by A A Bavar
Carlos grabbed his radio, pressed the button, and shouted, “Sue! Get in here!”
“I was about to start the rounds,” came Sue’s voice over the radio after a short pause.
Carlos, his eyes on the now laughing Joker, jammed the radio to his mouth and shouted, spittle flying everywhere, “Get the fuck in here!”
Within seconds the door to the security room slammed open and a not too happy security guard, Sue, walked in. She was a terribly fit, tall brunette with broad shoulders – a female hulk of a person. “Where do you get off talking to me like that?” she snapped at his back even before closing the door.
Carlos didn’t turn. “I think this,” he said pointing at the screen, “merits all kinds of expletives!”
Sue’s eyes moved from Carlos to the screen and her jaw momentarily dropped in disbelief. Before Carlos could see her, however, she regained her composure and gestured towards the laughing image of the Joker. “Nice try! But did you really think I’d fall for something like this again? How stupid do you think I am? I’m no noob, and honestly, even if I was, this is way, way over the top.” Sue shook her head and laughed. “Now can I go and do the rounds?”
Carlos spun around. “This isn’t a joke, Sue,” he shouted, grabbed his radio, and headed for the door. “Chris! Chris! Get over to—”
“How did you do that?” blurted Sue.
“What?” snapped Carlos. He turned to look back at the screen, the radio still at his mouth. The Joker was out of the frame and dancing on top of the bed inside the painting. Then, with a wide smile, he jumped off the bed and climbed out of the painting into the gallery. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”
Sue looked from the screen to Carlos and back. “This is so real. Damn!” she said with a grin. “But you do realize it’s being recorded, right?” Sue craned her neck closer as the Joker looked up at the camera and waved. “Is this some kind of video special effects shit or is that Chris in makeup?” But then, for the second time within a couple of minutes, she stared in shock as Chris walked into the room.
“Me in makeup? Are you nuts?” retorted Chris.
Sue stared dumbstruck at the screen as realization set in. “Wa… wa… wait… look, he’s actually removing the painting from the wall… that’s a real person!”
Carlos turned and bolted for the door, pushing Chris out of the way. Chris smashed backwards into the rack holding the backup drives, almost knocking them over. “We’re being robbed! Come on!”
Sue grabbed Chris by the arm, steadying him, then pushed him out of the room after Carlos. “The quickest way is up the stairs to 249 and cutting across to 241,” shouted Carlos over his shoulder, his belly bouncing up and down like a basketball.
Less than ninety seconds later, the three of them crashed through the stairway doors leading to gallery 249, Carlos panting heavily, sweat rolling down his face. Chris was also breathing hard, but Sue looked like she was just warming up. She sprinted past them into gallery 247 and stopped cold.
“Holy shit!” Sue stared from painting to painting, mesmerized. The sight in the gallery was overwhelming, an insult to the senses. Every painting, still in its original form and style, was of the Joker.
“Why so serious, honey bunches?” boomed one of the Joker paintings. “Isn’t this much better? Art nouveau for the masses, Joker style.”
Sue stood open-mouthed, frozen.
“Ahem, ahem! You won’t catch me if you stand there and gawk, girly officer,” taunted one of the Jokers in a large painting to Sue’s left. “Come on, sweetie, on the double! I have an appointment to keep with a womanizer, although he doesn’t know it yet.”
Sue’s face flashed with anger, and she started running just as Chris and Carlos stumbled in. She heard them swear and call after her, but didn’t stop. She was going to catch the bastard in 241 and have him choke on his words. They could have the leftovers. “Girly officer, my ass,” she swore.
Every painting in ever gallery leading to 241 was of the Joker, some pointing her in the direction she had to go, others laughing, jeering, or even cheering her on.
“Tiptoe through the tulips. Only one gallery left before you meet Prince Charming,” laughed the Joker.
Sue rushed into gallery 241 and headed directly for the Van Gogh. The Joker was twirling the Van Gogh painting like an imaginary dance partner. He stopped when he saw Sue and skipped across the room behind a wide column. “Don’t you just love dancing to the music?”
Sue dashed to the column, but when she got there the Joker was gone.
“Looking for me?” said the Joker as he popped his head out from behind another column.
Sue spun around to face him. “How the hell…”
“Just an illusion, girly officer. Again, why so serious?” Sue opened her mouth to retort, but the Joker held up a finger for silence as he jumped out from behind the column. He laughed and said, “Good girl! Now, I have a rhyme for you. If you guess the ending, you live. If not… well, let’s not get morbid and ruin the fun.”
“Roses are red, and violets are black,” he rhymed as he skipped behind yet another column. “And you look good with a knife…” The Joker stuck his head back out and with a mischievous smile said, “Your turn, girly officer!” Then he snapped open a switchblade and waved it in the air in mock swashbuckling style before disappearing again.
Sue stood dumbfounded. What the hell was going on?
Suddenly, out of nowhere, the Joker appeared behind her, his head practically resting on her shoulder. “… in your back!” he hissed in a chilling whisper as he thrust the switchblade into her side.
Sue grunted in pain, eyes wide open in shock, and fell to the floor as her knees buckled under her. The Joker knelt beside Sue, holding her head in his hand like a longing lover. “Don’t worry, girly officer, you’ll survive. I’ll even let you keep the knife.”
“No!” screamed Carlos from the other side of the gallery. He was standing by the entrance with Chris, both panting hard. “You spineless bastard… I’m gonna rip your arm off!”
The Joker jumped to his feet and started to skip towards the column, the Van Gogh painting once again in his hand. “I suggest you take care of girly officer,” he said with a wink as he disappeared behind the column.
“You take care of Sue,” shouted Carlos to Chris, pointing at Sue’s motionless body. “I’m gonna get this asshole.”
Before either reached their targets, however, there was a flash of blinding, red light. Carlos and Chris covered their eyes. When they looked again, everything was back to normal. All the paintings were what they were supposed to be. All except the Van Gogh. In its place there was a framed headshot of the Joker, smiling, taunting, a wicked twinkle in his eye. Beside his face, in between his index finger and thumb, he was holding a magnificent, jewel, a brilliant diamond, the missing Hope Diamond.
After his brief encounter with Kathy, Paul decided to go to My Thai Cuisine in Lake Tahoe for his favorite Phad dish. It was his go-to place, his sanctuary with delicious food in unpretentious surroundings. A reminder of where he had come from, of his struggles, and of a time when a treat meant saving for the $5.95 lunch special at the corner Thai or Chinese restaurant. Now, however, he could afford any cuisine anywhere, but Patricia didn’t fall into that category. Fancy restaurants and extravagance wouldn’t do it. She was down to earth, hardworking, and although vibrant and exciting, she also exuded a kind of quaintness, a subtle charm that was magnetic yet unreachable.
To hook her, Paul knew he had to go the extra mile, open up, become more personal, but he didn’t mind. For the first time, the thought of intimacy didn’t scare him. He was actually looking forward to it and was willing to bring her to his special place. He was sure the scenic drive, delicious food, and fascinating view of the lake would break down Patricia’s defences, and that’s all he needed.
It was late when Paul finally pulled into the driveway of his El Dorado mansion. The lights outside the garage and driveway were on, but the house and gardens �
� except for the master bedroom – were engulfed in complete darkness. Paul looked up with concern as he hit the garage door opener. Wendy loved lights, especially in the garden, and to have the house so dark was very unusual.
The garage door opened, but instead of a well-lit garage, Paul was faced with a frenzy of inconsistently flickering fluorescent lights. Paul hesitated, but before he could act, the lights turned on. He sighed and parked the Veneno in its usual spot beside Wendy’s red Jaguar F-Type convertible and cut the engine. The ten car garage housed three other cars, a black Mercedes S550, a maroon Mercedes GLE SUV, and Samantha’s light blue Porsche 718. To his surprise, the Porsche was not parked in its usual place. Since Samantha was committed no one had touched it, let alone driven it. Wendy hated the car and what it represented. It was a constant reminder of what she was forced to do, and she wanted to get rid of it. Paul, on the other hand, had insisted on keeping it for those exact reasons, a reminder of their understanding.
Paul got out of his car and walked to the Porsche, placing his hand on the hood. It was still warm. He frowned and headed towards the door leading to the atrium and the indoor pool beyond. It was a short cut to the kitchen. He needed a drink and didn’t want to run into Wendy beforehand.
The kitchen, the whole house for that matter, was pitch black. Paul switched on the lights over the black, Brazilian granite island and walked to the fridge. “What are you up to, Wendy? What the hell are you up to?” he said to himself as he grabbed a Heineken from the fridge, twisted off the cap, and took a long swig. “A deal is a deal.”
He left the lights on in the kitchen, walked into the hall, and took a right towards the winding stairs going up to the second floor bedrooms. To his left, the hall led to the dining room, living room, and music room. Paul walked past his office and froze mid-stride in front of the entrance to Wendy’s studio / gallery.
“What the hell?” He walked in and turned on the lights. At first glance, the gallery looked completely destroyed. Wendy’s paintings – the ones that used to be on the walls – were recklessly thrown everywhere, their frames smashed and the paintings themselves slashed or torn. Paul gasped in shock, turned to the door and shouted, “Wendy? Wendy! We’ve been…” That’s when he noticed the new paintings on the walls. He stood there staring open-mouthed, frozen, and completely dumbstruck. Samantha’s Kinbaku series – one of which he still had hanging in his office – stared back at him, taunting him, a slap in the face. Where the hell had they come from?
All of a sudden, Paul dashed out of the gallery full speed towards the staircase, his face an expression of complete dread. “Wendy! Wendy!” he yelled as he took the steps two at a time to the first floor landing, staring down the dark, narrow corridor at the shafts of light bursting through their bedroom door. His footsteps echoed loudly in the darkness as he ran, quickly closing the distance between himself and the room where Samantha had made such a scarring statement not too long ago, but this time there was no puppy, only Wendy.
Paul burst into the room, his eyes darting about nervously, and came to a halt halfway to the bed. Sitting on the divan to his left, her body angled so that she was facing the wall by the French doors leading to the veranda, her back to him, was…
“Wendy, are you okay?” he stammered. “What the hell is going on? You scared the crap out of me. I thought it was—”
“Samantha come back for revenge? For what we did to her?” said Samantha icily without turning. “How do you like my new acquisition?”
Paul combed his fingers through his hair and followed Samantha’s gaze. There, on the wall, was what looked like an original Van Gogh, the famous painting of his room in the yellow house, appropriately titled: The Bedroom. “Wait, is that real? How?”
Samantha shifted her position on the divan and faced Paul. A sly smile crept its way across her lips. “Of course it’s real, why wouldn’t it be? As for the how… let’s just say I’ve started a new hobby.”
“A new hobby? I don’t understand. And what happened to all your paintings? Why would you do that? Destroy them… and replace them with Samantha’s? Why?” Paul paused, then added, “I thought some of those paintings were commissioned, and what about your expo next month?”
Samantha scrunched up her nose and with her index finger motioned for Paul to go to her. “Stop asking so many questions and enjoy the view. Come here, I’ve missed you.”
Paul slowly walked over, his mind a mile away. When the hell did she start doing that with her nose? “Wait, what? You missed me?” Paul looked down at Samantha, his brows slightly up in wonder.
Samantha lifted her right hand, hooked her fingers over Paul’s belt buckle into his pants, and pulled him down to his knees. “Is our marriage that spent that I can’t miss you anymore?” she said, and passed the tip of her tongue over her lower lip.
Paul stared, then nodded. He understood what was going on. “Look, Wendy, we had a deal. You did what you had to do and I helped because there was something in it for me. Samantha’s nicely tucked away and can’t hurt anyone, so let’s not rock the boat. Okay? This,” he said, motioning his hand back and forth between them, “was never part of our understanding. I live my life and you live yours.”
Samantha looked at Paul kneeling in front of her, her right hand still holding firm, and slowly pulled him into her. With her lips almost on his, she whispered in an almost feral tone, “People change, and deals are made to be broken. Get used to it.”
Beth Schnurr sat with her arms on the desk in front of her. She was holding an enlarged photo of the painting with the Joker holding the Hope Diamond. Her eyes were focused, unwavering, resolute in uncovering what was not readily visible to the untrained eye. After a few moments, without making the slightest sound or movement, Schnurr peeled her eyes away from the photo and locked them on McKeown and Avila standing quietly, almost at attention, in front of her desk.
“I read your report,” started Schnurr, “but I’m afraid you’re oversimplifying the matter. These two robberies were not committed by the same person.” Schnurr allowed herself a subtle smile as she leaned back in her chair.
McKeown exhaled loudly. “What are you talking about? We’ve already been over this. It’s the same woman, the same exact MO,” he said with a shake of his head. “Unexplainable thefts. No signs of forced entry or exit, and witnesses who can’t explain what they think they saw. Oh, and the fact that the perp always uses some kind of fancy disguise.”
Schnurr nodded. “I agree. The facts do seem to support your conclusion, but I’m afraid there’s more to it than meets the eye. It’s quite obvious from the videos that the Joker impersonator is actually female, and her skeletal signature is indeed very similar to that of Marie Antoinette. Therefore, your assumption that both robberies were committed by women is accurate. However, I’m quite certain that they are not the same person.” Schnurr looked from McKeown to Avila. “What do you think, Avila?”
Avila quickly glanced at McKeown. It was always a touchy situation to disagree with a senior agent, especially in front of the boss. “Um, I’m not sure. Something doesn’t feel right. As agent McKeown mentioned, everything seems to fit and indicate that the same person is behind the robberies, but for some reason it also doesn’t.” Avila shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Schnurr nodded. “What’s bothering you are the discrepancies in the perp’s baseline behavior, her psychological profile. The previous heists – yes, there is at least one other robbery that I believe was carried out by our original perp – although mysterious and clever, had a playfulness about them. An intelligent naiveté, if you don’t mind. The disguises were not arbitrary and always somehow connected to the stolen object, an addition to the story.” Schnurr paused, waiting for any comments. There were none. “In the case of the Van Gogh, however, that playfulness and meticulous care not to divulge too much, that sense of innocence, was gone. Instead, we had an exhibitionist openly performing before the cameras. A proud and taunting show performed by a ruthless and violen
t psychopath.”
Avila looked at McKeown standing stiffly beside him. “Holy shit.”
McKeown didn’t respond. He stared straight ahead at the D.C. skyline visible between the gaps in the blinds behind Schnurr. “A copycat,” he said almost inaudibly.
“Not a copycat, I’m afraid,” said Schnurr gravely. “The original mastermind behind the thefts has either stepped down and passed on the baton, or – what I believe to be more likely – she was taken out by the Joker.”
“I don’t know what to do,” said Patricia, taking a sip from the Styrofoam tea cup on the small, round wrought iron table in front of her. She passed her thumb over the imprinted logo of The Goods Café – a brown and red line art of the initials TGC with the G stylized as a steaming cup – and sighed. “It’s the strangest thing, I never saw it coming. I mean, Paul isn’t directly connected to my department, and now he’s offering me this fantastic job… and, well…”
“It’s the well part that’s all wrong, Tricia,” Jocelyn said sharply. “And if you are considering it, then don’t!”
Patricia frowned and looked out the window, her hands cupped around her tea cup. Her lunch hour was almost over, she had to get back.
“Look, the job is yours for the taking, so why complicate things? It’s not like he made it a condition.” Jocelyn reached across the table and gently touched Patricia’s hand. Patricia turned to her. “Tricia, I get it. He’s handsome, successful, and interested in you—”
“And I’m interested in him,” interrupted Patricia. “I think I deserve a bit of excitement. Even a relationship, no?”