“Let’s stop playing games, Mr. Walters. You know very well Mr. Blackwell’s blue money might’ve gotten your gallery out of that stinking hole in Chinatown, but to truly stand on your own and secure the status of a prominent art dealer requires money, a lot of money, which Mr. Blackwell is not going to supply you forever considering the fact he’s invited that young French designer instead of you as his guest to the ceremony in Beijing next week. It’s obvious Mr. Blackwell has found a new place to invest his money. That means money flow from him to you will soon dry up.” Madam Jin paused, like a cat enjoying a torturous game with its prey before moving in for the final kill.
“But I don’t need William’s money. The gallery is doing very well on its own these days,” Walters grumbled. He was standing in the middle of an elegantly appointed lounge, cloaked in a five-thousand-dollar suit, yet he felt he’d been stripped naked, on public trial, drowning in waves of humiliation.
As if knowing he was in despair, the feline on the couch dealt her prey a lethal swipe. “By doing well on your own, you mean the nice little side business you’ve been building lately. Keep it up and you may be right, you won’t be needing Mr. Blackwell’s money anymore. But you’ll still need Mr. Heikkinen,” Madam Jin lowered her voice to a whisper, eyes fixed on Walters with x-ray intensity.
Walters sank into a nearby lounge chair. For a moment, he stared at the carpet under his feet as if studying its pattern.
Buzzes from the cell on the coffee table broke the deadly silence that had flooded the room. Madam Jin swiped the phone and stared at the screen. “Excuse me, Mr. Walters, I’ll be right back,” she said as she melted into the bedroom.
Walters propped his elbows on his lap, his ample palms clamped his head. Strangely, he didn’t feel dread or even fear. His world now was a giant scrambled jigsaw puzzle. He forced himself to think hard, to at least put the key pieces of the puzzle back together.
He remembered it had been Christmas time. He was on the second floor of his gallery, performing a mental reconfiguration of his main exhibit room. He was in a jubilant mood, having convinced Blackwell to go public with the Empress Seal affair while planning for a reproduction of the seal at the same time. He didn’t know which design artist William was going to hire, but he was already a step ahead of everything. He’d had no doubt he could convince William to let the replicated seal be on permanent display at his gallery. The Blackwell name together with the history of the Empress Seal could lend some aura to his own status as a first-rate art dealer in New York City—a city that the whole world wanted to visit and where the world’s richest came to live in luxury and extravagance every day. And if he could keep William and his money by his side . . . Wesley Walters had nothing but a brilliant future ahead of him.
As he had wandered around re-drawing the floor plan in his mind, a young man ascended the flight of marble steps to the second floor. He was no more than thirty years old, platinum blond hair and pale skin contrasting sharply with his black skinny jeans and steely grey sweatshirt. “You must be Mr. Walters.” He smiled shyly, offering his hand. “Your assistant told me I could find you upstairs.”
“How can I help you?” Walters shook the young man’s hand.
“I’m Linus Heikkinen, I just moved to the Big Apple a couple of weeks ago and need some help filling the empty walls in my brownstone.” He had a slight accent Walters couldn’t quite place.
“So, you’re thinking about some paintings. May I ask which medium interests you most? Oil, watercolor, charcoal?” Walters had asked lukewarmly. The man in front of him didn’t quite fit the profile of the clients he generally dealt with—or strove to deal with.
“I’m just a tech nerd, don’t know too much about paintings but open to expert suggestion.”
Walters eyes brightened, his voice more animated. The fantasy that he could be talking to a mini Mark Zuckerberg flitted through his mind. “Oh, you must be one of those geniuses working at Google or Apple then.”
“I’m not sure of being a genius, but I did have a small tech company back in Finland and sold it to Google a few months ago. I’m taking it easy for a while, not sure what to do next yet,” the young man admitted shyly, as if embarrassed by his status of being unemployed.
“That explains your distinct continental accent then. Welcome to the Big Apple. I fully understand. Running your own business can be very tiring, sometimes you need a break.” Walters gave him a practiced smile. “Now let me show you what we have here.”
Less than an hour later, Linus Heikkinen walked out of W Gallery with two Chinese silk scroll paintings. He’d transferred fifty thousand dollars to Walters’s bank account, right on his Apple X.
Walters was elated with his nouveau rich client, a bit different from the clientele he was trying to build, but money is money.
Two days later, Heikkinen returned. Walters received him in his office. The young man wore the same dark outfit, but gone was the nerdy, shy smile. “It was good doing business with you, Mr. Walters. Your merchandise lived up to my expectations.” His voice was hard, serious.
“You mean the scroll paintings you bought the other day? They are art, not merchandise,” Walters scoffed. Tech nerd, doesn’t know how to appreciate the finer things in life no matter how much money he’s made.
“Oh, yes, your art looks great on the wall in my house, but the NPP that came with the painting was the true art, first grade.” Seeing Walters at a loss for words, Heikkinen cut to the chase. “NPP is a very important chemical ingredient that’s used to concoct designer drugs. I must be honest with you Mr. Walters, it’s an ingredient important for my business.” Walters’s eyes widened, but Heikkinen pressed on. “Yes, I concoct designer drugs. Most of my clients belong to the high society of the city, the kind of people you associate with. And no, I don’t push drugs on the streets of poor neighborhoods. It’s getting harder to import NPP from China, but technically it’s not a drug until it’s mixed with other ingredients, and even then it’s still a synthetic form of the conventional opioids like pot and heroin . . .”
“Hold on,” Walters growled, thrusting his palm in Heikkinen’s face. “I don’t care what form of drugs you’re dealing with, I have nothing to do with it and will have nothing to do with it.”
“I know, but these were hidden in the spool of the painting I bought from you.” From each of his pockets he pulled out a small plastic bag filled with a white powdery substance. “You don’t want the world to know your gallery is a money-laundering, drug-smuggling operation do you?”
“I had nothing to do with it and nobody will believe you.”
“Really, let’s see.” He looked around Walters’s office and saw a few rolled-up scroll paintings on the round table next to Walters’s desk. “I guess these just came in recently?” he asked. Walters gave a hesitant nod. Heikkinen grabbed one, jiggled the tips on each end of the wooden spool. One of them came off. Heikkinen squeezed one eye shut, the other peered into the hollow of the spool. “Oh yeah, there’s the proof, enough to put you away for a long time.” He tipped the scroll down and gave it a few vigorous shakes. A white roll, thick as a cigar but twice in length, fell out on the table. Heikkinen unfurled it and laid it flat on his palm—a plastic bag filled with white powdery substance, identical to the ones he’d just pulled out of his pocket.
“I—I don’t know how it got in there or who put it in there,” Walters stammered, leaping up from the chair behind his desk.
“Well, I was trying to explain before you jumped down my throat,” Heikkinen said, his voice less threatening and more coaxing. “I think you and I can form a partnership that’s low risk and high reward.”
“What do you want from me?” There was defeat in Walters’s voice.
“As I said, importing NPP is getting more difficult. But nobody will suspect a thing if small batches like this come hidden in high-end art shipped to an established, prominent gallery like yours.”
“You mean make my gallery part of a drug smuggling ring,
” Walters said dryly.
“That sounds ugly. But, you have nothing to do with real drugs. As I said, NPP is just a chemical ingredient, not a banned substance. You don’t have to know where it comes from and where it goes, it just kind of passes through your gallery.” Heikkinen purred seductively.
Walters’s eyes fixed on the scroll paintings on the table for a long moment. “What if I say no?”
“Then the world will know that the respected W Gallery is actually dealing things other than fine art. In your line of business, mere gossip will destroy the prestigious name you’ve been trying so hard to build.” Heikkinen stuffed the NPP bag in his pocket and pulled out his Apple X. “Consider this another purchase for my new brownstone, Mr. Walters.” His fingers danced on the screen. “Done. I guess twenty-k is a fair price for a painting like this one. It’s been deposited in your account.” He shoved his cell in his pocket, grabbing the newly acquired scroll painting. “Unless you tell me otherwise, I assume this is the beginning of our mutually beneficial partnership.” Heikkinen gave Walters a satisfied smile and offered his hand. “I’ll be in touch, Mr. Walters,” he said quietly as Walters mechanically shook his hand, unable to utter a word.
Heikkinen vanished like a phantom.
It took a long time before Walters’s logical thinking finally returned. He decided to conduct a quick self-education about NPP and so-called designer drugs. It was easy. He typed a few words in the search engine and reels of information jumped onto his desktop screen. Hard to pronounce chemical terms made his head spin like he’d been fed a concoction of a virtual drug. But in less than an hour he’d gathered enough information not only about NPP but also about the science and art of manipulating structures of certain chemicals to mimic the pharmacological effects of plant-based opioids. Heikkinen was right, NPP itself was not a drug but only a chemical ingredient. It stood for N-phenethyl-4-poperidone, a chemical precursor used to manufacture fentanyl, fifty times more powerful than heroin.
More interesting to Walters was the fact the chemicals could be easily tweaked and manipulated to achieve myriad effects on the human psyche. There was the type that could make you calm, inducing meditative trance. Then there were the so-called dissociatives that could make you forget all your troubles for a while by severing your consciousness from the real world. If you’d like to feel affectionate, there were the empathogens to help you feel love and closeness to your fellow human beings.
Things really have changed. Pot was the only thing Walters had used. It had helped to dull the pain of losing his dad, to quiet the terrifying turmoil in his pubescent body. But life had toughened him up. Drugs were an emotional crutch he’d discarded, along with his Harvard ambition. These days, his dream was to own an original Picasso and his pleasure was succulent caviar with chilled champagne. He didn’t need drugs, but vast amounts of money to sustain that pleasure and to keep that dream alive. William’s fortune had been a reliable source to fuel his needs, for a while. But lately, more sweet talk and convincing were required to coax William to write another check, and the amount was ever dwindling.
Walters began to bargain with himself. The partnership proposed by Heikkinen was not as illicit as it appeared to be. At the art events he’d been regularly hosting at his gallery, it was no secret there were enough pills and powders to lace the champagne and garnish the food. Many of them may very well be clients of the likes of Heikkinen already. Had any of them gone to jail for that yet? Walters knew a few who’d gone to jail for financial fraud or inside trading, but none for being the customers of Heikkinen’s designer drugs. There were really no victims or criminals. They’re all willing participants, playing a game to get their hearts’ desires. Wasn’t that a basic human instinct?
So commenced Walters’s partnership with the drug designer. But no additional discussion had ever occurred, no written contract was ever inked or signed. For once, Walters controlled his urge to be in control of every aspect of his adult life. Despite his curiosity as to the logistics of how each batch of that precious NPP journeyed across the Pacific Ocean, he remained a true silent partner. The less he knew the better. Just like Heikkinen said, the chemical was just passing through his gallery. He still sourced scroll paintings from Chinese artists whom he deemed deserving of the prestige of the W Gallery. All the paintings were insured and shipped by the same courier and arrived in perfect condition. He could sell those paintings to anybody who was interested, he just had to make sure the prepackaged plastic bags in the hollows of the scroll bars disappeared before clients not recommended by Mr. Heikkinen took delivery.
Things had been going swimmingly, until now.
“So, Heikkinen works for you and you used him to set me up,” Walters seethed when Madam Jin sashayed back from the bedroom.
“No, I wouldn’t say Mr. Heikkinen works for me, he works for money, just like you, just like everyone else in this world.” Madam Jin gave a little chuckle.
“But why?
“Shall we say it’s a recruiting cost for me to get you on my team. I wanted an insurance policy to make sure the Empress Seal goes back to China in one piece, one hundred percent original.”
“Of course it is. What makes you think otherwise?”
“Well, we can talk about that on our way to the Tate. Shall we?” Madam Jin gestured toward the door. “We need to go. You can ride in my car if you want, Mr. Walters.”
Chapter 9
New York City, present day
Sunday morning, after a night of snowfall, Detective Ivelisse Rica was in her office sifting through camera recordings sent over by Crystal Palace management.
She was glad she came in. Not a soul around the office, even the detectives who’d made it their habit to come in on weekends had been deterred by the cold that had gripped the entire city. Her work so far was efficient, but not fruitful.
Laboriously, she’d gone through the security camera footage of the Crystal Palace Residence lobby. It confirmed what the staff had reported. The camera picked up Blackwell entering the lobby area at 5:59 p.m., where he greeted a woman wearing a camel trench coat and a black felt hat. They were in range of the camera for less than thirty seconds before they walked away together, most likely toward the private elevator to Blackwell’s penthouse. Ive had examined the recordings painstakingly, looking from every angle possible, but the ample brim of the woman’s hat had largely concealed her face. All Ive could see was a pointed chin and part of a mouth glossed in red lipstick.
Scanning the rest of the recordings all the way to when Carmen discovered Blackwell’s dead body the next morning yielded nothing. The faceless mystery woman went into the Crystal Palace Residence, but never came out.
Ive closed out of the recordings and glanced at the time displayed on the computer screen. It was almost noon. She drained the last bit of coffee she’d grabbed from Starbucks earlier. Her stomach gurgled in protest, reminding her she’d had nothing to eat since she dragged herself out of her warm bed. She rose and peered out the window. The diner across the street seemed to beckon, its “open” sign glinting in the quiet of the cold. She’d love to have her favorite turkey melt sandwich, but painful memory haunted her, squeezing her heart until it felt like she had bled out.
It had been almost a year now since her husband and fellow detective of the NYPD had been shot point-blank in front of the diner. It was their first wedding anniversary. They’d decided to have lunch there since that was where they’d first met. They said initially the shooter was a homeless man with mental problems. But a drug test later found dangerously high levels of fentanyl in his system.
For a long time Ive’s life was bleeding out. Her essence was draining out bit by bit, leaving her a withered husk floating in the world. She didn’t think she could go on.
Still, she’d considered herself lucky. Illicit drugs had robbed her of her family, but the NYPD family was always there, lifting her up in the darkest times of her life. Slowly, she clawed back from the brink of depression and despair, pouri
ng every ounce of her energy into work. She knew firsthand how illicit drugs worked their evil, luring their victims into what seemed to be paradise and then slowly eating away their flesh and bones until there was nothing left. She understood exactly how the families of victims felt when they stood in the mortuary, praying that there was still a sliver of hope that the corpse on the table was not the daughter, the son, the mother or the father they’d loved. Her insight into the criminal mind deepened—the various schemes drug dealers deployed to control others and get them to do their bidding. She’d become a darn good detective. But breaking another case or busting another drug ring didn’t excite her the way it used to. With the rise of drug-related deaths in recent years she seemed to be—the whole world seemed to be—fighting a losing war. But it didn’t mean she would give up or even slow down. Before she stepped on every crime scene she put on her fighting armor: blue jeans, red top, and chunky-heeled boots. The red color and height advance on her five-foot-three-inches never failed to give her a boost, mentally and physically, to stare down the evil, to tackle the cases one at a time.
Her cell rang, pulling Ive away from the window and the open sign of the diner. She picked up the phone on her desk, it was from the chief of the NYPD.
“This is Detective Ricca. Good morning, sir.”
“Detective Ricca, the FBI just informed us that they will be taking over the Blackwell case. We need to hand over all the evidence we’ve gathered ASAP,” commanded the chief.
“Why? It’s a murder case, the FBI has no business stepping on our toes.”
“I understand. But they have evidence that Blackwell’s murder could be related to an international drug ring, something a special FBI task force has been working on for quite a while. So we need to stand down.”
The Face of the Seal Page 10