Master of Illusion

by Nupur Tustin

  Hudson had been visibly distraught when he’d gotten the details out of her. The agents he’d sent in had seen the hunting rifle on the living room floor and heard the baby’s mewling the moment they entered the condo.

  It had taken a while to locate Hudson herself. She’d been instructed to wait an hour before returning to her condo.

  “Any leads on the guy?”

  The question caught Blake off-guard. If the SAC had read the reports filed so far, he already knew the answer to that question. But then the purpose of the meeting hit him.

  Blake was here re-treading ground that had already been covered to give Walsh an opportunity to sniff out every wrong move he’d made.

  The vise around Blake’s chest tightened. Walsh was regarding him with the cold curiosity of a predator waiting for a weakness to surface.

  But it wasn’t the prospect of potentially losing his job that was stimulating Blake’s urgent need for a Xanax. It was his own stupidity.

  He had almost laid eyes on the killer. Almost. Had he looked a second longer, he would’ve seen the guy.

  He’d noticed the plumbing van pulling into the one spot left on Brimmer as his own vehicle circled the block looking for a place to park. Seen it and not thought anything of it.

  Observed the van pulling in, but in his haste to get to the church doorstep, failed to see it leave.

  “Blake?”

  Walsh’s voice reined in his runaway mind. Blake marshaled his facts. He wasn’t going to twist himself into a pretzel attempting to defend himself. Just give him the facts, Blake.

  “Security cameras in the building didn’t capture a good image of the guy.”

  The bastard had avoided turning his face to the cameras.

  “All we have is Hudson’s description of the guy who threatened her and her baby. The plumbing van was stolen from a twenty-four-hour plumbing service. The plumber who usually drives the van went missing at the same time.”

  SAC Walsh fiddled with a pen on his desk. “I take it the missing plumber doesn’t match Hudson’s description of the killer.”

  “He doesn’t.” It was in the report. The missing plumber was a short, thickset man in his late forties. But the image the security cameras at 27 Brimmer had captured showed a younger, well-built man of medium height.

  A man who’d disappeared from right under Blake’s eyes.

  By the time agents and Boston police had begun securing the street, the plumbing van and the killer—dressed in a business suit now instead of the plumbing overalls he’d been wearing when he went up to Hudson’s apartment—had long gone.

  “So a lot of information.” Walsh made a show of thumbing through the pages in front of him. “But none of it relevant,” he summed up the situation dryly.

  Blake’s hackles rose. Nervousness had turned to anger. Walsh couldn’t find fault with anything he’d done.

  The details his team had garnered might not seem useful. But eventually, those details along with the composite they’d been able to develop from Hudson’s description would yield results.

  The SAC knew this as well as Blake.

  Rather than point out the obvious, Blake allowed himself one little jab.

  “The recent leak in the department hasn’t helped, sir.”

  Walsh turned a particularly virulent shade of beet.

  “Mary came highly recommended.”

  From a golfing partner Walsh barely knew. And who likely knew little enough of Mary the intern. Other than that she’d expressed an interest in going to Quantico but wanted some on-the-job experience before committing to the training.

  The anxiety was subsiding when Walsh managed to arouse it yet again.

  “Where are we on the kidnapping?”

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Where is she?

  Celine strained forward to hear the voice. The movement caused the sharp edges along the sides of the chairback to press harder into her arms. Her ankles, tightly secured, scraped painfully against the raw, exposed wood of the chair legs.

  She fought to keep her attention away from the discomfort that throbbed through her arms and stung the skin on her ankles.

  That voice outside—it sounded familiar. Who was it?

  She’d been in the dingy, musty shed for what seemed like hours, alone, chair-bound but not gagged. Her captors hadn’t even bothered to warn her against screaming for help.

  That was troubling.

  It meant they’d chosen a place so isolated, her screams would go unheard.

  “They’ll find me,” she’d spoken up as they turned to leave the shed. “My friends will find me.”

  The taller of her two captors looked over his shoulder.

  “Don’t count on it.” He smiled, following her gaze to the phone in his palm. “Your phone’s not here to betray your location.”

  She felt a momentary pang of alarm. What if someone at the Mechelen needed to get a hold of her?

  The thought was absurd and laughably irrelevant. She was worrying about the implications her lost phone had for the business she’d inherited? Instead of freaking out about what it meant for her chances of being rescued. Way to go, Celine!

  “Where is it?”

  The shorter man grinned. “With the fishes. Where your friends’re gonna think you are—if they ever find it.”

  An image flashed into Celine’s mind. She heard Sister Mary Catherine’s voice in her head.

  “We’re on the other side of the Charles River.”

  Shock mingled with anger shot through the shorter guy’s features. His head jerked toward his companion. “How the hell does she know that?”

  “Beats me.” The taller man shrugged. “Maybe you should’ve used a stronger dose of tranquilizer—like I told you to.”

  “It was plenty strong,” the other man reiterated.

  Their squabbling was oddly reassuring. If she could find a way to widen the breach between them . . . The thought helped to settle her unease.

  “I know because I’m psychic,” she said.

  She caught a fleeting expression of panic on the shorter guy. But the taller man looked at her, his cold gaze shrewdly assessing.

  “Too bad, your friends ain’t,” he said.

  A cold chill ran down Celine’s spine. No, they weren’t.

  Julia will find you, Celine. Sister Mary Catherine’s voice was firm.

  But how?

  The question penetrated her consciousness again as she tried to focus on the muffled voices outside the shed. The newcomer was . . . female?

  That was unexpected.

  Her voice sounded so familiar. Where had Celine heard that voice before?

  She’d barely figured it out, when the door opened?

  SAC James Patrick Walsh drummed his lean, tapering fingers on his desk. “You’re telling me you didn’t see an SUV containing men masquerading as FBI agents?”

  His eyebrows rose, marking his skepticism.

  Blake felt the same knot of frustration that had twisted his intestines when he’d lost little Charlie in the woods all those years ago. He’d been a fourteen-year-old eagle scout. The youngest to achieve the rank—just like his father.

  An irresponsible, immature eagle scout not deserving of the rank, Markham.

  He could still hear the scoutmaster bawling him out—his harsh voice strident with anger.

  Aware of Walsh watching him, Blake marshaled his thoughts.

  “They weren’t wearing their windbreakers at the time, sir.” They couldn’t have been.

  He’d been focused on finding a parking spot, true, but he hadn’t been so fixated on the issue that it had obliterated his sense of situational awareness.

  Still, it was a feeble attempt to explain his lapse—in both judgment and awareness. Walsh’s face as he digested Blake’s words was devoid of expression. But Blake knew what the SAC was thinking.

  He’d been irresponsible. He tried to repair the impression.

  “We’ve found the vehicle, sir. It had stolen pl
ates. We’re processing it for fingerprints and any other evidence.”

  The SUV had been abandoned a short distance away from the Church of the Advent. Pity the kidnappers hadn’t also abandoned their faux FBI field jackets. There might have been a chance—a small chance—of tracking down purchase records.

  “Any chance of finding any?”

  Walsh’s voice caught Blake by surprise. He must have looked as dumbfounded as he felt because Walsh immediately clarified: “Any chance of finding fingerprints?”

  Blake didn’t respond. If he was being honest, he’d have to say no.

  “Thought not.” A sour expression settled on Walsh’s face. “And you managed to lose the victim’s phone as well.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  “It seems likely they’re on the other side of the Charles River,” he pointed out hopefully. If Celine’s kidnappers had ditched the phone in the river, it must have been because they were crossing it.

  “That doesn’t exactly narrow things down, Special Agent.”

  “Julia—Julia Hood—seems to think she can. Narrow down the area, that’s to say.”

  Walsh’s eyebrows shot up yet again. “She’s back on the job? After retiring not more than a month back?”

  “She knows the victim.” It felt odd to refer to Celine that way. She was quiet, seemingly fragile, but Blake had sensed an inner strength in her and a rare fortitude that made her an unlikely victim.

  Walsh leaned back in his chair; his weight thrust the backrest out of its ninety-degree angle. The chair squeaked out an indistinct protest that Walsh ignored.

  “I’m stunned neither one of you anticipated that something along these lines might take place. You used the woman as bait. What did you expect?”

  It was a fair question. One that Blake had struggled to answer to his own satisfaction.

  “We underestimated his desperation,” he said. “We thought he’d make contact with Celine, try to persuade her to give up the painting to him.”

  Walsh didn’t ask who he was referring to. It was clear that the mastermind behind the Gardner Museum heist had—all these years later—come out into the open. Triggered by a tip called into the FBI hotline.

  But Blake had misjudged the man. Could that fatal error prove to be his undoing?

  “If we find her,” he said, trying to ignore the fact that it was still a very big if, “we might have a chance of finally solving the Gardner case.”

  “You think she knows where the Vermeer is?”

  Blake hesitated. If Duarte had been telling the truth, the Vermeer was somewhere in Paso Robles. Either in the Delft Bar or at the Mechelen winery.

  Celine may not have worked it out yet. But she was the only person who had a prayer of figuring out where Duarte had concealed the painting.

  He wondered whether to mention any of this to Walsh. The leaks from the SAC’s office had undermined his confidence in his superior.

  “It seems likely.” Blake chose his words with care, unwilling to commit himself one way or another.

  “Then, we’d better find her, Markham. ASAP.”

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  “We meet again.” Lillian took a few steps in and paused, one slim hip jutting out in what was no doubt meant to be a sexy pose. She gave Celine a bright smile.

  Celine was in no mood to return the greeting. “What do you want, Lillian?”

  She ignored her kidnappers, who’d followed Lillian into the shed and stood on either side of the door, arms folded.

  “Eager to get down to brass tacks, aren’t you?” Lillian said.

  She pulled a chair over to the middle of the shed and straddled it, facing Celine.

  “Well, I guess, the sooner we get done with this the better.” She regarded Celine, the fake smile still pasted on her face, but she made no move to make her demands known.

  “You want me to tell you where the Vermeer is, don’t you?”

  The smile on Lillian’s face widened into a grin, as though Celine had just cracked a hilarious joke. “Hey boys, you were right.” She called over her shoulder. “She really is psychic.”

  The taller guy allowed himself a laugh, but a momentary expression of panic flickered across the shorter guy’s features.

  “Pity your psychic skills weren’t good enough to warn you of the predicament you were going to get yourself in.”

  Lillian’s statement was like a slap in Celine’s face. But what she said next was like a dagger driving deep into Celine’s consciousness.

  “And getting that scab Grayson killed, you must find it hard to forgive yourself.”

  Celine’s eyes widened. Wrapped up in her own situation, she’d failed to reflect upon what had happened. But Lillian was right. She’d seen Grayson’s death. Sensed it as surely as she’d sensed every other death since the age of twelve.

  Unlike her parents, Grayson had heeded her advice. But it was Celine’s counsel that had gotten him killed. He should’ve stayed in the church.

  No, Celine. Sister Mary Catherine’s voice boomed in her ear. They would’ve found Grayson and killed more people in an effort to get to him. You did the right thing.

  She shivered, teeth biting down hard on her lip to fight back the tears that trembled at her eyes.

  Don’t let her get to you, Celine. Don’t let her win.

  Was that Sister Mary Catherine or her own ego?

  She gazed squarely at Lillian.

  “You’re right, my skills do leave much to be desired. But they’re good enough to know that we’re by the Mystic River.”

  Lillian’s face hardened, but she said nothing.

  “They’re good enough to know,” Celine continued, “that the General has been making do with forgeries; that he’ll be the laughing stock of the criminal world if word gets out.”

  “How does she know that?” She was finally getting to the taller guy.

  “And my psychic skills are keen enough to know,” Celine said with a faint smile, “that the General will soon tire of you and get rid of you. Just as he has all his other women.”

  “That’s nonsense!” Lillian snapped. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. Now, where is the Vermeer?”

  “Where it always has been,” Celine said, trying to pull off a shrug, but not quite managing it. Her arms were too tightly bound for that. “If Shorty and the Tub had looked for it”—she deliberately used their nicknames—“they’d have found it.”

  Lillian strode over to her deliberately and struck her across the face. “Where is the painting, bitch?”

  “Where it always has been.” Celine repeated the words Sister Mary Catherine was whispering into her ears. The nun was conveying Dirck’s words to her. But Celine didn’t understand what they meant. Her mind traveled back to the Delft. In her imagination, she stood in the middle of the bar, surveying her surroundings.

  The painting is where it always has been. Safe, waiting for you when you return.

  “Where?” Lillian shrieked. Celine flinched, anticipating the slap. But it didn’t come. Instead, Lillian stood over her, glaring down at her.

  “Tell the General,” Celine said, “that I have no intention of speaking with his minions. If he wants the location of the Vermeer, he’ll need to speak directly with me.”

  “That’s not gonna happen.”

  The taller guy whipped out a gun and trained it at her.

  Celine looked at him. “I don’t think the General would appreciate your killing the only person in the world who knows where that painting is. But try it and see what happens. Maybe you’ll live to see your firstborn. Then again, maybe you won’t.”

  He shrank back. “What kind of witch are you?”

  The painting is where it always has been. Look, Celine. Hiding in plain sight.

  In her mind’s eye, she was back in the Delft. Dirck stood behind her, his hands lightly gripping her shoulders as he swiveled her around, encouraging her to see.

  “Do you see it now, Celine?”

  Ch
apter Fifty-Nine

  Blake stormed out of his office into the anteroom.

  “Where is she?”

  Ella glanced up, unperturbed. “Who? Julia?”

  She adjusted her glasses and peered over them at him.

  The action and her words irritated Blake. “Who else would I be looking for at this time?”

  He’d assumed Julia was at his desk, working on tracking Celine down. But neither she nor her voluminous beige leather tote were anywhere to be seen.

  Ella pushed her desktop screen out of the way. “There’s no need to get snippy, Blake. Julia’s at the airport.”

  “At the airport?” Blake was dumbfounded. “We have a missing person, and she’s at the airport? Why?”

  Ella shrugged. “Beats me.”

  “Is she going to be back?”

  “Don’t be absurd, Blake. Of course she is. She hasn’t gone on vacation.”

  “Send her in when she gets here.” He charged back into his office and slammed the door.

  Jesus F’in’ Christ, this was a disaster! What was Julia playing at?

  He tried her phone for the third time only to get voicemail—yet again. Damn!

  Calm down, Blake. You can figure this out yourself. Look at a map.

  He powered his laptop and pulled up a map of Boston. Celine’s captors had crossed the Charles River. That meant they were in Cambridge. But where in Cambridge could you stash an abductee?

  Had they remained in Cambridge or gone farther afield into Somerville?

  “Blake?” Julia’s voice startled him. He looked up.

  She was standing by the door. Strange, he hadn’t heard it open.

  “Blake,” Julia said again, coming into the room, “this is Lieutenant Keith Elliot.”

  A tall, gray-haired, burly man followed Julia into his office. He wore jeans and a baggy green-and-blue plaid flannel jacket over a white tee shirt that stretched over the wide expanse of his gut.

  He stretched out his hand. “Retired. I used to work homicide at the Durham PD in New Hampshire.”

  Blake took the older man’s hand, struggling to make sense of this development.