Natalie's Art: a Frank Renzi novel

by Susan Fleet

  No telling how long she'd have to wait for Gregor to make a move. Time for a bathroom break. A small grocery store was right down the street. She took her iPhone and wallet out of the duffel, put on the Red Sox cap and left the Toyota. Eager to flex her cramped muscles, she stood beside the car and did two minutes of stretching exercises. The odor of grilling meat drifting from the tenement porch was making her hungry.

  A steady stream of traffic passed her as she walked the two blocks to the store, passing neighborhood residents chattering in Spanish as they headed home from work. The signs on the store window were also in Spanish. She stepped inside, nodded to the clerk behind the counter and spotted two coolers in the back of the store. A dark-haired teenaged girl in white shorts and a pink halter top grinned at her as they squeezed past each other in the cramped aisle.

  Natalie took a large bottle of water out of one cooler. Her stomach rumbled. All she'd eaten since her room service breakfast—a cheese omelet—was the peanut-butter power bar. Other than salsa, she wasn't fond of Latino food, but the chicken tortilla in the adjacent cooler looked good. She put it in her basket and headed for the checkout counter. On the way she passed a shelf with fresh fruit. She added a red delicious apple to her basket and went to the register. “Hot out today,” she said, smiling at the clerk, a young Hispanic man with dark eyes.

  The clerk nodded and rang up her purchases. She paid him and said, “Is there a restroom I could use?”

  “Si,” he said, pointing toward the rear of the store.

  “Gracias,” she said, which pretty much exhausted her Spanish vocabulary.

  The restroom was a unisex one-seater but clean. She used the toilet, washed her hands and face, thanked the clerk again and left the store.

  Heat hit her like a blast furnace. Two blocks away, the spires of the Mission Church soared into the dusky sky. On the news this morning most of the stories were about the Gardner heist, nothing about the murdered man at the Mission Church. Had the cabbie who'd driven her there contacted the police? She hoped not. She had enough to worry about already.

  She got in the Toyota, lowered the windows and stowed the bottled water and the apple on the passenger seat. Enjoying the spicy taste and the moist savory chicken, she devoured the chicken tortilla. Her hunger satisfied, she balled up the wrapper, put it in the plastic grocery bag and drank some water.

  In five minutes, the six o'clock news would be on. Gregor was probably watching TV in her apartment, monitoring updates on the Gardner heist. Would he sleep there again tonight? She couldn't sleep here in the car. Maybe she should go back to the hotel.

  But not yet. She would wait until it got dark. She took a bite of her shiny red apple. Juicy and delicious, as promised.

  _____

  Providence – 5:55 PM

  “Call the owner again,” Georgette said, and gave the police chief a stern look.

  “I just called her five minutes ago,” DeNunzio said.

  “Doesn't she have a cellphone?” Georgette asked.

  With a look of disgust, DeNunzio walked away from Georgette and dug out his cellphone.

  Twenty feet away, standing in the shade of the burned-out cottage, Frank murmured, “She's not endearing herself with the chief.”

  Beside him, Flynn said quietly, “No surprise there.”

  “You think the corpse is Daniel Leone?”

  “Wouldn't surprise me,” Flynn said, his eyes trained on DeNunzio as the chief talked on his cellphone.

  Five minutes later, DeNunzio shut his cellphone and approached them, ignoring Georgette, but she rushed over to join them anyway.

  “I talked to the owner,” he said. “Bertha Smolinski. She doesn't live here, but her brother does. Burt Smolinski.” DeNunzio’s lip curled. “He’s a convicted sex offender, did time in New Jersey, got out ten years ago and came to Providence. God knows why.”

  “Any offenses here?” Flynn asked.

  “One. He served two years. Way too little, but judges these days ...”

  “Maybe he was involved in the Gardner heist,” Georgette said.

  Studiously ignoring her, DeNunzio said to Hank Flynn, “He's on probation so I called his control officer. Burt's supposed to check in once a week, but last week he didn't.”

  “Does he have a job?” Frank asked.

  “According to the CO, he works for some outfit in Boston. Global Interpreting.”

  Frank wanted to kiss the guy. He glanced at Flynn, who wore his poker-faced look.

  “Call them,” Georgette said. “Maybe they know something.”

  Flynn nudged Frank and headed for his Ford Expedition, walking fast. When Frank got in the cruiser, Flynn was already dialing a number on his cellphone. “I'm calling Marty, get him started on that search warrant.”

  “Great. Mind if I call Rafe and let him in on the search?”

  “Good idea. Tell him to meet Marty at the District-4 station. Hopefully, Marty will have the search warrant approved by the time we get there. We'll pick them up and go straight to Global Interpreting. Damn! We finally got a break.”

  “No sense sharing with Georgette,” Frank said, deadpan.

  Flynn smiled. “Exactly.”

  CHAPTER 37

  7:20 PM

  Marta outlined the triangle on her yellow legal pad in heavy black lines and slammed the pen down on the desk. Damn Gregor to hell! He’d promised to meet her at seven. Now it was 7:20. He wasn't the one who had to deal with the cops. The black cop was bad enough, badgering her with questions. Renzi was far worse, threatening her, skewering her with his bloodsucking eyes, thrusting his chin with the jagged white scar at her. If the feds got into the files, it was all over.

  “Merde!” she shouted, her voice bouncing off the oak-paneled walls.

  She grabbed her bottle of Perrier and chugged half of it.

  Ten minutes ago, she had called Gregor's cellphone. Knowing her voice was too shrill—Gregor hated that—but unable to control it, she said, “Aren’t you coming? It’s ten past seven!”

  “Relax,” he'd said. “I'm on my way.” Which only infuriated her.

  “The Gardner theft. It was you, wasn’t it, Gregor.”

  But he had denied it, his voice an icy dagger in her ear.

  She massaged her throbbing temples. Was he lying? With Gregor it was difficult to tell, especially when she couldn’t see his eyes. Dark eyes that could turn cold and ruthless in an instant.

  A lone tear slid down her cheek. She had survived some painful ordeals in her thirty-nine years, but never had she felt as alone as she did now.

  Gregor was no help. Gregor was the problem.

  _____

  Gregor entered the office and said, “Tell me about these cops.” Seated behind her desk, Marta scowled at him. “The black cop is with Boston PD. I knew the other one was a cop the minute I laid eyes on him! This time he showed me his ID. Frank Renzi, New Orleans PD.”

  Gregor stood his briefcase on the floor beside the desk. “Why does he want to talk to me?”

  “The first time he asked about Ursula. Today he said Stefan Haas died in London. He said you killed him and stole his ID.” Marta raked her fingers through her wavy blond hair, smoothed her slim black skirt, picked up a pen and doodled on the yellow legal pad.

  He almost felt sorry for her. Her distress was obvious, hands fluttering from her hair to her skirt, then grabbing her pen. “Why so worried, Marta? It’s not like you.”

  “Renzi said he'd tell the IRS and INS to investigate the business! Why won’t you talk to him?”

  He said nothing. Find out about the cops first, then make his move.

  “Damn it, Gregor, answer me! What are you hiding? What happened to Ursula?”

  “I don’t know,” he said quietly.

  “You pulled the Gardner heist, didn’t you.” A statement, not a question.

  “No, but I guess I’d better talk to this cop and see what he wants.”

  Her eyes searched his face and her rigid posture relaxed. “When?
”

  Maintaining his smile, he approached the desk. “Soon. I won't make you take all the heat.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Gregor ...”

  She pushed back the chair and rose to her feet. He embraced her and stroked her hair, feeling her breath against his neck.

  “Why can’t things could be the way they were before?” she asked.

  The way they were before? He studied her face, the deep lines around her mouth, the vapid blue eyes. Because you bore me to death.

  He turned her around and brushed the back of her neck with his lips. Her body relaxed and she uttered a low moan. Gripping her head with both hands, he twisted it sharply and heard her neck snap.

  She slumped to the floor. Marta would never know the answers to her questions.

  He hurried down the hall to his office, unlocked the door and went inside. He checked the bathroom to make sure he'd left nothing incriminating behind when he’d packed his things and moved into Valerie's apartment. He opened the medicine cabinet. Empty. Nothing on the vanity, no used towels.

  With a satisfied grunt, he sank onto the high-backed executive chair behind his desk and began opening drawers. He didn't expect to find anything. When he was living in the office, he had used the shredder to destroy any incriminating papers every night before he went to bed. He opened the bottom drawer and smiled.

  He'd forgotten his flask of cognac was there. He put it in his briefcase. No sense leaving it for the cops. He locked his office and returned to the reception area. Marta lay on the floor beside her desk, eyes vacant and staring, her head tilted at an impossible angle. Poor Marta. She had been angry for a long time. Now her worries were over.

  He glanced at the Hals print mounted on the wall above the sofa. Boy With Lute. Marta's choice. Several years ago they had stolen a painting from the Franz Hals Museum in Haalem. Not this one. Pym had ordered a different one—Laughing Boy—and probably got big bucks for it.

  But Pym would get no money from the Gardner heist. Every penny would go into the bank account of Gregor Kraus.

  Grasping Marta's ankles, he dragged her into the hallway. Her linguistic skills had come in handy a few times, but she didn't have the proper temperament to steal art. Marta worried too much. She was fearful, unlike Valerie, who had nerves of steel. Where was Valerie now, he wondered. Unfortunately, he would have to leave Boston without saying goodbye to her.

  He picked up his briefcase and shut off the lights. Cautiously, he opened the door and looked both ways. The hall was deserted. He closed the door, locked it, and left Global Interpreting for the last time.

  _____

  Natalie extended her right leg into the passenger foot-well, flexed it five times and did the same with her left leg. Damn! She was tired of sitting in the car. At 7:15, convinced that Gregor would stay in her apartment all night, she had started the Toyota, intending to return to her hotel. But then her iPhone beeped. Gregor was on the move. A minute later the Saab had stopped at the corner behind her Toyota, turned left and drove down the hill toward Huntington Avenue. After waiting a minute, she had done a U-turn and followed him.

  Now she was parked in the alley opposite the exit from the Copley Place garage where he parked the Saab. She assumed he was in the Global Interpreting office, though she had no idea why. She sipped some water. During the ten-minute ride from Mission Hill, the AC had cooled the Toyota, but now it was stifling again. Even after the sun went down, the temperature remained in the eighties.

  Unable to find a metered space on the street, she had backed the Toyota into the alley, a tight fit but she had no choice. If she had to leave the car, it might be a problem. She could only open the door a few inches. Enclosed in the alley, she could barely hear the distant sounds of traffic on the main street.

  Willing the Saab to appear, she stared at the exit ramp ten yards to her left. What if Gregor stayed the night at Global Interpreting? She was certain he had the paintings. If he decided to leave town in a hurry, she had to be ready. It might be her only chance to recover the paintings. He didn't know she was tracking him, didn't know she had the Beretta. Now the tables were turned. She was the hunter, not Gregor.

  She heard a car coming down the exit ramp and straightened alertly. The Saab barreled down the ramp, continued along the curved roadway to a stop sign and stopped. The Saab began to move forward but suddenly jerked to a halt.

  She heard distant sirens, coming this way. The sirens grew louder and a large blue-and-white police vehicle, some kind of SUV, raced past the Saab with its lights flashing. Another car followed the SUV. That one had no police markings, but its siren was blaring and a blue light on the hood was flashing. Both cars were heading toward the entrance to Copley Place.

  The instant they passed the Saab, Gregor pulled forward, turned right and zoomed away.

  _____

  Riding shotgun in Rafe's unmarked car, Frank saw Flynn’s Ford Expedition screech to a halt outside the entrance to Copley Place. Rafe parked behind it, chortling, “Damn this is fun! I can't wait to see what Marta's got in those file cabinets.”

  Ten minutes ago when Hank had stopped at the District-4 station, Rafe and Marty Talbot stood beside Rafe's car, talking. Frank got out and rode with Rafe. Marty, holding the signed search warrant in hand, had jumped into Flynn's Ford Expedition.

  Curious passers-by exiting Copley Place gawked at Hank and Marty as they left the Expedition with its lights flashing and ran inside. Rafe opened the trunk of his car and took out a battering ram. “I'll carry the ram,” Rafe said. “You take the slim-jim and the pry bar, we'll be set.”

  When they went inside, Hank and Marty were waiting for them at the elevator. Nodding his approval of their forced-entry tools, Flynn said, “You two lead the way. You've been there before.”

  When they got to the Global Interpreting office, it was closed up tight, no lights inside. Frank put the slim-jim and the pry bar on the floor and drew his SIG, thankful he'd brought it with him.

  Marty drew his Glock 9mm as Flynn pounded the door and yelled, “Police! Open up.”

  When there was no response, Flynn said to Rafe, “Open it.”

  Rafe jimmied the pry bar between door and the doorjamb, gave a sharp yank and the door splintered.

  Frank glanced at Marty, who said, “I got your back.”

  Frank kicked open the door, crouched and sprang inside, extending the SIG in front of him. Behind him, Marty and Rafe charged into the office. “Hit the lights!” Frank said.

  The fluorescent ceiling lights flickered on. There was no one in the office, but it had a funky smell. Frank approached the desk. A body was sprawled on the floor of the hall to the left of the desk.

  Behind him, Rafe exclaimed. “Whoa! That's Marta.”

  Frank squatted, felt for a pulse under her jaw, straightened and said, “No pulse, but her skin is still warm.”

  Flynn closed the office door and the four of them clustered around Marta. Her blue eyes were open wide, opaque with death, and her neck was bent at an angle.

  “Someone broke her neck,” Frank said. “Gregor Kraus, probably. His office is down the hall, but the door is closed.”

  “You think he's in there?” Rafe asked.

  “No,” Frank said. “If he killed Marta, he's long gone.”

  “Let’s open it up,” Flynn said, striding down the hall.

  Rafe used the battering ram, and they entered the office. Nobody home.

  “Don’t touch anything,” Flynn said, and took out his cellphone. “I’ll call dispatch and get a crime scene unit over here.” Moments later, he told the dispatcher, “I need a homicide team at Global Interpreting, third floor of Copley Place. Send the CSI techs and alert the medical examiner.” He listened a moment, then said, “No, don't call the DA's office. This will be a hot one. I want to talk to the DA myself.” Flynn closed his cell and smiled tightly. “Georgette will be here soon. Let her argue with the DA.”

  They returned to the reception area. Frank holstered his SIG
and said, “What now?”

  Gesturing at the file cabinets behind the desk, Flynn said, “What are you waiting for? Get going on those files.” He took a thin box of latex gloves out of his pocket and distributed them.

  Marty took the file cabinet labeled Clients and Employees. Frank chose Utilities and Bank Statements. Grumbling about getting the leftovers, Rafe wound up with the cabinet labeled Miscellaneous. While they got to work, Hank called the Suffolk County District Attorney and explained what was happening.

  Frank found a folder for electric bills and set it aside. Another folder held telephone bills. Not what he wanted. He set it aside. Bank Statements was next.

  “Yo!” Rafe exclaimed, waving a sheet of paper. “Dig this! It's a rental car contract for a Saab. Looks like Marta rented it. It's in her name.”

  “Is that the only rental car?” Frank asked.

  “That's it.”

  “Give it to me,” Flynn said. “I'll put out an APB on the Saab.”

  Frank returned to his designated file cabinet. A minute later he found what he was looking for. Credit Cards. “Paydirt! I found cellphone contracts, two of them. One for Marta Ludwig, another for Stefan Haas.”

  “Who's Stefan Haas?” Marty asked. “I thought we were looking for Gregor Kraus.”

  “We are,” Frank said. “But he murdered Stefan Haas in London and stole his identity.”

  “What wireless company did they use?” Flynn asked.

  Frank checked the contract. “All-Tech. Can you get them to ping the Stefan Haas cellphone?”

  “I can try.” Flynn glanced at his watch. “You figure Gregor took off in the Saab?”

  “Yes,” Frank said. “Let's hope he's got his cellphone with him.”

  Flynn nodded. “And let's hope I can find out where he is before Georgette gets here.”

  CHAPTER 38