Dark Angel Before the Dawn da-1

by Max Allan Collins

  really

  needed to get to her brother, first.

  “Anyway, Jacobs said he asked around, and the two cops and the blond guy were rousting every crook on the street, from the connected ones to the crum bums… slappin' 'em around, when necessary, even guys that paid for protection.” His concern seemed genuine; even a little of it may have been for her. “Listen, Max, we're playin' with fire— if this is

  federal,

  I—”

  “Okay,” Max said, patting the air. “Back to earth— settle.”

  The detective nodded and tried to regulate his breathing. He asked, “You got any idea who this blond guy might be?”

  “No… maybe you should hire a detective to find out.”

  That seemed to hurt him a little. “Very funny.”

  “Did your friend Jacobs know anything about the kid with the barcode?”

  Vogelsang shook his head. “No— but his ears are perked. I got feelers all around town on this thing.”

  “Good,” she said, letting out a long breath. “Keep on it.”

  He nodded, then gave her a sheepish look. “Money's goin' fast though, kiddo.”

  She glared at him.

  He held his hands up, as if surrendering. “What can I do? I got overhead… getting street info means greasing palms, and if you don't mind terribly, I gotta make a living myself.”

  She moved out to the edge of the chair again and gave him a cold, hard, unblinking stare. “If you want money, Mr. Vogelsang… you're gonna have to help me get it.”

  Now he pushed the air with his palms, like a bad mime fighting imaginary wind. “Whoa, whoa, whoa… I'm an officer of the court, y'know… comes with the license. I don't do crime.”

  She gave him an arched-brow look.

  He shrugged, smirked humorlessly. “Nothing you can do time for, anyway. Guy in my line does work the gray area sometimes.”

  “Do tell… All I need is a name.”

  He squinted, as if Max had gone out of focus momentarily. “Whose name?”

  “Let's just say… speaking hypothetically, since I wouldn't want to offend an officer of the court… if you had a valuable piece of art, who would you go to, if you wanted to sell?”

  He considered that. “I suppose this sale would have to be of a confidential nature.”

  She nodded.

  “An off-the-books transaction.”

  “Don't ever let anyone tell you you're not quick.”

  The detective squinted again. “Large scale?”

  “Oh yeah. Could keep you in egg rolls for a long time.”

  Sparked by this incentive, Vogelsang thought for several long, hard seconds. “Forget the guy I mentioned earlier… Jacobs? Large scale is beyond him. But there is one guy, and he's not far from here. His name is Sherwood.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “Been down on his luck, but he's good. Right now he does business in this old building off Broad Street.”

  This time it was Max who squinted. “Will I need an intro with Mr. Sherwood?”

  “Yeah, you will.”

  “And who's going to do that for me?” Max asked as she rose.

  Vogelsang smiled at her and rubbed his fingers back and forth against his thumb. “I maybe could be persuaded.”

  She leaned on the desk with both hands. “You want to keep getting paid?”

  The detective switched gears. “I could call him for you, sure— sort of a favor to a good client. Referral kinda thing. Happy to do it.”

  “Make the call.”

  He did.

  She listened attentively as he made arrangements with Sherwood, calling him “Woody.” Vogelsang's manner was friendly enough to convince Max she wasn't the first client the detective had referred to the fence. Vogelsang assured the man these were “quality goods,” that the seller was reliable, and so on.

  Vogelsang covered the receiver and turned to Max. “How's an hour from now?”

  “Swell,” she said.

  He relayed the information and nodded to her as he listened. Then he said, “I'll tell her,” hung up, and gave his client detailed directions, ending with, “Third door on the right.”

  Max thanked him.

  “So,” Vogelsang said cheerfully, hands flat on his desk, “the next time I see you, you should have some cash.”

  “Sure,” she said, exiting, throwing a blatantly insincere smile over her shoulder at him. “And the next time I see you, you should have some information.”

  Back at her apartment, Max changed into a black hooded sweatshirt, leather jacket and pants, to better protect her against the bad weather on its way. She collected the Grant Wood and the Heart of the Ocean (still in their zippered pouch); and then she rode the Ninja hard into the night, heading to the address Vogelsang had provided.

  The rain was closing in now, as if the city was a suspect the weather was after, Max knew that the storm could erupt at any moment and, despite the zippered bag, she feared subjecting the painting to a downpour, so she pushed the bike, enjoying the engine's harsh song as she revved it up.

  The first drops hit her just as she drove through the doorless entry of the building, a dilapidated three-story brick structure with most of the windows punched out and the walls starting to crumble. Only the roof seemed to be sound.

  Max parked the bike, climbed off, and looked around. She stood in a wide hallway that had once had offices on either side— but now, doors were either absent or hung open, with their glass knocked out; and the Sheetrock interior walls had holes kicked in them. She could hear rats scuttling. Not surprisingly, the apparently abandoned building was dark, and if it hadn't been for her special genetics, she would have needed a flashlight to get around.

  Had Vogelsang sold her out?

  she wondered.

  Was she walking into a trap? Were Lydecker and/or Sterling and/or Kafelnikov among the rats scurrying in the darkness?

  Carrying the zippered bag like a pizza she was delivering, she crept down the hall to the third door on the right— the only closed door in the corridor. To her relief, Max saw light filtering out from underneath.

  Of course, this

  still

  could be a trap…

  But caution just wasn't on her agenda, tonight. She turned the knob and walked right in.

  Unlike what she'd seen of the rest of the building, this room was still in perfect shape— except for a head-sized hole on the right wall, providing an impromptu window into the next office. But the other walls were fine, the door had a lock, and an overhead fluorescent illuminated the room.

  In the middle crouched a bunged-up metal desk with a TV on a crate next to it; two metal folding chairs were on the client's side of the desk. On a card table against the back wall sat a hot plate, with an open door nearby leading to a tiny bathroom. A sleeping bag, rolled up, was snugged in a corner; and the tiniest of refrigerators purred. These were spartan quarters, to say the least, but the place was spotlessly clean.

  Behind the desk, his hands folded on the desktop, seated in an ancient swivel chair, was a gray-haired man of perhaps seventy with wire-frame glasses aiding lively dark eyes of indeterminate color, a neatly trimmed but thick salt-and-pepper mustache, and a long but well-tended beard every bit as gray as his hair. He wore a dark suit with a white shirt buttoned all the way up, with no tie— the suit was out of style but not threadbare. Despite the surroundings, he struck Max as both dignified and businesslike.

  “Mr. Sherwood?” Max asked.

  He rose, gestured to one of the metal folding chairs opposite him. “I would be pleased if you called me Woody… And you're Max?”

  “I'm Max,” she said, and couldn't help but smile. “Interesting place of business. Do you, uh, live here as well?”

  As she sat, so did he. “At the moment I do, yes… Sometimes being an art speculator causes us to reevaluate our lifestyle and make certain subtractions.”

  “Like a bed, for example?”

  He sighed, but
his response seemed chipper. “I won't deny that I've had a few setbacks of late… but I'm just one deal away from Easy Street.”

  “Is that in a nice part of Seattle?”

  “It's an expression, dear. Pre-Pulse.”

  Max thought:

  I need to hang with a younger crowd.

  Sherwood was saying, “You know, dear, you're very young and quite pretty. You look healthy.”

  She cocked her head, narrowed her eyes. “Thanks… I guess. What does that have to do with any transaction we might have?”

  He patted the air with one hand. “I meant nothing by it— just an observation. But the people who bring me merchandise are, by definition, thieves. The young ones are drug addicts and don't have your… robust glow. The older ones have a… hardness about them, that I hope you will never achieve.”

  She didn't know what to say to that; no matter: Sherwood was plowing on.

  “Now I'm not saying a woman… a young woman… can't be a thief, and a good one. I've known a number, over the years… The female thieves I've known have either been… unpleasantly hard, or, frankly, gay… or both.”

  Not knowing whether to be amused or irritated, Max said, “And you're wondering if I'm gay?”

  Teeth flashed in the beard again. “My dear, at my age I'm afraid it's damn near irrelevant.”

  Max returned the smile. He was an engaging old boy. “Would you like to see what I have for you?”

  “Oh yes,” he said, with just a hint of innuendo. “I think we've had sufficient conversation to satisfy the social contract, don't you?”

  She answered that with a glazed smile.

  With her back to Sherwood, she slowly unzipped the bag, slipped the necklace surreptitiously into her pocket, then slid out the painting. When she turned back to him, his mouth dropped like a trapdoor.

  After a long moment of staring at the painting, he asked, “Is that… that the

  real

  thing?”

  “It should be.” She smiled. “But I won't be offended if you want to test it.”

  “Please,” he said.

  She placed the painting on the wide desk and, from one of the drawers, Sherwood withdrew a device that he explained was an UVIN. Then, standing at the desk, the painting like a patient on a surgical table awaiting the doctor's skills, he said, “Get the lights, would you please, child?”

  Max did as the old boy requested, and the fence fired up the UVIN and ran its rays over the painting. He looked from the painting to her, his expression almost… alarmed; and then back down at the painting, going over it again with the ultraviolet light. A crack of thunder made her jump; heavy rain hammered at the windows and echoed down the corridor.

  “My dear,” he said finally, “this is indeed a genuine Grant Wood.”

  Trying to conceal her excitement, Max asked, “How much?”

  “Normally… ” He shrugged. “… six figures, easily. But you may have guessed I don't have that kind of money around here. Actually, I don't have

  any

  kind of money around here… but I know several buyers who do.”

  A pulse of excitement jumped in her stomach. “So— what's our next move?”

  Somewhere under that beard, Sherwood had worked up a half smirk. “I suppose you trusting me, for a few days, is out of the question.”

  “I like you, Woody,” she said. “But not that much.”

  “I can hardly blame you. Well, then, here's the situation. If we want to sell this beautiful painting for anywhere near its value, people are going to want to test it. To

  see

  it tested… For that to happen, I need to have it here.”

  Max didn't like where this was going. “What's to keep you from screwing me?”

  “Besides my age, and the price of Viagra?” He shrugged. “All I have is my word. Didn't Mr. Vogelsang vouch for me?”

  “Oh, sure… but who'd vouch for

  that

  sleazebag?”

  “True, true… but I assure you, I'm honest.”

  “Woody, you deal in stolen property.”

  “That's true, but I do it honestly.”

  She laughed in spite of herself. “Okay, Woody, you call me, and I'll bring the painting, and whoever wants to see it tested, can see it tested.”

  “That would be a workable plan,” he said, “but for two things.”

  “Go on.”

  “First, my function is to buffer you from the buyers and the buyers from you— I provide insulation of sorts, should— for example— you or my client turn out to be participating in what used to be called, quaintly, a sting… is

  that

  pre-Pulse term familiar to you?”

  “That one is,” she admitted.

  “Second, rain's coming down like a veritable son of a bitch, and you should not risk taking that painting out into it, even with that zippered pouch of yours.”

  Max shrugged with a knowingness beyond her years. “Maybe so, but I'm still not leaving the painting here. You have a nice line of bull, Woody, but I just met you… and you may be an honest crook, but you're still a crook.”

  He made a clicking sound in his cheek. “That is a fact… and this is a commission I could dearly use right now.”

  “Fine. Well?”

  The fence let out a big sigh. “All right, little lady. Let me make a phone call. There is a client I know who would be perfect for this acquisition.”

  “Excellent. Tell me about him… or is it a her?”

  For the first time, a frown creased the fence's brow. “I can't give you a name or any background— you're compromising my professional ethics enough as it is.”

  She said nothing; she was frowning, too.

  Sherwood removed a cell phone from his suit-coat pocket. “Do I make the call? I'll do my best to get the buyer to come down right, now.”

  “… Make the call.”

  “But you can't be here.”

  Now she was getting pissed. “Woody, I can't

  not

  be here.”

  Sherwood was ahead of her. “No, dear… What I mean to say is, you go into the office next door, you can use that hole in the wall to watch and listen.” He pointed to the head-sized hole she'd noted coming in; the aperture was a foot or so behind Sherwood and would give Max the perfect place from which to monitor the transaction.

  “I'd still feel better knowing who the buyer is.”

  “That is not negotiable, dear. I would protect you, likewise.”

  She rose, picked up the metal folding chair on her side of the desk, and there was a loud crack as she snapped the back off it with her two small leather-gloved hands.

  Sherwood's eyes flared. “I do like an assertive female… Mr. Glickman is his name, and that's all I know. He's actually another layer of insulation, the agent for a consortium of buyers. What I do know… and this should please you… is that Mr. Glickman pays top dollar, in untraceable cash… tens, twenties, twenty-fives… and he never haggles much about the price. For quality such as this, he'd expect to pay a quality price… Shall I make the call?”

  A tiny smile formed on her full lips as she said, “Go ahead and drop the dime.”

  Sherwood's smile was a delighted one. “You

  do

  know some pre-Pulse slang, don't you, you little vixen?”

  Twenty minutes later, the rain still beating its staccato rhythm on windows, echoing down the hall like gunfire, Max and her Ninja were safely snugged in the office next door when she heard a car door slam outside. She crept to the hole in the wall and assumed a position that would conceal her and reveal the mysterious Glickman.

  For his part, Sherwood didn't seem the least bit nervous, and Max realized she was no doubt not the first person to witness a transaction from this hiding place. She did wonder if the porthole had been formed by a dissatisfied client shoving the fence's head through the wall…

  Tucked into the shadows, Max could see through the broken-glass door frames
of her private office as two men walked down the hall, passed her without looking in, and strode into Sherwood's office. The two men stayed near the door, and Max couldn't make out anything more than their shapes.

  “What happened to the chair?” one of them asked, his voice sounding nasal and somehow muffled.

  “Vandals,” Sherwood said distastefully, as he rose, and then his tone warmed up. “Mr. Glickman, I apologize for bringing you out in such vile weather… ” The painting was on the desk, like a colorful blotter. “… but, as I told you on the phone, this is a major Grant Wood.”

  The fence, smiling proudly, held up the Masonite board.

  “It certainly is,” a rather refined voice replied.

  “I, uh… haven't met your associate. This is a breach of etiquette.”

  “Breach of etiquette?” another, rougher voice responded. “I can think of something worse.”

  An icy shiver spiked through Max:

  she had heard that voice before

  … in the foyer at Jared Sterling's mansion. One of his security team! Maurer, the black, clean-cut guard…

  “Something worse?” Sherwood said, clearly off-balance.

  The pair stepped forward into the fluorescent's path and Max's view. In a black rain-dripping raincoat, Maurer stood on the right, his nose heavily bandaged, while on the left, the other “insulation,” Mr. Glickman, stood in a London Fog, and Max recognized him, as well— his hair in the same iron-gray crew cut, the scars still on his cheeks, each about the size of a dime.

  Sterling's security chief.

  “I mean,” Glickman said, “trying to sell back a painting stolen from my boss.”

  Sherwood's whole body seemed to go slack. “I… I… I had no idea… ”

  “It was heavily covered in the media. You work in the art field. Certainly you knew this painting was Mr. Sterling's.”

  “But… gentlemen… I was not aware that Mr. Sterling was your client. I was under the impression you represented a consortium of overseas buyers… Forgive me.”

  “No,” Glickman said.

  The security guard was reaching inside the London Fog, and Max did not think he was going for a handkerchief. She took three quick steps back, then threw herself at the Sheetrock wall. She burst explosively into Sherwood's office just as Maurer fired the first shot. Max couldn't get to him in time, but in reflexive if pointless self-defense, Sherwood lifted the painting in front of his face.