Natalie's Art: a Frank Renzi novel

by Susan Fleet

  Rafe nodded, his eyes fixed on the door as they reached the top of the stairs. Both of them sweating, both of them hyper-alert.

  Suddenly, there was a gunshot.

  Instinctively, they flinched and ducked their heads. Rafe inched forward to the door and peered through the window. Moments later, he waved to Frank and said, “There's a body lying in a pool of blood.”

  When they entered the garage, Frank spotted the olive-green Saab. Beyond it, a twenty-foot trail of blood drew them to a body near a low cement wall beyond the car lane. Gregor Kraus lay in a pool of blood, a gunshot exit wound in the back of his head. Beside his hand, a snub-nosed Smith & Wesson lay on the cement. They would get no answers from Gregor.

  “Ate his gun,” Frank said. “Put it in his mouth and pulled the trigger.”

  “Check out his bloody knees,” Rafe said. “Must have hurt like a sonofabitch.”

  Frank turned and walked back to the Saab, parked nose out opposite Gregor's body. Using the car keys Natalie had given him, he opened the trunk. Inside, a gray-fabric suitcase lay open on the floor of the trunk. On top of a green hand towel was The Lacemaker. Frank checked under the towel. To his relief, the other two paintings were there.

  “We got them!” Rafe exclaimed, his dark-skinned face wreathed in a smile.

  “Yes, we did.” But he wasn't ready to celebrate yet.

  He took out his cellphone. “I'll give Hank the good news. Then I'm going down and talk to Natalie.”

  CHAPTER 41

  When Frank told the two District-4 detectives guarding Natalie that Gregor was dead and the stolen art was in the Saab, Hank's detectives were jubilant. They wanted Hank to get credit for finding the stolen art, too. Frank sent them upstairs to guard the Saab. As soon as they left, he said to Rafe, “I want to talk to Natalie. Alone.”

  “I got no problem with it,” Rafe said, expressionless. “But other people might.”

  “Two years I've been waiting to question her.”

  “Better make it quick,” Rafe said. “The federales'll be here soon.”

  Frank's heart thrummed in his chest. At last, the moment he'd been waiting for, the confrontation he'd fantasized about for two years, a face-to-face meeting with Natalie Brixton.

  He opened the back door, got in the car and shut the door.

  Natalie gazed at him, her eyes wide and unblinking. Some said the eyes were a window to a person's soul, but Natalie's eyes revealed nothing. For someone about to be charged with felony art theft and murder, she appeared calm and collected. If she was scared, she hid it well.

  “That day in the alley,” he said. “You could have killed me but you didn't. Why?”

  “I didn't want to kill you,” she said, gazing into his eyes. “I never wanted to kill anyone.”

  “You killed Tex Conroy and Arnold Peterson and Chip Beaubien.”

  “I didn't want to shoot Tex, but I had to. I was afraid he'd tell someone I was in New Orleans before I could find Chip.”

  “And kill him.”

  “He deserved it. Did you listen to the tape I sent you?”

  “Yes. But Chip Beaubien didn't kill your mother.”

  “But he used women, just like his father. He took me to that cheap motel and tried to rape me. Even after I played the Peterson tape for him, he wouldn't admit his father murdered her.” A muscle worked in her jaw. “He called my mother a cheap whore. What did he know? She needed the money. Bobo paid her for sex and when she wouldn't do what he wanted, he put his hands around her neck and strangled her.”

  “What about Oliver James? You killed him, too.”

  Natalie stared into space, and a vein pulsed in her throat. Then she looked at him and said, “How did you get that scar on your chin?”

  “I got another one on my leg where you shot me. Want to see it?”

  “I'm sorry. I'm sorry I stole the paintings, too. What did Gregor say?”

  “Gregor's dead. He shot himself.”

  Natalie's lips parted in a silent gasp. At last she said, “Gregor was an evil man. He planned the heists, but Jonathan Pym paid him to do it.”

  Finally, he was getting some answers. “Pym masterminded those art heists in Europe?”

  “Yes. How did you hear about them?”

  “Never mind. How did you get mixed up with them?”

  “Jonathan Pym recruited me. I met him when I was working for an escort service in London. I thought he was stealing the paintings for wealthy collectors, but he wasn't.”

  “How do you know?”

  She flexed her shoulders, trying to get comfortable, he assumed. Or maybe she was buying time to get her story straight.

  “It's complicated,” she said. “Pym wanted me to steal two Vermeers from the Special Exhibit at the Gardner, but Gregor was in charge.” Her lips tightened. “Gregor was always in charge. He hired Nicholas, the insider guard. I didn't know it, but Gregor told him to steal two more paintings and kill me after I stole the Vermeers. Gregor was going to keep the paintings and sell them after Pym died.”

  “But Nicholas kept the paintings. So Gregor killed him.”

  “Yes. Everyone was lying. Pym, Gregor and Nicholas.”

  “Well, they say there's no honor among thieves.”

  She regarded him for several seconds, unblinking. He wondered what she was thinking, but her eyes revealed nothing.

  At last, she said, “After Nicholas tried to kill me I called Pym and told him Gregor was going to double-cross him. That's when I found out Pym had been lying to me all along. He was stealing paintings for himself, not some wealthy collector. They're in his mansion in London.”

  “In his mansion?” Frank said, dumbfounded. “All of them?”

  “Yes. Pym said he was dying. He wanted me to find the Vermeers and ship them to him. He wanted me to kill Gregor.” Her eyes bored into him. For the first time they showed a hint of emotion, a silent plea for understanding. “I could have, you know, instead of shooting him in the knee. But I had no intention of killing Gregor. I wasn't going to ship the paintings to Pym, either. I wanted to return them to their rightful owners. That's why I left them in the Saab. So you could do it.”

  She gazed at him, her almond eyes large and dark and compelling. He saw no signs of deceit in them. Maybe she was sorry for stealing the paintings. Now that he'd caught her. Maybe she thought she could work a deal to avoid prosecution, and jail time.

  Not if he could help it. “What happened to the Manet?”

  “Gregor said there was a rip in the canvas, so he left it there.”

  “Gregor set the fire?”

  She hesitated, then shrugged. “I guess so. Nicholas killed the other guards and a policewoman. He told me to put the Vermeers in the rear compartment of a Chevrolet mini-van parked in the courtyard behind the museum. So I did. But I smelled this horrible odor, the odor of death. A dead woman in a police uniform was on the front seat. Then Nicholas attacked me with a knife. He gashed my arm, but I escaped.”

  Which explained the bandage on her arm. Frank wished he had a tape recorder. Natalie seemed eager to tell him what she knew. But even if he did, it would never hold up in court. He hadn't given her the Miranda warning.

  “Where's the van?”

  “It might be in a storage facility in Revere. Gregor drove me there once. I stayed in the car, but he might have rented a storage unit.” She licked her lips. “Could I have some water? I'm very thirsty.”

  “Sure, hold on.” She had cooperated so far. No reason not to reward her with a drink.

  When he got out of the car, Rafe said, “How's it going?”

  “Singing like a canary, but she's thirsty. Can you get me a bottled water?”

  _____

  She sat in the back of the cruiser, speeding down the highway, lights flashing, siren wailing, feeling sick to her stomach. The grim reality of her situation had finally sunk in. Talking to Frank Renzi at the train station, mesmerized by his dark penetrating eyes and his deep melodious voice, she had forgotten what l
ay ahead.

  Telling him the story—most of it anyway—had been a relief. This time when she told him she had intended to return the paintings, it seemed as though he believed her. Maybe. A little bit anyway. But in the end it didn't matter. He had given her a bottle of water, put her in this police cruiser and told the cop to take her to the District-4 station and put her in a holding cell.

  Her stomach cramped, a violent spasm. She'd seen enough cop shows on TV to know they would strip-search her.

  Then they would find the iPhone and the passports. Game over.

  Tears blurred her vision. Thirty minutes from now she would be in a jail cell. For the rest of her life, probably. The Boston cops would charge her with the murder of Oliver James. Premeditated murder, which meant life without parole in Massachusetts.

  She studied the man behind the wheel, a young cop with a baby face, light-brown hair and a blackhead on his neck. Every so often he checked her in the rearview. What did he think she was going to do? She couldn't get out of the car. There were no door handles and she was handcuffed. But not like before. Renzi had removed the handcuffs and cuffed her hands in front so she could drink the water.

  An image of Oliver James blindsided her. You killed him, too. Renzi's accusation. Her stomach heaved and bile rose in her throat, filling her mouth with a sour acid taste. She choked it down.

  But the hideous taste gave her an idea. She concentrated hard, tensed her stomach muscles and thought about disgusting things, maggots crawling on spoiled food, slimy okra, her most hated vegetable.

  Bile spewed into her throat. This time she didn't swallow, she spit up on the floor. “Pull over,” she moaned. “I'm going to throw up.”

  The cop frowned at her in the rearview mirror and eased into the middle lane.

  “Hurry,” she said. “I can't hold it.” She forced up another stream of bile and spat on the floor. The smell was disgusting, remnants of the chicken tortilla she'd eaten this afternoon.

  The cop pulled into the breakdown lane and shut off the siren. She waited tensely, planning her moves. He was six feet tall, but she was wearing her black pumps with the steel-reinforced heels. If she focused hard and used her acting skills, she might be able to disable him.

  He got out, circled the car and opened the back door. “Get out,” he said, frowning at her. “I don't want my cruiser smelling like a toilet.”

  Moaning piteously, she swung her legs out of the car. The cop took her arm and helped her out. She staggered forward onto the grassy area beside the breakdown lane, fell to her knees and vomited, spewing out the disgusting contents of her stomach. She waited a moment, gathered her strength, then struggled to her feet, wiped her mouth on her sleeve and gave him her sad-look.

  “I'm sorry I puked in your car. Can I have some water to rinse out my mouth? There's a bottle of water in the back seat.”

  “Okay. Wait here and don't move.” The cop went to the rear door and leaned into the cruiser. As cars on the highway sped past them at 65 mph, she concentrated on what she had to do.

  The cop backed out of the cruiser, holding the bottle of water in his hand. Focusing her energy, she executed a Taekwondo spin move and kicked him in the head with every ounce of energy she could muster.

  He fell to the ground beside the cruiser. She pounced on him, squatted beside his head and located the Dokko point below his ear. Many sensitive nerve endings lie below the skin, but her Taekwondo teacher had said too much pressure on this Dokko point could kill, and she didn't want to kill him. She made a knuckle fist with two fingers and pressed it against the Dokko point, but not too hard.

  The cop's eyes rolled up in his head and his body went limp. But she wasn't free yet. People in the cars on the highway couldn't see him lying on the ground beside the cruiser, but someone might come along and wonder why a police cruiser with flashing lights was parked at the side of the road. And she was wearing handcuffs.

  A distant siren sent her heart racing. She crouched beside the fender of the cruiser and surveyed the highway. Off in the distance a police car with flashing lights was coming this way. She returned to the cop. A set of keys was attached to his belt. One of them might unlock the handcuffs. Unfortunately, she had no idea which one.

  And now the flashing blues were closer. Her heart beat her chest like a moth at a 100-watt bulb.

  Frantic, she dragged the cop away from the cruiser and rolled him into a gully. Gasping for breath, she ran around the cruiser and got behind the wheel. Although her hands were cuffed together and shaking badly, she managed to release the handbrake, put the gearshift in Drive and eased the cruiser into the travel lane.

  The lights on the light-bar were still flashing. Miraculously, cars moved out of her way. Could she really get away with this? She accelerated, got in the middle lane, then the high-speed lane. The other cruiser with the flashing lights was still behind her, but not gaining on her.

  She stomped the accelerator. The needle on the speedometer surged to seventy then eighty. Unwilling to celebrate, scarcely daring to hope, she concentrated on the road.

  Suddenly, a voice said, “Officer Brennan, what's your twenty?”

  Her heart slammed her chest. The police radio!

  If they kept calling Officer Brennan and he didn't answer, they might send a cruiser to find him.

  She had to get off the highway and call the Mountain Man.

  CHAPTER 42

  “Where is he?” Frank said as he stormed into the District-4 lobby. “The fucking idiot that lost my prisoner. Where is he?” Several heads turned. He knew he was losing it, but he was too angry to care.

  Behind him, Rafe grabbed his arm and said in a low voice, “Cool it, Frank. Wrong time, wrong place. The boss just got off the elevator.”

  He turned, saw Hank Flynn and strode over to him. “Where's the sonofabitch that lost her? I want to talk to him.”

  Stone-faced, Flynn said, “Come up to my office and I'll tell you.”

  “You gonna tell me where she is? You gonna tell me how to find her?”

  Flynn's blue eyes grew cold. “Zip it, Renzi. Get in the elevator. We'll talk in my office.”

  Seething, Frank set his jaw and stabbed the call button. The elevator doors opened and he stepped inside. His cheeks were red-hot and his heart was pounding his chest like a Force-5 hurricane. He put his thumb on the Door-Open button and stood there, fuming.

  Outside the elevator, Flynn said, “Great work, Rafe. Thanks for your help. I put Frank in charge because we worked the Oliver James murder together. I knew he was hot to find Natalie.”

  “Glad I could help,” Rafe said. “Frank and I go back a ways, played hoop on the D-4 basketball team for years.” Rafe grinned. “I still play center, clog up the lane, Frank played point guard and ran the plays. It works out. Well, most times it does, except, you know, when his Irish temper acts up.”

  Flynn clapped Rafe on the shoulder. “Let's talk tomorrow,” he said, and got in the elevator.

  Frank did nothing to ease the tense silence as they rode the elevator to the third floor and walked down the hall to Flynn's office. Flynn shut the door and locked it, went to a metal cabinet in the corner and took out two glasses. Too wired to sit still, Frank paced back and forth in front of Flynn's desk.

  “Frank, I know you're pissed, but going postal doesn't solve anything. Have a seat.” Flynn opened a desk drawer and took out a pint bottle of Glenlivet. He poured scotch into both glasses, set one in front of Frank and said, “Sorry. I don't have any ice.”

  He took a big gulp and the single-malt scotch burned down his throat. He was still furious, but it wasn't Hank's fault that Natalie escaped.

  “You're right, Hank. Sorry I lost it, but we had her. And now she's gone.”

  “We might get her. I put out an APB with the description you gave me, with the short dark hair.” Flynn sipped his scotch. “Officer Brennan's in Boston Med Center with a helluva lump on his head. He's got a concussion so they'll keep him overnight. Marty's with him now. We fou
nd the cruiser in Dorchester, parked outside a mini-mall.”

  “I should have known she'd try to escape.” Even now he could hardly believe it.

  “She was locked in a cruiser in handcuffs,” Flynn said. “The odds on her escaping were pretty slim.”

  Frank fingered the scar on his chin. Not with Natalie.

  “Believe it or not, she was pretty cooperative at first. She said the paintings were in the trunk of the Saab, told me where it was and gave me the keys. She also told me who the mastermind was. Which reminds me, I need to call DCI Stanford in London.”

  He glanced at the clock. 11:05 PM. Five hours ahead in London. 4:05 AM. Not a good time to roust Len Stanford out of bed, but he had to tell him about the other stolen paintings. “Can I use your phone to call him? Put it on speaker so I don't have to explain twice?”

  Flynn sipped his Glenlivet and smiled. “Frank. You recovered the paintings. Give me the number. I'll call him now, let you talk to him.”

  A minute later, Frank heard Stanford, obviously groggy with sleep, croak, “Hello?”

  “Len, it’s Frank Renzi. Sorry to wake you at this hour but I've got news and it's urgent. Just so you know, my boss, Lt. Colonel Harrison Flynn is listening in. That okay with you?”

  “No problem,” Stanford said. “What in blazes happened? Before I went to bed I saw a bulletin on the news, something about a fire and the stolen Manet, but no details.”

  “Gregor Kraus and Natalie Brixton pulled the heist, same MO as your heists over there. Gregor hired an insider guard, but the guard double-crossed him and kept the paintings. Gregor killed him and took the paintings.”

  “What happened with the Manet?” Stanford asked.

  “According to Natalie, Gregor said there was a big tear in the canvas, so he left it to burn in the fire. The fire chief said it was in bad shape.”

  “Bloody rotters,” Stanford said. “What about the other paintings? Did you recover them?”

  “Yes. We tracked Gregor and Natalie to a train station. Natalie claimed she wanted to return them, but Gregor didn't. By then we were at the station. She wounded Gregor so he couldn't escape and left the paintings in the trunk of his car. She tried to escape but I caught her.”