by Susan Fleet
He raised an eyebrow at Hank Flynn, who gestured with his hand. Get on with it.
“Bottom line, Gregor shot himself and we found the paintings in the trunk of his car. But here's the important part. Natalie said Gregor wasn't the leader of the art heist gang. Jonathan Pym was.”
“You don't say!” Stanford exclaimed. “Damn it to hell! Pym was the mastermind all along!”
“Yes, but here's the important part. Natalie said she called Pym after the Gardner heist and told him Gregor was planning to double-cross him. Pym wanted her to retrieve the paintings and ship them to him in London. Natalie thought Pym was stealing the paintings for wealthy art collectors, but Pym admitted that he was stealing them for himself. The paintings are in his mansion.”
“Jesus fucking Christ!” Stanford exclaimed, his voice booming over the speakerphone.
Flynn raised his glass in a mock-toast and smiled at Frank. Frank nodded his agreement.
“Pardon my language,” Stanford said, “but after all these months, searching for these wretched art thieves, and all along the paintings were right here in London. Bloody unbelievable. I'll round up my detectives and get over there straightaway.”
“The sooner the better,” Frank said. “Pretty soon the news will break that we recovered the paintings.”
Flynn got his attention, indicating he wanted to speak. “DCI Stanford, Hank Flynn here. Hate to butt in, but do you need probable cause for a warrant to search his mansion?”
“Pleasure to meet you,” Stanford said. “Good point. Might take me a while to get it.”
“I don't know the system over there,” Flynn said, “but we found a murdered woman in Pym's Boston office. Global Interpreting. We believe Gregor Kraus killed her. Will that help?”
“Should do,” Stanford said. “Forgive me, but I'm still in shock. Did Natalie say how many paintings were in Pym's mansion?”
“No,” Frank said. “I don't think she knew. She never saw them.”
“My thanks to both of you for letting me know,” Stanford said. “I'd best be off.”
“Good luck,” Frank said. “Call me after you do the search.”
Flynn ended the call and said, “This guy, Jonathan Pym, was running the art heist gang?”
“So Natalie said. We'll see what DCI Stanford finds at his mansion. Wealthy guy, he's probably got six lawyers on staff to defend him.”
“Be tough to defend if they find a treasure trove of stolen art in his house.”
Frank remained silent. He was happy they'd recovered the Gardner paintings, even happier that Hank Flynn would get credit for it, but the fact that Natalie had escaped was eating a hole in his gut.
Natalie was gone and they weren't going to find her.
He slugged down some Glenlivet, brooding as depressing images entered his mind. Natalie crossing the Canadian border in a rental car. Natalie on a train, wearing a blond wig. Natalie at an airport boarding gate, bound for who knows where.
Exhausted, he massaged his eyes and yawned. He needed sleep, but he wouldn't get any tonight. He was too angry. The physical symptoms—rapid heartbeat, flushed face, acid stomach—had lessened, but his fury would remain. Where's Natalie?
For two years those words had haunted him, ever present in his mind. Now they were back with a vengeance.
_____
London – 5:45 AM
Jonathan Pym sank onto the leather recliner in his library and closed his eyes. He hadn't slept all night. How could he after seeing the bulletin on the late evening news? One of the paintings stolen from the Gardner Museum had been destroyed. Not one of the Vermeers, but still. Manet's magnificent painting, burned in a fire. How could anyone do such a thing?
His eyes snapped open. Gregor had done it.
In addition to the Vermeers, Gregor had stolen a Rembrandt and a Manet and kept them for himself. Waiting for Jonathan Pym to die so he could sell them and make millions. After all he'd done for the man! Giving him a place to live when he got out of prison, paying him handsomely to steal the artworks, and Gregor had betrayed him.
A sudden cough wracked him. He pulled out a tissue and spat into it, a bolus of phlegm tinged pink with blood. He glanced at the brandy snifter on the table in front of the recliner. Not his usual cognac, the special cocktail he had prepared.
Yesterday, he had gone to his solicitor and changed his will. Gregor was no longer a beneficiary. Valerie would get Gregor's share. He'd put the statement he’d written in an envelope, sealed it and had his solicitor notarize his signature on the envelope. Without mentioning Valerie, his declaration detailed Gregor's role in the art heists and the deaths of the security guards and included the photographs he had taken of Gregor.
His posthumous revenge.
A copy of the statement was on the table beside the cocktail.
The police had recovered the Manet, but where were the others?
He reached in the pocket of his dressing gown and took out a postcard. Woman in Blue Reading a Letter. The painting was in his basement museum, but he didn’t have the strength to go down and look at it. For years he had enjoyed the artistry of Vermeer's masterpiece. But no more.
Tears filled his eyes. He loved all his paintings, but the Vermeer was his favorite. Imbued with a stillness that defied description, the painting was a mystery. The whereabouts of the Vermeers Valerie had stolen was also a mystery. The Lacemaker and The Milkmaid, not to mention the Rembrandt Self-Portrait.
Valerie hadn't called him, and when he called her cellphone, she didn't answer. In the end, perhaps she had betrayed him, too.
But the final insult would come after he died. Gregor's penchant for violence would sully his reputation. Prior to the Ashmolean heist, no one had died during any of the robberies. But Gregor had ordered Valerie to shoot the security guard.
When his solicitor opened his will and released his dying declaration to the press, Jonathan Pym would be vilified. Scorned like his larcenous father. Reviled like Van Meegeren, the painter of fake Vermeers.
The police would dig up the dirt and discover his shabby origins. His hard-earned reputation would go belly up.
But there was nothing he could do about that. Only one thing remained within his control.
He leaned forward and picked up the snifter with the cocktail he had prepared. Time to drink the hemlock.
Holding the snifter in both hands, he raised it to his mouth and drank every drop.
CHAPTER 43
Tuesday July 13, 2010 – 4:35 PM
“You think the boy will be okay there?” Frank asked. “Jaylen?”
Rafe didn't answer right away, sipped his beer, then said, “Seemed happy enough playing with Lateesha's boy. Probably the best place for him, his father being in prison and all. Lateesha was all torn up about Jamilla. Worried about Jaylen, too. She'll look after him.”
Frank took out his cellphone and placed it on the bar beside his Heineken. He was expecting an important call and he didn't want to miss it. Lonny's Tavern, their usual watering hole near Rafe's house in Dorchester, was quiet now, but when people got out of work, it would get busy fast.
“Did you tell him about his mother?”
“Not me, man. Figured it'd be better if Lateesha did it, you know, pick the right time, the right place.”
Based on what Natalie had told him, they had located the stolen Chevrolet mini-van in Revere. A brutal discovery, three bodies decomposing in the heat, the sun beating down on the storage locker. The security guards, Anthony Falcone and Charles Lawson, were easy to identify. Jamilla Wells was tougher. She had on a Boston PD uniform so they contacted Human Resources, identified her and found out she had a son. Rafe had taken it upon himself to locate the boy.
“Tough break for Johnny Perkins,” Frank said.
“Yeah,” Rafe said. “Had a wife and two kids and a bum ticker. Take twenty thousand volts from a Taser, heart attacks can happen. I figure Nicholas Kwan killed Jamilla Wells and the security guards. Had a history, you know, killed two cop
s in San Francisco.”
Frank nodded and yawned. He hadn't slept for two days. He checked his cellphone, willing it to ring. Nothing doing. “Gregor let him do the dirty work. Natalie stole the Vermeers. Kwan took the others.”
“And Gregor burned him alive.” Rafe shook his head. “Man, that guy gave me the creeps. Did you see his hands? Serious burn scars. Wonder who did it?”
“I don't know. According to DCI Stanford, his father was an enforcer for a London gang. Gregor joined the gang when he was twelve, took over his father's job a few years later and eventually wound up in prison. After he got out, he hooked up with Jonathan Pym and started stealing art for him.”
Two hours ago Stanford had called Frank from London. Pym had swallowed a cocktail laced with poison, but Stanford found a note directing them to his basement museum. Stanford and his men had found a dozen stolen paintings. Stanford was thrilled. Not only did it solve most of his art heist cases, he could return the paintings to their rightful owners.
“So they're all dead,” Rafe said. “Pym, the mastermind, Gregor Kraus, the enforcer, and Nicholas Kwan, the insider guard.”
“Natalie isn't,” Frank snapped. “She's still out there somewhere.”
“She got a hold on you,” Rafe said.
Frank looked at him, incredulous. “What, you think I'm in love with her?”
“No. Different kind of attraction. To you, she's a puzzle.”
He sipped his beer and thought about it. Natalie was a puzzle all right, one their brief talk at the train station hadn't solved. Two years ago he'd read the diary she had kept after her mother was murdered, but it left too many unanswered questions. She had a rough childhood, but lots of kids grew up in difficult circumstances and didn't become criminals. What drove her to take revenge on her mother's killer? Why get involved with an art heist gang? And a zillion other questions he wanted to ask.
“She should be in jail,” he said. “She killed people.
“So have I,” Rafe said, gazing at him, his dark eyes somber. “And so have you. That nutcase down in New Orleans?”
“That was different. He was about to kill two people.”
“It was a righteous shoot, Frank, no question. Mine was too, comes down to it. What I'm saying, you make your own prison. You kill someone, it's not something you forget.”
Frank couldn't argue with that. Years ago a little girl had died when Frank and another detective had executed an arrest warrant. If he shut his eyes, he could still see her face.
“Pretty resourceful,” Rafe said, “planting a bug on Gregor's car so she could track him.”
Irritated, he said, “Don't rub it in. We put her in a police cruiser, handcuffed, and she still got away.”
“Not rubbing it in, man. Just saying.” Rafe slugged down some beer and ate a pretzel.
“Someone's helping her. How'd she get the handcuffs off?”
“Who knows? Natalie likes to walk on the wild side, takes risks like a certain homicide detective I know.”
“Cut the psychobabble, Rafe.”
“She could have killed you two years ago but she didn't. Didn't kill Gregor, either. We figured she rode to the train station with Gregor, but maybe she had a car and followed him there.”
Frank stared at him. “Jesus! Why didn't I think of that?”
Rafe grinned and mock-punched his arm. “I work the Gang Unit now, but I used to work Homicide, remember? We find the car maybe we can figure out where she's going. They re-opened the garage at five this morning so folks could retrieve their cars, but the security cameras will capture the plate numbers or the EZ-Pass numbers of every vehicle that left the garage.”
Frank doubted this would help him find Natalie. She was gone. He wished Hank would hurry up and call. After the crime lab techs found the bug on the Saab, Hank had called the tracking company, but they refused to tell him the client's name, address and, most importantly, the number of the cellphone where they sent the tracking information.
“I should have driven her to the station myself.”
“Woulda, coulda, shoulda. Let it go, Frank. We got plenty of other crooks to catch.”
His cellphone rang and his heart sped up. He grabbed it and said, “Hey, Hank, did you get anything?”
“Yes. The security company decided to cooperate when they found out their client was wanted for murder. Here's what I got so far. Name, Valerie Brown. Mailing address, a UPS store on Huntington Avenue. They're still sending information to her cellphone. Here's the number.”
He took out a pen and wrote the number on a napkin.
“Better call her quick,” Flynn said. “Georgette will have this information inside of an hour.”
“Will do. Thanks a million, Hank.” He shut his cellphone and said to Rafe, “Thanks, man. You helped break the case.”
“Hey, we were a team for a while, working Homicide, playing hoop. You ever think about coming back? Point guard we got now is okay, but not as good as you.”
Recalling the good times they'd had, Frank felt a pang of nostalgia. “I miss playing hoop and hanging with you was always great, Rafe. I miss Boston, too, but Kelly and I are pretty tight.”
“Bring her with you, man. Boston PD could use another good detective.”
Frank laughed. “We'll see. Kelly's got a mind of her own. She had fun when she was up here, though. It's about time you came to New Orleans. Send the kids to Grandma's for school vacation in February, take a break from the ice and snow, you and Willow come down and stay in my condo. It's in the French Quarter, near the clubs on Frenchman Street. We'll listen to some sounds.”
Rafe grinned. “Sounds like a plan. I'll work on it. Go call Natalie.”
_____
O'Hare International Airport, Chicago – 3:52 PM Central Time
Natalie rolled her carry-on bag to the far corner of the gate area, set her duffel bag beside it and sank onto an empty seat. Still exhausted by her nerve-wracking escape, she yawned, replaying it in her mind. After leaving the highway in the cruiser, she had pulled over, shut off the flashing lights and called Pak Lam. Ten minutes later Feng arrived and removed the handcuffs with bolt cutters. She followed him to a strip mall and left the cruiser there. Then Feng had driven her to the Royal Dragon.
Picturing Pak Lam's delighted expression when he opened the door, she smiled.
“Congratulations,” he'd said. “I saw a bulletin on TV. The police recovered the stolen paintings. You have fulfilled your promise. Not only that, you escaped your captors. You must tell me about this.” Over soothing cups of jasmine tea, she told him. Then he had explained the plan he had devised. “In three hours Feng will drive you to North Station. The train to Chicago leaves at 7:10 AM.”
The sound of high-pitched voices drew her attention. A slender young woman with two towheaded toddlers claimed seats on the row perpendicular to hers. The kids seemed excited, bright eyes and smiling faces, talking in piping voices though she couldn't hear what they said. Maybe this was their first plane ride. The mother took out a package of Goldfish crackers and poured some into their tiny hands.
Natalie opened her duffel and took out the mathematics textbook Feng had bought to go with her Liang Lam disguise: short dark hair neatly combed, a long-sleeve gray sweatshirt with MIT on the front, stonewashed jeans and black loafers. Before they left for the train station, she had bidden Pak Lam a tearful farewell. He gave her two thousand dollars—a parting gift, he'd said—kissed her on both cheeks and wished her a safe journey. At the station there were police officers with dogs, but Feng acted like her big brother, chattering away as he walked her to the correct platform. “Do not worry about the Toyota. I will drive my brother there to get it.” Before she boarded the train, Feng had smiled and said, “Your disguise is perfect. You look like a geeky grad student on break from his studies at MIT.”
But at the airport security checkpoint, a man in a TSA uniform noticed her MIT sweatshirt and said, “Good school. My brother went there.” The one factor her disguise cou
ldn't alter was the pitch of her voice. Fearing it would betray her, she smiled and said nothing. The TSA officer had waved her through.
The long-sleeved sweatshirt concealed the bandage on her arm. The wound hardly hurt at all now, but her muscles were stiff from riding the train all day. She flexed her shoulders, then her neck. In forty minutes she would board the plane. Then she could relax. She might even be able to sleep. After she reached her final destination, she would let her hair grow back and live as Liang Lam's sister, Ling Lam.
Her iPhone rang. Assuming it was Pak Lam calling to bid her a final farewell, she took it out of the duffel. Then she saw the caller ID.
Her heart slammed her ribs. Frank Renzi.
How did he get her number? The phone chimed insistently. If she didn't answer, would he keep calling?
Slinging her duffel over her shoulder, she towed her suitcase out of the waiting area. The gate area across the concourse was vacant, awaiting passengers for a plane scheduled for a midnight departure. A handful of passengers sat in the row of seats facing the concourse, but the gate area was empty.
The phone kept ringing. She hurried to the far corner, took a deep breath and pressed Talk. “How did you get my number?”
After a brief silence, Renzi said, “You’re resourceful, Natalie, but so am I. You got away, but I'll find you eventually.”
She loved the sound of his voice, but his words sent icy chills down her neck. I'll find you eventually.
“Where are you? In an airport?”
Fearing he had tracked her to Chicago, she anxiously looked around to see if anyone was watching her. But no one was paying her any attention. She was just a young guy in an MIT sweatshirt talking on a cellphone.
“I'm glad you found the paintings,” she said.
“Pym's dead, did you know that?”
