Dead Man's Mistress

by David Housewright

  NINETEEN

  I timed it so that I stepped out of the hotel at exactly eight P.M. The van was already parked in the courtyard. Two couples dressed as if they were going to a charity ball stood beside the open sliding door while a man I didn’t recognize waved a hand-held RF power detector with four red lights up and around their bodies and the ladies’ bags. The lights didn’t start blinking so I assumed they were clean. The lack of interest displayed by the doorman, parking valets, and other guests suggested this sort of thing happened all the time at the Fairmont Le Château Frontenac.

  O’Rourke was wearing sunglasses despite the fact that the sun had set nearly an hour earlier and was leaning with his backside against the van’s front grille, his arms folded across his chest. I couldn’t help but notice that his suit was nicer than mine.

  “McKenzie,” he said.

  My name seemed to work as a signal for the man working the bug detector. He pulled an eight-by-eight-inch Faraday bag from his pocket and opened it. I dropped my cell phone inside. He sealed the bag and wrote my name on it using a black marker he took from his pocket. He handed the bag to O’Rourke and started running his bug detector over and around me. When he finished, he nodded at O’Rourke. O’Rourke used the hand holding the Faraday bag to gesture at the van’s open doorway.

  Certainly a talkative bunch, my inner voice said.

  The two couples were already seated inside. They were chattering like kids about to go on a camping trip until I entered the van and then they became quiet. I didn’t say or do anything to threaten them, however, so after a few minutes they started talking again as if I wasn’t there. Two additional men dressed in matching tuxedos joined us; they could have been father and son. A striking woman in a sparkling silk gown followed. She spent a lot of time chatting with O’Rourke before filling the final seat in the van, leaving me with the impression that if they weren’t actually together, both wished that they were.

  At approximately eight fifteen, the doors to the van were sealed. The driver was the same man who had worked the radio frequency power detector. He maneuvered the vehicle onto Rue Saint Louis and drove until we passed through Porte St. Louis, a gate in the huge wall that separated Vieux Quebec and the rest of the city. From there we followed Grand Allée, a boulevard noted for hotels, museums, restaurants, clubs, and government buildings.

  We drove for twenty minutes, sometimes on the freeway, sometimes in stop-and-go traffic. The driver took several turns, none of them abrupt. I didn’t know what effect his maneuvers might have had on anyone who could have been following us. I, on the other hand, was thoroughly lost. I had no idea where we were or where we were going. I didn’t find that particularly troubling, all things considered. It was getting home that I worried about.

  Finally, the driver took yet another turn onto a narrow street. I couldn’t see any traffic through the windshield, yet I could hear airplanes; their jet engines were uncomfortably loud.

  Airport? my inner voice said.

  The van drove in a straight line toward a cinder-block building with a metal roof that looked like a warehouse. There were no signs identifying it, no windows to look in or out of. There was a door large enough to accommodate a moving truck, though. The van slowed to a halt directly in front of it. I could detect at least three cameras.

  O’Rourke had his cell in his hand. I didn’t know if he sent a text message or used some other app, only that the door opened slowly. The driver eased the van past it, stopping in front of a second door. The door behind us closed, effectively sealing us in a concrete bunker.

  “What is this?” a man asked.

  “It’s called a bandit trap,” I said.

  He stared at me like I was speaking gibberish.

  O’Rourke got out of the van. He walked to a small control panel mounted on the wall next to the inside door. He punched a couple of buttons, stepped back, and gave a casual wave to a camera mounted above his head.

  The second door opened and the van passed inside the warehouse. It moved away from the door and parked. The van door opened and the other passengers and I disembarked. We were greeted immediately by a security team that was even more thorough than the driver and O’Rourke had been at the hotel. They made us sign a guest book that also served as a nondisclosure agreement. Apparently, what happened in the warehouse was expected to stay in the warehouse.

  I began examining my surroundings while trying hard not to look like it. There were wooden boxes mounted on pallets and shelves. Cells lining the outside walls resembled the self-storage units people use to hoard their old furniture. In the center of the building was a structure that reminded me of an elaborate office suite.

  Between the suite and the cells was a passageway wide enough to accommodate a small truck. The passageway ran in a large circle around the suite back to the door. Yet while there was only one entrance, there were exits at each of the four corners of the building with lighted signs above metal doors and I thought, How Canadian to show me the easy way to get out of a building that was so carefully constructed to prevent me from getting in.

  O’Rourke and his security people led us through the suite where I noticed vaults of various sizes and weight, most of them with electronic keypads, a few with biometric readers. There were open rooms with the kind of furniture you’d find at Mary Ann McInnis’s mansion and a lot of closed rooms with heavy doors that I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere near. There were also plenty of video cameras, vibration detection technology, smoke detectors, heat-activated sprinklers, and emergency lights. The air was cool and so comfortable that I assumed strict temperature and humidity control was maintained.

  We were led to a large, red-carpeted room with museum-quality lighting, small tables that you could lean on, and a bar where a man dressed in a black vest, black bow tie, and crisp white shirt was happy to mix drinks that you could set on the tables. The younger man asked the bartender to pour two glasses of cabernet and brought them to the table where the older man stood.

  “Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Geneva anymore,” he said.

  “You’re spoiled,” the older man said.

  “If I am it’s your fault.”

  “This is what a free port is supposed to be like, just a drab warehouse. What they were like before people started turning them into mini-museums.”

  “In Luxembourg they have sculptures by Vhils in the lobby.”

  “Exactly my point. I don’t approve of any of that. It’s like the patrons are thumbing their noses at the tax collectors, never a good idea. Besides, tax avoidance is one thing. Drug cartels and kleptocrats are using free ports to hide their loot, launder money, finance terrorism. How long is it going to be before the world’s law enforcement organizations start knocking on the door—the FBI, Sûreté, MI6, even the Russian FSB and Chinese MSS?”

  I had a Canadian whisky, which tends to be lighter and smoother than what you get in the States, and hung back. There was a small stage in the center of the viewing room, but a curtain surrounded it and a guard with the stone-faced stare of a Secret Service agent dissuaded me from trying to take a peek. I noticed that he was also better dressed than I was and my suit cost $2,200.

  Eventually, a lot more people with even more impressive clothes than mine arrived; most of the men wore fancy scarves with their tuxedos and suits, although the women didn’t. The room took on a festive vibe. There was a lot of laughter. The two couples that came in the same van as I did were behaving as if they disapproved of the Brandenburg Concertos being piped into the room and were impatient for the dance music to begin.

  Bruce Flonta was among the final group to arrive, timing it so he’d be the last guest to pass through the entrance. He carried his cane in one hand and held the hand of a very attractive, very young woman dressed in a silver lace gown with the other. I had to admit that Jennica Mehren looked stunning enough that I was briefly tempted to reevaluate my rule against lusting after younger women.

  Flonta wasn’t as conflicted. He rele
ased Jennica’s hand, slid his arm around her waist, and nudged her closer to himself in case anyone thought that she was his granddaughter.

  Look what I have, my inner voice said.

  I thought I detected a brief grimace on Jennica’s face and she seemed to grip her small jeweled bag tighter than was necessary, yet neither behavior lasted long enough for me to be sure. Michael Alden circled around the old man and gestured at a vacant table. Like his boss, he was also dressed in a tuxedo and for some reason he reminded me of an Academy Awards seat filler. When they reached the table, Flonta began glancing from one group of guests to another as if he expected everyone in the room to know his name. Apparently, no one did, although that didn’t keep him from smiling the entire time.

  Alden leaned in close and spoke quietly. Flonta said something and nodded. Alden walked in a straight line to the bar and ordered drinks. While waiting for the drinks, he turned his back to the bar and surveyed the room. That’s when he saw me. He burned through about a half-dozen emotions in only a few seconds, starting with confusion and ending with concern.

  He brought the drinks back to the table—it looked like scotch for him and Flonta, champagne for Jennica. He spoke softly. All three of them turned toward me. Flonta’s smile faded just a bit. Jennica’s grew even brighter. She raised her champagne glass in salute and I gave her a head bow. She might have been illegal in the States, but the drinking age in Quebec was eighteen.

  I tapped my chest.

  She nodded her head.

  Is she crazy, is her old man crazy, filming what is ostensibly a criminal act? Are they going to pass from person to person when they’re finished and collect signed releases?

  The only way Jennica could have gotten past the RF power detectors, I decided, was if the camera was connected to a recorder with a cable and not transmitting its signal through the air. Considering how tightly her dress clung to her body, I could only guess where the recorder was hidden.

  A few more minutes passed before a man, also dressed in a tuxedo, stepped to a portable podium that had been positioned in the center of the room just in front of the stage. The Brandenburg Concertos were silenced while he adjusted his microphone.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming,” he said. “The auction will commence in just a few minutes. In the meantime, may I present Scenes from an Inland Sea, painted by Randolph McInnis thirty-five years ago yet not displayed to the public until this evening.”

  The curtains parted and were drawn back. The crowd surged forward to look. Jennica positioned herself in front, moving slowly in a semicircle around the small stage, her jeweled bag stuffed under the arm; shooting film, I decided.

  In the center of the stage and framed in gold were three paintings mounted on easels that looked remarkably like those I had studied in Perrin Stewert’s copy of Randolph McInnis: Scenes from an Inland Sea—the muted colors, the precise brushstrokes, and, of course, a nude Louise Wykoff.

  My first thought, Wow.

  My second, These are not the paintings that the Wykoff woman had described to me.

  I wondered, Is it possible that McInnis might have produced at least three paintings in addition to those that had been collected in the book and the ones Louise told me about? Could he have given them to another woman that he was sleeping with?

  I concluded, Hell no. McInnis had meticulously documented all of his paintings, drawings, and sketches, remember? Besides, how could he have painted these canvases of Louise and given them away without Louise knowing about it?

  My decision was to have another drink, stand back, and watch while some dumb schmuck paid God knows how much money to buy forgeries. Maybe it’ll be Flonta.

  Won’t that be fun?

  I retreated to the bar and ordered another whisky on the rocks. I was the only one in the back of the room; everyone else had rushed forward and was now gathered around the stage. This had not gone unnoticed by O’Rourke, who was staring at me with a quizzical expression on his face.

  My inner voice said, You’ll have no trouble with me, even as I raised my glass. He did not acknowledge the gesture.

  The woman in the sparkling silk gown that he had been speaking to earlier sidled up to him and rested her hand on his shoulder.

  I raised my glass again. This time O’Rourke did smile.

  Fifteen minutes passed before the man in the tuxedo returned to the podium and rapped the top of it not with a hammer, but what looked like a two-inch wooden ball.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “The auction is about to begin. If you’ll take your positions.”

  The crowd backed away from the stage and created a semicircle around the podium. I noticed a few of the guests deliberately move toward the front, including the father and son team and Flonta. Flonta insisted on holding Jennica’s hand, even though she had positioned herself so that her chest was pointed at both the auctioneer and the paintings behind him.

  I moved to the side so I could watch.

  “We have only one lot to bid on tonight,” the auctioneer said. “Lot one consisting of three previously unknown paintings belonging to the series known as Scenes from an Inland Sea by Randolph McInnis.”

  The crowd began to murmur. It was clear that most of the guests had expected the paintings to be sold separately. The auctioneer quickly picked up on their discontent.

  “We apologize if there was any misunderstanding,” he said. “We were informed ourselves just earlier this evening that the owner wishes the paintings to be sold as a single unit. Five hundred thousand American dollars will start us. Five hundred thousand—thank you, sir. I have a bid of five hundred—yes, six hundred thousand over here—another bid of seven hundred thousand…”

  I was impressed that the auctioneer hadn’t fallen into the rhythms and chants that we were taught to expect; he didn’t try to hypnotize the bidders or lure them into a condition of call and response as if they were playing a game of Simon Says. Nor did he attempt to speed up the process and create a false sense of urgency—bid now or lose out. Instead, he gave the bidders the respect that their bank accounts demanded.

  Flonta jumped in at one million. He was top bidder for about six seconds. That’s how long it took for the father-son team to enter the fray. All of the other bidders seemed to drop out at one million five, while Flonta and the father-son team went back and forth.

  “One million six—one million seven—one million eight…”

  That’s when the woman in the sparkling silk gown signaled.

  “I have two million over here,” the auctioneer said, holding the wooden ball out as if he expected the woman to take it from his hand.

  Father-son hesitated for nearly ten seconds before signaling two million one.

  Flonta bid two million two.

  The woman said, “Two and a half million.”

  O’Rourke shot a glance my way, a look of anxiety on his face.

  I vibrated my head ever so slightly side to side.

  He took the hint and whispered in the woman’s ear.

  Her eyes grew wide, although the rest of her face displayed no emotion whatsoever.

  Flonta bid two-point-six.

  The woman exhaled slowly as if she had been holding her breath. It made me smile.

  “Two-point-seven—two-point-eight—two-point-nine—three million. We are at three million dollars. Three-point-one. Three-point-one. Fair warning…”

  “Why aren’t you bidding?”

  Flonta’s voice carried across the room. He pointed his cane at me. He was no longer smiling.

  “Why aren’t you bidding? McKenzie?”

  I didn’t move except to bring my drink to my lips and take a short sip.

  “Sir,” the auctioneer said. “The bid is three-point-one million dollars.”

  “They’re fakes, aren’t they?” Flonta said. “That’s why you’re not bidding. You know they’re forgeries. Goddamn sonuvabitch.”

  O’Rourke left the woman in the silk gown and moved quickly to Flo
nta’s side.

  He said, “Sir…”

  Flonta said, “Goddamn sonuvabitch,” again.

  “Sir…”

  “You’re trying to sell me goddamn forgeries.”

  “How do you know they’re forgeries?” the father asked.

  “Yes, how do you know?” said the son.

  Flonta pointed at me.

  “He knows,” he said.

  The way that Alden positioned himself, it was as though he wanted to be ready to catch his boss if he should collapse to the floor. Jennica had released Flonta’s hand and was now inching away. Her chest was pointed at Flonta, yet her eyes were on the door and both hands were on her bag.

  “Sir,” Father said. “What do you know about this?”

  “Nothing whatsoever,” I said.

  “Are these paintings forgeries?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Father pointed at Flonta. “He says…”

  “I’m not responsible for what he says.”

  “Goddamn sonuvabitch, McKenzie,” Flonta said. “You know they’re forgeries. That Wykoff Woman told you. Jennica? Where is that girl?”

  Jennica was now on the other side of the stage and looking frightened. It was as if she knew what was about to happen.

  “Jennica, I want you to take pictures of these people. Film all of them.”

  “Pictures?” someone said.

  “Film?” someone else shouted. “I can’t be on film.”

  The place erupted. There were shouts and threats and people in tuxedos and gowns began shoving one another although why they would do that was baffling to me. It was like a scene in one of those old Western movies where a spilled beer becomes a barroom brawl.

  “O’Rourke,” the father said, “what the hell are you running here?”

  “Jennica, do as I tell you,” Flonta said.

  Jennica kept easing backward toward the doorway.

  O’Rourke pointed at her.

  The man who resembled a Secret Service agent moved quickly to her side.