Beau and Jordan and the tech move the large cardboard boxes around for all of them to fit next to the table. They pull on surgical gloves now and slowly wipe away the dust to reveal gold leaf writing on the gray metal box –
Grayson Safe Company
Chicago, Illinois
Fireproof Safe Model Two
Serial No. 1455
Juanita has her iPhone out and starts searching as they turn the safe over and examine it.
“Grayson Safe Company,” Juanita says, “Founded 1882. Specialized in large industrial safes for banks and military use.” She shows them a picture on her iPhone of a burned-out building with safes covered in debris.
She reads from the attached article. “The Grayson Building burned down in 1932. The contents of these safes did not burn, however the company went defunct. The owner-inventor’s body was found in the ruins.”
They turn the safe back around and Claire tries the two keys in the two locks. She switches them around and it still doesn’t open. She looks at Beau who suggests they give their ATF agent a shot at it.
Jordan leans close to the safe as he tries the keys, switches them around and says he hears a click this time. The safe still won’t open and he switches the keys around and turns them the other way and the safe opens.
“Don’t smile,” Beau says. “You’re as surprised as we are.”
“Yeah.” Jordan grins at Brigitte. “But I did it, didn’t I?”
Brigitte waves her hand, goes, “Poof.”
Claire steps back and lifts the heavy lid to sheets of printed paper. She lifts out a sheet, looks at it, hands it to Beau. Juanita and Brigitte crowd either side of him. It’s a page torn from a book.
“Looks like German,” says Juanita.
“It is.” Claire and Brigitte says at the same moment.
The sheet is 9” by 6” printed on both sides. Yes, from a book. Atop one side is the word – ILIAD, atop the other is HOMER. Claire hands Beau more sheets obviously used for packing, some crumpled, some folded, all from the same book. She stops passing sheets and uses both hands to pull out a padded silk roll, like a small sleeping bag. She takes it around to an empty place on the table to be photographed before she carefully unties the silk bindings and unrolls it. She gasps.
“It’s not a spider, is it?” Jordan jumps back.
Claire’s hands shake as she unrolls it a little more to reveal a dozen gold chains linked together. It’s a necklace and the gold looks different from any gold Beau has ever seen. A darker hue of gold but brighter. She unrolls the bundle a little more to reveal two four inch pins with six gold chains each with a gold ornaments attached, look like roundish pyramids. Earrings. There is another necklace with the same gold chains and longer extensions on each side with more of the ornaments. Claire unrolls it again, takes in a deep breath to show a long link of chain mail similar to a knight’s chain mail only with strands of gold. She points to the second necklace.
“It’s a headpiece,” she says. “Worn together across the forehead. Like a crown.”
All the gold looks the same to Beau, that same hue and brilliance.
She finds another set of earrings, gold strands with small globes attached. More of the roll is unwrapped to reveal a small blue velvet box. Claire opens it to a gold ring with a large green stone, surrounded by red stones.
“Emerald and rubies.”
Claire slowly pulls out another velvet box. The ring inside has a slim band with a huge pinkish stone. The cut is odd.
“Diamond,” Claire whispers. She places it next to the other ring, and unrolls the silk roll to its end where there is a 5” by 7” black and white photograph of a woman wearing most of these items. Black hair in a bun atop her head, the woman has a serious look on her face, a straight nose, dark eyes.
Luc Brissot steps close, touches Claire’s arm.
“Do you know who that is?”
Claire nods, keeps staring at the photo. She lifts it, turns it over and there’s writing on the back, blue ink a sharp edge script. Looks like German to Beau. There’s a signature and a date and Claire reads it to them –
My darling Sofia wearing the jewels of Helen. Taken at Hissarlik 29 November 1874. We keep the rings hidden from all. We make reproductions for Königliche Museen zu Berlin.
Claire points to the signature – Heinrich Schliemann 7 August 1875.
They all stare at the treasure now as Luc Brissot’s deep voice explains in his French accent.
“German archaeologist Heinrich Schliemann believed the Trojan War was real and the sites describe by Homer existed, when others believed they were fiction. At a great mound called Hissarlik in what is now Turkey, he found the ruins of great cities within walking distance of the coast where the Achaeans – ancient Greeks – moored their ships and set up their great camp during the ten year siege of Troy. Achilles, Agamemnon, Ajax, Odysseus.
“These jewels he discovered and took them to Germany, displayed them. Worn by his wife Sofia.” Brissot nods to the picture.
“Some of the treasure he found he returned to Turkey, then called the Ottoman Empire. Shields and vases, gold cups. But he kept the jewels of Helen, later acquired by Königliche Museen zu Berlin, Royal Museums of Berlin, until the Soviet army absconded with the treasure at the end of World War II, taking it to the Pushkin Museum where it remains. Germany and Russia argue over who should possess the treasure.”
Brissot waves at the picture, still in Claire’s hand.
“If the handwriting and signature are genuine, then the Russians have reproductions and this is the great treasure of antiquity. This was worn by Helen of Troy.
The quiet is broken by birds chirping outside the windows.
Juanita finally says, “We cannot take this to the Silvers Vault. It’s already been compromised.”
Claire touches Beau’s arm but keeps looking at the picture in her hand.
“Jessie’s safe?”
Beau steps back into the hall to make a call.
Thomas James Madison, Director of ECON COM answers his cell, “I’m in a meeting, can this wait?”
“No. It can’t.”
“All right. Make it quick.”
“Helen of Troy. We found a fireproof safe with her necklace, headpiece, rings, earrings.”
“What? Helen of Troy? Her jewels are in Russia.”
“I’m looking at her treasure.” Beau explains about the fireproof box and the picture of Sofia and Schliemann’s note and signature, then asks about those FBI specialists who were coming.
“Delayed. There’s a special safe in every FBI Field Office. Only the SAC has the combination. I’ll have four agents there immediately. I’ll call back with their names and they will show you their credentials.”
“Send three. I’m riding with them until the loot’s in that safe.”
“You got it. Better prepare the granddaughter. We’re going to have to dissect that house and the antique shop. No telling what’s in there.”
Beau’s about to hang up when Madison says, “Helen of Troy. The face that launched a thousand ships.”
“You gotta see this stuff,” goes Beau. “I’ve never seen gold like this.”
“I’ll be down to bring it to the Smithsonian. Personally. I hope Miss Claire D’Loup will has the intelligence to display this. The world needs to see this. Hell, only Fort Knox is more secure than the Smithsonian.
BEAU WAITS UNTIL they start in on the incredible extra-long shoe-string French fries and oversized cheeseburgers from the last Burger Chef hamburger joint in the U.S., according to its manager.
“How these guys got beat out by Burger King still eludes me,” says Jessie.
Beau to Stefi, “Did you see that Brad Pitt movie Troy?”
“I took her,” says Jessie.
He tells them about the surprise envelope from old Albert and the attic boards and the fireproof safe from the company that burned down. And what they found when they opened the safe. Stefi doesn’t miss a bite, keeps looking aro
und for the cats. Jessie’s burger stops half-way to her mouth.
He takes out his iPhone and pulls up the pictures, passes the cell to Jessie.
“We took it to the FBI office.”
“I … I … It’s hard to believe.” She passes the cell back, adds, “This is the screwiest case.”
“You telling me.”
The cry is soft and it takes another cry for Beau to spot the little tyke. Scamp is atop the curtain, balanced on top of the rod twelve feet up. He looks right at Beau as the big man moves to it and goes, “Meow. Meeeoooow.”
THE PRINTER STOPS printing and Beau steps over, takes the sheets back to his desk.
“What you got there?” Juanita asks.
“The reason our grass cutter is leery of us.”
Jordan comes in late, carries a cardboard tray with four paper cups of coffee from PJs, puts them down on his desk and takes one back out to Aileen.
Beau waits for him to step back in.
“You two are gonna be busy today. Loeb’s taking Claire to Silvers to meet with those FBI specialists and you two pick up the Interpols on the way.”
“How’d your date go with cruise guy?” Jordan asks Juanita and Beau realizes he doesn’t know fuck about cruise guy, not even the fuck’s name.
“How was your date with the French succubus?”
Jordan puts her coffee in front of her, says, “She’s a demon, all right. Barely had time to shower and shave this morning.”
Beau nods thanks Jordan for the coffee and Jordan backs away, points and says it’s cappuccino.
“Y’all need to get going.”
Juanita snatches up her coffee. “Let’s go, Lover Boy before we’re sent …” she looks at Beau. who’s shoving the papers into his briefcase.
“And what are you doing, partner?” She knows he’s up to something.
“What I do best. Solve a murder.”
She stops. “Oh, we get to babysit Claire and her stuff, you get to –”
“Play police.”
“You shouldn’t do that alone. I’ll go with you.”
“It’s gonna take both of you to handle that group.”
She sticks her tongue out at him again.
NO ANSWER AT the grass cutter’s house so Beau cruises around the Second and Sixth Police Districts trying to spot Calvin Young and his red 1966 Ford short-bed pickup. By lunchtime, he calls Jessie, asks if she can meet him for lunch.
“Wish I could, Babe, but we’re having a working lunch here. The Rotterdam Trade Bank and AAB Development Bank from the Netherlands. You should see their women,” her voice lowers. “Blonds like fashion models but talk like professors.”
“I know a brunette like that.”
“Gotta go. Love ya’, Babe.”
He tells her the same and resigns himself to tooling over to the Silvers Vault, see what they’re doing for lunch. He doesn’t want his mind scrambled in all the art again. The strange noise comes from his phone and he remembers that’s a text message.
He pulls the SUV over and reads the text from Madison: Arriving tomorrow 2 p.m. Delta 1302 from DC. Pick me up?
Beau types in, “Sure.”
He turns on Saint Charles and heads downtown. As he reaches Napoleon Avenue, a flash of red to his left catches his attention as the 1966 red Ford pickup with trailer and riding lawnmower passes the other way. Beau moves to the next intersection but has to wait for two streetcars to pass, each moving in opposite directions. He also has to wait for traffic and finally cuts in front of a blue Cadillac Seville, its owner leaning on the horn.
Can’t see the pickup now but he keeps moving, glancing down side streets. When he reaches Jefferson Avenue, he can see ahead now, three blocks and no pickup, so he turns across the neutral ground at Octavia Street to go back up Saint Charles, look at the side streets again. He missed it the first time, spots the red picked parked against the curb on Dufossat Street, crossed the neutral ground again.
Calvin Young is taking the riding lawnmower down to the street when Beau pulls up behind and climbs out. The man’s eyes rise and he smiles, comes forward shaking his head.
“Mister, you are good.” He digs into a coverall pocket and pulls out a piece of paper. “I just wrote this down.” He extends the paper and Beau takes it.
“That’s a dealer license plate. That man you lookin’ for. The one whose picture you showed me. He’s driving that.”
“You sure?” Beau reaches into one of the side pockets of his 511s and withdraws the photo of Fritz Erik Reinach.
“That’s him. Man can’t drive worth shit. Almost hit me turning on Washington Avenue, down by the cemetery. Lafayette. He sat there yelling at me. Made me back up with my trailer. Got a bad accent. Is he German?”
Beau takes out his notebook, asks what kind of car.
“Black Toyota, 4-door. He took off down Washington and I went up to Saint Charles.”
“Was he alone?”
“Yes, sir. In a big hurry.”
Beau shows him the picture again. “You’re sure this was the man?”
“Don’t forget a man call me a jungle bunny.”
Beau steps back to the SUV and brings the sheets of paper he’s printed earlier, shows them to Young. “I’m going to take care of this for you.”
The man’s shoulders sink as he looks at the papers.
“Pay your speeding tickets and when the court summons you, don’t ignore it.”
“Thank you, officer.”
Beau passes the man a business card and holds up the little paper Young gave him as he backs away.
“You see this fucker again, call me right away.”
Sometimes, you just get lucky.
Beau takes off for Washington Avenue and drives it down to the river, then works his way back up the side streets all the way to Saint Charles Avenue, where he calls Aileen on the radio, gives her the dealer plate number to run, ask her to ask the chief’s special assist Curtis Edwards to take care of Young’s court problems. She comes back with the information from the dealer license plate: Wainwright’s Auto Emporium with a Tulane Avenue address. That’s up by Carrollton. Beau heads straight there.
A clichéd car salesman stands leaning against a shiny green Kia SUV. He’s a pasty-faced white guy, pudgy, stringy black hair in a bad comb-over and wears a black tie with a blue suit. Looks to be in his late 50s. Reading a newspaper, he glances at Beau as he approaches, his eyes moving to the badge on Beau’s belt. He goes back to his paper.
Beau introduces himself, asks about the black Toyota with the dealer’s plate.
“You got a warrant?”
“I don’t need a warrant to ask a question.”
“You need one to get confidential information.”
A man about ten years younger, another white boy, this one wearing a crisp white shirt with a dark blue tie and tan suit pants, comes out of the small building at the rear of the place, spots Beau and comes over. Hair cut in an old-fashioned flat-top the guy’s 6’ and trim, smiles as he approaches, extends his hand.
“Jim Wainwright, what can I do for you?”
Beau asks about the Toyota. The man’s eyebrows join and he looks over his shoulder, takes a few steps to his right and looks back at the building.
“Freddie, where’s the loaner?”
“Which one?”
“The Nissan’s right there. Where’s the Toyota?”
Freddie shrugs. “I have no idea?”
“Did you loan it out?”
“Nope.”
Wainwright’s chin sinks.
“I hope you’re here to tell me you recovered it.”
Beau tells him no.
“Then I guess I need to file an auto theft report.” Wainwright pats Beau’s shoulder. “Come in with me, will you?”
On their way to the office, Wainwright tells Beau he’s a retired cop. Harbor Police for 25 years. He goes to his computer and Beau switches his radio to the main channel, asks headquarters to send a unit over to take a 67A report.
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“When was the last time you saw the car?”
Wainwright pulls the information up on his computer screen, tells Beau he wasn’t in last week. Last time he saw it was before that.
Soon as the unit arrives, a one man unit manned by Officer A. Lasseur who doesn’t look twenty years old, and Beau gets the Item number, he calls Aileen to put out a BOLO for the black, 2001 Toyota Camry LE.
Wainwright’s telling Lasseur, “The car has a GPS device. I put it on our loaners.” He looks at Beau. “You got a smart phone?” He reaches out his hand. “The tracker app is free.”
Wainwright locates the app, hands the phone back to Beau to download, gives Beau and Lasseur the password and key code to the stolen Toyota
“Y’all can track it yourself.”
After a few attempts, Beau passes the phone back to the man who tries.
“Damn.”
They try turning the app off then on, then turns the phone off and on while Wainwright’s phone locates the Nissan outside. They cannot locate the Toyota on the program on Wainwright’s office computer either.
“Think he might have disarmed the GPS?”
Luck only goes so far. Fuck.
Beau thanks Wainwright, leaves him to finish his police report.
“I met you at one of your crime scenes,” the retired cops says. “Market Street. Right off the wharves. You said hello as you passed. I was in uniform. Not many NOPD detectives bother to say hello to harbor cops. Never forget. Few minutes later. I heard gunshots.”
A flash of the dark, roofless, decaying warehouse, the murderer covered in blood and rushing at Beau with a machete and Beau firing round after round up the man’s chest, throat, mouth and forehead until the fuckhead collapsed, the words of the Sioux warrior echoing in Beau’s mind, “Don’t go looking for your grave. You just may find it.” The killer did that night and apparently Wainwright was part of the entourage of cops who came to see.
The Great Beau Page 15
