Tomislav couldn’t believe his bad luck. This was his fifteenth heist for Luka Antic, and the first time anything had gone wrong. Since starting to work for the Croatian, he’d felt blessed and sometimes even invincible. Unfortunately, in his line of work, that kind of thinking could get you arrested or killed. After taking mug shots and fingerprints, the police brought him straight to this interrogation room. An hour later, three smarmy detectives showed up. Tomislav was so jacked up on adrenaline he had trouble keeping his attitude in check. But he knew from experience that being overly snotty with the police brought on more trouble than it was worth.
“Who is P? Says here that she lives at Apollolaan 22 in Leiden,” asked one of the detectives questioning him. To Tomislav, they were all the same.
“Don’t know. Some woman I met at a bar last night.” He knew it didn’t matter what he said because the police were undoubtedly already on their way to her home. Heck, she might be in the interrogation room next door by now. He could kick himself for making such a rookie mistake. If only these jobs weren’t so close together, then he would have had a chance to memorize her address. When Luka Antic found out about this, there would be hell to pay.
“She gave you her address, but you don’t remember her name? Not very gentleman-like.”
Tomislav smiled. “Lots of women give me their numbers. You can’t expect me to remember them all.”
“Oh, yeah. You’re a real Romeo. I bet the girls line up to be with you,” another detective said with a snicker.
The third one asked, “Which bar did you meet her at?”
Tomislav shrugged then immediately regretted it. He bruised his shoulder badly with his fall into the swimming pool installation in the Kronenburg Museum. To counter the pain, he began massaging it as he answered. “We went into a bunch of bars in Scheveningen last night. It might have been Bora Bora or The Fat Mermaid. We hit the whole strip.”
“And who hired you to rob the Kronenburg Museum?”
“No one. We were a bit drunk and took up a bloke on a dare.”
“You broke into the museum on a dare? Funny, we have a video of you and your partner visiting last week. You were consulting a piece of paper. I suppose you memorized that bit of information because we didn’t find it among your belongings. Here’s a copy to refresh your memory.”
A detective tossed an enlarged image of Tomislav holding a slip of paper. Tomislav had to admit, he was impressed. The security cameras at Kronenburg were state of the art. The page was skewed but even zoomed in as far as it was, the names of all three Kandinsky’s were legible.
Tomislav looked at the detectives, keeping his face as neutral as possible. “A friend told me to check them out while we’re here. He’s a fan of Kandinsky.”
“That’s right. You’re not from around here,” the detective sniggered, “but you do get around.” The policeman showed Tomislav a printout of the file his fingerprints were linked to. “You’re Serbian yet have outstanding arrest warrants for burglaries in Italy, Sweden, and Germany. Have you visited any other museums on your travels through the Low Lands?”
Another detective spread out security photos of other museums recently burgled by the Robber Hood gang as well as the artwork taken.
“No, this was our only stop.” Tomislav glanced over the photos. “I have nothing to do with those.”
“So other members of the Robber Hood gang were responsible for them, then?”
“Robber Hood? Who’s that? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tomislav retorted, then quickly clammed up, realizing they had already searched through his backpack.
“Oh, no? Then why do you have one of their cards in your bag? What does ‘You only love what you’ve lost’ mean?”
Tomislav stared at the wall, stubbornness etching his face. Inwardly, he groaned, wondering again why he was ordered to leave those blasted cards behind. He always wore gloves and tightknit hats to reduce the potential for DNA evidence. He was fairly confident the police couldn’t link him to any of the other robberies otherwise. Luka Antic paid them well in case anything went wrong. Tomislav knew the risks and when to keep his mouth shut. Even if he did do jail time, it wouldn’t be for more than a few months, and Dutch prisons were summer camps compared to their Eastern European counterparts.
“Is your friend also from Serbia?”
Tomislav turned back to the detective, one eyebrow raised. “Don’t know. You’ll have to ask him.” He was glad he hadn’t gotten to know Sebastijan well—precisely for this reason. They’d never worked together before so the police here and in Serbia couldn’t link them. And they hadn’t developed the sort of comradery that would motivate either man to do anything to save the other. Honestly, he didn’t care what happened to Sebastijan.
The detective smiled back. “I look forward to chatting with P.”
37 A New Lead
September 14, 2018
“Hi, Vincent. Bernard Visserman from Wassenaar police department here. I think I have a new lead to share with you—a live one.”
Although pretty much everyone on the Dutch police force knew Vincent was investigating any Eastern European links to the Robber Hood thefts, few knew his home number, but he and Bernard had a personal connection. They’d met during Vincent’s investigation into a Nazi-looted portrait painted by Pierre-Auguste Renoir, a painting he had tracked to the home of a private collector in Wassenaar. The man had no idea his Renoir had been taken from the de Rijke family in 1942, and he gave it back to the rightful owner as soon as he was confronted with hard evidence.
He and Bernard shared a gin after Vincent returned the portrait to the ninety-eight-year-old Holocaust survivor. She died a month later, but her family said the painting’s return had finally brought her peace. That was exactly why Vincent loved what he did for a living.
“I’m all ears, Bernard.” Vincent sat straight up in his lounge recliner and lay the folder of stolen art aside.
So far, he’d found no new leads to follow. His Eastern European network was reticent to share any details about the Robber Hood gang’s identity or membership let alone the location of the stolen artwork. Vincent still didn’t know if it was because of his last informant’s gruesome demise, if Robber Hood was somehow managing to stay under the radar, or because there was no link to the Balkans.
What if Marko Antic’s involvement was only a coincidence? Vincent, the police, and the museum’s insurance agent all assumed Marko’s presence at the Amstel Modern robbery pointed to the involvement of the Antic crime family. But he did freelance. What if Robber Hood wasn’t being run out of Eastern Europe but by a criminal organization based out of the Netherlands?
“We just arrested two thieves who broke into the Kronenburg Museum in Wassenaar,” Bernard said. “They were in the process of stealing three Kandinskys when the museum’s security guards caught them. One had a Robber Hood card in his backpack. They are Serbian and Albanian, and both are wanted in connection with other art crimes.”
Vincent punched his fist high in the air in victory. Yes, he rejoiced internally. Finally, something solid to work with.
“I’m on my way.”
38 Try Not to Worry
September 14, 2018
“Ivan, I need help,” Pauline cried into the telephone. “The police want to question me about a museum robbery. I didn’t have anything to do with it!” She was one of the many gifted painters Ivan Novak represented. She was also the person the three Kandinskys were supposed to be delivered to by Team Will.
“Shhh, try not to worry. I will arrange a lawyer straightaway. Where are you?” Ivan asked.
“In Wassenaar police bureau.”
“It’s going to be okay. Try to remain calm, and remember, do not answer any questions until the lawyer gets there. It shouldn’t take long.” Ivan wished he could follow his own advice. He sat down hard in his chair, his heart racing. He wasn’t worried about Pauline because the police wouldn’t be able to connect her to the Kronenburg theft. At least, n
ot until they searched her apartment and found her sketches and prep work for the forgeries, which they shouldn’t be able to do until they had cause to arrest her. He had to get to her studio right away and clear it out. He couldn’t risk the police discovering her work. More importantly, he had to make sure Luka Antic did not find out about the forgeries. And he had to assume that whatever the police knew, Luka could find out. He had eyes and ears everywhere.
Pauline’s sobs filled the line.
“You promise not to say a word until your legal counsel arrives?”
“Okay,” she finally managed through her choking tears.
“I am hanging up now and calling a lawyer. Hang tight.”
“Please hurry.”
“Of course.” Ivan broke the connection then swore in Croatian. Only after he’d finished cleaning out her studio would he call in a lawyer. He hoped Pauline would keep quiet until the man arrived but knew he had no choice but to trust that she would. He paid her well in case of such emergencies. Ivan grabbed his wallet and keys then headed to his car.
39 Mistaken Identity
September 14, 2018
When Vincent arrived at the Wassenaar police station, Bernard and his team were preparing to head out. In one of the thieves’ backpacks, investigators found a slip of paper with the initial P and a local address written on it. They had already brought the woman to the police station and interrogated her, but her connection to the two thieves was suspect. The men were resolute they’d met her at a bar in The Hague and didn’t remember what her full name was. The woman living at the address was an older woman named Pauline, who swore she was home all night and didn’t know either of the men. Her lawyer cried mistaken identity, especially when considering their flimsy evidence.
For the police, this disparity was enough to get the go-ahead to search her apartment and studio, both located in an artists’ collective in neighboring Leiden. Bernard invited Vincent to tag along in the hope he could help them find a connection to the other robberies more quickly. The art detective knew more about the other Robber Hood thefts than any of the local police did.
On the ride over to Pauline’s studio, Bernard filled Vincent in about the Serbian and Albanian thieves in custody and their prior arrests. No one could deny the growing number of connections to the Balkans. Vincent promised to ask his network about these two and share any information he found out with Bernard. Although he was pleased to find more leads to work with, he wondered who in the Balkans—other than Luka Antic—could organize such a large operation and keep it so hush-hush. His mind was blank. He would have to revisit Split soon and pose this question to his most trusted Croatian associates. They may be more willing to share information face-to-face than they were electronically.
Minutes later, two police cars pulled up in front of a nondescript apartment building. Bernard waited for his team of six to assemble before entering.
“Will you look at that,” Bernard said as soon as he’d opened Pauline’s studio door. His long, broad frame hid their view.
“What is there?” one of his investigators asked.
“Nothing.” Bernard stepped inside, allowing the others to enter.
The first detective walked into the square space and whistled softly. “That’s unexpected.”
“What am I missing?” All Vincent could see was an empty, unused studio. Years of paint splatter covered the walls and tabletops, the only memento of their recent use. The muff slightly acidic smell told his nose that the windows hadn’t been open in quite a while. He stuck his head under the table and noticed a puddle of turpentine responsible for giving the air a sour sting. Whoever worked here last hadn’t bothered to clean up after they’d finished using the space. He looked around again when the turpentine’s liquidity struck him as odd. It would usually evaporate quite quickly. After touching the paint on the walls to test his theory, red and green flecked his fingertips. This studio wasn’t unused. It had been recently cleaned out.
“According to the arresting officer, the artist was working on a painting hanging on one wall when he arrived,” Bernard said in response to Vincent’s question. “He also reported seeing numerous sketches and paintings stacked up against the other three.”
“That is peculiar.”
Two detectives emptied the contents of a bag of garbage left behind yet found nothing but torn up sketches and old paint.
Bernard clapped his hands together. “Okay, boys. Let’s take a look at her apartment. I hope it hasn’t been cleaned out as well.”
They walked down a flight of stairs to the artist’s living space. All breathed a sigh of relief when the door opened and her possessions still filled the rooms. The small area was divided into a living room, kitchen, small bedroom, an office, and a toilet-shower combination.
The detectives donned latex gloves before splitting up to methodically search her small apartment, opening every dresser drawer, closet, and box they came across.
Bernard handed a pair of gloves to Vincent. “Why don’t you start in her office?”
Vincent began with the filing cabinet. He scanned the scraps of paper shoved into the long drawers, creating themed piles on the floor as he went along. After an hour of flipping through old gas bills, rental contracts, sales agreements, and rejection letters from galleries, he stumbled upon a folder marked Gallery Novak. Inside were several sales contracts for oil and acrylic paintings sold through galleries owned by Ivan Novak. According to this information, her work sold best in Split, Copenhagen, and Madrid. Another Balkan connection, Vincent thought.
Bernard poked his head into the doorway. “Are you having any luck in here?”
“This woman, Pauline, is still working as an artist. According to these documents, her last painting sold two weeks ago. And this contract states she has another show in Dusseldorf next month.”
Bernard shrugged. “So? What’s your point?”
“Let’s imagine for a moment that your thieves were bringing the Kandinskys here. Don’t you think it’s odd they were bringing stolen artwork to an artist?” Vincent asked.
His friend nodded thoughtfully. “You’re right. It would certainly fit in with the theory that Robber Hood intends to ransom back forgeries to the museums. What is the gallery’s name?”
“Gallery Novak. It’s a chain of fifteen owned by one man, Ivan Novak.”
“Huh, that’s funny. Ivan Novak is who she called after being arrested. He arranged for a lawyer to represent her. It took ages for him to show up, though.”
“What? Oh, no.” Vincent leaned back on his haunches and sighed. “If she called Novak to arrange her legal counsel, that means he was probably the only person who knew she was in custody. What if he cleared out her studio before calling the lawyer?”
Bernard crinkled an eyebrow. “Okay, I agree he had the opportunity. But why would he have done that?”
Vincent shook his head. “I don’t know. Do you think you can find out more about him? He may be involved somehow. If the Robber Hood gang is forging artwork, it makes sense to have a crooked gallery owner involved.”
“Whoa, be careful with your accusations, Vincent. We can run a background check on Novak, but representing artists is not illegal. For all we know, he might have thought we would impound the artwork she’s supposed to be showing in Dusseldorf and took it with him. It’s probably just a coincidence.”
Vincent shrugged casually, trying to keep his growing enthusiasm in check. “Could you bring him in and question him about the missing artwork from Pauline’s studio?”
Bernard smirked. “Hmm, I don’t know about that. And even if we did, I can imagine he would deny having taken anything. And I can’t see a judge granting us a warrant to search his galleries based on a few what-ifs. Until we have more than a hunch, we can’t do much for you.”
Vincent sighed, knowing there was no point in arguing. He knew he could find out more about Ivan Novak than the police could, anyway. But before he wasted time researching the art dealer’s backgr
ound, he reckoned it was time to take a trip to Split. If his network of informants weren’t going to get in touch virtually, he would go see what information tea and vodka could produce.
40 Plan B
September 15, 2018
Ivan hated being on the move like this, confined to cheap hotels close to the freeway instead of choosing his temporary homes based on the luxury they offered. But with so many jobs in progress, he wanted to be ready to assist the Robber Hood teams and his artists at the drop of a hat. It had worked out well in the case of Pauline. He was at her studio thirty minutes after her call and had cleared everything out an hour later. His central location in a soulless business hotel on the outskirts of Utrecht also made his collection trips more efficient. As soon as a copy was ready, he moved it and the original to his storage facility. The unit was already half full.
The Kronenburg mess was extremely frustrating but not impossible to bounce back from. He was 1.4 million euro short. It took him a few hours to find an appropriate replacement, a piece of artwork that his team could forge in the little time they had available. Ivan knew Luka’s Turkish client wouldn’t react well if they delivered the artwork too late.
Ivan was surprised Luka hadn’t already called if only to vent his rage. Of course, it wasn’t Ivan’s fault the museum had increased security, but he doubted Luka would be so understanding. That was one of the reasons why Ivan had planned the robberies so close together, in the hope the slow-moving, government-subsidized institutions would not have time to improve their security. He had forgotten to take into account the speed at which private museums could work. Not that Ivan would ever admit that to Luka. Instead, as soon as he returned from clearing out Pauline’s studio, he set to work solving the problem left by the Kronenburg botch up.
Luckily, he didn’t have to worry about lying to his gallery employees about his whereabouts. Since his daughter’s death, he had taken a step back from the day-to-day operations, choosing to spend his time scouting for new talent for his galleries to represent.
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