Master of Illusion

by Nupur Tustin

  “Coffee?” Julia’s voice intruded upon her consciousness just as Celine recalled the events that had brought her to the former federal agent’s cottage.

  She turned her head, feeling the soft pillow Julia had put under her head and the colorful quilt she’d thrown over Celine’s sleeping form.

  “I hope you’re feeling well rested,” Julia continued. “We need to talk. Simon Underwood—”

  “I know.” Celine sat up. “He was lying. He knew Duarte and Bramer. He visited Bella Curtis, Duarte’s sister, after the car crash.”

  She recounted the dream she’d had. “Bella was certain it was no accident. Someone was after her brother and Earl Bramer.”

  The Boston mob, clearly. But had Dirck been part of the mob? Or somehow been involved in the two men’s death? Was that the reason for the wine baskets he’d given Underwood to send to Bella? Prompted not by generosity, but by a sense of guilt?

  These were thoughts Celine couldn’t bring herself to mention to Julia. If Dirck had killed Simon Duarte and Earl Bramer, why hadn’t he turned himself over to the police?

  It sickened Celine to even think of the possibility. The Dirck she knew wouldn’t have been capable of such a crime . . . would he?

  “The question, of course, is why?” Julia’s voice startled Celine.

  “What!”

  “Why was Underwood lying?” Julia brought Celine a steaming cup of coffee. “He pretended not to have heard of either man.” She sat down and took a sip of her own brew.

  Celine wrapped her chilly hands around the hot cup. Its heat and the aromatic steam that arose from the mug were somehow comforting. She took a sip, swirling the liquid in her mouth like a connoisseur swishing wine.

  “How did you figure all this out, though?” Celine was genuinely puzzled. There’d been nothing to suggest Simon Underwood had been lying to them, had there?

  Julia sat back, a smile illuminating her broad features. “While you were out, Sleeping Beauty, this former fed was at work. I made a few calls. By the way, Mailand says the fingerprints at your place match those at the Delft, meaning—”

  “Meaning we were right. Dirck’s killers were looking for something specific—the Vermeer, I suppose.”

  Julia nodded. “Then I called Francis van Mieris. He remembered Underwood and the two students who’d come up with the breakthrough idea of making tracings on oil paper. Want to take a guess who they were?”

  “Simon Duarte and Earl Bramer?”

  “Yes. I called Boston University. No one by the name of John Mechelen graduated from their art program—”

  “Maybe he didn’t finish the program,” Celine said. “Didn’t Simon tell us that Dirck and John began to think they’d never make it in the art world? Their background in farming was perfect for the venture they did have in mind.”

  But Julia was shaking her head. “No, Celine. No one by that name was ever enrolled in that program. It’s not hard to see why. You see the real John Mechelen died as an infant.”

  “Then who was—?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But Simon Duarte and Earl Bramer are dead. My dreams confirm that.”

  “And yet our friend Blake’s CI reported seeing Duarte just the other evening. Speaking of Blake, he called van Mieris minutes before I did. So Blake now knows as much as we do about Underwood’s relationship with Duarte and Bramer.”

  “If Underwood knew them both, then”—Celine frowned, trying to gather her thoughts—“then, do you think he knows where the Gardner art is?”

  “I’m betting he does. And that’s the other reason I wanted to talk to you. About that item that you brought here last evening, any idea where Dirck might have got it?”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Blake swiveled around in his chair, winced as the morning sunlight hit his eyes, and quickly swung the chair back around to his desk. He’d returned to the office—exhausted, head pounding—after an all-night stakeout in the chilly, damp Revere garage Trevor had found for them.

  They’d waited the entire night for Underwood to call Annabelle back. But he never had.

  It had been frustrating. Blake was certain—and Trevor had agreed—that Underwood had been on the verge of making a significant revelation. Had he thought better of it?

  Or had Underwood been prevented from revealing what he knew?

  Blake tugged his tie loose and passed a handkerchief around his neck. But the cold, clammy sensation that had washed over him remained.

  Who’d been at the door when Underwood ended his call with Annabelle? Simon Duarte?

  That Duarte was still alive was apparent. Underwood’s apologetic tone and the explanation he’d been about to provide had been evidence enough—to convince an investigator, at least, even if it wouldn’t hold up in a court of law.

  Had Duarte faked his death to escape the Boston mob? Or had he simply wanted to make off with the Gardner loot?

  Blake was veering toward the latter explanation. Duarte may not have killed Dirck Thins—he doubted Duarte would have garroted his victim—but it did look like he hadn’t wanted to be found.

  Not if he’d intentionally cut off all ties with his sister, allowing her to believe for nearly three decades that he’d been brutally murdered. They’d been very close, Penny Hoskins had said.

  For a brief moment, Blake thought about calling the Gardner Museum Director. If it hadn’t been for Hoskins, he might never have considered getting in touch with Duarte’s sister.

  But what could he tell her—that Duarte might still be alive? And, no, he still had no idea where the Gardner’s former employee was. And no way of tracing the man, either.

  Nope, there was no point getting Penny’s hopes up at this stage.

  Blake reclined back in his chair and massaged his forehead. His head was still pounding. His mind returned to Duarte’s sister.

  Blake hadn’t expected to, but he’d found himself liking her. She’d reminded him, oddly enough, of his own older siblings. And, although it made his work more difficult, a part of him was glad Underwood hadn’t gotten around to returning her call.

  He didn’t want to think about how she’d react to the news.

  But Underwood’s failure to return the call he’d promised to make was worrying. From the little Blake had heard, it seemed very out of character. And he didn’t think Underwood would flake out on Annabelle quite so easily either.

  No, there was probably a very good reason for Underwood’s failure to call. A reason Blake didn’t really want to consider. But he knew it would have to be checked out.

  The suspicion gnawing at his mind that something was wrong refused to go away.

  Eyes closed, Blake drummed his fingers on the desk. Was it worth collaborating with Julia Hood on this? She was in the area, familiar with the case, and she’d already made contact with Underwood.

  His fingers tapped out a swing rhythm. Tempting as the idea was to involve a former colleague, he had to remind himself that Julia was a loose cannon. Moreover, her presence in Paso Robles had coincided with a murder connected to the Gardner case.

  Blake didn’t believe in coincidences any more than any other law enforcement agent.

  “Coincidences are unicorns, ladies and gentlemen,” one of his instructors at Quantico had declared.

  Blake tended to agree.

  He was wondering what to do when his cell phone rang. He opened one eye, forefinger stretched out, about to hit cancel, when he realized the caller presented the perfect solution to his problem.

  “Do you know what’s in here?” Julia pulled out a cardboard box from the cabinet under the kitchen sink. Gray duct tape dangled from the partially opened flaps.

  Judging from its size—a fourteen-inch square—it was the container Celine had concealed between the floor joists of the barn for Dirck.

  “Some type of bronze figure, I gather,” she replied. “Nothing special, but not exactly a piece of junk, either.”

  “I take it you didn’t look insid
e.” Julia pushed the flaps apart, put both hands in, and carefully lifted the object out of the box and set it on the floor. “Recognize it?”

  Celine didn’t—not at first.

  It was a ten-inch high eagle with its wings outspread. The head and large beak were turned to the viewer’s right; the single eye that faced the viewer was elongated, wide, and angry; and the creature’s talons grasped a ridged object with ends that tapered on either side.

  “It used to be displayed in the room where we found Dirck’s body,” Celine said. She raised her eyes. “But that was quite some years back. The last time I remember seeing it was in an old photograph of Dirk and John taken in that room.”

  She’d used the photo some months back on a Facebook ad promoting both the Delft and the Mechelen. The eagle had so dominated the picture, she'd tried—unsuccessfully—to photoshop it out. Eventually, she’d just let it remain.

  “Dirck didn’t really like my using photographs of either him or John in the Facebook ads I created.”

  “But you did it anyway?” Julia was looking closely at her.

  Celine shrugged. “Ads with faces and people get a better response. What was I supposed to do?”

  “Who would have seen those ads?”

  “Anyone in the country with an interest in wine or alcohol as well as art. Why do you ask?”

  Julia let out a sigh. “Because I think we’ve just discovered what led the Boston mob to your employer and your bar?”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “You can’t be referring”—Celine pointed, incredulous—“to that?” Her eyes roved over the bronze eagle.

  There was something else vaguely familiar about it. Hadn’t she seen it somewhere else? A photograph of it, perhaps—?

  But the thought fled—chased away by Julia’s sudden bray of amusement—before Celine could pursue it.

  “Yes, that! Because that, my dear, is the Napoleonic finial, which—”

  “I remember now.”

  She’d seen a photograph of it just yesterday in Julia’s folder on the Gardner Museum heist. How could she have forgotten?

  “But if I recall, there was more than one model created. How do we know this is the one from the Gardner? Or that it’s not just a replica?”

  There had to be a better explanation than the one Julia was foisting upon her.

  “Because of the numbers on the base, Celine. The accession number, T17SI.a, identifies the finial as the property of the Gardner. But after it is a separate series of four numbers, the existence of which was never publicized.

  “Deliberately, as you can imagine. So, no forger would ever be able to discover those numbers even existed, let alone what they were.”

  The former fed’s words were like hailstones pelting Celine’s brains. She looked up to find Julia’s shrewd blue orbs on her.

  “I don’t understand,” she said. “That thing has been here a long while. How . . . ?”

  She shook her head, struggling to frame the questions in her mind. There were so many.

  How had the finial come into Dirck and John’s hands? How had they not known what it was? And if they had . . .

  The sour aftertaste of the coffee she’d been sipping assaulted her senses.

  Dear God! Why hadn’t they returned it?

  Julia ran her hand gently up and down the eagle’s body. “It’s interesting. I can feel no dents. No signs of fire damage or exposure to extremely high temperatures. You know what that means, don’t you?”

  “No,” Celine’s voice was soft. The images of her dream that she hadn’t shared with Julia were beating incessantly against her mind. She’d tried to ignore them, but their implications in light of this discovery couldn’t be denied any longer.

  She wrapped her arms around herself, rocking back and forth to quell the nausea that threatened to overwhelm her.

  Oh God! Oh, dear God! What had Dirck done?

  Julia’s voice penetrated her consciousness.

  “Isn’t it obvious? Duarte and Bramer faked their deaths. They didn’t die. Therefore, neither did the art.”

  “Simon Duarte is dead, Julia.” Celine glanced up, still clutching her stomach. “I told you . . . my dream—”

  “We have to look at the facts, Celine. This finial, Grayson Pike’s report of seeing Duarte, it all adds up.”

  “There’s something I need to tell you, Julia. Something I heard in my dream that I haven’t mentioned to you.”

  Blake grabbed his phone.

  “Detective Mailand? I hope you have good news for me.”

  A vague hemming accompanied by a crestfallen sigh told Blake that the news would be anything but good.

  “We raided the address, Special Agent Markham, but . . .”

  “But what?” Had Grayson already fled San Luis Obispo?

  Mailand sighed again. “We were met by a frail, elderly lady. Fran Schumann.”

  Fran Schumann, however, had been very cooperative. She’d readily admitted to using the prepaid credit card. In fact, she still had a small amount remaining on it.

  Blake was puzzled. “But this is the card our guy bought at a Paso Robles newsstand. How did it end up in this woman’s hands? Where did she find it?” Not on Grayson’s dead body, he hoped.

  “It was given to her—”

  “By?” Blake inquired, interrupting the detective. It was either a man by the name of Grayson Pike or someone named Greg Peters.

  “By a man she met outside the local Costco.”

  That figured, Blake thought. Greg had been traced to Costco.

  After a small hesitation, Mailand continued: “He claimed to have been heading for the airport, but apparently his wife, who was supposed to take him there, screwed him over. Fran says she saw the woman hurtling past them in the parking lot. She was driving like a maniac.”

  The story about the wife didn’t make a lot of sense, but Grayson had evidently conned some woman into giving him a ride to the airport. Clever.

  But Mailand’s next words contradicted that expectation.

  “She got his name—and most of his purchases—but it doesn’t match either of the names you gave us. Fran Schumann claims to have gotten the card from a Geoff Brandt.”

  “Geoff Brandt?” The name sounded familiar. He’d seen it or read it somewhere quite recently. Where?

  His wandering gaze settled on the untidy pile of passenger manifests perched upon his desk.

  Oh!

  The penny dropped instantly. Grayson had made a deliberate detour to the Costco, made some purchases there to throw them off the scent. He’d succeeded, but just barely.

  Blake pulled the pile of manifests closer, dug through it until he found what he was looking for.

  Geoff Brandt had been a passenger on the Alaska Airlines Flight at 11:10 a.m. Its destination was Seattle, but most of the passengers booked on the flight had taken a second connecting flight to Boston.

  So Grayson was back in his neck of the woods.

  “Detective Mailand, could you follow up at the local Costco. I want to know—”

  “Already on it, Special Agent. Anything else you want me to do?”

  “Actually, there is.” He explained about Underwood and Simon Duarte.

  When he hung up, he pressed his finger down hard on the buzzer.

  His finger was still on it when Ella poked her head in, wearing an annoyed frown.

  “You can stop that. I’m not deaf, you know.”

  “Get on the horn with San Luis Obispo County Regional and find out what type of ID a passenger by the name of Geoff Brandt used to get on his flight. I’m betting it was a recently issued Costco membership card.”

  “Since when is that a crime?”

  “I didn’t say it was, Ella. But I have reason to believe Grayson is using that alias. That’s why he went to Costco. That was his fake ID.”

  “Good grief!” Ella looked suitably stricken. “I’ll fax over the composite I had made, shall I? I wish I’d done it first thing. We’d have been saved
the runaround.”

  “Why would Dirck say he was sorry, Julia?” Celine pressed the point, willing her friend to see the significance of her dream. “Why would he apologize right after he and I both heard Annabelle say her brother and Earl were killed? Simon Duarte told his sister someone was after him.”

  “Then that might explain why he and Bramer were on the run,” Julia said. “You don’t rip off the mob and expect to get away with it. That doesn’t happen.”

  Celine expelled a frustrated sigh. Julia refused to accept that Duarte and Bramer were dead. Worse still, the former fed seemed unable to grasp Celine’s suspicions about Dirck either.

  Celine simply could not bring herself to express them any more openly than she already had: That Dirck was in some way responsible for what had happened to Duarte and Bramer.

  “I know what you saw in your dream, Celine,” Julia continued. “But when you first had it, you thought you’d find yourself telling Annabelle that Simon Underwood was dead. We know now that’s not the case.”

  “I still think Simon Underwood is in danger.” It was a feeling that refused to go away.

  “Yes, but based on your current dream, he’s still alive.”

  “Dreams are symbolic, Julia.”

  “My point, exactly. And learning to interpret them is a fine art that you, my dear, by your own admission have yet to master.”

  Celine sighed again. “Look, I don’t know why the facts of the case contradict what I’m seeing in my dream or my feeling that Simon Duarte is dead. I just don’t know.”

  Oh, Celine, Sister Mary Catherine’s voice whispered in her ear, you have everything you need to figure out what the truth is. Just put on your thinking cap.

  She ignored the voice. She couldn’t stop feeling Duarte was dead, and yet she also sensed that B-aw-ston Greg had genuinely felt he’d made contact with Duarte two nights back.

  Or thought he had. There was always the possibility that he’d been mistaken.

  People change in thirty years. And B-aw-ston Greg had been more than a little inebriated.

  “Why was Dirck apologizing?” she demanded. “What did he have to apologize for?”