“Grocery shopping.”
Gabriella was glad for the breaks his daily shopping trips provided. Living together in this small studio was quite intense.
“Good. I’m glad he’s taking care of you.”
“Hey.” Gabriella laid a hand on his arm. “You need to stop worrying about me. I’m doing much better.” He started to speak, but Gabriella cut him off. “What I am worried about is Zelda. Why did you have to hit her?”
Ivan sighed. “Gabriella, I told you already. You were laid out on the couch, incoherent and groggy. The Pollock was hanging on the wall, and your copy was on the easel in the middle of your living room. And there was a stranger in your bathroom. I saw my worst nightmare brought to life. No one can know that you have the original Pollock let alone that you’re copying it. What did you expect me to do? I got scared, panicked, hit your friend with a chair, and got you and your artwork out of there as quickly as I could. Luckily, Anthony was able to bring his van over right away so we could get all of your paintings, sketches, supplies, and you out of your studio—at the same time. I did call an ambulance for your friend once we were a few blocks away from your apartment building. You were so out of it that you couldn’t tell me who she was until we were past Utrecht. And frankly, when you said she worked for the Amstel Modern, I was glad we got you out of there as quickly as we did. Are you positive she didn’t ask you about the Pollock before I arrived?”
Gabriella shook her head. “No, she was helping me the whole time. I doubt she even saw them.”
“Thank God for that.”
Gabriella pursed her lips but said nothing.
Ivan shook his head. “Don’t you think she would feel obligated to tell her employer that her neighbor has one of their stolen paintings? And if Luka Antic finds out we are copying these works, we are both dead. You knew there was a substantial risk when you took the job. There is no saying sorry to Luka. This is life and death.”
Gabriella’s anger subsided, and she nodded in acknowledgment. “Did you kill Zelda?”
“No, she was breathing when I left. Light concussion worst-case scenario.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Ivan sat down on a couch overlooking the Maas River from which the city took its name. “Frankly, I wasn’t at the time. I was so focused on getting you and the artwork out of your studio that I didn’t check her vital signs. Last night, I called the hospital and pretended to be her uncle. They wouldn’t let me talk to Zelda, but they did say she had been moved out of the ICU ward a few days ago. So that’s good news.”
“I guess. I wish I could call and let her know I’m sorry.”
“No! You can’t get in touch with her or anyone else for that matter. I’m moving the paintings to my warehouse next week. Give me a few more days, and then you’ll have your life back and a large bonus to travel with.”
“How many more days?”
“The last robbery is planned for next Thursday. That gives everyone one week to finish their copies. After that, you are free to do whatever you want.”
Gabriella looked to the floor and blew out her cheeks. Ivan was right. Officially, she was missing. If she called Zelda, the police might be able to trace her location. And as badly as she felt about her friend, she doubted they would ever see each other again. Thanks to Ivan’s actions, Gabriella could never go back to her old apartment in Het Sieraad, which was too bad because she loved that little studio and the plethora of skylights. Gabriella looked outside, letting her eyes follow a barge up the Maas River. The past is the past, she told herself. Right now, she needed to focus on getting the last two pieces copied. Only after she finished them could she think about the rest of her life.
“Now, let’s see what you’ve got,” Ivan said as he walked to the pairs of Jackson Pollock’s and Franz Kline’s that she and Anthony had already completed. Stacked up in one corner were the crates Ivan brought over the last time he’d visited. As soon as he approved her copies and they had dried completely, she and Anthony could pack them up. Ivan examined each set carefully, moving back and forth between the copy and original as he did.
“This black line is a bit too short. Can you lengthen it by a half-inch?”
Gabriella sidled up next to him and leaned in closer to the Kline. “Wow, you are good,” she said. “Sure, I can have Anthony fix that.”
Ultimately, Ivan found only three discrepancies, all easily rectified.
Gabriella was thrilled. That meant they only had the Calder and Hans Hofmann to do. Then their work would be done, and she could think about her immediate future—specifically where she would travel to first.
24 A Little Birdie Told Me…
September 8, 2018
Zelda held on to the rolling table for support as she slowly moved from the bathroom back to her bed. For the first time since she’d woken up in the hospital seven days earlier, she was able to walk across the room without it spinning. Her legs still trembled. However, the nurses assured her that was from lack of use, not her head trauma. The constant dizziness she’d been experiencing was significantly less, and the light no longer gave her a migraine. She could even watch a little television or read a book as long as she did so in short sprints.
She lay out on her bed, exhausted from the effort, and scratched at her scalp, free from the swaddling bandages. A large Band-Aid now covered her head wound. She snuggled under the thin blanket and turned on the television. The evening news was just starting. The lead story made her sit up in her bed so quickly that her ears rang. She turned up the volume and listened to a reporter on the scene explain how the Dibbets Museum in Maastricht was the twelfth robbed within the last nineteen days. The thieves broke in through a skylight and rappelled inside. After taking 3.4 million euros worth of artwork, they were whisked away by helicopter.
“What the heck?” Zelda exclaimed. The bed next to hers was empty, so no one responded. These robberies are only increasing in their audacity, she thought.
After the short segment ended, Zelda got out her iPad and surfed to The Art Investigator blog. If anyone had answers, it would be Nik.
On the homepage was a new post, dated this morning.
Art Detective on the Trail of Robber Hood
Twelve museums robbed in nineteen days! What is going on in the Netherlands?
My sources have provided me with more photos of Robber Hood cards left behind at these most recent thefts. The latest four read:
Why can’t you protect what you love?
Isn’t your history worth more?
Thanks for the poor security.
You might as well leave the door open.
The police and museums involved refuse to officially confirm these cards’ presence at the scene of every robbery. Why the censor? The public has a right to know who is after our cultural treasures and what their motives are because it is our artwork that is being stolen.
Who is Robber Hood?
Is Robber Hood really a radical group stealing from our cultural institutions to raise awareness about their poor security? These messages indicate that they are stealing to make a statement, yet they have not reached out to the general public or media. Stranger still, I cannot find any reference to their organization or motivations online. Even if the police’s cyber unit is somehow blocking Robber Hood’s website and social media, I should have found some mention of them online.
Assuming this is a protest group acting selflessly, what are their conditions for the artwork’s return? Why haven’t they made their demands known?
Or is there something more sinister going on?
A little birdy told me something yesterday that makes me wonder if the Robber Hood gang are not the cultural crusaders their cards imply but thugs stealing for profit.
The company responsible for insuring most of our victimized museums has hired Dutch private investigator Vincent de Graaf to assist with the investigation into the robberies. For those of you who aren’t familiar with de Graaf, he specializes in recovering st
olen artwork—in particular, pieces taken by Eastern European criminal organizations.
Is Robber Hood the latest gang of mafia-sponsored criminals to steal our cultural treasures for use as collateral in their underworld transactions?
When you consider the Van Gogh, Westfries, Kunsthal, and Scheringa Museums were all recent victims of thefts organized by and for the criminal underworld, perhaps bringing in an art detective sooner rather than later is a smart move.
After nineteen days and several ongoing investigations, it seems the police, de Graaf, the media, and I are no closer to discovering the true identity of this Robber Hood gang nor the current location of the stolen artwork.
Which leaves us with the same questions as last time, who is Robber Hood? What are their motives, and why haven’t they made them public? And what are the police keeping from us? This cultural lover still wants to know.
What a crazy situation. Was the mob masterminding these robberies? She knew the two stolen Van Goghs were found in possession of the Camorra, an Italian crime family based out of Naples. The Kunsthal in Rotterdam was robbed by Romanians and works taken from the Westfries Museum resurfaced in the Ukraine. Another criminal organization returned two paintings stolen from the Scheringa Museum after they received them as a down payment for a drug deal—on the condition they remain anonymous. Was that why the police weren’t telling the public more, because the mafia is involved?
The blog post was only a few hours old but had already gone viral. Five-hundred twenty-three comments had been posted and hundreds of pingbacks from Dutch and international news organizations and bloggers.
Zelda searched for more articles about the thefts and skimmed several. Quite a few of the mainstream media’s online sites cited Nick’s blog in their articles—in particular, the information he provided about the Robber Hood cards. But none presented new revelations. Why was Nik privy to information they were not? And why weren’t the burgled museums talking to the media directly?
Zelda puzzled over the blogger’s identity and his sources when a horrible thought went through her mind. Could Nik be Robber Hood? Was this blog just an elaborate ploy to draw attention to the robberies and its protest group’s actions?
Zelda contemplated the thefts and Nik’s identity until her head hurt but couldn’t decide which theory she believed most—that Robber Hood were political activists, a cover for the mob, or simply art thieves.
25 Family History
September 9, 2018
Vincent de Graaf relaxed into his leather couch as he sipped a freshly squeezed orange juice and gazed out his living room windows, meditating on the lapping water of the Amstel River. Swans bobbed on its surface as herons fished in the long reeds lining its banks. Soon, a narrow boat as long as a city bus glided by, powered by eight young women crouching and pushing off in unison. Vincent marveled at their speed and efficiency until their trainer caught up with them on her bicycle. The trainer’s tips and encouragement relayed by a megaphone as she biked alongside broke the serenity of the morning.
Moments later, both boat and trainer were gone. The quietness of the morning, along with the wildlife, returned instantly. He chuckled, thinking how lucky he was to be living here on the banks of the Amstel River, just a short bike ride from Amsterdam’s city center. The house and art collection—both in his mother’s name—was all that remained of his inheritance. The rest had been wiped out by legal fees.
The only thing missing from this perfect morning was his wife, Theresa, currently flying over the Atlantic, destination Mexico City. He knew he struck gold when he met her. Not only was she caring but she was also smart and independent. Her job as a flight attendant meant she was used to being away from home and working irregular hours.
Perhaps, most importantly, she had no desire to have children. With his investigative work, often in foreign countries for an indefinite amount of time, he didn’t know how they would have managed them. Theresa loved her job, and her seniority meant she could pick and choose the flights she worked. They even had last-minute access to foreign destinations whenever their hectic schedules meshed, and they could get away together. She was the perfect partner for him.
Vincent flipped through the folder in his lap, containing photos of the twenty-seven pieces of art taken during the twelve robberies to date. He had already downloaded them all onto his iPad, but he preferred a paper dossier. On the couch next to him was a pile of appraisal estimates he’d created for each of the stolen works. After familiarizing himself with each piece, he spread the images out across his couch and coffee table, then stepped back to study them.
The police provided him with these images of the stolen works in the hope that he could create a profile of the thieves’ choices and possibly predict which museums might be targets. The fact that they’d asked him to do this told Vincent they were getting desperate. There seemed to be no end in sight with the Robber Hood gang hitting a museum every few nights. The targets were spread across the Netherlands, making their movements even more difficult to predict. The police were operating under the assumption that multiple teams of thieves were active, but so far, no one in Vincent’s network nor the Dutch police’s local ring of informants was talking. It was as if the Robber Hood gang vanished and reappeared at will, which was why the police wanted to try another tactic and see if they could predict which museum would be next.
Why did the thieves steal these pieces? What connected them, Vincent wondered. He wished he could ask his father about it—the old man was lightning fast when it came to finding visual connections. He recognized patterns others did not. But his father’s life choices made it impossible for Vincent to ask him about these thefts. His role in the forgery and theft of several paintings landed him in prison, and Vincent doubted the guards would be amused if he asked his father’s advice about an open case.
If his father hadn’t committed those crimes, Vincent probably never would have become a private investigator specializing in stolen artwork. As a successful art dealer, his father had sold many a painting to the most prestigious museums in the Netherlands. Unfortunately, as Vincent later learned, several of them had been switched at delivery with a forged copy. It only took one curator to notice a difference and bring down his father’s business as well as destroy his reputation. And rightfully so. His father had cheated fifteen museums out of the masterpieces they had paid for and, instead, sold the originals to nefarious dealers and collectors abroad.
As soon as he had his license, Vincent made recovering the museums’ lost pieces his first task. He used his knowledge of his father’s business and personal life to track down all but two paintings. In the process, he had become friends with many officers and investigators in the Dutch police force, alliances that would prove crucial to future cases. After his spectacular recoveries made national headlines, several more museums hired him to help track down stolen artwork and antiquities. It was then that Vincent became aware of the shadier side of art crimes and their frequent connections with criminal organizations. What made him so successful was his ability to treat thieves and police with the same respect. Thanks to his father’s indiscretions, he realized that not everyone who committed crimes was a bad person at heart.
Vincent took the last swig of orange juice and then used his tongue to work clumps of pulp from between his teeth. Pushing his father from his mind, he focused on the twenty-seven images before him. Was it the style, period, artist’s nationality, or medium that connected them?
According to his appraisal estimates, all were worth between two hundred and eight hundred thousand euros, were small in format, and sketch-like. These were not the kinds of artwork he’d expected the thieves to take—at least, not if they were looking to make a quick profit by reselling them. Within the mafia and drug circuit, artwork was worth approximately ten percent of its market value. Thus, a painting valued at a hundred thousand euros would only be worth ten thousand in trade. Stealing these artworks hardly seemed worth the effort when you consid
ered the pieces individually, but this Robber Hood gang had taken a total of twenty-seven pieces, so far. Collectively, their net worth was around sixteen million, not a bad chump of change. But it seemed like a herculean effort and risk for a relatively small profit margin. In each of the museums they’d robbed, the thieves had walked past works worth millions to steal a sketch or drawing. On the surface, it didn’t make sense, but it did to the thieves. These robberies were too well planned and executed to be spontaneous smash-and-grab jobs.
Think like Robber Hood, Vincent urged his mind, then closed his eyes and considered their motives. That question needed answering before he could know why these pieces were taken. The notes left behind at each robbery seemed to be meant to scare the museums into improving their security. But there was no follow-up demanding a ransom or other condition of return. And Robber Hood didn’t exist on social media. If they were cultural crusaders, who thought stealing treasures was the best way to charge up the public to protect them—as their cards implied—why weren’t they active online? Why did no one know about them? Robber Hood was unknown in every sense of the word. The police were working with three theories, but Vincent was only concerned with the Balkan connection. And so far, none of his contacts knew who Robber Hood was, or they weren’t ready to tell him.
Would his network alert him when the artwork reached the Balkans? With so many robberies happening in such a short amount of time, Vincent imagined it would make more sense to move all of the pieces out of the Netherlands at the same time and not take them back to the Balkans one by one. But where would they store the pieces until then? He made a note for the police to look for an art storage facility in the vicinity of the robberies, though, realistically, he knew there were too many options to search them all.
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