by Nupur Tustin
“I have to ask,” Julia went on, “did you happen to mention our recovery of the finial to anyone—anyone at all?”
Hoskins’ eyes, Celine noticed, flickered toward Blake. She didn’t appear particularly happy to see him, and if Celine had to take a guess, she’d wager Special Agent Blake Markham had lost all credibility in the Director’s eyes.
Blake, for his part, seemed to bristle under Hoskins’ gaze. “Other than me, Julia meant—obviously.” The addition of the final adverb didn’t seem to endear him to the Director.
“Of course.” Hoskins’ eyes snapped back toward Julia. “Other than the Head of Security and myself, no one’s been informed about this happy turn of events. We’ve kept this quiet—as you requested. But”—her pupils suddenly expanded, a slender, well-shaped hand fluttering to her mouth—“Oh my God, this must mean someone’s after the finial. Again!”
“It does.” Some ideas were beginning to crystallize in Celine’s mind. “I don’t think whoever was behind the heist received the entire consignment of stolen art.”
“And, naturally,” Blake added, supporting Celine to her surprise, “they’ve been on the lookout for the works for about as long as you have.”
“I—” Penny broke off abruptly, a frown marring her smooth brow. “Oh dear, where are my manners?” she exclaimed. “Come in, sit down. Let’s look over the finial, and then you can tell me all about this theory of yours.”
Several minutes later, Penny Hoskins was gazing enraptured at the bronze eagle finial.
“My God, it’s the real thing!”
Her voice was low and breathy as she passed her hands gently over the finial, her head lovingly following its contours.
“I can’t believe it.”
Penny smiled at Celine. “All these years later, one of our treasures back where it belongs. I can’t thank you enough—for doing the right thing.”
Celine shrugged. “I was aware it needed to be returned. I just didn’t know to whom. If it weren’t for Julia recognizing the piece . . .” She lifted her shoulders in another delicate shrug.
It felt awkward to be thanked so effusively for simply doing what was right.
“But how,” Penny began, her eyes still on Celine, “did you come up with your theory—that the person behind the theft was robbed as well? You’re not a detective, are you?”
“No, she has psychic abilities,” Julia explained.
“Oh!” Penny’s eyebrows arched up ever so slightly, as though she’d been presented with an obvious forgery. “And so you contacted—”
“No, I contacted Celine,” Julia interrupted the Director. “And roped her in.”
“Not that it would take a psychic to come up with the theory Ms. Skye’s put forward. It’s the only explanation that fits,” Blake came out in support of Celine as well. For the second time in fifteen minutes. She must have made quite the impression on the man.
“This is the mob we’re talking about, Penny,” Blake went on, oblivious to Celine’s glance of surprise. “They don’t take too kindly to being ripped off.”
“Ripped off?” Julia leaned across Celine, staring hard enough to bore a hole through her former colleague’s brain. “What exactly have you found out, Blake?”
Blake hesitated—his pupils sliding toward Penny—and cleared his throat. “I owe you an apology,” he addressed his remarks to the Director. “When I met Annabelle Curtis, she was adamant her brother and his friend were both dead. Murdered, she said.”
“Just as I suspected,” Celine murmured. She’d sensed right from the start, hadn’t she, that Simon Duarte was no more alive than Dirck?
“Annabelle insisted the two men were in fear for their lives. To corroborate her story, she offered up details about the steps they’d taken to name her as a beneficiary if anything happened to them—apparently not long before they actually died.”
Blake paused, loosening his tie. “I checked out the credit union—mainly to verify her story.” He paused again. “And what I discovered about their accounts and their final transactions convinced me that Duarte and Bramer had faked their deaths.”
He summarized the financial details for them.
“The only thing I’m not sure of,” he said, wrapping up his report, “is whether the money they received was for only a part—or all—of the stolen works.”
“So I was right?” Penny asked. “They’re still alive?”
“Was Grayson Pike employed here about the same time as Duarte and Bramer?” The question was out of Celine’s mouth before she could rephrase to sound less like a complete non-sequitur.
Penny looked bewildered by this sudden change of subject, but responded readily, nevertheless. “Yes, they were all hired around the same time.”
“Then, I guess he’d have been able to identify them if he saw them decades later. When he came to the Delft, he saw a portrait of John Mechelen and instantly pointed out his startling resemblance to Earl Bramer. In fact, at first he tried to insist that it was Bramer pictured in the frame.”
“The real John Mechelen,” Julia added, “died as an infant in Boston. So it’s safe to say, under the circumstances, that the man masquerading as him in Paso Robles was Earl. The faux Mechelen died of natural causes a few months back, so there’s no hard evidence to back us up. But I think we’re on the right track.”
“And Simon Duarte?” Penny was watching them intently.
“Probably still in Paso Robles,” Julia replied at the same time that Celine and Blake blurted out, “Dead as well, most likely.”
Celine looked at Blake. That was the third time, he’d agreed with her. But another question had surfaced.
“If Duarte wasn’t killed in a car crash, then how did he die?”
Blake’s eyes drifted toward Julia’s. A look passed between them that Celine didn’t quite understand.
“I’m afraid the reasons for my conclusions are somewhat tentative. I . . .”
Penny nodded. “Can’t share them, until you’re absolutely certain?” she asked, still nodding. “We understand.”
She looked at them all in turn.
“Now, is there any chance some of the art might have remained here in Boston?”
Chapter Forty-Two
The hopeful, eager expression on Penny Hoskins’ face caused Blake a surge of anxiety.
He leaned forward. “Why, what have you heard, Penny?” It wouldn’t be the first time the museum had received a bogus tip and chosen to act on it.
She glanced down at her slender fingers drumming a nervous beat on her desk.
“I thought we’d agreed,” he said after another minute had elapsed, “that you would allow the FBI to conduct an initial assessment before responding to any tip.”
Penny’s features hardened into an expression of stubbornness.
“It’s been thirty years, Blake. We owe it to ourselves—and the public—to act upon any viable tips that come in.”
Blake sat back, trying to digest this information. The Gardner had received a tip and not considered divulging it to the FBI. He wanted to ask if it was even viable, but Julia beat him to the punch.
“And you think this one is plausible?” Julia asked. She sounded encouraging not adversarial, and Penny nodded, opening up instantly.
“Well, after what you’ve just said,” Penny replied, “I think it is very credible.”
It irritated him that his former colleague had gotten that much out of Penny, whereas had he asked the question, she would have instantly jumped down his throat.
He saw Julia give Penny a reassuring, “do go on” nod. Jesus, why encourage the woman, he thought. But he realized, too, it was the only way they could coax any details out of Penny.
Penny smoothed her skirt. “You said didn’t you that you think not all of the stolen art remains in the hands of the original thieves? Wouldn’t that suggest that some of it does? And Blake’s already confirmed the Vermeer isn’t in Paso Robles—”
Blake felt heat suffusing his cheeks as all three women
turned toward him. He hadn’t voiced it in quite such categorical terms, had he?
“I meant the tip we received hadn’t panned out,” he backpedaled.
“But there’ve been two murders in Paso Robles,” Julia countered.
“I’m aware of that.” Blake was having a hard time containing his anger. He glanced at Celine. What did she think of this nonsense? She hadn’t said a word since Penny had brought up the tip, but her forehead was wrinkled.
“Two things seem very clear,” Julia was saying to Penny. “Dirck Thins was murdered by the mob; and his killers were looking for something. I doubt it was the finial. It would be impossible to conceal a bronze figure behind a canvas.”
“No, no.” Penny frowned, considering the implications of what Julia had revealed. “So you think the Vermeer is in Paso Robles?”
Blake had had enough.
“We don’t know that,” he said, his words colliding with Julia’s: “It’s not something we can rule out.”
Penny turned to him.
“What do you know then, Blake?” she snapped. A blaze of anger he’d never before seen flashed in her eyes.
Regaining her composure, she turned to Julia.
“I’m sorry, Julia. But nothing you’ve said assures me that it would be a good idea to reject this offer out of hand. In fact, I don’t think we can afford to reject it.”
“You’ve received an offer?” Celine’s frown had deepened. She wasn’t liking the sound of this any more than he was, Blake thought. “Not information. But an offer?”
Blake had wondered at the choice of word, too. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Penny nod.
“The person who called,” she elaborated, “has offered to return the Vermeer.”
“In exchange for—?” Blake probed.
“A monetary consideration,” Penny replied stiffly.
He waited for her to provide the figure, but she remained silent.
“And where and how will this exchange take place?”
Penny shook her head. “I’m sorry I can’t provide those details to you, Blake. Any suggestion that the authorities are involved, and the deal’s off. We’ll never see our Vermeer again. The last time we allowed that to happen—” She broke off abruptly, shaking her head.
“April 1994,” Julia said softly. “I remember that. The anonymous letter offering to return the entire stolen collection in return for two-point-six million dollars wired to an offshore bank.”
“Ten percent of the value of the stolen art at the time,” Penny said. “And”—she turned to Blake—“if we hadn’t shared the information with the FBI, we might’ve gotten our art back.”
The tipster had divined, somehow or the other, that the FBI was monitoring the situation and had immediately backed off. Blake had been about ten at the time and nowhere near the FBI. But, of course, that didn’t prevent Penny from personally holding him responsible for what had happened.
He had read the report, though, and he wasn’t so sure the Gardner had any chance of regaining its art at the time.
“Or stood to lose a pile of money for a portfolio of rubbish,” he muttered in response to Penny’s remark.
The letter had seemed authentic enough, but the money was to be paid regardless of whether the art checked out or not. In fact, he didn’t recall the letter-writer giving the museum a chance to even examine the works before shelling out the ransom.
Penny glanced sharply up at him. “We’re willing to pay ten million dollars just for information, Blake. I don’t think a million dollars for the return of a painting—the most expensive one of the lot—is too much to ask.”
“Not if it’s genuine,” Celine said quietly. “The question is: is it?”
Chapter Forty-Three
The armored FBI vehicle turned right, skirting the beautiful eleven-hundred-acre chain of parks known as the Emerald Necklace. Celine suppressed a sigh. The nine-minute drive to the Revere Garden Inn would have been enjoyable were it not for the endless bickering between her companions.
Celine pushed herself back against the leather backrest as Blake leaned over her to address Julia—they were seated in the same configuration as on their earlier ride with Celine between the two agents.
“I don’t understand why you’re supporting Penny in this foolhardy scheme.”
Celine didn’t understand it either, and when Julia shared her reasoning it made even less sense.
“This is a good way of flushing out Grayson Pike,” Julia explained calmly. She spoke slowly, drawing out each syllable as though conversing with an idiot. “Who else do you think could have come up with this offer?”
Celine wasn’t sure Grayson was involved at all. In fact, she wasn’t sure he had the Vermeer—or any other work of art, for that matter. But it was also clear that Penny Hoskins wasn’t going to be deterred from her plan. And who knew, something might develop from allowing Penny to follow through on it.
Celine’s gaze flickered toward Blake. The special agent was exhaling slowly as though willing himself to be patient.
“When Grayson fled Paso Robles, Julia,” Blake reminded his former colleague, “he was in a hurry. He had nothing on his person. Neither did Geoff Brandt, his alias, as he boarded a plane out of San Luis Obispo Airport. Nothing resembling a painting, at any rate.”
“What other leads do we have? This is still worth a try. If nothing else, it’ll lead us to Grayson.”
“How?” Blake demanded. He sounded frustrated. “We don’t even know where the exchange is taking place.”
The Director of the Gardner had also made it clear she wasn’t going to divulge any details of where and when the ransom would be paid in return for Vermeer’s Concert.
“Round house.” Celine spoke for the first time. She’d seen the words over and over again in her mind as Penny spoke of the offer she’d received. Celine had no idea what the words meant. They hadn’t been accompanied by any images that made sense.
“Round house!” Blake repeated.
“Do you mean a house or structure that looks round?” Julia probed.
Blake looked away and snorted. “God, this could be anywhere. In Boston, out of Boston. Who knows!”
“I don’t know,” Celine said. “I just saw the words when she was speaking. It must mean something.”
“What else did you see?” Julia was gazing intently at her now. “The psychics I’ve worked with frequently receive words and images in disjointed fashion. They have no idea how they connect up, but those disparate pieces of information can make sense to the intended recipient.”
Celine shrugged. She gazed out the window. The car was turning left onto a street called Riverway. They were surrounded by greenery. It was exquisite. The trees jogged her memory.
“I saw green—trees. A park, I guess. At dawn.” But Julia had ceased to listen.
“A round house,” the former fed murmured to herself. “Trees. Park.” She repeated the same words in the same sequence a couple of times before throwing her head back and loudly exclaiming: “Oh! Round House!”
“What!” The expression on Blake’s face suggested he thought his former colleague had lost her mind.
Julia jabbed a finger at the window. “Riverway. The historic Round House at Riverway, Blake. That’s where the exchange is taking place. Well done, Celine!”
“Riverway?” Celine wasn’t getting it.
“It’s a thirty-four-acre park,’ Julia explained. “We’re driving alongside it. There are paths that follow the course of the Muddy River. And there’s a round, brick structure. It’s called the Round House. That’s why you kept seeing those words.”
A veil seemed to have lifted from Blake’s face. “I can work with that,” he said. “You don’t happen to have guessed the day and time as well?” He turned expectantly toward Celine.
“Early morning is my best guess. Sometime this week. Probably in the next day or two.” Logic was taking over. “I doubt she’d have mentioned it if the arrangements hadn’t been fin
alized.”
“No, you’re right, she wouldn’t.” Blake clutched his phone, fingers tapping feverishly upon the screen.
He wasn’t going to make any phone calls, Celine guessed, until after he’d dropped them off at the inn.
The Revere Garden Inn was a three-story, powder-blue Victorian clapboard structure at the corner of Littell Road and Stearns in Brookline. The FBI armored vehicle eased to a stop by a narrow sidewalk and let Celine and Julia out.
Blake rolled his window down and thrust his head out. “I’ll call you as soon as Annabelle lets me know when she’s available to meet,” he promised as the Suburban began pulling away from the curb.
Julia acknowledged the words with a nod and a brief palm-up gesture of farewell. Then she turned around and gazed up at the front porch, extending out before the inn in a wide semi-circle.
“I’ll be glad to put my feet up for a while,” she confided as they climbed the short flight of steps to the porch. She pressed the tip of a stubby forefinger to the doorbell. “I’m beat.”
“Me too,” Celine said as the door opened.
“Ah, there you are!” An attractive woman in her mid-thirties greeted them with a smile. “It’s Celine and Julia, isn’t it?”
She barely waited for their nod before going on: “I thought your flight must’ve been delayed. Stuart and I have been expecting you for hours.” She stepped back from the doorway. “I’m Ann, by the way. Ann Revere.”
Celine gave her a friendly smile, then allowed her gaze to wander. The lobby was cozy, its floor carpeted in red and its walls covered in a pink, floral-patterned wallpaper.
“They’re here,” Ann called over her shoulder.
A corridor ran past a red-carpeted staircase on the left and a partially open door on the right that led to what looked like a parlor.
A stoop-shouldered, bespectacled man emerged from the parlor just as Celine spotted it. “I hope you’ve had a pleasant flight.” He held out his hand. “Stuart Revere.” The smile widened. “No relation to the more famous Paul. Welcome to the Revere Garden Inn.”