1 - Artscape: Ike Schwartz Mystery 1

by Frederick Ramsay

“Right. Just checking. You ready? The letter was typed on a computer in the history of art department.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I tell you this, the guy’s sharp, knows the system backward and forward.”

  “But you got him? It is a him?”

  “Absolutely. But it took a while. The sneaky bastard—see, what he did was to wait until the student letter print job ended. Then he called up the file, deleted the text, pasted in his text and printed it out, went to the printer, collected his copy. He closed the file without saving the changes—that meant the original text got put back and ta-dah—he’s done and out clean—no trace. I didn’t tumble to that until I saw we had one too many copies. Not something you’d notice right away. See, the log did note the file for the letter had been called up and where. No big deal but, under the circumstances…anyway, I traced the workstation and then…well, you don’t want to know.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  “I inspected his hard drive and found the deleted document, downloaded it and printed it out. Oh, and I froze the file on his hard drive if we have to go back for it again.”

  “You hacked your way into his machine.”

  “Some might say that.”

  “But you got the guy and you’re sure?”

  “Yep.”

  “Who, Sam? Who is he?”

  “Oh, right, it was typed on Sergei Bialzac’s machine.”

  “That doesn’t mean he wrote it, of course. Anyone with a key to his office could have done it.”

  “Well, that’s not true either.”

  “Why ‘not true’?”

  “How complete is your warrant? Does it cover just the computer stuff, or is it broader?”

  “Sam, I don’t believe this. It covers everything I could think of this morning—papers, files, personnel records, you name it. I can get the cafeteria cook’s recipes if I want them.”

  “Trust me, I eat there, you don’t want them. Okay, here’s the second piece. Bialzac got permission to have his office single-keyed.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means he has the only key. No one else could have gotten in and used his machine.”

  “They could break in.”

  “Possible. The lock was easy to pick.”

  “Sam, you’re a wonder. How can I thank you?”

  “Offer me a job.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Offer me a job. Picketsville may be small potatoes now, but with the industrial park coming in the next year or two, you’re going to need me.”

  Now how did she find out about the park? Nobody in town, not even the mayor knew about that. Then he remembered her skill with computers. She was right, he could use her.

  “Get back to you on that,” he said and hung up.

  “Essie,” he shouted through the glass door, “who’s close?”

  “Billy, but he’s looking into those key thingies.”

  “Oh right. Then call Whaite and tell him to pick up Sergei Bialzac, B-I-A-L-Z-A-C. I don’t know where he lives, maybe in the Meadows. Look it up.”

  Then he remembered.

  “And get me Millie Thompkins at the college.”

  Five minutes passed and his phone buzzed.

  “Millie, a couple of weeks ago you were struggling with that new phone system, remember?”

  “Not were, Ike, am. The dang thing is crazy. Why we have to have all this new stuff when the old stuff worked just fine is beyond me. I must be getting old.”

  “Millie, you are ageless. Try to remember—on that day you placed a call for someone to New Jersey. Do you happen to remember who?”

  “Well, let me see. I write those numbers down on a pad right here. If I haven’t torn off the sheet, I could tell you. Well, shoot, I did.”

  Ike’s heart sank. It did not represent a crucial piece, but it could confirm.

  “Wait, you’re in luck, it got pushed down in the bottom of the drawer. Let’s see. I put one in for Dr. Harris to Rutgers University, and one for Mr. Stewart to his partner in Haddonfield, that’s New Jersey, but it’s Philadelphia, you know. He was mighty pleased when he put that one through. And one for Dr. Bialzac.”

  “Millie, this is important. Do you have the number Bialzac called?”

  “I do, Ike. You want it?”

  “Please.”

  ***

  The television studio buzzed with activity. Armand Dillon sent his son, Charles, on an errand. He’d loved his son as a small child and watched helplessly as his mother, Dillon’s first wife, turned him into an indecisive milquetoast. Now Charles the Second existed in an alcoholic haze. If Dillon had not seen the stuff his grandson seemed to be made of, he would have taken the corporation public, cashed out and gone fishing. But Charlie Three had the makings. All he needed was a reason to quit archeology and come to work for his grandfather. Dillon had a plan. In the meantime, he hired top managers, paid them a lot of money to run his company, and fired them at regular intervals, before they found a way to either steal or wreck it.

  A group of men arrived with a heavy suitcase.

  “That the stuff?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir, thirty thousand dollars’ worth of cubic zirconiums. You planning to do Home Shopping Network here?”

  “No, son. Just going to play some hardball.” He turned to Ike. “Think they’ll do?”

  “On television, sure. As the real thing, they won’t fool anyone.”

  “Well, I haven’t got time to round up fifty million dollars’ worth of diamonds in the time they gave me. They think I have more pull than I do. The people at Harry Winston’s couldn’t put their hands on a pile that big in the time they gave me. I would have to go straight to De Beers and even then I’m not sure they could do it. Well, they’re just going to have to put up with them for now,” Dillon said and smiled wolfishly.

  Ike pulled out his cell phone and called the office. “Anything, Essie?”

  “Nothing, Ike. Whaite said Bialzac wasn’t at his house and the neighbors don’t know anything.”

  “Well, tell him to keep trying. Anything from Billy?”

  “Nothing helpful. There’s a ton of motels on this strip of the I-81.”

  “Okay, my phone’s on if you need me.”

  ***

  The motel room was fetid with the accumulated airborne haze of too many men closed up in a small room for too long. Only Donati appeared calm, cool, and presentable. Red added a cigarette butt to the already substantial pile in the ashtray, belched, and fumbled for another. Angelo stared off into space, a permanent resident of that secret world he alone knew. Grafton fidgeted. He was tired, unkempt, needed a shower, and craved a drink, several drinks. Donati glanced at his watch and nodded to Angelo. Angelo picked up the remote, and the television lit up. He adjusted the channel and sat back, lost again.

  The four of them sat and watched as the local station identified itself and announced with a crawl across the bottom of the picture and a voice-over that the regularly scheduled program would be delayed for a special announcement. The picture flickered, went blank, and came up again.

  “This air time has been purchased by the Dillon Foundation. Speaking to you now, Mr. M. Armand Dillon.”

  Dillon sat at a table on what appeared to be a hastily assembled set. Behind him were bookshelves filled with matched bound volumes, statuary, and the sort of odds and ends people expect to see in the library or study of an important person. He faced the camera, a pile of bulky envelopes stacked to his right. The lights glinted off his rimless spectacles. He spoke without notes or cue cards.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Armand Dillon. As most of you know by now, a substantial portion of an art collection bearing my name has been stolen from the storage facility locate
d on the campus of Callend College in Virginia. The thieves are very professional, it appears.”

  “You got that right, old man,” Red muttered.

  “And since they are now watching this broadcast, I will say to them that their work was indeed very, very competent. They only made three mistakes.”

  He paused, his expression never changing, amiable but serious.

  “The first was killing a security guard. Larceny is one thing, murder another. The stakes go up when a felony includes a capital crime. The second—taking hostages. That adds kidnapping to murder and makes it a federal offense. Not smart on their part.

  “These thieves are part of a group calling itself the New Jihad. As nearly as we, the police, the FBI, and contacts I have in the Homeland Security department can determine, it is one of a dozen groups supported, I should say sponsored, by elements located in the Middle East, and dedicated to promoting terrorism. We are all aware of the terrible events of September eleventh and their aftermath. Well, these are some of the same people.”

  “No way,” Red exclaimed. “Donati, are we working for rag- heads?”

  “Shut up and listen.”

  “The art collection is being held for ransom. Our thieves are smart enough to know that none of the items can ever be sold outright, but they believe that the intrinsic value of the collection is so great that I would be willing to pay a king’s ransom for their return.

  “I mentioned earlier they made three mistakes, but only spoke of two. The third mistake? Misreading me. I can be very generous or I can be as mean as a snake, it all depends on how I am approached. In any event, anyone with a grain of sense knows that you cannot push a snake, and those who know me will tell you it is a serious mistake to push me.

  “Now, where does that leave us? First, there is the matter of this broadcast. The thieves’ flair for the dramatic, a common conceit of terrorists, led them to insist I go on local television, at this day and time, and announce my willingness to accede to their demands. For reasons which will become clear later, I purchased time on five national networks, and there is a live pickup on CNN and its affiliates, so that anyone watching television anywhere in the United States is hearing this message.”

  “What is he up to?” Red muttered.

  “Also, there is the matter of the ransom. The thieves demand I turn over to them, at the time and place of their choosing, fifty million dollars in diamonds. The specified sizes and cuts must be untraceable. As I said before, they are professionals.

  “I wonder how many of you out there have ever seen fifty million dollars in diamonds, or in any other form, for that matter. Well, here next to me are fifty envelopes. Each contains one million dollars in diamonds. Imagine. One business-sized envelope can hold a million dollars. It can be tucked into your pocket and taken anywhere. It will not be detected at airports or customs. Remarkable.”

  Dillon, while he spoke, opened in turn ten of the envelopes and poured their contents on the table in front of him. The pile of diamonds grew. It sparkled and shimmered and burned holes in the picture.

  “Ten million dollars, and these other envelopes contain the rest.” He gestured and two uniformed men moved beside him. They proceeded to open all but five of the remaining envelopes. The pile of diamonds grew, spilled over, and scattered on the floor.

  “My friends, these diamonds spell pain, violence, and death for a lot of people if they’re put in the wrong hands. Put in the right hands, they could bring hope, joy, and a chance for a new life to thousands of others.

  “What should I do? What would you do? Give in to their demands, or give hope to those less fortunate than we? As you can imagine, I wrestled with that for a long time. I consulted my friends and family and I have now come to a decision.

  “Even though I may be responsible for the greatest cultural desecration since Caesar’s legions burned the library at Alexandria two thousand years ago, I will not, I repeat, I will not put this money into the hands of irresponsible international criminals. No painting is worth even one human life.

  “I will, instead, put forty-five million dollars into a trust fund which will be used to foster the development of the next generation of artists—the Dillon Scholarships in the Fine Arts. Dillon gestured toward the shimmering pile in front of him. He paused, then picked up the five unopened envelopes and continued, “The last five million will be used in another way. Our thieves, as I have said, are professionals. They have so far eluded the best efforts by the police. I have no doubt they will someday be caught, but to make that day sooner rather than later, I am offering this five million dollars to the person who brings our thieves to justice.

  “I am speaking to them, now. You are in trouble. Every police officer, private detective, bounty hunter, and amateur sleuth in the world will be looking for you. I know people who would sell their own children into white slavery for one-hundredth of that amount. What chance do you have now? The terrorists are now the terrorized. And as for the paintings, return them or burn them…I will not pay.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  His neighbors said Sergei Bialzac often disappeared for long periods of time. Never missed work, it seemed, but lodged somewhere else. What they did not know, what nobody knew was that Sergei maintained two homes. He shared the second with his lover Samir, a Syrian national. Sergei did not know it, but Samir also held a colonel’s commission in Al Qaida.

  They sat in stunned silence. The television flickered as the regular programs returned.

  “What does it mean, Sammy? He isn’t paying?”

  “That is what he said.”

  “What will we do now?”

  “You have failed. It is over.” Samir rose, picked up his jacket, and moved toward the door.

  “Me? I failed?”

  “Yes, you. It was your idea, this ransom. You dealt with the Italian, who must now die, and you set the time and date. It is your failure.”

  “But I thought—”

  “You did not think. You are finished.”

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “Where? To get the paintings, of course. I have buyers on the black market in my part of the world, willing to pay a fortune for them. He thinks he will not support us? He will see how wrong he is.”

  “But aren’t you going to burn them?”

  “Burn them? Don’t be ridiculous. There is a C-130 Hercules with Egyptian Air Force markings sitting on the freight ramp at Baltimore-Washington International waiting to load and fly. Did you think we were going to burn them? We could ransom them many times.”

  “How?”

  “You put one in a sale. People say, ‘the Dillon collection, it is not burned.’ You sell them back, a million here, five million there. Museums, governments fall all over themselves to be the one to save western culture. Fools.”

  “What about us?” Bialzac pleaded.

  “Us? There is no us. There never was, you pathetic faggot. You were useful, now you are not.”

  Bialzac let the enormity of his betrayal sink in. He had come to believe with all his heart that the country that had nourished him and sheltered him all his life somehow deserved punishment, humbling, and like so many radicals turned revolutionaries, he had lost sight of the way reform got done. Now he sat and stared in disbelief as his whole credo crumbled like a stale cookie.

  Samir strode toward the door. As he reached for the latch, he snapped upward. A second and then a third bullet tore into his back and heart. Bialzac emptied the chamber of the thirty-eight-caliber pistol into the now lifeless body of his lover and betrayer.

  ***

  Ten miles south, Bialzac’s contractors sat in the same stunned silence. Harry Grafton felt sweat trickle down his back. The room filled with the smell of fear, overwhelming the stale smoke and close air. He wondered if M. Armand Dillon realized that in his
zeal to prevent the death and injury to innocent victims, he had signed the death warrant for at least two people, maybe more. The girl and boy could identify all four of them. At least the girl could. So here we are, he thought. What now?

  Red removed a fat wallet from his hip pocket and placed it on the table next to his right hand. He drummed his stubby fingers and picked his teeth. Donati held out his hand to Angelo, who looked at him, hesitated a moment, then put his silenced Colt 1911 in it.

  “Angelo,” Donati said, his voice expressionless, eyes bleak, unreadable, like slate, “get our hostages.”

  Angelo left the room and went next door. A moment later he returned, pushing the boy and girl into the room ahead of him. He sat them on one of the beds. Donati murmured something to him. He left again, returned, went into the bathroom and a moment later came out. He carried all the remaining telephone cords from all the telephones. He disconnected the one on the phone between the beds, pulled out a pocketknife, opened it, cut the cords into pieces, and dumped them onto the empty bed.

  “All of them not working?” asked Donati.

  Angelo nodded.

  “That’s so none of you think you’re going to be instant millionaires. Now, we have some decisions to make.”

  Red spoke, his voice very low. Harry was startled by its softness, the redneck accent gone, the inflection almost cultured. Red on the defensive was a very different person than on the attack.

  “The kids go.”

  Donati nodded his agreement.

  “Oh my God, why? What’s happened?” the girl wailed, her voice a full octave higher than normal. She looked at Grafton. “You said that we would be okay. I believed you.”

  “I hoped, kid, I hoped, but it’s gone sour.”

  “Shut up, Grafton.”

  “My God, Donati, they have a right to know why they have to die. The project fell through, Jennifer, and there is a reward hanging over us, a big reward. We are all going to die. Am I right, Donati, the two of them, me, Red, everyone, maybe even Angelo? All of us have to go, don’t we?”

  The boy shrieked. Angelo hit him on the temple. He rolled off the bed and onto the floor, his body wedged into the small space between the wall and the mattress.