The handpicked directors of each of his fifteen galleries were all experts in their field. Most had worked for him their entire careers, slowly moving up the figurative ladder from assistant to junior curator and further until they reached the top. Ivan still led the monthly Skype meetings, during which all of his directors discussed their future exhibition plans and the newly recruited artists the others should help promote.
Ivan stared out at the freeway below, a blur of lights in the heavy rain showers that signaled the beginning of autumn. He just reviewed his anonymous letter to the editor ranting about the importance of improving museum security and complaining about Dutch politicians’ lack of action, making certain he didn’t repeat the arguments he’d already used in the previous four. These letters and his frequent call-ins to local radio stations were just more ways of diverting the media’s attention from the mafia. He had hoped the Robber Hood press release would keep the media completely preoccupied, but he didn’t dare send it out until he knew this last robbery was successful. Patience is the key, he reminded himself. And hurrying leads to mistakes.
As the iPad in his lap dimmed then went to black, Ivan didn’t bother waking it back up. He could email the letter to the editor later tonight. Moments later, his phone rang. Finally, he thought as he picked up. Steeling himself against Luka’s anger, he answered brightly, “Hello, I’ve been expecting you to call.”
Luka Antic responded with a string of Croatian expletives before finishing up with a hoarse, “Fix this mess. The deadline is looming.”
“I already know what we are going to do.”
Luka was silent a moment, waiting for Ivan to continue. When he didn’t, the crime boss growled into the phone. “Well, what’s your plan?”
Ivan smiled, knowing Luka hated having to ask. He expected people to do their best to read his mind and serve his every whim. “A village called Naarden. They’ve made a recent discovery that will fill the hole left by the, um, botch up.” The Milson Museum showcased a collection of modern paintings assembled by the American couple Tanya and Larry Milson. Their artwork still filled the walls of their former home, located in a sleepy little village in the center of the Netherlands. Ivan recalled from his last visit how it was surrounded by pastures on one side and regal estates on the other.
“Good. Send me the details.”
“I’ve already contacted Team Tuck. They know what to do and where to go once successful.”
Luka went silent again, and Ivan reveled in it, knowing Luka hated not being in control.
“Okay, let me know when it’s finished,” was Luka’s brusque response before he hung up.
Ivan laughed until his sides hurt. After he regained his breath and wiped away his tears, he woke up his iPad and surfed to the Milson Museum’s website. Featured on the homepage was an image of the newsworthy sketch by Vincent Van Gogh recently discovered in their collection. Or rather, recently verified by the Van Gogh Museum as the real thing. A zealous researcher had found a miniature version of the sketch hastily drawn into the margins of a letter written by Vincent to his brother Theo.
Ivan zoomed in on a publicity shot of the Van Gogh sketch, the directors of the Van Gogh Museum and Milson Museum on either side. It was of a farmer doing backbreaking work in a field, loosely sketched with charcoal on paper.
It isn’t much to look at, Ivan thought, but it will be easy enough for Gabriella to copy. And though it may not be worth 1.4 million, he knew Van Gogh’s name carried with it a prestige that many a shady collector treasured. Most museums holding his work were incredibly well-secured, precisely because Van Gogh paintings were among the most expensive—and, thus, sought after—in the world. He was confident Luka’s Turkish buyer would be satisfied with this replacement.
If all went as planned this time, Team Tuck would meet him tomorrow night at a truck stop on the A2. After the handoff, Ivan would drive straight through to Maastricht. Luckily, Gabriella and Anthony were finished copying the Amstel Modern artwork. He bet she could finish the Van Gogh charcoal in a day, two tops. Once he delivered the sketch to Gabriella, it would be time to initiate the next phase of his plan. He only hoped all his artists would be able to complete their assignments on time.
Being so close to the finish filled him with dread and elation simultaneously. Vengeance was so close. He wouldn’t let anything get in his way.
41 Rotten Flowers
September 17, 2018
“Hey, gorgeous. I’m back, safe and sound,” Jacob said.
Zelda practically melted at the sound of his deep voice and lovely words. “It’s great to hear your voice,” she whispered so as not to disturb her colleagues.
Zelda was back at the Amstel Modern for the first time since her accident. As happy as she was to catch up with her friends and get lost in collection research again, she missed him already. After a week together, their goodbye early this morning was quite emotional even though both knew it was temporary. They had already decided they would take turns visiting each other every weekend until his project was complete. He had even put out feelers to a few Dutch universities about potential teaching positions he’d heard were opening next September. But for now, Jacob had to get back to Cologne, and she had promised to return to the Amstel Modern. It was time to focus on their immediate futures again. She glanced at the clock, surprised it was only ten o’clock. “Wow, you made really good time.”
“I just walked in the door and couldn’t wait to call you.”
“Aww, you’re sweet. I know it’s only been three hours, but I miss you, too.” She could hear him walking around his small apartment, the wooden floors creaking with every step. He must be unpacking his bags, she reckoned. “Is your housemate back?”
Jacob shared the apartment with a graduate student named Aaron, also working as a collection researcher at the same ethnographic museum. His housemate had recently hooked up with a German girl named Helen and hadn’t been back to the apartment—to sleep anyway—since.
“No, he must still be at Helen’s place. It doesn’t look like he’s been here much since I left.”
Zelda giggled, happy for the young researcher. She’d met Aaron once, and he was so shy that he had trouble looking her in the eye when he spoke. She couldn’t imagine him getting up enough nerve to ask Helen out. But then, they did meet at a beer garden, so alcohol probably played a role. “That’s adorable. Good for him.”
She heard Jacob open a door. “Aww, now that is sweet. You shouldn’t have,” he said.
“Shouldn’t have what?”
“The flowers.” Zelda could hear the floorboards creaking again. “Oh, you really shouldn’t have. They stink. It looks like they’re already starting to rot and all over my bed, too. Hmm, probably better use a different florist next time.”
“Jacob, honey, I didn’t send you flowers. Do you have an admirer I should know about?” Zelda said it half-jokingly, but a stab of jealousy filled her soul anyway. Not without reason since her last boyfriend had been unfaithful. She was starting to believe she and Jacob were meant to be together. The idea of him having a girlfriend on the side made her skin crawl.
“Ha, ha. Of course not, silly. Oh, wait. There’s a card, and it says welcome home. Maybe the museum sent them. Let me open it up. Hang on a second.” He set the phone down, and Zelda could hear the paper rustling.
Jacob picked up the phone again but said nothing. His ragged breathing sounded ominous.
“Jacob, are you okay?”
“Is this a joke?”
She had to strain to hear him. His voice was a strangled whisper. She tightened her grip on the phone. “What does it say?”
“Tell Zelda to keep her mouth shut and keep searching.”
Zelda’s whole body began to tremble.
42 Grasping at Straws
September 17, 2018
Vincent de Graaf glanced around the conference room table, taking in the stricken faces of the Amstel Modern’s board of directors, department heads, and curatorial s
taff. No one said a word. All were still reeling from his update into Robber Hood’s identity, the multiple unsolved robberies since the Amstel Modern had been burgled, and the involvement of three thieves with ties to Albania, Serbia, and Croatia. Vincent figured the rumors surely circling the Amstel Modern’s halls were not nearly as farfetched as the reality.
He was embarrassed to admit that neither he nor the police had the first clue as to where the paintings could be. To his chagrin, his network in the Balkans remained remarkably quiet about these heists. Vincent hoped by going to Split that his contacts would have shared a tidbit of information that could lead him further. Yet during his weekend of tea and vodka, he had learned nothing new regarding the Robber Hood gang or stolen artwork’s current location.
His inquiries into Marko Antic’s whereabouts also lead nowhere. No one knew what he was up to at the moment, only that he was away on a job. His uncle Luka was at his cabin in the woods, presumably getting in touch with nature.
The only pieces of news he had picked up during his weekend in Split involved his investigation only indirectly. Vincent’s news that one of their own was leaking information about the attempted Wassenaar robbery to a Serbian criminal organization still had the Dutch police rattled. It wasn’t the first time informants were discovered in the Dutch police force—the European mafia had their tentacles everywhere—but the timing set everyone on edge.
The only good news he’d received so far had come from the insurance company. Their decision to offer a fifty-thousand-euro reward for any information leading to the artworks’ recovery was encouraging. He had alerted his network about the finder’s fee as well as gave them the names of the two men arrested during the Wassenaar break-in during his quick visit. The reward was large enough to inspire the more opportunistic to talk, he hoped. Now that the bait was set, he just had to wait for someone to get in touch. And if no one did, he may have to look further afield than the Balkans. In time, all the pieces of this puzzle would fall into place. They always did.
The Amsterdam police were also following up a new lead, even though it sounded unpromising. A collection assistant working for this very museum claimed to have seen one of the stolen paintings in an artist’s loft in Amsterdam. Vincent knew Detective Prins had visited with Julie Merriweather, the Amstel Modern’s director, this morning. Vincent would have to call him later and see if Prins had found out anything useful.
After a lengthy silence, one of the Amstel Modern’s board of directors spoke up. “What can you tell us about the Robber Hood cards? We understand they were also left at the other robberies. Do you have any leads as to who they might be or their motives?”
“I have asked my network in the Balkans about them, but no one has come forward with more information. At least, not yet. I can tell you that they are not a known protest group or criminal organization, at least not one based in the Balkans.”
Julie Merriweather piped up, “The Dutch police are leading the investigation into Robber Hood’s identity. After that Belgium theater company’s prank, they are also looking into any European organizations that may profit from such a stunt.”
He nodded in understanding as another member of the board exploded in anger. “Those theater makers should be arrested!”
A month before the Robber Hood thefts began, the news was filled with reports that a Picasso sketch, stolen six years earlier from the Kunsthal in Rotterdam, had been found buried in a field outside of a small Romanian village. A Dutch author received the tip and a treasure map that led her and a local news crew straight to the sketch. However, what she unearthed was a poorly executed fake of the Picasso. One created by a Belgium theater company as part of an elaborate publicity stunt to promote their new show, a mystery about stolen artwork and forgeries.
Because their leads were nonexistent, the Dutch police were not ruling out anything—any motive, person, or organization. Vincent knew several detectives assumed Robber Hood hadn’t released a press release or bothered to create a social media presence because the thefts were a cruel joke and the pieces would be returned, unharmed, any day now.
Vincent wished he could agree. Deep down, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Luka Antic was involved. Whether it was because of the facts in front of him or his own need to implicate the Croatian mafia boss in the crime, Vincent was not yet certain.
Julie Merriweather was addressing the board of directors. He tuned back in to hear her say, “Do know our staff is scouring the websites of auction and art galleries across Europe in case the thieves are attempting to sell any of the work.” Her smile was warm and confident. He couldn’t imagine the pressure she was under to do something even though there was little anyone could do but wait for a lead to pan out or an informant to come forward. “As soon as the police—or Vincent—have a solid lead on the locations of the artwork, I will call another meeting. Until that time, we have to stay vigilant. Let us all pray this nightmare will soon be over.”
Several attendees shook Vincent’s hand or patted his shoulder on the way out, thanking him for being so proactive and encouraging him to keep searching for their artwork.
Julie hung back, waiting until they were the last two in the room. She gestured tiredly to a chair before sitting. “I need your honest opinion. Do you think there is any truth to this being a publicity stunt?”
Sitting so close to her, Vincent now noticed how withdrawn her thin face was. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “The Dutch police are investigating every lead, including that possibility, yes, but you would do better to ask them. I’m focusing my investigation on any Eastern European connections.”
Julie bit her lip. “Do you think someone working here is involved? The police informed me this morning that they are investigating one of my collection assistants. But if it is a prank or the mob, then she couldn’t be involved, could she?” Julie’s tired eyes searched his face for answers he didn’t have.
“The police are far better equipped to answer your questions,” he said stoically.
“Yes, of course.” She rose then shook his hand firmly. “Thank you for your time. Please, do keep me informed of any progress you make.”
“Of course. I hope to be in touch soon.”
43 A New Lead
September 17, 2018
Vincent de Graaf followed Julie Merriweather out of the conference room and then turned right toward the front entrance as she turned left back to her office. He had just rounded the corner when a tall woman with long auburn hair smashed into his shoulder and knocked the briefcase out of his hand.
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t see you there.” The young woman picked up the case and held it tightly to her chest instead of returning it. She stared up at him with desperate intensity. Her cheeks were puffy, and her eyes were red. “No, actually, I’m not sorry. Are you Vincent de Graaf?”
“Yes, I am.” The woman’s Dutch was heavily accented but understandable. He couldn’t tell if she was American or South African.
“Can I please talk to you—alone?” She raced into the now-empty conference room, his case still in her hands. “It will just take a minute.”
Vincent tempered his annoyance and followed his bag. Who was this attitude-filled young woman? “Can I have my briefcase back?”
“Are you still investigating the stolen paintings?” she asked, her eyes locking onto his.
“Yes.”
“Have you found Gabriella yet?”
Vincent cocked his head. “I’m sorry. Who are you?”
“Zelda Richardson. I’m a collection researcher here. I saw one of the stolen paintings in my neighbor’s apartment—Gabriella. But then someone hit me over the head, and when I woke up, she and the Pollock were gone. And when I got out of the hospital, this guy I’ve never met showed up at my apartment and started asking all sorts of questions about Gabriella. But I don’t know where she is! I went to the police. They don’t know where she is either but did tell me that the guy who came to my apartment was probably involved wi
th the robbery here. And then someone sent Jacob dead flowers with a warning telling me to keep searching for Gabriella. Dead flowers! But I don’t know how to find her, and the police don’t believe me. I don’t know who else to turn to. I know you’re looking for the artwork. I thought maybe you had found Gabriella. Or knew where she might be?”
Vincent stared at the jabbering American, dumbfounded. “You are Zelda Richardson?” He recovered quickly, adding, “I didn’t realize you were working today.” He didn’t recognize Zelda from the photo in her file, though she had just been admitted to the hospital when the photograph was taken and most of her face was covered in blood.
The woman’s cheeks flushed. “Why do you know who I am? Can you help me, or did I just get myself into more trouble?”
Vincent did his best to keep his facial expression open and his tone light. “I know your name because I read the police report about your neighbor’s disappearance. It sounds like you took quite a hit to the head.”
Vincent hoped she didn’t see through his lie. He had read the report but had also heard of Zelda because of the Amsterdam police’s recent decision to investigate her background and possible involvement in the thefts.
“Let’s sit.” He made sure to lean back in his chair and cross one leg over the other in an effort to come across as relaxed and open.
Zelda sat across from him, perched on the edge of her seat, her arms firmly crossed over his briefcase.
“Okay, let’s take a step back, shall we? Who came to your apartment and threatened you? What can you tell me about him?”
“His name is Marko Anti or Antic? And the police said he works for a criminal organization in Croatia and that he’s somehow involved with our robbery.”
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