She felt certain the stolen paintings were in the gray suitcase. This time Gregor had activated the car alarm before he went in the cottage. He'd been in there almost twenty minutes. What was he doing?
The roar of a motorcycle startled her.
She checked the side-view mirror. Behind her, a brawny man with a full dark beard rounded the corner on a Harley Davidson. The noise was deafening. He wasn't wearing a helmet, just biker boots, torn jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt. Her palms dampened with sweat. She sank lower in her seat, but the biker didn't look her way, just roared down the street, parked the Harley in the driveway of the house across the street from the Saab and went inside.
Relieved, she sipped from her water bottle and leaned back against the headrest. A minute later, she jerked upright as Gregor burst out the door of the white cottage. The Saab's lights flashed and the alarm beeped. Gregor jumped in the car and drove away. She waited until the Saab turned the corner at the far end of the street, started the Toyota and pulled away from the curb. The hot air blowing on her face was a welcome relief after sitting in the car with the sun beating down on it.
Why was Gregor in such a hurry to leave the cottage? If Nicholas was in there, Gregor might have killed him. That might explain his hurried departure. She slowed as she passed the white cottage and studied the windows. The window blinds were closed.
She increased her speed. Seconds later she heard a loud whump and the sound of breaking glass.
Startled, she tapped the brakes and turned to look. Orange-red flames and thick dark smoke were spurting out the windows of the white cottage. Gregor had torched the place! Then she saw the biker come running out of the house across the street. She wanted to floor the accelerator, but she didn't. Attract no attention. Maintaining a moderate speed, she gripped the wheel, her hands damp with sweat.
She turned the corner and increased her speed. The Saab was nowhere in sight. Gregor was probably heading for the nearest highway entrance.
She pulled out her iPhone. Five minutes later she got on Route 95 North. She still hadn't seen the Saab, but it was on the highway somewhere ahead of her. She settled into the traffic flow and gulped half of her bottled water.
Now that Gregor had the paintings—and she was positive he did—where would he go?
_____
Boston
They returned to Hank Flynn's office at 3:15. Still shaken by the cancer-diagnosis bombshell, Frank took the chair in front of the desk. He'd known Hank for years and considered him a good friend. He was convinced Natalie was involved in the Gardner heist and he was hell-bent on catching her. Still, in the grand scheme of things, Hank's health was more important. But Hank wanted to solve the case too, had even asked for his help. It would be great to see Hank get credit for it.
Earlier he had told Hank what happened when he and Rafe grilled Marta, and Hank had given him the latest updates. They still didn't know who drugged the cops in the cruisers, and the security guards were still missing, but there was a bit of progress. Using the casts taken of the tire tracks behind the Gardner, the CSI techs had identified the make and model of the tires, most commonly used on Chevrolet Express mini-vans. Hank's top detective, Marty Talbot, was checking to see if any Chevrolet mini-vans had been stolen recently.
Now Hank was sorting through the pile of message slips that had accumulated while they were out.
“I told Marta I'd come back with a search warrant if Gregor didn't call me by noon,” Frank said. “He hasn't called. There's a shredder in the off
ice. If Marta calls Gregor and tells him we know Stefan Haas is dead, he might tell her to shred everything in the file cabinets. Can we get a search warrant?”
“What do we use for probable cause?”
“Gregor Kraus is using a fake ID. We know Stefan Haas is dead.”
“True, but we don't know that Kraus killed him. I'm not sure a judge would go for it.” Flynn's cellphone rang. He answered, listened for a moment, then said, “Good work, Marty. I'll put out a BOLO.” Flynn closed his cell and said, “The night before the heist a brown Chevrolet Express mini-van was stolen from a used-car dealership in Mattapan.”
“Was there a plate on it?” Frank asked.
“No. But whoever stole it could have stolen one and put it on the van. I'll have Marty check the files for any plates stolen a day or two before the heist.”
“How's it going with Georgette?” Frank asked. “Did your tirade the other day help?”
Flynn smiled. “Indeed it did. Now I'm getting updates from her agents on any promising leads they get.” His desk phone rang. Flynn grimaced. “Please don't let this be a reporter. I'm running out of excuses to get rid of them.” He answered, listened for a while. Then his mouth sagged open. “Jesus! Are you kidding?”
Frank knew something was up. His former boss might be gravely ill, but now he was smiling and his cheeks were flushed with excitement.
“Thanks, Georgette. See you there.” Flynn rose from his chair. “That was Georgette. Providence PD got called to a house fire an hour ago. The fire chief found a body in the cellar and a charred painting. The chief has been following the Gardner heist. He thinks it’s the stolen Manet.”
Frank's heart beat a drum-roll inside his chest. A house fire. A dead body. And the stolen Manet.
“What are we waiting for?” he said. “Let’s go!”
CHAPTER 36
Providence, RI – 5:15 PM
Lit by the orange rays of the setting sun, the one-story wood-frame cottage was a charred ruin. The white clapboard siding was dark with soot, the front door splintered by fire axes, the doorframe twisted. Electrical cords snaked through windows without glass. The attached one-car garage appeared to have less damage but the door gaped open.
Frank lowered his window and the acrid smell of smoke and scorched wood hit his nostrils. Even with lights and sirens, it had taken them an hour to get here. Although Providence police cruisers blocked off the street, when Hank Flynn dangled his Boston PD creds out the window, a police officer moved a sawhorse to let them through. Television crews, several reporters and photographers with telephoto lenses stood behind the sawhorse, eager to get closer.
Flynn parked twenty yards behind a fire truck that stood in front of the cottage, ready to extinguish any flare-ups. “There's trouble,” he muttered.
Three FBI agents stood in front of the burned out cottage. Georgette, the ASAC of the Boston FBI office, was talking to a police official. Flynn ducked under the yellow police tape strung across the driveway, and Frank followed, taking care to avoid the fire-hose water mixed with soot and ash that puddled the blacktop.
Georgette saw them, frowned, then put on a fake smile and introduced the Providence Police Chief, Roland DeNunzio, a beefy Italian with thick dark hair, a Roman nose and a pockmarked face.
“Any ID on the body?” Flynn asked.
“No.” DeNunzio puffed his cheeks and blew a stream of air. “I saw some bad accidents on highway patrol that didn’t make me sick, but this did. The guy was hog-tied, wrists and ankles wired up. Whoever did it is a sick-o. Burn somebody alive like that? The stench was unbelievable.”
“What about cause of death?” Georgette asked.
“Other than being burnt to a crisp?” DeNunzio said sarcastically. “The forensic pathologist took a preliminary look. Didn't see any bullet wounds, but she’s not done yet.”
“Who lived here?” Frank asked. Georgette pursed her lips, clearly annoyed that some interloper was butting into her investigation.
“We're not sure,” DeNunzio said. “We're still trying to contact the owner.”
“Where was the body?” Georgette asked. “We'd like to see it.”
DeNunzio glanced at Hank Flynn, a subtle look but the message was clear. Georgette was leaning on him and he didn't like it. “In the basement, but you'll have to ask the fire marshal, see what he says.”
He motioned to a wiry man with leathery skin and watery blue eyes, who joined them. “This is the Chief Fire Marshal, Lorne Bryant,” DeNunzio said. “These folks want to go in the cellar.”
“Okay,” Bryant said, “but the inside stairs are shot. We'll have to use the bulkhead out back.”
When Bryant walked away, Georgette told the other FBI agents to wait out front and followed him. Flynn followed her and Frank took up the rear. When they reached the back wall of the cottage, Bryant stopped at a twisted metal door and said, “Watch your step.”
They followed him down a cement stairway. The cellar reeked of smoke and a sickly sweet odor Frank recognized as burnt flesh. He’d smelled that odor at a house fire in New Orleans, a two-story duplex. A drug dealer lived on one side, a single mother with three kids on the other. The kids were upstairs when the fire started; the mother was downstairs, asleep on a couch. She tried to save them but the flames, fueled by an accelerant, were too fierce. They found the two younger kids hiding in a closet. The oldest, a boy of six, lay on the floor near a window. Frank had been there when they pulled out the bodies.
But this was no turf war over drugs, this was premeditated murder.
They waited at the foot of the stairs while Bryant turned on a set of portable lights to illuminate the cellar. The fire crew had pumped out the most of the water, but greasy puddles remained on the cement floor. A gas-powered lawnmower lay in the corner, its metal frame twisted and bent. A wooden workbench had caved in and metal tools were strewn over the floor.
“That’s where they found the body,” Bryant said, indicating a chalked outline surrounded by blackened cement. “It was a major flashpoint. Someone put something flammable around the body. You can see the guy tried to roll, but it was hopeless, tied up like he was.” Bryant shook his head. “Gives me the creeps.”
“Where was the painting?” Frank asked.
Bryant pointed to a chalked outline on the wall. “It’s a miracle I noticed it, the body freaked me out so bad. The Manet was propped against the wall.”
“You were sharp to pick up on it,” Flynn said.
Bryant smiled, pleased at the compliment. “My wife’s an art freak, drags me around to all the museums. I’m not wild about the modern stuff, but I saw the Manet at the Gardner once and when they showed it on TV, I remembered it. Why’d they burn it? Didn’t they know what it was?”
“Crooks aren’t brain surgeons,” Flynn said.
Maybe not, Frank thought, but Gregor Kraus was ruthless enough to kill to get what he wanted. Frank figured the corpse was the hinky security guard, Daniel Leone. Like the guards involved in the European heists, Leone was disposable. He didn't know why Gregor left the Manet to burn in the fire, but he was pretty sure Gregor now had the two Vermeers and the Rembrandt.
Frank studied the chalked outline of the body, then the chalked outline of the Manet. “You know,” he said, “it’s almost as if—”
The others turned to look, and he gestured at the chalked outlines. “The Manet was opposite the vic’s head, as though the killer wanted him to look at it.”
“Jesus,” Bryant said. “A real psycho.”
A psycho? Frank doubted it. This was a rage kill.
“Where’s the Manet?” Georgette asked.
“Police headquarters,” Bryant said. “The director of the Gardner Museum is headed there now, but she's not gonna like what she sees. Most of the canvas was burned, only thing showing was the woman's face. Follow me. I want to show you something.”
Bryant picked his way through debris to a charred wooden staircase. “See the burn pattern? Someone used an accelerant. The
top step appears to be the point of origin. In the kitchen we found remnants of a Kitty Litter bag and a metal gas container, the kind you'd use for a lawn mower. Kitty Litter burns like a sonofabitch if you douse it with a flammable liquid.”
“Any chance the killer might have burned himself?” Frank asked.
Bryant scratched his jaw. “I dunno, but he would’ve had to be real careful. We haven’t figured out how he started it yet. Sometimes it's impossible, but we’ll keep at it. The car in the garage was fully engulfed when the fire crew arrived. Providence PD had it towed to the state crime lab. Maybe they'll find something.” Bryant said to Hank Flynn, “You think the dead guy stole the Manet?”
Frank glanced at his former boss, wondering what he'd say.
“Maybe,” Flynn said. “But if he did, where are the others?”
_____
Boston – 5:15 PM
Seated in the Toyota, Natalie drank some bottled water, rolled the cool bottle over one cheek, then the other. The sun was an orange disc low in the sky, but it was still hot and humid, no hint of a breeze. When the Saab turned onto the street where her apartment was, she had stopped at the corner, watching to see what Gregor would do. He left the suitcase in the trunk but had activated the Saab's security alarm before he went inside.
Now she was parked around the corner on Tremont Street in the shade of a three-story tenement. She was certain the paintings were in the suitcase, but if she tried to get into the trunk, the alarm would sound and Gregor would be there in seconds, with a gun. To get the paintings she would have to catch him unawares, impossible in broad daylight in a busy neighborhood like this.
Belching smelly exhaust fumes, an MBTA bus stopped across the street and disgorged several passengers, workers headed home for dinner and two teenage boys with backpacks. They called out in Spanish to another teen on a skateboard and ran after him.
She took off the Red Sox cap, pulled off the blond wig and scratched her scalp. Wearing it in this heat was torture. To hell with the wig. She stowed it in the duffel and checked herself in the visor mirror. She still wasn't used to seeing herself with short spiky hair.
