The figure didn’t hesitate. He rushed toward Gabriel and threw a punch, directed at his jaw.
Gabriel ducked and drove his fist into the larger man’s midsection.
The man was unfazed by the blow. He grabbed Gabriel by the shirt and threw him down, slamming him into the wall.
The man headed to the staircase but, as he passed, Gabriel grabbed his foot and twisted, bringing the man to his knees.
The man cursed in Italian and lashed out, striking Gabriel in the sternum.
Gabriel’s heart was caught midbeat. It shuddered and paused before beating irregularly. Gabriel fell back, clutching his chest.
The man stood and lumbered like a large bear down the hall.
Gabriel found he couldn’t move. He lay on his back, frozen, gazing up at the ceiling. He tried to draw breath.
“Gabriel?” Julia dashed from the bedroom, just in time to see the man disappear down the stairs.
“Clare,” Gabriel managed to rasp.
“Where is she? Did he take her?” Before Gabriel could answer, Julia ran to the nursery door and opened it.
From the doorway, Julia could see that Clare was still in her crib. Julia rushed toward her and touched the baby’s face. She stirred but didn’t wake.
“Thank God,” she breathed.
She ran back to her bedroom, picked up the cell phone, and dialed 911.
Chapter Forty-Six
Julia was glad Rebecca hadn’t been there to surprise the intruder. She was a light sleeper and awoke early some mornings. Thankfully, she’d left for Colorado the day before in order to spend the Christmas holiday with her children.
Julia was seated on the couch in the living room, holding a sleeping baby. She hadn’t wanted Clare out of her sight.
The Cambridge police were combing the house and the backyard. Gabriel was pacing nearby, having been checked and cleared by the paramedics. He’d been on his phone for the past hour.
Julia buried her face against Clare’s hair. She’d thought Gabriel was having a heart attack. He’d been pale and short of breath when she found him in the hallway. The color had returned to his face and now he was pacing like a caged lion, angry and frustrated. As if he’d roar at any moment.
Julia whispered a prayer of thanks that she still had a family and hugged Clare more tightly. She wasn’t sure how long she sat there before a pair of bare feet stood in front of her. (Parenthetically, it should be noted that even Gabriel’s feet were attractive.)
He hadn’t bothered to put on shoes and he was still wearing a pair of tartan flannel pajamas. He crouched next to her and placed a gentle hand on her neck. “Darling?”
He pushed her hair back from her face. “The company that installed the security system is sending someone immediately. According to them, the system is still armed. The intruder must have bypassed the alarm.”
“How is that possible?”
Gabriel’s face grew grim. “I don’t know.”
Julia rocked the baby, back and forth. “He didn’t take any jewelry. He didn’t even open the box.”
“Cash, passports, electronics, artwork—everything is still here. The police are dusting for fingerprints.”
“He was wearing gloves.”
Gabriel froze. “Did he touch you?”
“No,” Julia whispered. “When I woke up, I saw him holding the Holiday painting. I saw the gloves.”
“When I went upstairs, the painting was on the floor. The glass shattered.”
“He dropped it when I screamed.”
“But you’re all right?” Gabriel croaked. He reached a hand out to caress Clare’s head. “Clare is all right?”
“I don’t think he went into the nursery. The door was still closed and I hadn’t heard anything on the baby monitor.”
Gabriel passed a hand over his mouth. Things could have ended very, very differently.
“I’m sorry about the painting.”
Gabriel squeezed her knee. “Better the painting than you!”
Julia took his hand and tugged him to sit next to her. She leaned into his side, shaking.
He wrapped both arms around her shoulders. “You’re going to be fine. You’re going to be fine and Clare is going to be fine.”
“I thought he’d taken her.” A tear streaked down Julia’s face. “I thought you’d had a heart attack.”
“I was just winded. But I could use a shot of Laphroaig right now.”
“Me, too.”
“I’ll get you one.” He spoke against her skin.
“I don’t think nursing mothers are supposed to drink Laphroaig. But if I weren’t nursing, hell yeah I’d be drinking your campfire Scotch.”
It was not appropriate to laugh and Gabriel knew it. He held her close and restrained his laughter. “I don’t have any Laphroaig. But if you want a drink, I’ll get you one.”
“Maybe later.” The baby stirred against Julia’s shoulder.
“Do you want me to take her? She must be getting heavy.”
Julia shook her head. “I need to hold her.”
“Mr. Emerson?” A plainclothes detective approached him. “Can I see you for a minute?”
“Of course.” Gabriel kissed his wife and followed the detective into the kitchen.
Julia continued to rock back and forth, praying everything would be over soon. It was three o’clock in the morning and she wanted to go back to sleep. But not here, not with a disabled security system and the painting of Dante and Beatrice broken upstairs.
A few minutes later, Gabriel returned. “It looks like the intruder came in through the garden. He hopped the fence and crossed the yard to the back door, leaving footprints in the snow.”
Gabriel noted Julia’s rocking motion. “Why don’t you lie down? I’ll take Clare.”
“I don’t want to stay here another minute.” She swayed to her feet.
“Okay.” Gabriel scratched the stubble on his face. “We’ll go to a hotel. Do you want to pack a bag?”
“I don’t want to go upstairs by myself.” Julia’s voice was very small. It almost broke Gabriel’s heart.
“I’ll go with you. Let me tell the detective.” Gabriel returned to the kitchen for a moment and then walked back to Julia. He took Clare into his arms. “I’ll carry her up the stairs. I’m sorry I fell asleep at my desk. I should have come to bed.”
“I’m okay,” Julia’s voice grew steely. “But I have to get out of here.”
“I’ll call the Lenox as soon as we get upstairs. Pack whatever you will need for a day or two. I’ll call the security company and let them know we’re leaving.”
Julia nodded. At that moment, all she cared about was getting herself and her child out of the house. The security company was doing too little, too late.
Gabriel ascended the staircase with Julia close behind.
* * *
While Julianne stood in the closet, packing for herself and Clare, Gabriel put the baby in her playpen. She was still asleep.
Gabriel crossed himself and said a silent prayer of thanks.
He walked over to his nightstand and was about to pick up his phone charger when he stepped on something.
“Son of a . . .” Gabriel lifted his foot in order to see what he’d stepped on.
“Are you okay?” Julia stuck her head out of the closet.
“I’m fine. It’s nothing.”
Julia returned to her packing.
Crouching down, Gabriel saw that he’d stepped on what looked like a small sculpture. He retrieved a tissue from the nightstand and picked up the object.
The sculpture was grotesque—a small, two-headed bust with a skull on one side and a face on the other. Gabriel turned the object over, careful to keep it covered by tissue. Letters had been carved into it: O Mors quam amara est memoria tua.
Gabriel knew without doubt the object wasn’t his. It didn’t belong to Julianne, either. Such objects had been popular in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, as a kind of reminder of one’s mortality: O Death, how bitter is your memory. Remember you must die.
The piece he’d stepped on was finely crafted and old. To his untrained eye, at least, it seemed to be of museum quality. Since it was unlikely the Cambridge police kept such mementoes in their pockets, only one other person could have dropped it.
“I’m almost done,” Julianne called. She entered the bathroom and closed the door.
Gabriel covered the carving with more tissue and placed it in his briefcase with his laptop. Although it was possible the intruder had dropped the piece accidentally, it was equally possible it had been left on Gabriel’s nightstand, mere inches from his pillow, as a warning.
As such, and given the medium of the message, Gabriel elected not to share his finding with Cambridge’s finest. Instead, he was going to share the discovery with someone else.
Chapter Forty-Seven
What about your family? Are they all right?” Nicholas Cassirer sounded horrified.
“Julianne is shaken, but they’re fine.” Gabriel carefully closed the door of the bathroom in their hotel suite, so as not to disturb them.
Clare was now sleeping in her playpen and Julianne had collapsed on the king-sized bed. It was after five o’clock in the morning in Boston, and just before noon in Zurich, Nicholas’s home.
Gabriel continued. “I’ve already spoken with the man you recommended for surveillance. He’s in the Alps, watching the Talbot family ski. There haven’t been any clandestine meetings or suspicious behavior.”
“What was Kurt’s assessment?”
“He thinks the home invasion has nothing to do with Simon Talbot. But he offered to make contact.”
“I’d trust his instincts. It may be a good idea for him to have a word. He can be very persuasive.”
“I’ll follow up with Kurt today.”
“What you’ve described sounds like the work of a professional art thief.”
“Yes, but what professional breaks into a house that’s occupied?” Gabriel’s words left his mouth too late. He closed his eyes. “My friend, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
Nicholas changed the subject. “The intruder handled every piece of art in your house, but ignored jewelry and cash. So he isn’t an opportunist. I’m puzzled he didn’t take anything. Perhaps he’s planning to return.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Or he didn’t find what he was looking for.”
That gave Gabriel pause. “The most valuable pieces I own are in the Uffizi, as we speak.”
“Yes, I know,” said Nicholas. “The exhibition, with your name attached, has drawn international attention. Someone may have been inspired to visit your home and inspect your personal collection.
“Professional art thieves usually target specific works, for specific buyers. The thief knows you own the Botticelli illustrations, and he surmises you have other valuable pieces in your possession. He takes an inventory so he can approach a collector.”
“You think he will return?”
“If he found something he can sell. He may be from Italy, or speaking the language may have been a calculated move to point you toward Italy. But it doesn’t matter. When it comes to artwork, the black market is international.”
Gabriel rubbed his forehead. “What’s your recommendation?”
“Would you be willing to share your inventory? I may be able to discern what the thief is interested in.”
“Certainly.”
“I think you and Julianne should work with an artist to produce a drawing of the intruder. I have a contact at Interpol. They may recognize him.”
“We’ll take care of that.” Gabriel opened his laptop bag and withdrew a ball of tissue. “There is one other thing. I believe the thief left a calling card.”
“What kind of calling card?”
“It looks like a Renaissance memento mori. It’s a small carving of a skull on one side and a face on the other. It may be genuine, I don’t know.”
“Can you send a photo?”
“Of course.” Gabriel quickly snapped a picture with his phone and texted it to Nicholas. “I found it in my bedroom, after the break-in.”
Nicholas hummed as he examined the photo. “Why didn’t you give it to the police?”
“Because I didn’t want it tagged, bagged, and placed in an evidence room. It’s more useful if it can be authenticated and traced.”
“I can recommend someone from my family’s museum in Cologny. But you’d be better off approaching Dottor Vitali at the Uffizi. He may be able to trace the provenance for you.”
“Italy, once again,” Gabriel muttered.
“I have to say, the calling card changes my assessment.”
“In what way?”
“It makes the invasion appear personal. If the memento mori was left intentionally, it could be a warning. A death threat. Is there anyone, besides the ex-boyfriend, who would want to harm you?”
“No,” Gabriel answered quickly. “No one.”
“You haven’t offended someone with powerful connections? Someone in the art world?”
“No. I’m a professor. I live the life of an academic. The only people I offend are those who are ignorant of Dante.”
“But that has to be a small group and, as you know, academics rarely if ever hire professionals to break into houses and examine artwork. My advice is to upgrade your security system. I will call the team that worked on my parents’ house and ask them to visit you in America, as a personal favor.”
Whatever his suspicions about Nicholas Cassirer’s connections, Gabriel wasn’t about to turn down such a generous offer.
“Thank you.” Gabriel accepted quickly. “It’s close to Christmas. When do you think they will be available?”
“I’ll have them on a plane tonight.”
“I appreciate it.” Gabriel found his voice unusually gruff. “If there’s anything I can do, just ask.”
“I’m sorry this happened. I’ll call my contact at the security company now. He’ll be in touch.”
“Thank you.”
“And, Gabriel? I’d recommend sending your memento mori to the Uffizi as soon as possible. It may be the clue you’re looking for.”
“I will. Thank you.” Gabriel disconnected and exited the bathroom.
He sat in an armchair and tapped his cell phone against his chin, thinking.
Nicholas had given him much to ponder, particularly the possibility that there was a connection between the break-in and the exhibit at the Uffizi.
Again, Gabriel was puzzled that the intruder hadn’t taken anything. Almost all the artwork was on the ground floor, which meant the thief could have broken in, retrieved several pieces, and departed without alerting anyone of his presence.
The thief must have been looking for something—either something specific or making an inventory of the household. If it was something specific, he probably hadn’t found it, or else he would have taken it. If he was taking an inventory, he intended to return.
If the intruder had broken into the house simply to terrorize them, he’d have done so. As it was, he’d used little violence, no weapons beyond his fists, and had left Julianne and Clare untouched. However, the memento mori could be interpreted as a threat. And it was a threat directed at him, since the piece was left on his side of the bed.
Gabriel wondered whether the intruder’s rules of engagement were self-imposed, or imposed by someone who had sent him.
The Professor didn’t have answers to these questions, but his gifted intellect continued to examine everything over and over again, until he finally tumbled into bed after sunrise, exhausted.
Chapter Forty-Ei
ght
December 22, 2012
Zermatt, Switzerland
Simon Talbot exited his chalet at the CERVO resort, slipping on his gloves. He was meeting friends and family for drinks in the lounge après-ski.
He’d taken no more than two steps outside the door when something hit him, hard. He went flying backward into the snow.
“My God!” someone cried in German. “I’m sorry. Let me help you.” A large man, dressed in ski clothes, reached out his hand. He hefted a dazed Simon to his feet, chattering his apologies.
“I’m okay,” said Simon in English, trying to remove his hand from the man’s iron grip.
Instead of releasing him, the man pulled him closer. “Forget the name of Julianne Emerson, or the next time I see you, you won’t be able to get up.”
Simon gaped. He was still in shock after being bodychecked and knocked over. But to hear the man switch to English and mention her name . . .
After a few seconds of stunned silence, Simon’s face hardened. “Tell that asshole husband of hers I haven’t done anything. She’s nothing to me.”
The man pulled Simon closer, bringing them nose to nose. “I don’t work for him. And my employer does not accept failure. You’ve been warned.”
Smoothly, the man drove his fist into Simon’s abdomen, doubling him over. Without a backward glance, the man walked past the chalet and disappeared around the corner.
Chapter Forty-Nine
The Lenox Hotel
Boston, Massachusetts
The security company?” Julia prompted, sitting near the fireplace in the hotel suite. It was her habit to curl up in comfy oversized chairs, like a cat. But she found that her right leg bothered her in such a position, and so her feet were propped up on an ottoman.
Her ankle still troubled her, on occasion, and so she still wore a brace when she walked. With the terror and worry that accompanied the break-in, she’d barely noticed her ankle and the intermittent numbness in her leg. She was still in shock, she thought, and had refused to leave the hotel. Gabriel had arranged for a sketch artist who worked with the local police to meet with them in their suite and draw a likeness of the intruder, which Gabriel had sent to Nicholas and Interpol.
Gabriel's Promise (Gabriel's Inferno) Page 19