Master of Illusion

by Nupur Tustin

  From where Celine stood, she could make out blood glistening on jagged bits of skin.

  Who had done this to Dirck? A shrill, sharp, long-drawn cry assailed her ears.

  Screaming won’t bring him back, Celine. Sister Mary Catherine’s voice startled her. Call 9-1-1.

  “Ma’am!” The 911 dispatcher’s voice cut into Celine’s narrative and the visions flooding her mind. “Ma’am, I need you to stay calm.”

  It was an unfamiliar voice, cold and dispassionate. Celine had expected to hear Peggy, the police dispatcher who answered the Paso Robles Police Department’s non-emergency phone line during the day.

  Or someone like her—warm and vibrant and full of sympathy.

  I am calm, Celine wanted to say. About as calm as could be expected under the circumstances. She’d turned her back on the scene, but there was no escaping the image of Dirck’s body lying tortured and helpless on the floor.

  Or the other images invading her mind. Stubby fingers relentlessly holding a glowing cigarette against Dirck’s weathered cheeks. The beefy fists tightening a thin wire behind his neck.

  They were all seared into her memory.

  Peggy, the police dispatcher, would have realized that. “Don’t you worry, honey. I’ll send someone over right away.”

  But the woman who’d responded to her 911 call sounded like an automaton. Celine had barely managed to mouth the words, “I need help,” when the woman had asked her to confirm her location. Was she calling from Paso Robles?

  “From within the city limits?” the woman had asked. “And the address?”

  Celine had tried to explain about Dirck’s weak heart, the unusual burn marks on his face, the gash in his neck. And the dispatcher had asked her if Dirck smoked!

  Was he having a heart attack now? Was he conscious? Was he breathing?

  “Ma’am, I can’t help you unless you answer my questions.”

  Celine inhaled deeply and tried again. “There’s no fire here,” she said answering one of the first questions the dispatcher had asked. “Just a strong odor of cigarette smoke. Dirck, my boss, didn’t smoke. Even if he did, he wouldn’t have pressed the end of his cigarette into his skin.

  “He isn’t conscious, and . . .”And she’d assumed he was dead. She stole a look at him over her shoulder. “I don’t think he’s breathing, but I . . .”

  “Ma’am, can you see your boss? Is he in your line of sight?”

  “Yes. He’s in the room behind me. I’m at the door.”

  “Ma’am, I need you to focus on your boss’s abdomen, the upper part of his abdomen. Can you do that for me, please?”

  Celine swiveled around, cell phone pressed to her ear.

  “Okay.”

  “Focus on the point just below the ribcage. Do you see the diaphragm moving? You should be able to detect a rise-and-fall movement. Lay your hand at that point, if necessary.”

  “I don’t see anything,” Celine reported. He’s dead, she wanted to shout. Please just send someone, he’s dead. She bent over his lifeless body and placed her palm on his ribcage. “I don’t feel anything.”

  “I need you to do one more thing for me, ma’am. Turn up your boss’s wrist. Place the tips of your fingers at the base of the thumb. Can you feel a pulse?”

  Celine knelt beside Dirck’s body and gingerly lifted his wrist. It was limp and flabby. Not cold, but the warmth of life had long departed.

  “There’s no pulse.”

  “Thank you for your cooperation, ma’am. An officer from your city will be with you shortly. Please stay where you are until he arrives.”

  “When will he be here?”

  “As soon as he can, ma’am.”

  “But he’s dead.” Murdered, most likely.

  “Yes, ma’am. He doesn’t need Emergency Medical Services.”—So that was it! Dirck was dead, so there was no need for anyone to rush to his—or her—aid. “There’s nothing more we can do.”

  “But Dirck didn’t do this to himself.”

  The visions returned. Two separate sets of hands, one jabbing the end of a glowing cigarette onto Dirck’s cheeks; the other straining to tauten a wire around his neck.

  “I understand, ma’am. Is the person, or persons, who did this to him there?”

  “No, of course not.” Just their hands torturing Dirck.

  Why wouldn’t the images leave her? Why couldn’t she see their faces?

  “Are you in fear for your life, ma’am?”

  “No!”

  “Then, I need you to be patient, ma’am. Someone will be with you shortly.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Celine dropped her phone into her purse and lurched unsteadily to her feet. For the first time since she’d walked in, she noticed the state of the room.

  The chairs had been roughly shoved against the wall. She saw a burly arm sweeping them out of the way. A thick-soled, black leather shoe had kicked the coffee table back, making the burgundy contents of the wine glasses splosh out.

  An image of Dirck cowering in the background flashed into her mind, then her gaze honed in on the wine glasses. Why were there two glasses? A slender rivulet of alarm trickled slowly through her being.

  Had Dirck been expecting two men or was the wine for someone else? Someone other than the two men here?

  An image of the open door swirled into her brain.

  Then the impressions receded. Celine walked toward the coffee table, hand outstretched toward the wine glasses. Her fingers brushed against the rim when she remembered the courses on criminal justice she’d taken at Durham College years ago.

  Never touch anything at a crime scene, the instructor had said. It’s all evidence.

  Hastily, she withdrew her hand. The ornaments lining the mantelpiece above the faux fireplace had been cast off the marble ledge onto the floor. She could see a beefy fist reach toward the painting that hung above it, and she heard Dirck’s wild, mocking laughter.

  An intense, inexplicable sensation of loathing engulfed her.

  “You’ll find nothing here, my friend,” Dirck rasped out. She saw the tortured smirk on his face and clenched her fists in suppressed anger. “It’s hiding in plain sight, but not here. Not—”

  Celine had barely time to wonder at the emotions surging through her when an incessant buzzing rocked her out of the vision. Her cell phone. Where was it?

  She dug into her purse, but by the time she pulled it out, it had ceased its vibrating. She stared down at it, puzzled. The screen, instead of showing her a missed call, was dark. She hit the power button and tapped in her code to access her phone log.

  Nothing. It was as though the call hadn’t happened. But she could have sworn she’d felt it vibrating in her purse.

  Still puzzled, she slipped the phone back into her purse. It was an older phone, true—a hand-me-down from Dirck when he’d acquired the newer iPhone 8. But it had been relatively unused when Celine had first received it. It seemed unlikely that either the battery or the phone itself should now need to be replaced.

  A few seconds later, she felt its urgent vibration again. She pulled it out of her purse, but the vibration had stopped and the screen was still dark. Was someone trying to reach out to her?

  “Is that you, Sister Mary Catherine?” Celine whispered, looking into the dark bar beyond. But even as she asked the question, Celine knew the nun wouldn’t resort to manipulating electronic devices to communicate with her. There was no need to. Celine could hear her as clearly as she heard the living.

  “Dirck?”

  Dirck is gone, my dear.

  “Did you know this was going to happen? Did you know?” Celine’s voice was shrill. “Did the Lady know?”

  Yes, dear. We did try to tell you. You didn’t seem to want to understand.

  “But why?”

  His time was up, my dear. Dirck knew that. He knew what he was setting into motion. He knew you’d be able to carry on for him.

  Her phone clutched in her hand, Celine wandered out into the
bar.

  Carry on? How was she expected to do that? She had no real experience running a vineyard, winery, and wine bar. The wine bar, she might be able to manage. But the vineyard and the winery? No way.

  Besides, what authority did she have in the matter? Even if Dirck had left a will, there’d been no one to leave the business to.

  Unless he’d made some arrangements with one of the other wineries in the region. Celine fervently hoped he had. She would stay on as Marketing Manager, of course. Do whatever she was called upon to do. But someone else needed to be at the helm.

  The bar was still unlit, but the illumination from the concealed chamber where Dirck’s body lay had lightened the darkness into an obscure gray. Oddly enough, nothing was in disarray here. The barstools were still pushed in under the counter. The chairs and tables still neatly arranged.

  But something was projecting out from the bar counter. What was it?

  Celine flicked on the light switch.

  Dear God!

  Almost every painting on the wall was face-down upon the countertop. She moved closer.

  Using a bar napkin, she carefully lifted the corners of the one closest to her. It was one of the many paintings the Delft displayed on consignment. A seascape, charming enough, but nothing out of the ordinary.

  The next two were similar—one a painting of elephant seals sunning themselves along a line of gray boulders; the second an image of a harvest festival with women in colorful skirts and bandanas stomping grapes in a large oak barrel. Again, nothing special. A five-hundred-dollar painting in acrylic.

  Undamaged, fortunately, although Celine couldn’t understand why they’d been taken down and left on the countertop. She stepped around the horseshoe-shaped counter, inspecting each painting as she came to it.

  Then her gaze fell on the last one, and she froze, eyes dilated, breath trapped, mid-passage down her throat. She could hardly believe what she was seeing. A jagged, half-inch slash separated the left edge of the canvas from its stretcher. Loose threads spurted out all along the ragged fringe.

  Why had they done this? Why ravage a work of art in this brutal manner?

  Her hand reached up to stifle the shocked cry that threatened to burst out of her. Calmer now, she propped one edge up, bent her head down low, and peered at the canvas. The purple-blue waters of Morro Bay at sunrise swirling away from a massive outcrop of rock came into view.

  Dear God! Celine lowered the painting back down. The damage would have been bad enough had the work been one of Dirck’s or John’s. But this was a painting the Delft had accepted on consignment.

  It wasn’t the thought of the compensation that would have to be paid to the artist that bothered Celine. The Delft’s actual liability for any damage sustained was nominal—about ten percent of the sale price. But there was an unspoken understanding that any work the Delft accepted would be treated with the utmost care.

  It would not be vandalized. It would not be slashed or ripped. Nothing like this had ever happened before.

  What had Dirck’s attackers been looking for? And among the Delft’s art consignment at that?

  Then came a chilling realization.

  The ruffians who’d done this—the man with the red, beefy hands and the guy with the short, stubby fingers—had been interrupted in their work.

  In the early morning silence, they’d detected the soft purr of her engine as she pulled into the parking lot. They’d heard her banging on the back door and calling out to Dirck.

  And they’d left minutes before she entered the bar. That was the reason for her seemingly irrational fear when she’d seen the open front door. She had sensed the raw energy of their presence as she approached the bar.

  She knew then that they’d left not because they were afraid of being discovered. They hadn’t wanted to get their hands dirty killing another person. It wasn’t worth their while.

  Celine’s head swiveled toward the front door. It was still ajar.

  She crept toward it and peered out. The streets were empty. When would the patrol car be here?

  She twisted the leather strap of her purse. What if Dirck’s attackers returned? They hadn’t found what they wanted; they would be back. That much was clear.

  She untwisted the strap and twisted it again.

  They were unlikely to be back tonight. She knew that. Yet, somehow, that didn’t make her feel any better.

  She turned resolutely in. Tomorrow—tomorrow, she’d send all the art back. It was a breach of the consignment agreement, but each work would be safer with its owner than here at the Delft.

  She stared at the clock. Only five minutes had elapsed since she’d made her 911 call. During the day, it could take as long as fifteen minutes for an officer to come by. And that was with four patrol cars in the area. But at night, according to Peggy, the Paso Robles Police Department dispatcher, there might be no more than one—perhaps two.

  Celine took a deep breath. She was tempted to call 911 again, but the woman who’d taken her call had been so brusque, Celine knew there was no point.

  If only she could call someone to wait with her. She didn’t want to be alone.

  Chapter Twelve

  Call Julia, Celine. Sister Mary Catherine’s voice filled her head. Call Julia.

  Julia? Julia Hood, the woman renting the guest cottage on the Mechelen Estates? Celine wondered if she had misheard the nun.

  She can help you, the nun urged.

  “But she’ll be asleep,” Celine protested, although the idea was more appealing than she cared to admit. An image of the short, sturdy Julia Hood with her silver hair pulled back into a ponytail, a web of wrinkles at the corner of her shrewd, compassionate blue eyes floated into Celine’s mind.

  Julia—capable, resilient Julia—would know what to do. And, as inexplicable as the thought seemed, Celine had the strong impression that Julia was no stranger to scenes such as the one in the Delft where a man had been left brutally murdered. A call such as this one would leave Julia unfazed.

  Julia would ask no questions. She would simply come.

  But even if that were true—and Celine had no way of knowing one way or other whether it was—Julia was on vacation and it was—

  Celine glanced at the clock. It was nearly 3 a.m. No time to be calling a woman she barely knew—a guest, no less.

  An image of Julia sitting up in her bed and checking her phone swam into her consciousness.

  She’s awake, Celine, Sister Mary Catherine said, and she’s waiting for your call.

  Special Agent Blake Markham was beginning to lose it. The urge to fling his phone hard against the wall was damn near irresistible.

  But he balled his fingers into his palm and resisted the impulse. He’d called Grayson Pike twice in the last half-hour since he’d detected his tracker moving.

  But the turd had ignored his calls.

  According to the tracker, Grayson was still in Paso Robles. Still at the bar known as the Delft.

  Blake had tried Pike’s cell phone. After a single ring, the call had gone to voicemail. A sure sign Pike had either blocked his calls or that his cell phone was turned off. Goddamn the man!

  The agent flung himself into his easy chair and powered up his laptop. What time was it in California? About 3 a.m.? Something like that, he figured. So what in the hell was Pike still doing at the Delft?

  He hit the Google Chrome icon on the taskbar at the lower left corner of the screen, and when the Google tab opened, typed in Delft Bar, Paso Robles into the search engine. He ignored the listings that came up, focusing instead on the map and photos on the right. The bar’s hours were posted underneath them.

  The latest the bar stayed open was 7:30 p.m. That was every Wednesday and Friday. Last night had been a Wednesday; there was no indication the bar had remained open any later than usual. How had Pike arranged to meet Simon at the Delft, then? How was it possible, he was still there?

  Blake navigated away from Google and back to the LSS web site that was keep
ing track of Pike’s movements.

  Yep, Pike was still at the Delft. The green dot vibrated, indicating that the person wearing the tracker was moving about, but otherwise it remained more or less in the same spot it had been minutes ago when Blake had made his calls.

  He thought back to Pike’s call last night. Pike had informed Blake he’d be returning to the Delft—a business owned by a man called Dirck Thins—to meet Simon and to look at the paintings.

  Blake scratched his chin. The tip that the FBI hotline had received a little over a week ago had also originated from the Delft. (It had taken the threat of a court order to elicit that information from the provider.)

  But did that mean Simon was an employee of the Delft? Clearly, a trusted employee with access to the premises after hours. It was the only way Pike could arrange to meet with him in the middle of the night.

  And who had called in the tip about the Vermeer? Simon? Somehow that seemed unlikely. Why would he call the FBI after all these years? For nearly three decades everyone connected to the Gardner heist had been convinced that Simon Duarte and Earl Bramer were dead.

  Did Simon really think he could cut a deal with the feds, get some of the reward money for one of the two most valuable works of art stolen from the Gardner Museum?

  Not likely.

  But if not Simon, then who? Simon’s employer, Dirck Thins? Or someone else at the Delft?

  Grayson Pike had been charged with making contact with the tipster, a man who’d insisted on being called “Rembrandt.” But Grayson had met Simon Duarte instead.

  And Simon had agreed to show him the stolen art?

  Why?

  That Duarte and Pike were planning to pull something off was clear. But what exactly?

  Blake navigated back to Google. The Delft opened every morning at 11 a.m. That was 2 p.m., Eastern Time. He’d call Dirck Thins at exactly that hour.

  Chances were Dirck wouldn’t know Simon Duarte by that name. Simon may have kept his first name, but it was unlikely he’d retained his last.

  Even so, a description of Simon—and Grayson—might help to put Operation Project Recovery back on track.