The Christmas Mystery

by James Patterson

  “And he fooled the French?” I exclaim as if I were shocked. “Mon Dieu!”

  “Then he became a driver. First to Mrs. Dunlop. Now to this Abosch kid at the comedy website. By the way, neither the police nor Domestic Bliss has an address for him, just a post office box in Grand Central.”

  Burke and I are about to turn onto 51st Street. We pause to admire the huge wreath on the front of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. It is lighted with thousands of lights.

  Then I lose interest in the wreath. My mind still lingers on the window of Bergdorf Goodman—the crystal Tour Eiffel a few blocks away, the wrought-iron Tour Eiffel a few thousand miles away.

  I should be used to Burke’s amazing sensitivity, but this time I am truly astonished.

  “You’re thinking of the Paris attacks, aren’t you, Moncrief?” she says.

  “You are a very wise woman, K. Burke.”

  “My heart breaks for you and your countrymen.”

  I nod. Then I say, “I know. I know it does. But enough gloom for now. Tell me. What do you think the next steps should be with Rudy Brunetti?”

  “Let’s go pick him up and find out what the story is, yes?”

  I speak slowly, thoughtfully.

  “No. I have another idea. Let us wait a few hours. My plan may turn out to be more helpful.”

  Chapter 15

  Nine o’clock that evening.

  Burke and I sit in a car on Tenth Avenue and 20th Street in the shadow of Manhattan’s newest beloved tourist attraction, the High Line.

  I had wanted to drive my 1962 light-blue Corvette for this job. K. Burke’s reaction to that idea?

  “Forget it, Moncrief. You might as well have a brass band marching in front of that Corvette. They designed that car to attract attention,” she said. Grudgingly, I told her she was correct.

  So we sit in an unmarked NYPD patrol car. A Honda? A Chevy? Who cares? We are watching Preston Parker Simon who is sitting in his black Escalade outside a brand-new thirty-five-story building. The three of us are waiting for the same thing—the young internet video tycoon. Once Simon picks up the “rich kid” we will tail them. Domestic Bliss can only track him when he’s on the clock; our objective is to discover the location of the place that Simon calls home.

  Fifteen minutes later we see Simon get out of his SUV. He holds the door open for Danny Abosch. They exchange what appear to be some pleasant words. The kid steps inside the car. They take off.

  Simon’s car turns right onto 20th Street. Another right onto Ninth Avenue. Whether the tycoon is going to dinner or just going home he is, of course, going to Alphabet City. Apparently every person in New York below the age of thirty goes to the Alphabet City.

  The car eventually stops on Saint Mark’s and Avenue A. Abosch is home. Or possibly at a friend’s home. Or possibly at a girlfriend’s home. Or…it doesn’t matter. Whatever might come next is what matters.

  Shortly I’m tailing Simon’s car on the East River Drive, heading north. A fairly heavy snow begins. I stay “glued by two.” I learned that this is the expression for tailing a car while allowing one other car in front of you for camouflage.

  Simon exits the Drive and starts moving west all the way across Manhattan, then north on the Henry Hudson Parkway, across the Henry Hudson Bridge into the Bronx.

  My tour guide, Detective Katherine Burke, explains the Bronx to me in two easy sentences.

  “Riverdale is the fancy-ass part of the Bronx. Everything else is meh.”

  Traffic lightens, then slows. The snow dusts the road. “Glued by two” has to end. Now I keep some space behind Simon. He pulls off the main road, crosses even farther east. The street sign says “Independence Avenue.” Then Simon pulls into a long circular driveway of a very elegant apartment building.

  Two men come out of the building. One is clearly a doorman—the hat, the coat, the gloves. The other is smaller, in a black wool pea coat, a dark woolen ski cap pulled down over his head.

  Simon hands the doorman a very large, flat, wrapped package.

  “You don’t have to be a detective to figure out that Simon just gave the doorman a painting,” says Burke. “I wonder if…”

  But I interrupt her. I speak loudly.

  “Son of a bitch!” I say.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “The other man,” I say.

  We watch as Simon hands the other man a similar-looking wrapped package.

  “Do you know him?” she asks.

  “I sure as hell do.”

  “Who is he?” asks Burke.

  “It’s the little guy on the back elevator. It’s Angel Corrido.”

  Chapter 16

  Angel and the doorman carry the paintings into the building. The doorman returns immediately. Angel remains inside.

  We watch Simon and the doorman closely. They seem to be having a very intense conversation. The pantomime goes like this: The doorman moves close to Simon. The doorman looks like he is screaming. Then it appears that Simon is having none of it. Simon, using both hands, pushes the doorman. Although the doorman is larger than Simon, and the shove doesn’t seem particularly violent, the doorman staggers backward and falls to the sidewalk.

  As the doorman staggers to his feet, Simon puts his hand in his coat pocket. I am expecting a knife or a gun to be pulled out. Instead he hands the doorman something I don’t recognize.

  “Looks like Simon may have just slipped the doorman some cash,” I say.

  “I’m not sure, Moncrief. He handed him something. It looked like a tiny package.”

  “Some rolled-up bills,” I say.

  “No,” says Burke. “My guess is he gave him a good noseful of coke.” Then she adds, “And by the way, don’t you think we should call him by his real name? He is not ‘Preston Parker Simon.’ He is Rudy Brunetti. Let’s stop calling him Simon.”

  I think that this is a…what?…the kind of correction that Burke enjoys. Ah, well, it is easier for me to agree. So I nod. Then I say, “Brunetti it is.”

  Now we watch Simon…er, Brunetti…go back inside the building. The building doorman gets into the car and drives it into an attached building marked GARAGE.

  He’s back on the door in less than five. I immediately drive up to the building entrance.

  “Who are you here to see, sir?” says the doorman, a very thin man, two days’ growth, a dark stain on the lapel of his heavy brown coat.

  He’s only spoken a few words, but I can tell that he has an accent. My guess is Danish.

  I lean across Burke and say, “We’re here to see you.”

  “Me?” he says. And he looks genuinely confused. He blinks his eyes quickly. He wipes his lips with his gloved right hand.

  “Yes, we’d like to talk to you about the gentlemen who you just assisted with the paintings.…” I begin.

  “What paintings?” he says.

  I realize that this guy has a bad attitude and a drug problem. I am sure that Burke is onto this also. The symptoms are simple and obvious—quivering hands, milky pink eyes, perspiration on his upper lip. Dirty, matted wisps of blond hair stick out from beneath his hat.

  K. Burke gets out of the car and stands next to the doorman. She flashes her ID.

  I get out of the car and stand next to Burke. I touch the inner suit pocket where I carry the Glock I’m not supposed to carry.

  “NYPD, sir,” she says. “We’d like to see some ID immediately.”

  “What for? For helping a tenant with packages?”

  “No. Possible possession of drugs. ID, please,” I say.

  I don’t know a bit of Danish, but I think this guy just taught me the Danish word for “Shit.”

  Chapter 17

  The doorman-druggie’s name is Peter Lund. He was in the Royal Danish Navy. He jumped ship seven years ago. I guess I can buy that story.

  Early on in the interview he says, “Yes, I like the heroin too much.” A minute later, with very little prodding from us, he adds, “And yes, it is possible that Mr. Brune
tti and Mr. C. bring the works of art in and out of the apartment.”

  He rubs his lips.

  Major rule of an interview: If a suspect starts talking, let him keep talking. Don’t interrupt.

  “Mr. Brunetti tips me generous, and he sometimes gives me my H, and it is none of my business to ask the tenant what are his parcels in and out. Not my job.”

  I believe him. Burke nods. A signal to me that she also believes him. Okay, now we know that Brunetti is storing artwork here. But we need more.

  Then I have an idea, an idea that might get us information.

  “It would be a great help if you would take us to see Mr. Brunetti’s car,” I say.

  “But he would be angry,” says Lund.

  “Then you will be arrested for drug possession,” says Burke. “How’s that for a trade-off?”

  “Come on,” I say. “Show us where Brunetti’s car is parked.”

  Lund answers quickly. “Which one?”

  Three minutes later we are standing in the underground garage of 2737 Independence Avenue, Riverdale, Bronx, New York.

  Peter Lund points to three identical black Escalades parked side-by-side-by-side. We look in the windows. Just the usual: black leather seats, high-tech dashboards. Burke takes a quick picture of the cars, the interiors, the plates. With one client, what does Brunetti need a fleet of SUVs for? This, and the involvement of Angel Corrido, suggests that the operation is bigger than we thought.

  Burke tells Lund that we’ll probably be back to talk some more. She suggests he try to stay as clean as he can and try to keep his mouth shut.

  On the ride back to Manhattan, Burke says to me, “I’ll do the write-up when we get back. We can’t keep screwing around, avoiding Nick Elliott. We’ve got to build a file for him.”

  “Do you have reason to believe he’s become impatient?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I do. Let me read you a message.” Then she reads from her cell phone: “What the hell are you two doing? Barney Wexler is up my ass. And the commissioner is standing right next to Wexler.” Then Burke looks up at me and adds, “Maybe if you read your messages…”

  “We will have something for him tomorrow. Next day at the latest,” I say.

  “No, Moncrief. We’ve got to get something to Elliott now.”

  “You are much too worried about the upper echelon, K. Burke.”

  “No. I’m worried that we are getting in way over our heads. Put a choke hold on your arrogance, Moncrief. We don’t know for sure what we’ve got. Art forgeries? Drugs? It’s time we got the rest of the team caught up.”

  “Give me one more day without any interference.”

  “No. Listen. It’s not me. It’s the case. We’ve got the facts—the stolen art, Rudy, Angel, a dead society dame, drugs. But we don’t know where it’s leading or how the hell to put it all together.”

  “I know how to put it together. Please, K. Burke. One more day to follow my arrogance. Please. Don’t make me beg.”

  “You’re not begging me, Moncrief. You’re bullshitting me. But fine, I’ll give you one more shot, one more day to piss in the ocean. Then we call in the cavalry.”

  Chapter 18

  Etienne Duchamps is a billionaire and a very important art collector. He is also my friend. I have known Etienne since we were both four years old and attended la petite école.

  Etienne has arranged a private viewing of the Monet at the Namanworth Gallery. Only the best of customers receive this kind of treatment.

  I tell K. Burke that she and I will be introduced to the gallery owners as Mr. and Mrs. Luc Moncrief, les amis intimes de Monsieur Duchamps. Burke is angry with such a charade. She is even angrier by what I say next.

  “So, it would be good for you to dress in the style of a wife of a man who can afford to purchase a Monet,” I say.

  “In that case I’ll wear clean chinos,” she says, then curls her lips with annoyance.

  Amazingly, when she shows up at my apartment the next morning she looks…well…chic. In fact, très chic. Slim black slacks, black silk blouse, beige cashmere cardigan sweater. Her black hair is shiny, piled up fashionably carelessly. A brown silk scarf and a short sheared beaver jacket pull the look together.

  “What have you done with Katherine Burke?” I say as I open the door.

  “Don’t expect me to ever look like this again, Moncrief. Everything but my underwear is borrowed from my friend Christine, who happens to be a buyer at Neiman Marcus.”

  “You look like a woman who has a château that is chock-full of Monets. But I would add one or two little touches, if Madame Moncrief does not mind.”

  “What exactly are those ‘touches’?”

  “You’ll see in a moment.” Then I walk into my bedroom and quickly return.

  “Here, put these on,” I say.

  I hand her a bracelet with two rows of twenty small square-cut diamonds on each row. The clasp that keeps it together fastens onto a large citrine stone. I also hand her a thin gold chain from which hangs an antique ruby and diamond pendant.

  “This type of jewelry is what my mother used to call ‘daytime jewelry,’” I say, forcing a smile.

  “I don’t feel comfortable wearing these things,” she says, as I help her with the necklace clasp.

  “You look exactly like the wife of a wealthy art collector,” I say. Then I look away from her.

  “Moncrief,” she says. “I can’t. Didn’t this jewelry belong to…?”

  “Yes, of course. But they have been sitting like sad orphans in Dalia’s jewelry safe,” I say.

  Is my voice cracking? Can Burke hear my heart beating? What the hell am I doing?

  “Think about this. It’s not right,” Burke says.

  I glance at her. She does look lovely. Then I speak loudly.

  “Enough with the jibber-jabber. Let’s go,” I say. “We have a Monet to examine.”

  Chapter 19

  The owners, Sophia and Andre Krane, are waiting for us at the shop door.

  “I drove in from the country this morning. I so wanted to greet you myself,” Sophia Krane says. She is a phony, but the kind that Dalia used to call “a real phony.”

  Sophia looks to be about seventy-five years old. Elegant, well-preserved, slow-moving, fake-golden hair pulled back tight. She says she’s a countess. Even if she is lying, she carries herself like royalty.

  Her husband, Andre, must be at least ten years older. Andre is not nearly so well-preserved. Overweight, balding, he wears a herringbone sports jacket with leather elbow patches. Later K. Burke will say, “The coveted New England college professor look.”

  The Monet has been moved from the window to a large easel. It is a wonder of the impressionist’s art. When we stand close to the canvas we see a blur of overlapping colors, a clown’s scarf, a paint-by-numbers set. A few steps back the viewer is transported to a breathtakingly beautiful field in Giverny.

  Just as Sophia Krane appears to be a real countess, so too does this painting appear to be a real Monet. But what do I know? Burke and I are not there as art experts; we are there as sniffing-around detectives.

  Andre Krane speaks: “And how does Madame Moncrief like the piece?”

  To my astonishment Burke speaks with a graceful and very believable French inflection. I am amazed at her acting. I’ve seen her “play” tough. I’ve seen her “play” sentimental, but I’ve never seen her transform herself into a woman of high society.

  “As expected, it is magnificent,” Burke says, a charming and slight smile enhancing her performance.

  “I will tell you,” says Sophia, “that we have had an offer of forty. The offer is from an American, seventy-five percent is in cash, the remainder in stock holdings…dot-com stock, of course.”

  “Of course,” Burke says.

  I nod and stifle the urge to stroke my chin in contemplation.

  “Not to change the subject too much,” I say, “but are you by chance representing any of the Moderns?”

  “Not many,”
says Andre.

  “A minor Utrillo,” says Sophia. “A few other things.”

  Andre speaks conspiratorially, lowering his voice. “Follow us. We’ll take you someplace very special—the Back Room. It’s where we keep the work that we don’t show just anybody.”

  Chapter 20

  The “Back Room” turns out to be nothing more than a kind of storage space. On the near wall are two unframed canvases. Both have the graffiti touch of a Basquiat. Sophia Krane flicks her hand dismissively toward the unframed pieces.

  “You won’t want these,” she says. “They’re second-rate examples. I knew Basquiat well.”

  As if to prove her friendship, she now refers to him by his first name. “Jean-Michel has much better work. We just don’t have any of it at the moment.”

  Then she walks to three framed canvases on the floor. They lean against the opposite wall, behind one another.

  “Now these…” she says. Andre flips on an overhead fluorescent bulb. Sophia continues in her casual tone.

  “This is a good Hopper. It comes from a private collection in Philadelphia. I think there was something going on between Hopper and the woman who originally owned it.”

  She slides the painting to the side. She reveals a three-dimensional painting of a toy fire truck.

  “Feldman. He’s hot again,” says Sophia.

  “Whoever thought he’d be back on top?” says her husband. Sophia shoots Andre a mean glance, then says, “I did, darling.”

  The third painting is a series of bowls on a shelf—simple, geometric, flat.

  Sophia speaks.

  “Ed Baynard is back, too. At least he’s back for the wealthy couples in Sanibel and Palm Beach. The rich people in Florida can’t decorate a media room without one of these pretty little Baynards hanging near their recliner chairs.”

  Sophia’s art lesson has ended, and, although I find the Baynard paintings quite appealing, I am smart enough to remain silent.

  Suddenly my fake–French wife speaks.