by Lee Perry
Eye of a Needle
by Lee Perry
“It is easier for a camel to go through an eye of a needle
than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.”
Matthew 19:23-26
INTRODUCTION
“The only question with wealth is, what do you do with it?”
- John D. Rockefeller
New York City, NY
Her eyes narrowed at the caller ID when she answered, “Stewart.”
“Wow, what?”
She grinned, “What do you mean what? You called me.”
“Having a bad day?”
“No,” she cleared her throat, “I’ve just been buried in this pit called The Jeffers’s Case.”
“Oh yeah,” He at least sounded sympathetic, “that’s a deep pile right there. Look, how would you like a break from all that for an hour or so?”
Jordan’s eyes narrowed again, skeptically, “Uh huh… what’s up?”
“The agent in charge of art thefts is out on vacation and I got tapped to find someone who can go take a report on Fifth Avenue.”
She rolled her eyes at the ceiling and rotated her neck, “Yeah, okay.”
He gave her the address and name of the contact person, and when she hung up Catherine entered the office,
“Hey,” she called to her smiling, “Bea and I finished early, wanna’ grab Cam and go out for lunch?”
Jordan stood and pulled on her black suit jacket, “How about we have lunch here at the cafeteria?” She absently patted at herself, checking for badge wallet, phone and holstered service weapon, “Then after you can come with me to fill out a report on an art theft on the upper east.”
“Ooo…” Catherine pulled on her jacket and grabbed her shoulder bag, “can we go make out in the park after?”
Jordan snorted, chuckling, “I don’t know, maybe.”
While Catherine continued to work on projects with Assistant Director Bea McNamara, the head of Cyber Division, Jordan was mired in paperwork from the Warren Jeffers case. The multiple murders had spanned across the country in four states and county prosecutors deluged her with requests for clarification on the mountain of forensic and other evidence of Jeffers’s murders. She had hoped since he and his two surviving followers were charged with dozens of counts falling under the heading of Domestic Terrorism that the district attorneys would request additional information directly from the U.S. Attorney’s Office. Nevertheless, they all wanted to speak to Jordan directly and she felt increasingly grateful for the break the further they got from the bureau.
She parked the bureau car, stretching when she got out, “Oh, that feels good…” she muttered pleasurably, feeling vertebrae pop along her spine.
Catherine circled around the car and took her hand, “Should we go back to the bureau for a workout in the gym instead of making out in the park?”
“Oh, no... I vote for making out in the park.” Jordan took a quick look around them before bending to plant a quick kiss on her lips, “All I’ve done lately is stare at my screen while talking on the phone… Aren’t you and Bea getting tired of all the calls too?”
She shrugged, “We’re only getting really specific questions, and I only write notes for Bea, I don’t have to talk to anyone. I guess these DA’s are able to have their own tech people translate most of the stuff we sent them, and Bea had a few of her techs write a syllabus to help understand the digital end of the Jeffers’s case.”
“A syllabus…” Jordan groaned, “Why didn’t I think of that?”
Catherine laughed, “I have a feeling you’d still be getting just as many calls; your part of all that is different from mine, I don’t know if a generic syllabus would work for you.”
They both stopped at the corner of Fifth Ave. and East 77th St. and craned their necks to look up at the twelve-story luxury apartment building styled like an Italian renaissance palazzo. Catherine turned to look down the street and Jordan saw her stiffen, suddenly wary.
“It was just five blocks down…” she murmured, sounding fearful.
Jordan turned to stand next to her, looking down the wide avenue as well, “Yep, that is where Patton took a pot shot at me and missed.” She added, “And now he’s dead, and Jeffers is in prison for the rest of his life.”
Catherine nodded and they turned back to the building, “I know.” She said simply, grabbing Jordan’s arm and giving her an affectionate bump.
Jordan flashed her badge wallet at the uniformed doorman and he touched the brim of his hat as he hurried to open the door for them, “The manager is waiting inside for you.” He pointed helpfully at the front desk.
Jordan thanked him and waved to the older man walking around the mahogany desk to greet them,
“Good afternoon,” he shook first Jordan’s hand then Catherine’s, “thank you so much for coming out, I’m Harold Richter, the building manager here.”
“Hello, I’m Agent Jordan Hawkins,” she motioned to Catherine, “and this is my associate Doctor Catherine Bernard. You called about an art theft?”
“Yes,” he gestured to the elevator, “I’ll explain on the way.” They followed him into the mahogany paneled interior and he pressed the button for the top floor. “This theft was reported to me by one of the cleaning girls. She said she was cleaning in a room and when she left it she saw a man running from one of the galleries and out the front door.” He looked up worriedly at the lighted panel of floor numbers, “This incident is quite concerning since our surveillance video seems to have gaps for that period we can’t explain.”
“Are you sure?” Jordan asked.
“Yes, quite. I watched them all several times.”
“Perhaps our people could review them?” Jordan asked politely, hoping to avoid filing for a warrant.
“Of course,” he nodded gratefully.
“I’ll have one of our evidence technicians contact you.”
“Excellent. Well, then, as I was saying, I have no idea how he entered, although Miss Lynch’s staff is quite lax when it comes to keeping the apartment door locked… he probably just walked right in… At any rate, I directed the cleaning girl to notify the owner’s assistant and when I asked him about it this morning he said the owner declined to report the theft.” He turned to her, “But I have a responsibility to protect this building and the other occupants, and since this was an art theft from one of her galleries, I called the FBI.”
“One of…” Jordan frowned, feeling confused, “But this happened in someone’s apartment?”
“Yes.” The elevator doors opened and he gestured for them to precede him, “This entire floor is one apartment owned by Miss Helga Lynch.” He pressed an ornate doorbell and stepped back just as a tall man in his sixties opened the door, “And this is her personal assistant, Mister Gary Tauscher.” He turned to him, “Gary, they’re here from the FBI about the Rodin theft?” Mr. Tauscher gave Mr. Richter a disapproving look. “You know I am responsible for the safety of all in this building, Gary, you know this was necessary.”
“Mister Tauscher,” Jordan held up her badge wallet and introduced Catherine and herself, “may we come in?”
“I’ll leave you in his capable hands,” Mr. Richter gave both Jordan and Catherine a formal nod, “I’ll be downstairs if you need to speak to me further.”
Mr. Tauscher stepped back to let them enter, “I’m so sorry Mister Richter bothered you, Agent Hawkins, we are painfully aware of the theft, but Miss Lynch decided not to make a formal report in order to protect her privacy.”
“Ah,” Jordan smiled and turned to him, “but now that I know I will need to file one.”
They stood in silent standoff for a long moment and Catherine stood to one side, watching with interest how Jordan waited patiently for
the man to relent.
“Alright,” he nodded, “I will cooperate, but only if you agree to keep this as private a matter as possible.”
Jordan frowned, “I’m not negotiating anything with you, Mister Tauscher, you will cooperate or I will arrest you for obstruction of justice and probably suspect you of the theft.”
He looked genuinely surprised, “But I wasn’t here when the theft occurred, I was with Miss Lynch.”
A lone brow arched on her forehead, “Then I would imagine your arrest would result in quite a bit of public attention for her.”
He inhaled deeply though his nose and exhaled, “Very well,” he motioned to them, “follow me.”
Jordan and Catherine exchanged looks and followed him down a wide hallway lined with tabletop dioramas. Paintings hung on the wall above them on the right and oversized windows lined the wall opposite, revealing a spectacular view of Central Park and the city skyline beyond. Tall, ornate carved double doors stood open to the hall and Catherine peered into the rooms they passed; the first cavernous room was filled with costumed mannequins, and the next resembled a French nineteenth century parlor with a gleaming marble floor and painted murals on the walls.
“There used to be two apartments on this floor,” Mr. Tauscher spoke as he led them down the long hall, “Miss Lynch bought the other one and had the entire floor remodeled into one apartment of over fifteen thousand square feet.” He stopped in front of a small room that appeared to serve as his office, “One moment, please.” He stepped inside, grabbed a tablet from his desk and rejoined them in the hall, motioning to another set of carved oaken doors, “In this gallery Miss Lynch keeps the bulk of her sculptures...” He pushed opened both doors and entered, stepping to one side.
Jordan and Catherine entered an enormous room with a high-coffered ceiling and intricately hand-carved moldings set above a parquet floor. Life-size marble figures stood strategically placed in the center of the room while smaller pieces lined the perimeter, supported on marble and wooden stands of carved oak in the style of Louis XVI. They felt slack-jawed at the opulence, and both silently schooled themselves to keep their mouths closed.
He led them to a side table under a window on the far side of the room, its surface bare. “This is where Miss Lynch’s copy of Rodin’s Iris, Messenger of the Gods once stood.” He tapped open a picture file on his tablet and offered it to Jordan.
She took it and they regarded the image of a bronze sculpture, “This is what was taken?”
He folded his hands in front of him, “Yes, this is a numbered copy made by Auguste Rodin around nineteen hundred. It was the second of only four copies made by him. Like the original, it’s nineteen inches high and sat on a black marble base. It was also known as Another Voice, Called Iris.
Catherine finally spoke, “I think I can see why she’d want to avoid publicity.” The figure, missing the head and left arm, was a nude female that stood on the toes of the bent left leg, the right arm extended to the side and the hand held the right foot, holding the bent right leg aloft, opening and exposing the genitalia.
Lord, Catherine felt her neck grow hot, that’s quite an anatomy lesson.
“Actually, Miss Lynch has always preferred to avoid the public spotlight, regardless of the circumstances…”
“And why is that?” Jordan asked.
He shrugged, “She’s always been a very private person.”
“And this piece was stolen three days ago?”
“Yes, one of the cleaning staff was working in one of the rooms and when she came out she saw a man running to the front door holding a bag, presumably with the sculpture in it.”
“I’ll need to contact her.”
“I can give you her contact information.”
“And I’ll need to speak to Miss Lynch.”
“She is not here.”
“Where is she?”
Catherine swung her head from side to side, feeling like she was watching a tennis match.
“She’s in the hospital.”
“I’m sorry,” Jordan said, sounding sincere, “as a result of the theft?”
“No,” Mr. Tauscher suddenly chuckled, “Miss Lynch has been in the hospital since 1990.”
Both Jordan and Catherine looked surprised and Jordan asked, “Is she in a coma or something?”
“No, she went there in 1990 when she was eighty-five. She had some disfiguring skin growths on her face, they were benign and she was fine after some reconstructive surgeries.”
“Why is she still there?”
He shrugged again, “She was happy there, I guess, so she stayed.”
Jordan repeated, “So she lives in a hospital.”
“Yes, Agent Hawkins, and she just turned one hundred and nine a month ago.”
“And how is she now?”
“Oh, sharp as a tack and her health is still good, although her eyesight isn’t and her glasses are quite strong… otherwise, for a centenarian, she’s quite healthy.”
“And how long have you worked for Miss Lynch?”
“Twenty-four years.”
“Since she went into the hospital in 1990?”
“Yes, I was hired to supervise the inventories, act as go-between for her art projects and supervise the cleaning staff.”
“If she’s spending her last years living in a hospital,” Jordan persisted, “why doesn’t she sell this place?”
Mr. Tauscher answered reasonably, “Because her things are here.”
“Okay,” Jordan handed the tablet back and pulled a business card from her jacket pocket, “I’ll need you to forward me the all the information you have in your inventory about this piece as well as the cleaning staff and I need to know in what hospital Miss Lynch is currently residing.”
He led them back to his office and they waited in the hallway while he sent Jordan an email from his desk. When she got it on her phone, she reviewed the information with him and Catherine wandered down the hall, bending to peer closely at the tabletop dioramas that lined the long entryway.
“They’re exquisite, aren’t they?”
She straightened when she heard him behind her, “Yes, what are they, exactly?”
“They are scale replicas of the world’s greatest stages; this one depicts the balcony scene from Tchaikovsky’s Romeo and Juliette at the Palais Garnier opera house in Paris.”
Jordan joined them at the miniature stage and bent to examine the tiny costumed figures, “The detail is quite stunning.” Catherine said, impressed.
“Yes, Miss Lynch spared no expense employing dozens of people to conduct the research, taking measurements and thousands of photographs so these dioramas could be constructed in exacting detail.”
“Well,” Catherine exclaimed softly, “they’re exquisite.”
“Yes,” he agreed, finally smiling, “they are.”
“And the room full of mannequins is for ballet costumes?”
“Yes.” He led them down the hall to the room filled with mannequins dressed in tutus representing periods ranging from medieval to modern eras, “Miss Lynch was a dancer when she was young.”
Catherine and Jordan stood in the open doorway, “Really?” Catherine remarked, sounding impressed. “What company did she dance for?”
“Oh, she never danced in public, but she did hold musical afternoons for her friends from school and later she invited quartets to play here and local dance schools held their pageants and recitals here.”
Jordan inhaled through her nose, noting the absence of a musty smell, “And since going to the hospital she’s never been back?”
“That’s correct.”
They remained silent until they got in the car and after clicking their seatbelts into place Catherine finally turned to her, “Okay so tell me now, was that weird, or is it just me?”
A bark of laughter escaped Jordan’s lips and she turned on the engine, still chuckling, “Well, maybe this sort of thing is normal for the super rich, but my modest income calls that at least a
little unusual, yes.” She draped her arm across the back of Catherine’s seat to look behind her, “I’m sorry we can’t make out in the park…”
“It’s alright,” Catherine placed a quick kiss on her lips, “another time.”
They chatted as Jordan made her way through uptown traffic to Manhattan Dominican Hospital, renown for catering to the wealthy for plastic surgeries and providing their upscale clientele with hospital suites worthy of a five star hotel. Jordan parked the car and when they entered the lobby, she murmured, her voice low,
“If it wasn’t for the fact she lives, or lived, in such an amazing apartment on Fifth Avenue I wouldn’t be surprised she chose to live here, given her age.”
Tauscher had given her Miss Lynch’s room number and they took the elevator to the eighth floor and found Room 8C.
She knocked on the door, “Miss Lynch?” She waited a moment and hearing no objection, opened the door, “Miss Lynch? My name is Jordan Hawkins, I’m here from the FBI, may we come in?”
“Who’s that?”
They heard the voice of an elder person and Jordan pushed open the door, motioning for Catherine to enter and followed her inside. Pretty drab room for such a posh place, Catherine regarded the simple surroundings in wide-eyed surprise; noting the no-frills recliner, hospital bed, small bureau and row of shopping bags under the single window, and this room could hardly be described as spacious.
“Hello, Miss Lynch, I’m sorry to bother you, I’m FBI Special Agent Jordan Hawkins and I’ve come to talk to you about the theft of the Rodin sculpture from your apartment on Fifth Avenue?”
“Oh, well, yes,” a wispy white-haired figure motioned to them from the bed with one hand and pressed a button set in the bedrail with the other, “Please, come in.” She said, raising the bed to an inclined position.
Jordan held her badge wallet out for her and she took it, holding it close to her nose,
“Could you hand me my glasses please, dear?” Catherine obliged, handing her the spectacles on the nightstand, “Thank you.” She nimbly flipped them on her face, still squinting at Jordan’s badge and ID. “So,” she spoke deliberately and in a clear voice, “you are she…” She handed the wallet back to Jordan and looked at Catherine, “And you are?”
