Actually, blaming Viktor Milan flowed smoothly off my tongue because it was essentially true. I left out that Milan was an alias for a guy named Coby Lewis and some treasure-hunting ex-SEALs.
Nunes bought the Viktor Milan connection, which wasn’t surprising, since the name figured in the Semiramis controversy from the get-go. And I gave Nunes an accurate description of Coby, without volunteering Coby’s real name… if that was his real name.
The accusation that I was lying went back to Nunes’s theory that I had a working criminal relationship with Lipton and Milan. Nunes wanted to link me to the looting of the Iraqi museum and knowingly purchasing the stolen items for the Piedmont. That scenario came with several murder charges, because I would be part of a criminal conspiracy.
My outrage and cries of innocence were genuine when it came to the Lipton/Milan steal-sell-murder conspiracy.
“You keep insisting I was in on the theft with Lipton and this Milan person. That simply isn’t true.”
“You bought a number of items off of Lipton that came from the museum in Baghdad. You stocked the Piedmont’s collection with dirty pieces.”
“I bought a number of items that Lipton offered for sale… with provenances. So did a lot of other collectors and museums.”
I didn’t know how many others there were, but it was a sure thing Nunes didn’t know, either, since no one knew exactly what had been stolen from the museum. “I had authorization to pay full value for each item. I’m sure you’ve had a chance to check my finances to find out that not only didn’t I receive kickbacks, but I was living beyond my means.”
I figured my best defense would be the bankruptcy I’d have to file to keep bill collectors from yapping at my heels. My expensive apartment, hot car, designer clothes—spending way beyond my means because I was always expecting them to expand—were my vindication. Who knew my financial ineptitude would finally pay off big?
“My only connection to the stolen museum pieces was my desperate attempt to recover them because I was being falsely accused of conspiring to steal them. The truckload of pieces I risked my life to recover was obviously from the museum heist, though you have no documentation to connect them.”
I felt confident that Iraqi museum curators would identify them as belonging to the museum.
“You’ve also never established that a single piece that I bought for the Piedmont came from that theft,” I said, continuing my defense. “There are thousands of legal artifacts for sale every day around the world. I was in the business of acquiring pieces in a lawful manner. If Lipton sold me a stolen piece with a phony provenance, I was duped. But you haven’t any proof even that occurred.”
Nunes stared at me with a blank look on his face. He still didn’t believe me. Or didn’t want to believe me. A confession from me would wrap up so many loose ends for the Bureau.
From his point of view, the evidence was missing because my partners in crime had destroyed it. Stocker’s London attack had torched any incriminating evidence Lipton had been sitting on. And Milan was a shadow figure who possessed nothing: no office, no filing cabinets full of incriminating records, no computer disks or hard drives, no evidence of a human body. I wondered if Nunes had figured out yet that Milan was just a name on paper.
I had no clue as to what was recovered at the warehouse or in the back of the truck along with the antiquities, and Stocker didn’t strike me as a record keeper who would’ve kept a list of what had originally been stolen from the museum.
Nunes’s dilemma was understandable. He was a good cop who was absolutely certain that every piece Lipton sold me came from the heist. In retrospect, Nunes was probably right. But all he had was burning suspicion, not proof, at least not yet. And that was my salvation. I kept hammering away at his lack of proof.
The law’s all about the evidence, not the truth, the lawyer told me last time I was arrested. Innocent people are found guilty every day because of the way the evidence stacked up against them. Well, thank God it worked the other way, too.
“You’ve asked me a million questions,” I said, trying to sound sincere. “May I ask you one thing?”
He rolled his eyes. “If your question is how do you get out of this mess, you can start by telling the truth.”
“Don’t I get any credit at all for battling a homicidal maniac and recovering national treasures that belong to the Iraqi museum?”
A thin crease in his lips left the impression of a sneer rather than a smile. “You have three things in your favor. The first is that you called me from Malaga and told me about the Viktor Milan connection. You’re not that good of an actress to have faked being so scared.”
“Thank you. It was frightening out there all alone doing the work of police officers on two continents.”
“Perhaps if the police officers on two continents knew what you knew about the crimes, you wouldn’t have had to be all alone. Anyway, the second thing is that you called me before you went into the warehouse. It did occur to me that had you found anything at the warehouse, you would’ve made yourself scarce before you called it in.”
I kept a straight face. “The third?”
“Bullet holes indicating someone, presumably Stocker, had shot at you, and a gate smashed in making your escape. Agent Jones,” he indicated with a nod to his head, “believes you’re telling the truth about your daring rescue with the antiquities, hopping aboard that truck and crashing through that gate like a stunt driver.”
The other agent’s features were frozen as she struggled to keep her eyes open. None of us had gotten any sleep.
“And what do you think?” I looked him square in the eye.
“You’re either the world’s greatest liar or the luckiest woman on earth.” He leaned forward. “I don’t know which. I find it unimaginable that you walked into that warehouse bare-handed and fought a mad killer who was armed to the teeth. Ballistics is checking out bullets recovered at the scene. I’m betting there was another shooter.”
“I told you that another person appeared. I didn’t have time to stick around and get a good look at him. Maybe it was Viktor Milan.”
“You know, I find this Milan guy a bit weird. Every time you need an alibi or an excuse for something, his name pops up.” He sighed and pursed his lips. “If you hadn’t called me before you went into that warehouse…”
He sounded as if he regretted that I had called him. I guess everything added up better if I was simply an accomplice.
“I wish the hell we’d gotten your pal Stocker. Scotland Yard would like him, too.”
“He isn’t my pal. My friends don’t try to kill me. Why are you keeping me a prisoner when I should be getting a medal?”
“Ms. Dupre, before I’m through with you, I will make sure you get everything you deserve.”
What a threat that was! I leaned back and closed my eyes. God, I was tired. I could have just laid my head on the table and passed out. My mind was groggy and my adrenaline level way down, sure reasons to make mistakes at a time when I was playing hardball for my freedom.
The door opened and someone handed Nunes a piece of paper. After reading it, he said, “Fingerprints taken from the truck and warehouse ID’d Stocker as a former Navy SEAL. Discharged for a personality disorder. From what we’ve seen so far, it’s an understatement of his mental condition. What did he tell you about his Navy career?”
I groaned with frustration and disgust. “Special Agent Nunes, that’s about the tenth time you’ve tried to get me to tell you things about Stocker that I don’t know so you can prove your theory that I did know him. I never met the man. Unless you count him trying to kill me a couple of times. And those were done without a formal introduction.
“I don’t know if I was targeted because he was following me… or because I was following him. But please listen. I didn’t even know a creature like that existed until he came into Lipton’s gallery to murder me and everyone else. I never ever spoke to the man, not before he grabbed me when I poked my head t
hrough the doorway at the warehouse.”
I was so frustrated I could scream. And I showed it. I leaned across the table and locked eyes with Nunes. “Is that clear? Never, never, ever even spoke to him before he had tried to kill me a couple times. And he barely said anything at the warehouse. If there is anything that will hinder your investigation, it’s trying to get to Stocker through me.”
Nunes had obviously spent decades listening to people lie to him, so it was good that I wasn’t lying about the most important thing: I was not involved with Stocker, Lipton, and the others in stealing, storing, and selling the antiquities.
I could tell from Nunes’s body language that he was at least half-convinced that I was telling the truth. He had been much tougher in his questioning and attitude after he had picked me up fleeing Abdullah’s apartment. It was a giant leap for him to believe that I had walked into the warehouse and wrestled the antiquities away from Stocker. It had been a giant leap for me, too. But it was the truth and nothing but.
Of course, if Coby hadn’t made a sudden appearance, Stocker probably would have put a bullet in my back as I was running for the truck. That was the main reason I kept Coby’s name out of it. That and the fact that my own feelings about Coby bordered on the sentimental or maybe something stronger.
What had happened to Stocker—and Coby, for that matter—after I burst out the gates was a mystery. For sure, they had plenty of time to get away, because Nunes was busy recovering from the crash, taking me into custody, and checking the truck. When Nunes opened a crate in the back of the truck and saw a museum piece, he knew he’d struck pay dirt.
“Look, I know it’s hard to believe. All I really intended to do was check the warehouse a little closer to make sure the stuff was there before I called you. I got lucky with that pepper spray ring when I squirted Stocker right in the face. Otherwise I’d be dead. God was watching over me. It wasn’t my time to die. Now can I go?”
Nunes edged forward, just inches from my face. “You’re lying to me. And it will end up getting you life without parole.”
I flinched back.
“Your passport is in the personal effects folder at the property desk with your purse. I’m keeping it,” he said as he stood up.
“Keeping my passport? Why are you—wait, you’re letting me go?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Of course. Your public awaits you. Word has gotten out about the recovery of the antiquities. A horde of news media people are waiting to interview you.” He leaned forward and sneered. “You’re a celebrity. Maybe as big as a talking political head or a reality show wife swapper. That TV host Cassie claims you used a secret code during an interview to signal her that you knew where the stolen Iraqi pieces were being held.”
Oh my God.
He stretched and then grinned maliciously down at me. “Stocker’s still out there. When he tries to kill you again, let us know.”
Agent Jones opened her eyes wide and said, “He will try again; you know that. Is there anything you’d like to tell us before he does?”
“Yes. Find him before he finds me.”
As Nunes walked me to the property desk, he said, “By the way. We’re not putting a tail on you.”
“Really.” I didn’t know what to say. Why was he telling me this?
“Takes too damn many assets in Manhattan to do a round-the-clock surveillance. Narrow, crowded streets, a million cars and taxis, subways, takes dozens of agents for a twenty-four/seven watch.”
“Uh, is there a reason why you’re telling me this?”
“Yeah.” He stared at me gravely. “I just wanted to let you know we won’t be around when Stocker comes back for you.”
That was the second time he brought up the subject. I think he was trying to tell me something: Fess up before Stocker gets you.
Chapter 58
Freedom tasted good, even if it was a gloomy, chilly, and wet New York City night. I took several deep breaths, savoring air not polluted by suspicious fed agents and legions of criminals. God, I felt like proverbial roadkill: burned-out, bummed-out, and stressed-out.
No reception committee was waiting for me. The newspeople must have gotten tired and decided to go home. It took three hours to get released even after I agreed to give up my passport and not leave the city. I would have promised my firstborn in exchange for my freedom if Nunes had asked.
He didn’t need to hold my passport to keep me in the country. I couldn’t have fled far. I had my purse back with three hundred dollars in cash and less than a thousand left on my last viable credit card. And that was it. By New York standards, that was a couple nights in a moderately priced hotel and a few deli meals. After that, the homeless shelter.
Oh, for the days when a black American Express card was my passport to the haunts of the rich and famous and wannabes like me.
I had two theories why the FBI agents let me go, besides the fact that Nunes was just plain hurting after getting smacked in the face during his near-death experience. He looked like a man with a brave front who needed to go home, have a stiff shot and a warm bed.
He knew I needed money was my first theory. In his mind, the place I’d go for it was where I was secretly hoarding stolen antiquities or ill-gotten gains. That theory didn’t conflict with his statement that I wouldn’t be watched. But not physically watching me didn’t mean he wasn’t going to keep an eye on my bank account, credit card, cell phone, and Internet use, along with anything else that was easy to track electronically.
Once I had an infusion of money, he’d pick me up to sweat the source out of me. But I had fooled him on that one. I was broke and would stay that way short of winning the lottery.
The second hypothesis rang even truer and was more scarier: They let me go to see if they could flush out Stocker… the premise being, of course, that he would finish the job of killing me. And since they didn’t have a watch on me, they’d have to sift through the bloody clues left at the murder scene—mine—and witness statements to find him. Either that or Nunes expected me to wrestle the big maniac to the ground, hogtie him, and drag him up the steps to the federal detention building.
With those charming thoughts, I shivered and pulled up the collar of my light jacket. The night was cold, dark, deserted. A description of what my life looked like, with the fires of hell awaiting if Stocker found me.
The Metropolitan Correctional Center (MCC) was located in lower Manhattan, adjacent to Foley Square and across the street from the federal courthouse. I knew a city police station wasn’t far from here, which didn’t exactly comfort me. Police stations were notorious for being high-crime areas because of the flow of undesirables in, out, and around them.
The area bustled with people in the daytime but was deserted after hours. Right now it was way after hours, about three in the morning. Like most big cities, the safest places to be were the ones with people crowded around. I was tempted to go to the police station and ask them to call me a taxi but decided not to press my luck. I might be on a Most Wanted List with them, too.
Dragging myself down the stairs and onto the dark street, I felt like Nunes looked—beaten. I needed a taxi to take me to a hotel where I could feel safe, not that anywhere was overly safe from a man who packed a rocket launcher like some people pack a laptop.
Two taxis passed, both occupied. I had started walking in the direction of the police station when a taxi pulled up to the curve. I got in and told the driver to take me to Times Square, an area that was always flowing with people day and night and also had several hotels.
I was leery of going to my apartment. That crazy Stocker was capable of pulling up in front of the building and blowing it up with his rocket launcher. Besides, it was entirely possible that I had been locked out and everything inside repossessed by my creditors. My rent had been due over a week ago. In these days when credit card companies keep close tabs on people, everything not nailed down was probably already cleaned out. I’d find out tomorrow when I went to the apartment to get some c
lothes and look for jewelry or anything else I could hock or sell instantly.
To satisfy my paranoia I locked both back doors of the taxi, then leaned my head against the seat and closed my eyes.
My mind was swirling. I was on a merry-go-round whirling out of control and couldn’t get off. Being back in the graces of the FBI (since the only Madison Dupre being held prisoner was my passport picture) was a great relief, though I would have felt safer in jail. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about a crazed killer and double-crossed Navy SEALs out for revenge.
Too many problems to deal with all at the same time. Getting to a quiet place where I felt safe and could relax and think out solutions one at a time was a necessity.
I must have dozed off for a few minutes, because I jerked awake when the taxi took a sharp turn.
My heartbeat quickened when I looked out and realized we weren’t on a major street anymore but had entered an alley.
“Where are we?”
“Detour,” the driver said.
I hadn’t paid too much attention to him earlier, but now I could see he had dark olive skin and spoke with a thick Middle Eastern type accent.
Something was wrong. “Let me out!”
The cabbie suddenly braked, pulling to a stop at the back of a building. The door locks went up and my door was jerked open. Another man with Middle Eastern features and wearing black clothes said, “Get out.”
When I didn’t move fast enough, he grabbed my arm and pulled me out.
I opened my mouth to scream, but he put a knife to my throat.
Chapter 59
“Why are you doing this?” I hummed aloud, with no one around to hear me.
I was alone in a small bathroom furnished with a toilet, a sink, and a roll of toilet paper.
I sat on the toilet and worried about my fate.
The bathroom wasn’t exactly on the cutting edge of technology or maintenance. The toilet paper holder was broken, and the paper sat on top of the tank lid. No towel or soap was present. The sink and toilet both needed a good scrubbing, an indication that the place had more men around than women.
The Looters Page 28
