“Absolutely no connection.”
“How’d they figure it out?”
“I don’t know.”
Heusen was a snake and a drunk, but he wasn’t fundamentally stupid. After all, the two men had been stealing art for the past decade and had managed to avoid the smartest cops and insurance investigators in the business. Thomas said, “I think everything’ll be fine. We’ll let the dust settle. Lay low for a while.”
“Yeah, lay low.”
Thomas disconnected, resisting the urge to pitch his glass against the wall. He sat down and stared out the window.
Thinking back to the days when Christopher Thomas had an evergrowing need for money and mistresses. And all the while Rosemary had been growing more and more impatient with him, less willing to dole out her family money to him.
So Thomas began to reconsider his future. As a curator, he’d forged connections with shady businessmen and criminals around the world and had learned about the huge market for private art placements.
Tidy euphemism, that.
People thought that some paintings were so famous that they were safe from theft. Ah, but they didn’t know about men—always men, it seemed—in Saudi Arabia, Jordan, Iran, China, Japan, Malaysia, and India with limitless funds and a lust for owning genius. They never showed the art in public; sometimes they didn’t show it at all. The passion was about possessing what someone else could not.
And so Thomas came up with his idea, inspired by the iron maiden. He and Heusen, with the help of Artie Ruby, who worked for Christopher, would fake his death and slip another body into the device, and Ruby would arrange to have the maiden shipped to Germany. In a bit of medical trickery, Christopher had to break off one of his teeth and cut off his own finger, placing it strategically in the dead guy’s thigh so the body would be identified as his. Hell, what was one finger and a chipped tooth compared to escape from his debtors and billions? Besides if he hadn’t taken such elaborate measures to ensure his own safety, he’d probably have been killed years ago by one of his “connections.”
But framing Rosemary had been Peter’s idea. Thomas went along with it reluctantly because he had to. He needed Peter. Even now, twelve years later, the memory of how he’d smeared her blouse with his blood and torn a button off and placed it with the dead body disturbed him occasionally. Still, better Rosemary should die than he. That’s probably how she would have wanted it anyhow. That was always the problem with her in the first place, the more she gave him, the more he despised her. She’d never understood that. Poor Rosemary.
And so Peter Heusen, the tipsy socialite, and Christopher Thomas, the former curator with an eye for the art market and connections, made a perfect team. They despised each other, of course. But so did half the Allied commanders during World War II (Thomas loved his history). Over the past decade they’d stolen hundreds of millions’ worth of art and artifacts and placed them privately overseas—generally one or two pieces at a time: a Renoir from a university museum in upstate New York, a jewel-encrusted medieval chalice from a fashion magnate in Milan, a Picasso from a foundation in Barcelona, a Manet from the secret pied-à-terre that a philanthropist kept for his mistress (no police reports on that one, unsurprisingly).
And there were more to come.
But right now he had one thing on his mind: escape. As fast as he could. Jon Nunn was no longer a cop, but he was still nosing around. After the botched heist it was only a matter of time before Nunn learned of Heusen’s involvement, and the path would lead to Thomas himself, if it hadn’t already.
Then there was the phone call.
A fast, clean escape wasn’t as difficult, or unanticipated, as it seemed. Christopher Thomas had always known that he risked being found out and that he might have to bail at any moment. He had an escape plan, millions in cash, gold in international banks, his safe house in Brazil.
He placed a call to his private charter service and had them stand by.
Thomas now strode into his bedroom and pulled the American Touristers out from under the bed. (Vuitton? He didn’t even own any. What is somebody going to steal, a suitcase from Macy’s or a $1,000 one? Why are people such idiots?)
In five minutes he’d packed all his clothes. He’d drive himself to the Oakland airport, leave the rental car in long-term parking, where it wouldn’t be noticed for two or three months.
Thomas looked around the hotel room. Where was that other suitcase?
The doorbell rang.
He looked through the peephole. Grimacing, he opened the door.
Artie Ruby stood there, hip cocked, looking … jaunty was the word that came to mind. The man was wearing a rumpled suit that he might’ve owned when they’d first met more than a decade ago. He blinked uncertainly as he gazed at Thomas. Then his eyes took in the deformed hand. “Chris! It is you!”
A sigh. “And you’re the one who called, Artie.”
“Holy moley. I never saw the new face. You look… Jesus, what’d they do, move bones around or something?”
Thomas looked over the man’s shoulder.
“Don’t worry. I wasn’t followed. Took me hours ’cause I doubled back three times.”
Satisfied, Thomas muttered, “How did you find me?”
“Little bird sang.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“I went to see Peter. He was drunk and he let slip where he thought you were. Relax! I see that look. I didn’t tell nobody! I’ve kept everything a secret all these years.” Artie snickered. “That Peter, just can’t keep his mouth shut.”
“No, he can’t. That’s true.”
Artie was looking around, impressed. The hotel room was twice the size of Artie’s entire apartment. His shabby shoes left mud stains on the carpet.
“So?” Thomas asked because the script called for it.
“We’re adults, right, Chris? Businessmen?”
“No. I am, and you’re nothing. Now get to the point.”
“Ha. Funny. Okay, I know that some shit is going to hit the fan pretty soon. I want to get out of the country.”
“And you want the number for the airport shuttle.”
Artie’s face hardened. “You know what I’m here about.”
“Money, of course. So you’re blackmailing me.”
Artie paused, as if offended. “I just want to be compensated, like everybody else.”
“You already have been.”
“But not enough.” Artie grinned, cocky.
“How much?”
“Enough to live on for the rest of my life.”
“That could be pocket change.”
Artie’s eyes widened and he blurted, “If you hurt me, there’s a letter I’ve written and given to… to somebody. If anything happens, it gets delivered. It’s got everything in it, Chris—faking your death, getting the body into the iron maiden, shipping it off to Germany.”
“Well, I’m not in the mood to argue with you. How much are you talking?”
People invariably underbid themselves.
“Five million.”
Thomas adamantly shook his head. “You’re crazy. I could do one, maybe.”
“Three.”
“Two.”
Artie grumbled, “Okay. But cash.”
“I can get it.”
“No way, José. I mean now.”
“Why do you use all those clichés? ‘José’?”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. Um, Artie, I mean, I can get the money from the other room. Now.”
The man blinked.
Thomas added, “But the problem is this letter you were mentioning. You spend the two million and you’re going to come back for more.”
“No, I won’t.”
“You say that but of course you would.” A frown. “Wait. Here’s a thought. I’ll pay you two million now. Then when you’re safe somewhere, I’ll meet this guy who has the letter—your brother-in-law or lawyer or… whoever—”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s… a
lawyer I know.”
“I’ll meet him, and if he gives me the letter unopened, I’ll give him another million for you. How’s that sound?”
“Yeah?” Artie rubbed his face and looked like a kid who’d just been told school was canceled for the day. “Deal.” He stuck out an unclean hand.
Thomas ignored the gesture. Walking into the bedroom, he heard Artie say, “Man, that’s one kick-ass bar. You mind if I help myself to a short one?”
“Go right ahead.”
Christopher Thomas did have several million dollars in the bedroom—an amount that probably weighed more than scrawny Artie was able to lift, let alone cart off. But instead of the money, Thomas walked to his dresser and withdrew a Colt Python .357 Magnum. Though the diameter of the bullet was smaller than a .38, .44, or .45, the load was massive, and the hollow-point slug would mushroom instantly upon hitting human flesh and fling the victim to the floor as if struck by a car.
Hand at his side, he returned to the living room, where he found Artie not with a “short one” but with a glass full to the rim with single-malt scotch that cost $800 a bottle. He was slavering like a spaniel.
“For a dead man, you got some nice shit here—” Artie gasped as he saw the gun. The glass crashed to the floor. “No! Don’t shoot me!”
“I’ve often said people should die just because they’re stupid. … Blackmailing me, Artie?”
“The letter! I’m not kidding. It tells everything!”
Thomas could only laugh. A minute ago Artie had told him how to find the letter—if there even was a letter. And later in the night, before anybody noticed Artie was missing and Thomas was long gone, he would have some of his minders comb through Artie’s apartment and get the name of every lawyer he’d ever had contact with. The muscle would make sure the letter, if it existed, was recovered unopened.
Or maybe they’d just kill the shyster.
Either way…
Thomas drew back the hammer of the weapon with a click and aimed.
“No! Please!”
He began to pull the trigger.
30
JEFF ABBOTT
The gathering last night had felt haunted by the restless ghosts of Rosemary and Christopher Thomas. Now the forensic anthropologist’s words had shoved one of those ghosts from shadow into light, dissolving him. Because Christopher Thomas might well still walk the earth.
Jon Nunn felt breath surge back into his chest. The numbness that had clutched him since he’d realized Rosemary could well have been innocent began to ease its awful grip.
But if Christopher Thomas wasn’t dead, where was he?
The meeting had now broken up, and everyone had begun to drift away, and Nunn knew that too many questions and uncertainties clouded their minds. He watched them go, not wanting to talk to anyone. No one spoke to him, no one met his gaze. What kind of detective was he that he could have been fooled? Never mind the evidence. He’d always doubted Rosemary’s guilt, but he’d ignored the doubts. Full speed ahead to conviction, to make everyone except himself—and Rosemary, tragically—content and certain that justice had been served.
A hot, sudden anger at the waste of it all tore through him and he leaned against the wall. He closed his eyes, then opened them again.
A painting hung to his left, a wild, modernist smear of blue and orange and white in a chaotic tango. A painting, a creation, with a meaning and a pattern he didn’t understand.
Creation. Pattern. Death. Rosemary’s death, and the death of his own marriage and career, that extraordinary lie had been someone’s creation, crafted with the careful touch of an artist, with an underlying pattern, a foundation, that he’d failed to see.
Why?
A framing of this sort implied cold calculation, not passion. And for such a crime, he had one rule that he should always have obeyed with unbending focus: follow the money.
In this case, the money took the form of one sodden, rotten Peter Heusen.
Nunn stepped away from the chaotic modernist painting. He looked around, everyone was gone: the living and the ghosts of the twisted, lying past. Maybe everyone had fled from him, the cop who had built the case against Rosemary, the cop who had been so wrong. He must smell of failure and regret and incompetence. A wave of nausea surged through him and he thought, I am going to find out the truth. An ember suddenly fanned into flame in his heart. I am going to find out the truth.
Maybe Rosemary was innocent. Maybe Rosemary had killed the person the world assumed was Christopher.
He wanted to know.
Follow the money. He wanted to talk to Peter.
His footsteps echoed in the emptiness. The painting watched him as though measuring his resolve. He nodded at the security guard waiting for him to leave. He exited the McFall, out into the damp, foggy blanket of night. The wet chill cut through him. The glowing stars were smears behind the clouds.
He saw a figure in the shadows of the looming art museum. Along the deserted sidewalk, walking with a momentary unsteadiness: Peter?
Nunn hurried forward, walking on the balls of his feet, silently.
The fog parted, cut by a knife of streetlight, and he saw it wasn’t Peter, it was Stan Ballard, reaching into his pocket for a cell phone, bringing it up to his face.
Maybe Sarah is calling him, Nunn thought. Sarah preferred a liar and a scumbag like Stan Ballard over him. What’s wrong with me? Nunn thought. What’s wrong with her? Their marriage seemed like one of those modern paintings, the foundation lost in the wild chaos. Had Sarah ever loved him?
Ballard turned into an alleyway, eschewing the warm comforts of a café and a bar another block down the fogged street.
Ballard wanted privacy in the wake of the shocking revelations. Interesting.
Nunn stopped at the corner, risked a glance down the alleyway. Dumpsters and crates from the café lined the pavement. He could see Ballard, moving behind a Dumpster, and Nunn hurried forward, his hand going to his gun, the relic of the cop he used to be. Odd that the urge to wear a sidearm and bring handcuffs to the museum had taken him: the visible proof that he still thought himself a police officer, although he wasn’t. But he was grateful for his idiosyncrasy now.
Ballard’s voice made a low hiss into the phone: “It’s all going to come out, what we did to make money off the estate.” Panic touching the words, poisoning them. He sensed the presence behind him and turned, so Nunn simply stuck his service piece into Ballard’s cheek.
Ballard froze, pale with shock.
Nunn put a finger to his lips. Ballard stayed mute. Nunn snapped fingers at the phone. Ballard handed it over.
Nunn put the phone to his ears. The rant blurted into his ear: “Shut up, shut up about it.” Peter Heusen, slurring words in a whiskey drawl.
Nunn made a noise of assent.
“I don’t care, Stan. We’re safe, we’re fine, we’re, best of all, we’re cool. We’re beyond cool. We’re icy. We are non-globally warmed.” Peter’s voice cracked into hard, brittle laughter. “It doesn’t matter whatever you say that CSI guy said. It doesn’t matter. Because we can’t be caught. The money is yours, mine, and ours.”
Nunn grunted, and as Peter launched into another drunken tirade of reassurance, Nunn covered the phone and whispered to Ballard. “Tell him to stay put. Tell him you want to come to see him. Now. Don’t take no for an answer.”
“You won’t…” Ballard’s gaze darted to the gun against his cheek.
“I will,” Nunn whispered. “Nothing to lose, man. You made sure of that. You’re the one with everything to lose, Stan. Do as I say.” Nunn put the phone back up to Ballard’s face.
“Yes, Peter, I’m here.” Ballard’s voice was steady. The lawyer in him kicked in. He would not show he was rattled, not to an audience. Or to an accomplice. “I want to see you. Now.” A pause. “No, not at a bar. Stay on your boat. You’re not in any condition to be in public again tonight. I’ll be there shortly. … All right. … Yes, Peter. Good-bye.”
Nunn cl
icked off the phone. “If only I had a tape recorder so I could prove to the world what a complete waste of skin you are.”
Ballard risked a half smile. “You just assaulted me and listened in on a private conversation. I’ll sue you into complete financial oblivion unless you just turn around and walk away. You think you hit bottom after Sarah dumped you? You’re still a mile above bottom, but I will crash you, Nunn.”
“Crashing is my hobby,” Nunn said. “I’m in Olympic training for hitting bottom, Stan. Seriously. I’m impressed with the level of jackass-ery you’ve managed. You helped Peter bilk the Thomas kids out of millions after their mother, his own sister, was executed. If only they gave medals for class and integrity.”
Ballard’s mouth worked and decided on a frown. “You’re making a huge assumption.”
“No, that’s what I used to do. Assume. No more. Show me your wallet and your car keys, Stan.”
Ballard fished out his wallet and keys. A Mercedes logo gleamed on the key chain. Nunn thumbed through the thick wallet. “You’re living so much larger than when Rosemary marched off to the death chamber. You and Peter raiding the family funds? It’s hard for a dead woman to ask for an audit.”
Ballard didn’t move. Didn’t answer.
“Peter’s a jerk, but he’s also a drunk and not exactly a guy you’d entrust with a plan,” Nunn said. The need to twist the knife in Ballard ran deep through Nunn’s bones. Part of him, wrongly he knew, wanted to pull the trigger and make Ballard’s usually sneering face disappear; but then he thought of Sarah. Did she really love this man? Did she even know him?
“What?” Ballard, usually so sharp, didn’t see Nunn’s meaning.
“Someone hatched a plan to put a body in that iron maiden and frame Rosemary. It is a crime that required a great deal of forethought and planning.”
“You sound like a textbook.”
“You’re sleeping with my wife, and I have a gun, so mocking me wouldn’t be a smart strategy.”
Ballard said, “Your ex-wife—”
Nunn cut him off. “The candidate pool is thin, Stan. You’re smarter than Peter, and your motive isn’t so obvious as Peter’s would be. If Peter profits, you profit.”
No Rest for the Dead Page 21
