by Estelle Ryan
“So you booked a flight to Hungary,” Colin said.
“Not immediately. I thought I was overreacting and wanted to give myself some time. But then I got in my office one morning and my computer was turned on. I never leave my computers on. Ever. I checked the security cameras of the night before and no one had been in my office.”
“Someone had turned your laptop on remotely,” Francine said.
“Which means that whatever software that person had uploaded into my devices left me completely naked whenever I was close to any of them.”
“Where’s your smartphone now?” I swallowed at the tension in my throat.
“Stripped of all data and dumped in the Danube.”
Francine nodded her approval. “Good for you. Whatever is left on that phone will be destroyed by the water. We hope. When did you toss it?”
“When I saw Ja... Colin and Genevieve in Szentendre.”
“What made you think there was danger? Why did you run?” Andor asked.
“A feeling. I really didn’t see anyone or anything real.” She looked at Colin. “It was the shock of seeing you added to the growing fear of what I was uncovering that made me run.”
“What have you been uncovering?” I asked.
“The first thing I uncovered was that A Woman Feeding a Parrot by Caspar Netscher had been sold in 1940 by a Jewish family who lived in Hungary. That alone made me take note.”
“Why?” Roxy asked.
“That’s one of the many methods the Nazis used to disenfranchise the Jews.” Colin’s jaw tightened. “And also to steal from them. Before all of them were sent to concentration camps, when they were still contained in the ghetto areas of the cities, the Nazis would find out who had valuables in their homes. Then they would tell the family if they sold a masterpiece, a diamond ring or a Stradivarius violin for a few dollars, this family would be protected from ever being sent to concentration camps.”
Olivia put the notebook on the table, her lips thin with anger. “Of course they never kept their word. They did give the family the two or three dollars for the painting or whatever, making the sale legit, but that money was useless. The Nazis would come at night, grab the family, take all the money they had in their house and send them off to concentration camps.”
“Many masterpieces changed hands like that.” Colin’s top lip curled. “Legally. All the right paperwork was done. It was all above board.”
“But it was still stealing.” Olivia crossed her arms. “Six years ago, I helped a family reclaim a Van Gogh that had been taken from their grandmother in Poland. That was the first time I truly realised the vastness of the atrocities the Nazis committed.”
“Almost six million Jews, one point eight million non-Jewish Polish civilians, millions of Soviet civilians, about two hundred and fifty thousand disabled people, thousands of homosexuals killed. Slaughtered. Also around two hundred thousand Roma were murdered by the Nazis.” Tension caused Colin’s voice to sound strained, his lips losing colour. His hand tightened around mine. “Twenty-five museums in Poland alone were destroyed, over half a million individual art works looted. In only one country. Thousands of paintings burnt in public and tens of thousands of artworks taken from their rightful owners. There is a lot of speculation on how many pieces have been recovered, but the most common belief is no more than fifty percent. The rest of that cultural wealth is very possibly lost forever.”
Olivia took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds. She exhaled slowly, her facial muscles more relaxed. “So A Woman Feeding a Parrot was sold in 1940 to none other than Gyula Koltai.”
“Bloody hell!” Manny sat up. “A relative of István?”
“His grandfather.” Olivia looked at Andor. “I know István is dead. Do you think it was accidental?”
“No.” Andor had been quietly observing Olivia. He narrowed his eyes. “Neither do you.”
“Not after the last week I’ve had.” She shook her head. “That was why I wanted to meet with you. I don’t know how he died, but the fact that he died so soon after I spoke to him is extremely suspicious.”
“What did you talk about?”
Her laugh held no humour. “Nothing. He was very polite, but didn’t answer any of my questions. He was curious why a lawyer from the US would want to see him. The moment I mentioned the painting bought by his grandfather, he went as white as a sheet and refused to say anything else. I had looked a bit into his grandfather, but didn’t find much. On a whim I asked him if his grandfather bought many such paintings. Again he didn’t answer me, but the panic on his face was enough of an answer for me. I think his grandfather dealt in Nazi-looted art.”
“Hell. This is getting worse.” Manny rubbed his hands hard over his face.
“I don’t know what this is yet.” Olivia picked up her notebook again. “He did give me one thing though. I think it was just to get rid of me. He told me that if I wanted answers I should speak to King.”
“Who’s King?” Colin frowned. “Is it a pseudonym?”
Andor shook his head. “Huh. King? Did he say anything else about King?”
“No.” Olivia opened her notebook. “I wrote it down exactly as he said. And it was just to find out more about King. I didn’t know who or what that was, so I decided to look more into István’s grandfather.” She looked at Francine. “I bought a new smartphone, one of the pay-as-you-go numbers, made sure I bought a lot of data and did all my research on that. I found out that old Gyula was quite the businessman and, as it appears, an art dealer. I found three articles that mentioned him as the person who had brokered a deal for a masterpiece. He never named the original owner, but I have my suspicions that he’d owned those artworks.
“Again I followed up on all the names mentioned in those articles. And that’s when I came across a Franz Szabo and a Lajos Szell. I did as much as possible digging and that’s when I discovered that those men had been friends with good ol’ Gyula. And that Szabo’s grandson Gabor and Szell’s grandson Ferenc both had recently died. From natural causes. Just like István.”
“Motherbleeper!” Andor slammed his fist against his thigh. “That’s it. This is the connection I need to make my case that a serial killer is responsible for their deaths.”
For a few seconds it was quiet around the table. Only Vinnie reacted to Andor’s exclamation with an exasperated sigh. I used the silence to consider everything that Olivia had revealed. I had many questions and thought about where to start. I looked at Andor. “Do you know who or what this king is?”
“I think István was talking about the Roma leader whom everyone calls King. His real name is Stefan Bílá, but I don’t think anyone uses it. He’s one of the few Roma leaders who does everything he can for his people, not for his own pocket. Like a benevolent king. He’s sixty-something years old and has been doing everything he can to get his people the highest education possible, to get the best government support possible and to push his people to achieve their dreams. He’s also turned out to be a very good businessman. He’s got a lot of his community involved in his business.”
“What business?” Colin asked.
“Restoration.” Andor thought about this for a few seconds. “Huh. I wonder if they have ever restored valuable artworks. They’ve built up a strong reputation in Europe for restoring antique furniture and even jewellery. Hmm.”
“Why would István send us to King?” Colin leaned back and looked at the ceiling. “There must be some connection between him and these men. Or at least their grandfathers.” He straightened, a frown pulling his brow low. “But he’s too young to have been a peer.”
“And as a Roma, he would never have moved in their circles.” The corners of Andor’s mouth turned down. “You have to keep in mind that discrimination against the Roma was in full force those years. It’s much better now, but it’s still an awful reality here in Hungary.”
“We need to speak to him.” Not only did I have a lot of questions for this man, I was also curious t
o meet the person who demanded such respect from Andor.
“I’ll set it up.” Andor got up and took his phone from his trouser pocket.
I took note of the fear flashing across Olivia’s face before she pulled her shoulders back. “I’m going with.”
That resulted in an argument in which Manny insisted that she stay out of our way while we investigated. Vinnie was fretting about keeping all of us safe, Francine was tapping away on her tablet screen and Roxy was watching all this with amusement.
Colin was the only one not taking part in the chaos around the table. We’d had numerous conversation about the depth of his hatred for what the Nazis had done in Europe. Only once had he talked about the deaths of almost one million people in the Treblinka extermination camp. The strength of his emotions had made his voice sound strangled as he’d explained his deep-seated loathing for that part of history. That conversation had given me a lot of insight into what was driving him.
It also helped me understand why this case was affecting him so deeply. It wasn’t only because of Olivia’s unexpected involvement, but also because of the possible Nazi connection.
We definitely needed to speak to this King so we could solve this as quickly as possible. I was relieved when Andor managed to reason with Olivia and even convince Vinnie that it would be best if only Manny, Colin and I accompanied him. I was already thinking of the many questions I had for this Roma leader.
Chapter NINE
“And this is my pride and joy.” Stefan Bílá, or King as he had introduced himself with a self-deprecating laugh, pointed at the nineteenth-century coffee table next to a modern and very comfortable-looking sofa in his home office. A small smile lifted his cheeks and caused wrinkling in the corners of his eyes. “This was the very first piece I ever restored. I wouldn’t allow my dad to help me and really made a mess of one of the legs.” He laughed softly. “My dad fixed that leg. It was far beyond my abilities.”
“You’ve been doing this for a very long time.” The admiration in Colin’s voice was genuine. He’d been in awe of every piece of restored furniture King had been showing us for the last fifteen minutes. Manny was not that interested in the furniture. He’d been taking note of the security cameras and other security features in the mansion.
Andor had joined Colin in asking questions about the furniture and the restoration process. I was observing everyone. King was an interesting man. He’d welcomed us at the door of his enormous house and had not once exhibited insincere nonverbal cues. His welcome had been genuine, as well as the pride he took in all the meticulously restored pieces.
King’s house was on the Pest side of Budapest, just outside the city borders. On the way here, Andor had pointed out numerous noteworthy sights and had joked about being a tour guide. We’d driven past the majestic Parliament buildings and yet again I’d been impressed by the beauty of the architecture.
Colin had talked about it being a magnificent example of Neo-Gothic architecture and Andor had boasted that it was the third largest Parliament building in the world. He’d offered to take us on a tour. I’d declined. I wanted to solve this case and return to my home and my routine.
One thing Andor had mentioned that I’d found interesting was that King had bought most of the properties in this area over the last fifteen years. He’d turned this neighbourhood into a family-friendly and low-crime zone.
“Sometimes I joke that I was born with woodworking tools in my hands,” King said. “I used to sit with my dad for hours watching him restore chairs and tables that the local people brought to him.”
I was surprised by the bitterness that accompanied his memory. “Why was that a negative experience?”
“Damn.” He waved his hand towards the four wingback chairs arranged around an antique round coffee table. He waited until we were all seated, then looked at me. “Some days I really think I’ve forgiven everything and everyone and then there are days that it comes back to me and I let it slip. I apologise.”
I didn’t see a need for him to apologise, but was more interested in something else. “Who and what do you need to forgive?”
His eyebrows rose high on his forehead and he stared at me. He must have seen something to make him realise my question had been sincere. “Sadly, a lot. You see, my dad did all those restorations for people who wouldn’t even speak to him. If it hadn’t been for our neighbour, old Mister Darabont, my dad would never have had any work. That old man didn’t care what people in the village and the area said about him. He spoke to us, sold us eggs and honey from his farm and bought a kilogram of cookies from my mother every week.
“He didn’t care that his neighbours and friends were telling him that my family was going to poison him and steal everything from his farm. He didn’t care when some of them turned their backs on him because he befriended the horrible, evil, dirty gypsies.” Again the bitterness slipped into his tone and showed clearly on his face.
He inhaled deeply, then smiled. “Once he came around to pick up his cookies and saw my dad working on a bookshelf. He was so impressed with the quality of my dad’s craftsmanship that he asked my dad if he would be able to restore an antique wall unit. Even though my dad loved making furniture from scratch, restoring something was his true passion. He was so excited about it, he refused to give old Mister Darabont a price.
“Three weeks later, the wall unit was restored, my dad was over the moon to have worked on an eighteenth-century piece of furniture and Mister Darabont started marketing my dad’s skills. For almost five years, he was the broker between my dad and the many racist people who wanted their furniture restored, but refused to do business with a gypsy.
“My mom used to say that it was a blessing in disguise. Old Mister Darabont used to charge outrageous amounts for the work my dad did. He was so angry on our behalf that he punished his friends by making them pay for it. He also refused to take more than ten percent of the price. That was his fee and if my dad didn’t want to take the rest of the money, he threatened to burn the cash right in front of us.”
“He sounds like quite the character,” Colin said.
“Oh, he was that and so much more.” King looked around the room. “To this day, I believe we have all of this because of him.”
“A good man.”
“The best.” He leaned back in his chair. “After five years, my dad’s reputation had gone further than our county. People from all over the country were bringing their furniture to be restored. You have to remember that those were the days of communism. It was really hard to get anything new. So when people had the option of having their grandparents’ furniture restored to its original glory, they grabbed it.
“Soon my dad had too much work to cope with on his own. He got my two uncles involved, then a friend and within ten years most of our Roma community was involved in the business in some form.”
“I understand your dad died eleven years ago.” Andor leaned forward. “It must have been a shocking loss.”
“It was.” Remembered sadness showed on his face. “But we did expect it. Two years before, my dad had been diagnosed with cancer. The treatments weren’t as successful as the doctors had hoped and the last six months were basically just making him comfortable.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss.” Colin’s voice was soft, his expression genuine.
“Thank you.” King smiled. “I believe that he is still here with me. In every piece of furniture he restored, in the memories he created with me, the community, my children, but also in everything he taught me. The Romani nation is stereotyped as people waiting for a handout. Sadly, there is some truth to it. My father never allowed us to think for one second about asking for anything we didn’t work for. He instilled in me and my sister a strong work ethic and later passed it on to everyone who worked with and for him.”
My knowledge of the history of the Roma people was basic at best. I knew that they also went by Romani, Sinti or Kale people. They had originated in the northwest parts of the
Indian subcontinent and migrated, voluntarily and at times involuntarily, to Europe sometime after the sixth century. Their identity had never been based on a homeland, but rather in their nomadic lifestyles and freedom of movement.
From more recent articles I’d read, I knew that most of the Roma people were indeed perceived as uneducated, lazy and with no ambition to better themselves. The wealth surrounding us in this room and house was evidence that King and his people were the exceptions to that rule.
“I’ve been talking non-stop since you arrived.” He shook his head. “My wife always says I talk too much. I know you didn’t come here for my life story, but I still don’t know what I can do for you. When your Captain Palya phoned, I was more than happy to help in any way I can with a case that involves my people. I want us to have a reputation for cooperation, not for obstructing justice.” He chuckled. “I’ve always wanted to use that term. Obstructing justice. I’ve seen it so many times on American TV shows and thought it sounded so professional. I don’t get many opportunities to practice my English... No, no, I’m lying. I talk at least once a day with someone from abroad who needs restoration done. It’s just that I love English. It falls softly on the ear. But that’s me talking too much again.” His smile was wide and genuine. “What can I do for you?”
Andor responded with an equally genuine smile. It was clear he was enjoying King’s verbosity. “We’re investigating a case that so far has not yet led us to any Roma connections. But your name came up.”
“My name?” He blinked a few times. “Really?”
“Yes. Someone we interviewed didn’t want to give us any information for whatever reason, but they told us to speak to you.”
King leaned back in his chair, a deep frown furrowing his brow. “I really can’t imagine anything that would attract the police’s attention that would involve me.”
Manny looked at me and I nodded. King was telling the truth.
“Do you know Franz Szabo?” Andor searched King’s face for a reaction as he mentioned the man Olivia had found was connected with István Koltai’s grandfather.
