Harry Bronson Box Set

by L C Hayden

  Chapter 39

  Bronson insisted on returning to Ellen’s. Mike wanted to pursue their current leads.

  Somehow, Bronson would have to make Mike see it his way. “I promised Ellen I’d have you home in plenty time for your date. We follow the paintin’ trail, you won’t make it.”

  “Ellen would understand.” Mike stopped at a red light.

  “Would she?” Bronson looked straight at Mike. “She’d say it was okay, but deep down, she’d resent the job even more. Do you really want that?”

  Mike exhaled audibly. “Damn it, Bronson. Why do you have to be so logical about what I should do and so damn stupid about what you’re doing?”

  “I only see the logic behind it.”

  For the rest of the drive, they remained quiet. As Mike turned into Ellen’s driveway, he looked at Bronson and shook his head.

  Mike knew Bronson very well, in fact, too well. Bronson would have to play his cards with care. “What?”

  “I’m worried about you. I’m afraid you’re going to do something that proves you’re bullheaded.”

  “Like what? Steal a piece from one of the museums I’m going to?”

  “You’re really going to the museum?”

  “As promised. Two of them.” Bronson opened the car door. “Now relax. You and Ellen have a great time. Hope you win her over, and by the time you’re ready to leave, you’re engaged.”

  “Engaged? Hell, we’ll just move in together.”

  “Which is different from what you’re doing now—how?”

  “It’ll be on a permanent basis.”

  “Gotcha.” Bronson opened the car door, took out his cell, and showed it to Mike. “Speaking of living together, I’ve got a call to make. I’ll catch you inside.”

  Mike waived at him. “Tell Carol ‘hi’ for us.”

  “Will do.” Bronson walked away.

  He called Devono.

  *****

  Devono leaned back on his leather chair behind his desk. “You never cease to amaze me. Just like Lorraine. Two from the same pod. I want to hear again what you just requested. I want to make sure I heard right.”

  “I want two difficult to trace handguns.”

  “Two? You had just previously mentioned one.” Devono’s eyebrows arched. “Why two?”

  “One’s for me and the other one is for my partner.”

  “You do realize that if you accept even one of those guns, you’ll be committing a felony.”

  “I am well aware of that.”

  “And still you want the guns?”

  Devono raised his hands as if in surrender. “If you’re that determined, I hope you find your guns, but you won’t find them here.” He put on an innocent face. “Whatever made you think I had guns that I could give you?”

  Bronson perched at the end of his chair. “Cut the bullshit. I have no reason to set you up. I thought that above all, you would want Lorraine’s killer caught.”

  Devono’s jaw dropped and his eyes widened. “Mario?”

  “Yeah, the troopers claim he killed Lorraine. He fathered her child and she either threatened him with that knowledge or demanded something from him. Either way, he supposedly killed her. If that’s true, I want to know who killed him and why.”

  Devono remained quiet, his eyes scrutinizing Bronson. “The troopers say I killed Mario to revenge Lorraine’s death.”

  “Did you?” Bronson’s voice came out rough and dry. He cleared his throat.

  “I had the motive, you know that. Whoever killed her, robbed me of half-a-million dollars a year.”

  Bronson bit his tongue to keep from saying something he’d later regret. He gripped the chair’s armrest so tight that his knuckles paled. “Glad to hear you loved my sister so much.”

  “That, I did and still do. But I also loved the money she brought me. Money is always thicker than love.”

  Bronson forced himself to take a couple of deep breaths before speaking. “Are you admittin’ to killing Serafin?”

  “I admit to sending someone to beat him to a pulp, but not kill him.”

  Bronson’s shoulder sagged. “So he did kill Lorraine.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. I often suspected he had feelings for her. He knew that meant betraying me, knowing that she belonged to me. Being my right-hand man, I assumed he never acted on those feelings. When I found out he fathered her child, I’m afraid I didn’t act too rational.”

  “This person you sent, I’d like to speak to him.”

  Devono folded his arms and leaned back. “I’m afraid that’s impossible. He met with a terrible accident. He won’t be able to talk to you or anyone else.”

  You son of a bitch. Bronson let his eyes drop for just a second before he raised them, glaring into Devono’s face. “Serafin killed Lorraine, so you killed Serafin.”

  “So it seems, except the man I sent to rough up Mario claims when he got to his house, the place was swarming with troopers.” Devono stood up, walked around his desk, and perched on it, only a foot away from Bronson. “Why do you need the guns?”

  “Someone shot at me yesterday.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m pursuing a totally different angle. Wellington gave Lorraine a paintin’ worth a million dollars. It’s disappeared. I’ve been searchin’ for it, and I probably stepped on the wrong toes.”

  Devono whistled. “A million dollars? That’s two years payment.”

  “The paintin’ is not yours, and when I find it, it won’t be for sale.”

  “Everything is for sale.”

  “Not to me.”

  Devono shrugged and waived his hand dismissively. “Seems like you’re onto something, and you’re not sharing with the troopers. Mind telling me why?”

  “I’ve been ordered to stop all investigation. Case is closed. Serafin killed Lorraine. I dig further, I go to prison.”

  “Do you think Mario killed Lorraine?”

  “I can’t form a conclusion until I have all evidence in front of me. I’m curious about how the paintin’ fits into the picture.”

  “Funny way of putting it.”

  Bronson flashed him a fake smile.

  “If I get you these guns, you know you will be indebted to me.”

  “I won’t break any laws.”

  “Except for this minor felony charge.” Devono threw his head back and laughed. “It all begins somewhere.”

  “And it also ends there.”

  “Troopers are saying I killed Mario. They haven’t bothered me for all these years because I never broke the law.”

  That they know of, and if they do, they turned their backs. Bronson remained perfectly still, wanting to know where this led to.

  “That might change now.” Devono continued. “I want you to find Mario’s killer and you’ll have whatever, whomever, at your disposal.”

  “Including two guns.”

  “The two pistols I’m thinking about are both nine mm. These foreign weapons are good and reliable. One’s the Spanish Model 600. The other is a Russian Makarov. If your partner is a female, I wouldn’t let her have the Makarov. The recoil is tight and it requires a strong wrist action to—”

  Bronson stared at him.

  “Sorry. I forget you know all of this.” He straightened up. “One thing I won’t forget. From now on, you owe me.”

  “In that case, throw in the ammo too.”

  Chapter 40

  Bronson could lie and tell Mike and Ellen he did the tourist bit, or he could keep his word. He chose two museums to visit, the Carnegie Museum of Art and the Carnegie Museum of Natural History. At the art museum, Bronson didn’t learn anything that would help him with the case. The other museum completely captivated his attention. It featured more than four billion years of the Earth’s history and Bronson wished he could devote more time to this place. Maybe he’d bring Carol. She’d like that.

  As he headed out of the museum, a youthful looking receptionist said, “Thank you for visiting. Come back again.”

&
nbsp; She looked to be college age, just what Bronson needed. “It’s a nice place you have here.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it. We try hard.”

  “Is your family the museum’s curators?”

  She opened her eyes wider. “Oh, no, Sir. I’m just an employee.”

  “Workin’ your way through college?”

  She nodded.

  “Goin’ to the University of Pittsburgh?”

  “No, I attend Penn Woods College.”

  “How’s its Art Department?”

  “Pretty good, from what I’ve gathered. I’m not an art major.”

  “I’m lookin’ for an art expert.”

  “Then Penn Woods College is your answer. Our school paper just ran a feature on the Art Department. It hosts several professional art exhibits per year, and there’s several art concentrations the student can choose from.”

  “If I wanted to talk to just one person in the Art Department, someone who really knows the world of art, who would that be?”

  “That would be Dr. Rugbie, the newest recruit. The article said the college was very honored that she chose us over the more prestigious institutions of learning.”

  “Seems you read that article very carefully.”

  She smiled. “I wrote it. I’m a journalism major.”

  “Good for you.” Bronson saluted her. “You keep writin’ those articles.”

  She nodded, her face beaming with pride.

  “How do I get to this college?”

  “It’s thirty-six miles south of Pittsburgh.” She reached under the counter, thumbed through a stack of tourist flyers, found the one she was looking for, and opened it to the map. “Let me show you.”

  *****

  Built in 1893, the forty buildings of Penn Woods College spread over sixty acres of heavily wooded land. The majestic, towering oaks bathed the college with a coat of exquisite beauty and played havoc on visitors trying to locate a building. Even so, due to the receptionist’s excellent directions, Bronson easily located the Art Department. Classes were still in session, and that meant that Dr. Rugbie should be somewhere nearby. He’d start by visiting her office.

  The directory on the first floor informed Bronson that Dr. Rugbie’s office, Room Seven G, was nestled along a row of other art department offices located on the second floor.

  Half of the offices had either a strip of light shining under the door or an open door, inviting students in. Music, laughter, and chatter burst out of Room Seven G.

  Bronson stood at the door while students hung pictures, moved furniture, and emptied out boxes. A thin, red-headed, beady-eyed youth disengaged herself from the crowd and approached Bronson. “Something I can do for you?”

  “I’m looking for Dr. Rugbie.”

  “You’re lookin’ at her.”

  Really? He would have never pegged her for a professor—a doctor at that. “I’d like to show you some paintings.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t critique others’ work unless they’re enrolled in my class.” She gave him her back, heading to the center of activity in her office.

  “I’m not an artist. These are professional paintings. At least one is a François La Carcé original that has never been publicly displayed.” Bronson spoke quickly, hoping to catch her attention.

  Rugbie gasped and turned. “How did you get hold of that?”

  “It’s a long story, but the paintings are in my car which is parked right across from this building. I’d be willin’ to pay you for your time.” Bronson wondered if she accepted credit cards.

  Rugbie looked over her shoulder at her students. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” No one seemed to hear her. She followed Bronson to his car. “Tell me about these paintings.”

  “I’ve got three with me. There’s plenty more. I know next to nothin’ about art. Thought maybe you’d be able to tell me if the other ones are as valuable as La Carcé’s. I’m also interested in hearing about the forged copies.”

  Rugbie faltered. “Forged copies?”

  “I’ll show you.”

  Bronson opened the trunk and took out the first painting.

  “That’s a cheap piece of work.” Rugbie’s face fell. “The kind you buy at a discount store.” She looked at the stack of paintings still inside the trunk. She raised the first one and snuck a peek. “So’s that one.”

  “I wanted you to see them the way I found them.” Bronson had already removed the back from the first painting. He showed her the first picture hidden under the cheap painting.

  Rugbie’s eyes slowly widened. She placed her open hand on her chest like the heroine in an old movie. “Is that an original Stuart?”

  “You tell me.”

  She bent down, studying the piece of art. “Looks like it, but I can’t be sure. I’d have to analyze it very carefully. How did you get hold of this?”

  Bronson flipped the painting to reveal the duplicate under it.

  Rugbie looked at Bronson, down at the painting, and back at Bronson. “That’s an excellent imitation. Who are you? What do you want?”

  Bronson retrieved his badge and flashed it at her. He told her about finding the paintings in an artist’s studio and how he had gone there looking for the original La Carcé. As he spoke, he unfastened the paintings, each time revealing a priceless piece of art followed by “extremely good forgeries,” as Rugbie put it.

  “Tell me what you think is going on,” Bronson said.

  “The obvious is that this artist duplicates the great pieces. Why? I have no idea. Why don’t you ask him?”

  Bronson’s mind reeled with possibilities. “Say he was going to sell the original underground. He shows it to a prospective buyer who has an art expert with him. The expert verifies its authenticity. At the last moment, he switches the paintings and gives him the forged copy. He’s now free to sell the original again. How can he do the switch without arousing the buyer’s suspicions?”

  “It’s not going to be an easy switch. He could carry the original and duplicate in the same portfolio, but different compartments. After the expert verifies its authenticity, he places it back in the portfolio, insisting he must see the money before releasing the painting. He takes the cash, then takes out the forgery, and hands it to the buyer.”

  Smart, but a risky move, one that would require nerves of steel. Miller would have never been able to pull that off. He had to have an accomplice.

  Who?

  Chapter 41

  A cool breeze blew in through the opened car window, chilling Bronson. Students gathered in clumps, their chatter disturbing the serenity of the stately, historical buildings. Lovers strolled by, their bodies close to each other. Somewhere in the background, a dog yelped. Someone nearby grilled hamburgers, filling the air with an aroma that stoked Bronson’s hunger. His stomach grumbled.

  Long after Rugbie returned to her office, Bronson remained sitting in the driver’s seat. Something bothered the heck out of him. A detail. A missed lead. Something.

  More students strolled by, some by themselves, others in groups of two, three, or more. Some spoke loudly. Others whispered. Some were silent.

  Bronson’s thoughts returned to the painting. Focus. Think. Remember.

  If he were the buyer and he had an expert verify the work’s authenticity, he certainly wouldn’t let the painting out of his sight. Rugbie had offered the solution of placing both pieces of art in the same portfolio, but that seemed too risky. How then was the switch being pulled off?

  Had to be something simple. Something very obvious. Something . . .

  Hot-diggy-dog.

  Bronson started the engine, a big smile plastered on his face.

  *****

  Barbara Culverson waited over two hours for the phone to ring. She had watched Bronson and Mike load the paintings they had stolen from Miller’s studio. She made the call immediately, only to be put on hold and told to wait. While she waited, her foot tapped to a rhythm only her mind could hear. After waiting for more than a minut
e, she hung up.

  When her phone finally rang, she thought about not answering. Let him sweat. Deep down she knew that wouldn’t work. She’d be punishing herself. She was the one who wanted—needed—the order. She picked up the phone. “Yes?”

  “It’s me.”

  Like she didn’t know that. She chose to remain quiet.

  “Look, I’m sorry.” Barbara detected no trace of regret in his voice. He continued, “I didn’t get back to you right away because I was busy with a client.”

  Barbara walked over to the window to check on Miller’s studio. No activity since Bronson and Hoover left. “You have your job and I have mine.”

  “And I appreciate you doing your job which is why I suppose you called. What do you have to report?”

  “Bronson and Hoover visited Miller’s studio, and worse, they carried out what appeared to be three paintings.”

  She heard the sharp jabs of breath. When he spoke, his voice came out rough and strained. “Which paintings?”

  Stupid question. “I’m inside my duplex, watching them through the window. You really expect me to know which paintings they took?”

  He remained quiet for a moment. “Doesn’t matter. We know very well which ones they are.”

  “That’s the way it seems to me.” Barbara picked up a hairbrush and began brushing her long, black hair. One-hundred strokes every day. That’s how she kept her hair soft and shiny.

  “Bronson somehow figured it out. Damn him. Eliminate him, the sooner the better.”

  Barbara’s hand tightened on the receiver. That’s the order she’d been waiting for. “Consider it done. Usual price.”

  “It’s the doing that concerns me. I know it’s not your style, but you’re going to have to make this one look like an accident.”

  “No problem.” She hung up and her hand lingered on the receiver. She would do it her way, and if the trail she left behind led to him, that wasn’t her problem.

  She’d been ordered to kill and that’s all that mattered.

  Chapter 42

  Bronson had almost reached Miller’s studio when his cell rang. He didn’t recognize the number on the caller I.D. “Hello?”