by Brian Meeks
It was not uncommon for Father Patrick to visit them, usually early in the morning or later in the evening. Everyone knew his face and was not at all surprised to see him in the halls. He never took the elevator, as he told everyone the exercise was good for spirit and body. In truth, Patrick hated taking the stairs, but it was a small sacrifice to maintain believability.
Unit 429, on the fourth floor, right next to the stairwell, was owned by a man nobody knew. The name on the box wasn't familiar to the residents. Everyone assumed the occupant just liked to keep to himself. The name, actually another alias for Father Patrick, wasn't known this side of the Atlantic. Whenever Patrick needed to tear off his collar and just have a nice cup of tea, as himself, he would simply pay a visit to Rose on floor five and then sneak back downstairs into his apartment.
The other priests were not surprised when Father Patrick didn't return, as he was known to stay out late… trying to find and help the homeless. Tonight, he stopped in to see Rose, knowing she would be out playing canasta. He knocked a couple of times, for show, then snuck into his own apartment.
The walls were adorned with paintings by Edgar Degas, Honoré Daumier, George Bellows, and Thomas Cole. Each was a copy, meticulously recreated by Patrick. At one point or another, he had possessed the originals, but then they were passed along. He didn't care much about owning originals, as his own copies meant far more to him, and his focus was on getting the big score. With each successful auction, he would crave one bigger and better, always telling himself he needed just one more to retire. Patrick had visions of living in the south of France and painting away the days.
Patrick sat down at his easel. He was working on an original piece. He could copy the masters, but somehow was unable to come up with his own ideas. He thought about the message he had received from that vile pig, Andre. He thought about his note and wondered if he had made the correct play. He was curious how the various collectors would react to his threat to delay the auction. He smiled. Patrick liked having these suckers, who were dying to give up their millions just to get a piece of history. He suspected that if any one of them tried to tell his forgeries from the real ones, there wasn't but one among them who could spot the difference.
He thought about The Falcon. He wondered what this bird of prey's reaction might be to his threat.
Tomorrow would be a busy day. He had plans to double check. In two days, the package would arrive, God willing, and he would need to make arrangements for individual viewings. Each prospective bidder would be taken to a different location. They would be allowed to spend up to two hours carefully examining the piece, and each would be permitted to bring an expert. Patrick laughed at this last rule, as his clients were much too vain to bring an expert, and thus cast their own “credentials“ into question. To arrange separate viewings, Patrick had assembled individual teams. This was expensive, as the members of each team didn't know one another.
Over the years, Patrick had mastered living in the shadows. If forging was his best skill, reading people was a close second. He knew how to press buttons. Each team had been carefully built. Patrick could tell who might betray him and who would be loyal. He knew what motivated his prospects: to some he provided money, to others fear, and, to a few, friendship. Whatever it took to get people to do his bidding – and never speak of it – he did.
In his early years, before the war, he had pulled off some brilliant cons and was never caught. There were a couple of close calls, but he always had an out. During the war, however, he really flourished. There were all sorts of people stealing, selling, and dying. He excelled at profiting from the chaos. Working both sides of the street taught him the value of anonymity. By the time the shooting had stopped, he was wealthy beyond most people's wildest dreams. He was also a ghost.
It was then that he moved to the U.S. He spent years building up the network of people he would need to start fencing the works of art, which nobody else could touch.
He added a touch of yellow, then put his brush down and walked to the table in the center of the room. The plan sat patiently, waiting for at least one more review. His love of planning was perhaps his third greatest asset. Tonight he would review every detail. At 3:00 a.m., he would go to bed, confident in his vision and his plan.
CHAPTER 17
Henry put Katarina in a cab around 10:30 p.m. and walked home. He tried to think about the case. He wanted to concentrate on Mickey…but the thoughts of her hauntingly beautiful eyes and soft touch were filling his head.
Mostly, they had spent the evening eating and drinking. The conversation was of the “good ole days.” Henry had tried to ask her about what she was up to, why she was in town. He couldn't remember her giving him a straight answer.
Was she being evasive on purpose, or just letting the wine go to her head? She had mentioned working with art once or twice, and that she was in town on business. He thought she had said she would only be around for a few weeks, but he also remembered her mentioning that she was considering staying.
The only thing he was completely sure of: the steak was fantastic.
As Henry tossed his keys on the dresser, he gave a glance at the clock on the nightstand. It was 10:47. He grabbed a glass. The clink, clink, clink of the ice cubes and the fizz of the Coke were like the round bell going off. He had taken some time off, but the fight was back on, and it was time to focus on finding Mickey's killer.
He picked up the phone and dialed. When he heard the voice on the other end say “hello,” he started.
“Mike, any news?”
“Nothing yet, Henry. We found an abandoned car…it was towed to the garage with some marks that might match the ones on Mickey's. I’ll know tomorrow. The car itself appears to be wiped clean, and the registration is to an elderly woman in Poughkeepsie. She is in her 80s, and didn't know her car was missing. How about you?”
“I made a little headway, but not much. Well, I had a guy, possibly chiseled from granite, stop in today, looking to hire a private dick. He said he was shopping around, but I’m not sure he was being straight with me. He wouldn't let on much about the job, but it sounds like a pretty big payday. Too big a payday.”
“Nothing wrong with making a living, buddy.”
“I know, but something doesn't feel right. Look, I need a favor. It's a big one.”
Mike had been back at work for about a month, but had so far been mostly chained to his desk. Still, Henry wasn't sure if he would go for it.
“Anything you need, it's yours.”
“You still got some vacation time left?” Henry asked, already feeling guilty.
“Heck, yeah. I had a pile of sick leave, and even with everything going on, I still have a bunch. I didn't have to use any sick leave when I was out of commission, so I figure I have about six months worth.”
Henry chuckled. “You ever taken a vacation?”
“Yeah, I went fishing once. Didn't catch anything but a cold.”
“This is the deal. I may have implied to this guy that I have a few other people working here. My gut tells me that this new client may have been part of whatever Mickey was looking into. I can't say for sure, but I could use some backup. You mind taking a week or two off, and doing some moonlighting at Henry Wood Detective Agency?”
“You got it buddy – no charge,” Mike said.
“I appreciate the gesture,” Henry countered, “but this has got to be on the up and up. I'm putting you on the payroll, and will let the client know you're on loan from the force. I may have implied that we've worked together before, too.”
“Well, technically, we have worked together before. I was just getting paid by the city.” Mike chuckled.
“Good point, my friend. One more thing: I think I need a secretary. If you have any ideas, let me know.”
“I can't think of anyone, but I'll keep my eyes open. When do you need me?”
“I realize it's short notice, but if you could make it in by 11:00 day after tomorrow, the client is coming in at
noon.”
“I have the next two days off anyway, so no problem. I'll go down to the station and put in for the time off, then be at your place by 11:00.”
“Thanks.” Henry pushed the plunger down on the phone; as soon as he had a dial tone again, he got the operator to dial an old friend.
“Hello, this is Dr. Brookert.”
Henry loved his old friend's phone etiquette. “Dr. Brookert, it's Henry Wood. I hope I haven't called too late.”
“Don't be ridiculous, my dear boy. I'm just reading some interesting Latin text about...well...I find it interesting, but I digress. What can I do for New York’s best detective?”
“I'm working on something now. It feels like it may be right up your alley, and I could really use your help.”
The life of a NYU professor is not as thrilling as one might imagine. Henry and the professor met many years ago, at the library. Henry had been fascinated by a pile of old-looking books, and they had struck up a conversation, found that they got along well, and that each was interested in the other's career choices.
The idea of working on a case with Henry thrilled the usually understated professor. His voice was like a child's for the briefest of moments. He paused, regained his composure and then said, “It would be my great pleasure. I'm at your service.”
“I appreciate it. I intend to put you on the payroll, but it shouldn't interfere with your classes. Mostly, I'll want to use your vast knowledge of art and the art world.”
“It sounds like a very interesting case. When do I start?”
“Is there any chance you could be at my office day after tomorrow, in the morning around 11:00, for a few hours? If you have a class, it’s okay. This is short notice.”
“I have a class at 9:00 and then again at 3:00. I'll see you at 11:00. Hey, I heard your place burned down a few months back. Did you get it cleaned up?”
“Oh, no, I got a new office in the Flatiron building.”
“Great, I'll see you then…Boss.” ”
Henry laughed. He was quite sure that the impression the professor had of the life of a detective was more glamorous than was actually the case. He hoped he wouldn't be too disappointed.
“I will not have you calling me ‘boss.’ Oh, and one more thing: I'm looking to hire a full-time secretary. You know anyone who might be interested?”
“I don't, but I'll ask around. When do you need her?”
“In truth, about three years ago, if I'm being honest with myself.”
Henry could almost hear the smile over the phone. “See you later.”
CHAPTER 18
The waves, cold, relentless, and seemingly unprovoked, had followed them since the day after they left the Tyrrhenian Sea. The crew and captain couldn’t remember a longer, more miserable trip. To a man, they were a new crew; the captain had only been aboard since the year before, when The Siena left Yard 136 in Denmark. The Siena was a beautiful ship, her displacement 15,295 tons, the length overall or LOA stretching an impressive 491 feet, and the beam 64 feet. She had a top speed of 16.75 knots, but today, she was tired and worn, along with her crew and captain, and two Greek passengers.
Cargo ships sometimes have a handful of passengers, but not often. On this voyage, some palms were greased, so that two middle-aged, but muscular men could accompany a box. The manifest was clear, detailing every item aboard…except the box. For this courtesy, a whole bucket of grease was required. The captain didn’t know the contents, nor did he care. The Greek men, who had guarded it for years, had a vague understanding of the contents. They knew some stories. They knew the people who had found it.
In their youth, they had both loved listening to the theories about what it was, that it might be cursed, and the speculation of hidden powers. Neither man had ever witnessed anything unusual from the object; it just looked like a box with gears, all shinny and impressive. It was a very old box. Both men now believed in the curse and, since they couldn’t eat for all of the sea sickness, spent their days praying to Saint Nicholas, the patron saint of sailors, merchants, archers, thieves, and children. When this didn’t work, they turned their attention to Saint Christopher, since they were traveling.
Today, the North Atlantic was rougher than any of the previous days. The captain didn’t think they weren’t in mortal danger, but that might have been hubris on his part. The year before, The Southern Districts, a former naval ship with a full load of bulk sulfur heading for Bucksport, Maine, had moved through gusts of force 9 squalls, and then force 8 gusts. On December 11, it was reported that they were overdue, and the search began.
The captain thought about his friend who had been a first mate on The Southern Districts. He wondered if the wreck would ever be discovered. His own first mate gave an update: force 9 winds, and squalls. There wasn’t any sign of it letting up either.
The captain said a prayer.
The Siena would be lost at sea, though not on this day, or the next one, either.
CHAPTER 19
The sleep was not the least bit restful. Henry had expected to dream of Katarina or to have nightmares about Mickey. Instead, he had short dreams. All night, he was chased or drowning or fighting with some strange man. Each mini drama had one thread of similarity: something beyond his control was causing pain, and his struggling against the control just made it worse.
Henry didn't like it. He preferred to be in control, even when asleep. Henry often remembered his dreams; he was also good at being lucid in the nocturnal stories. Last night, he was not, and it started his day off on the wrong foot.
When Henry got out of bed and walked to the bathroom, he hit his toe. It hurt, and it was bewildering to him. He had never hurt himself in his own home, even when drunk. After a short burst of cursing, which he generally didn't do, there wasn’t any improvement in his toe. His gut told him that he should be careful today. It also told him that a big breakfast was in order, though, admittedly, his gut told him this on most mornings, and sometimes late at night.
Henry showered, shaved, clipped his toe nails, and spent several minutes looking at his big toe, which seemed none too pleased with him. Henry rewarded his disgruntled toe and all the other toes with a fresh pair of socks, never worn. This went a long way towards forgiveness.
He spent the first hour of the morning mostly lost in the trivial. It was as if the last 28 hours had so worn his brain, it needed some alone time. Henry let his mind wander aimlessly while his hands made a three egg omelet, brewed some coffee, buttered some toast, and then decided to add a bonus piece of toast, with grape jelly.
The radio gave some good news about a missing boy who had been found. A different man's voice talked about the weather and a violent storm in the Atlantic. Henry noted the weather report and gave a look to the corner to see if his umbrella was there. It was, and ready for action. Henry changed the station and listened to some music, a tune by Stan Kenton, “The Peanut Vendor”, which always reminded him of baseball. Henry thought about Vero Beach, which is where his beloved Brooklyn Dodgers had been holding spring training since 1949. This led his brain conveniently back to Mickey.
Mickey was at the game, September 9, 1948, when Rex Barney threw a no-hitter, having chosen to skip an afternoon of stalking some hysterical woman's husband who was cheating on her with an even more hysterical typing clerk. Henry couldn't remember what happened with that case, but he remembered Mickey feeling genuinely bad that he hadn't invited Henry to come along. Mickey liked to play pranks, tease, and give him a hard time, but he knew that the Dodgers were sacred; if he had known it would be an historical game, he would have gladly taken the stakeout duty so that Henry could go. Henry knew this because Mickey had told him about 1,000 times.
Almost two years later, on August 31, 1950, Mickey got a feeling. He had been planning to go to the track that day, and had given Henry the day off. There hadn't been much work. Henry remembered that was about the time he started to think about going out on his own. Mickey called a friend and got two tickets down
the first base line. Then he called Henry and said they were going to the game. They had been to games before and seen some good ones, but nothing like the no-hitter. Henry remembered what his friend had said on the phone: “Henry, I know I gave you the day off, but we are going to Ebbets…I have a feeling”. In truth, Mickey had said similar things before, and was usually wrong, but Henry didn't care. He would never turn down a chance to see the Dodgers play.
Only one Brooklyn Dodger in history has ever hit four home runs. He was kind enough to do it for Henry on that last day of August. Or at least, that is how Henry liked to remember it.
He got up from the kitchen table, turned off the radio, and went to his dresser in the bedroom. He opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a stack of magazines. In the middle of them, perfectly flat, in perfect condition, was the scorecard from that day. He read through every batter. It was as if he was back at Ebbets with his friend and mentor.
He put it away. Henry pulled out his notebook, dated the first clean page, and made a list for the day. His mind seemed clearer now and it was time to get back on the case.
CHAPTER 20
He listened for any shuffling around inside, as he walked past Bobby's office; he slowed up a bit. Henry wasn't interested in one of Bobby's long stories and was sure that if Bobby heard him in the hall, he would be knee deep in a lengthy tale, before he knew what hit him. He checked his watch. Nine o'clock and time to get back to work on Mickey's case. The empty receptionist desk suddenly bothered Henry. Had he really been doing everything Mickey had taught him? He sat down at the empty desk to think.
Thirty minutes passed and he still didn't know why he had never bothered to hire someone. There were countless times it would have been handy. How many clients had he lost because they showed up while he was out? It didn't look professional.
