Curse of the Painted Lady (The Anlon Cully Chronicles Book 3)

by K Patrick Donoghue

  The more likely target, Van der Berg now reasoned, was his gallery. More specifically, the vault in his gallery. Two of the pieces auctioned earlier in the day were still in the vault, awaiting delivery instructions from the winning overseas bidder. In addition, the safe held several other valuable artifacts awaiting auction, as well as a few pieces in Van der Berg’s personal collection. He concluded his captors meant to interrogate him for the gallery security code and vault combination. It would be a foolhardy move, Van der Berg thought. Even if they coerced the information from him, there were security cameras at every entrance, in every room and inside the vault itself. To boot, a security guard was posted inside the gallery twenty-four hours a day, and the Amsterdam police routinely patrolled the city-center grouping of galleries, auction houses and museums.

  Yet, if they were successful, even if they got away with just one piece, Van der Berg’s reputation would be demolished on the very eve of his greatest triumph. Yes, insurance would cover any losses, he thought. But there was no policy that would help recover the trust of his hard-won clients, and the prospects of attracting new clients would take a devastating blow. Though his competitors would publicly express sympathy, he knew they would privately circulate doubts about his security measures for years to come. Van der Berg sighed as he imagined his reputation dragged through the mud. The possibility cut deeper than any financial loss he might incur in the theft.

  Anger swelled inside him as the van came to a halt. The engine turned off and Van der Berg heard a door open. In the background, he detected the sound of crashing waves, and then he heard a man’s voice through the open door. Van der Berg recognized the language as either Portuguese or Spanish, but he did not catch the man’s words. Squeezing his blood-deprived, tingling hands, he took a deep breath and tried to corral his emotions. He would have to be level-headed to negotiate with the thieves.

  There was a light rapping on the side of the van, followed immediately by the sound of another door opening. The men bracketing Van der Berg gripped his arms and hauled him through the open door. They dragged him up a small rise, jostling him with each step. The sound of waves grew louder as they descended the far side of the rise. Finally, they stopped and dropped him onto the sand. Van der Berg rolled onto his side and tried to speak.

  A hand grasped the bag covering his head and yanked it off. Van der Berg’s eyes fluttered open and he spied four dark figures hovering above him. One of them crouched by his side. “Hello, Julian.”

  The voice was familiar to Van der Berg, but he could not see the man’s face. The distant lights of Zandvoort reduced the man’s features to an inky silhouette. He turned his head away from the lights and squeezed his eyes shut. The crouching man spoke to the other figures, and several hands grasped Van der Berg by the shoulders and arms. They pulled him up and twisted him around before planting him back in the sand in a kneeling position. When the hands let go, Van der Berg briefly teetered but he managed to steady himself. He opened his eyes again and found he was still facing the crouching silhouette, but the beach town’s lights no longer assaulted his vision. He first noticed the ponytail. Then, the pirate’s smile. Wild-eyed, he bit down on the gag and spat the man’s name.

  “That’s right, Julian. Surprised to see me?” asked Klaus Navarro.

  Van der Berg writhed against his binds and raged with livid protests.

  “Shhh,” Navarro said, gently patting Van der Berg’s shoulder. “You will get your chance to speak. Right now, be quiet and listen.”

  The patronizing tone of Navarro’s voice only fueled Van der Berg’s ire. His body shook as he cursed the Argentinian.

  “Julian, please,” Navarro said. He motioned to one of the other men. A swift kick to the abdomen crumpled Van der Berg into the fetal position. The Dutchman gasped through sandy nostrils.

  “It will get much worse if you don’t settle down,” Navarro said. “All I want is some information. Lie still and listen.”

  As Van der Berg tried to calm his breathing, his mind fought to make sense of the situation. What was going on? Why was Navarro doing this? What information could he possibly want that would warrant such harsh treatment?

  Navarro’s shady reputation was well known to Van der Berg, but he had always been a good client. He never quibbled over fees and often paid far more than necessary to win auctions. On past occasions, he had sought inside information about pieces coming to auction, but that was not unusual among serious collectors in Van der Berg’s experience. Some wined and dined him, hoping the libations would loosen his tongue. Others offered bribes, sometimes subtly, other times not. But, to the best of his memory, Navarro had never done more than suggest trades of information, which Van der Berg always politely rebuffed. But to kidnap and beat him? Looking up at Navarro, he wondered again what information was so important that Navarro would resort to bullying him?

  “Are you ready to listen now?” Navarro asked.

  Van der Berg nodded.

  “Good.” Navarro instructed his men to lift Van der Berg from the sand, and they once again propped him up on his knees. Once he was face to face with the auctioneer, Navarro said, “Someone tried to kill me, Julian. And you know who he is.”

  Navarro paused and leaned forward. Glaring at Van der Berg, he said, “I want to know his name.”

  Van der Berg stared back at him with a puzzled expression.

  “The name, Julian. The anonymous collector with the stone I wanted,” Navarro demanded, his voice cold and sharp.

  A flash of recognition washed across Van der Berg’s face. Now he remembered! Navarro had come to him in search of an Olmec stone known as the Serpent’s Tooth. Navarro had asked for his assistance in canvassing museums, auction houses and private collectors for anyone who might possess the stone. He had offered Van der Berg a hefty commission for his assistance, a commission that had yet to be paid.

  Navarro prodded again. “His name?”

  The demand drew a muffled response from Van der Berg. Navarro motioned for one of the men to remove the gag. A hand cupped Van der Berg’s head from behind while another hand gruffly pulled the cloth from between his teeth and let it droop around his neck. The Dutchman greedily drew air into his mouth while moving his jaw from side to side. He tried to speak, but his throat was too dry to make sound. He coughed several times and whispered hoarsely for water.

  “Tell me the name and you can have all the water you want,” Navarro said.

  Van der Berg knew the name, of course, but he had no intention of telling Navarro under the present circumstances. He whispered, “Water first.”

  Navarro lowered his head and sighed. Standing up, he brushed sand from his black Armani slacks and rattled off a command in Portuguese. All three men converged on Van der Berg and lifted him off the sand. Carrying him like a log, they walked toward the gurgling waves. He twisted his body and cried out with a croaky voice, “What are you doing? Put me down! Stop!”

  The men ignored his pleas. When they reached the surf, they dropped him into the foamy, ice-cold water. While Van der Berg yelped in protest, one of the men bent down and jabbed a knee in his back. As a new wave approached, the henchman pulled Van der Berg’s head up by his hair. While the other two men stood back, the one with his knee boring into Van der Berg’s back leaned forward and said, “Drink up, amigo!”

  The wave plowed into both of them. Navarro’s man stumbled but managed to stay upright while Van der Berg took the wave’s full fury in the face. As the wave began to recede, the man dragged the auctioneer deeper into the water and pressed his head down into the sludgy sand. Unable to breathe, Van der Berg flailed violently. Message delivered.

  The man released his grip on Van der Berg’s head and raised it above the water. Taking hold of the soaked gag hanging around his neck, the man dragged Van der Berg away from the surf and deposited his retching body at Navarro’s feet.

  Navarro crouched down again, shifting his dangling ponytail back over his shoulder. “No more delay, Julian. Th
e name.”

  Coughing out a mixture of sand and saltwater, Van der Berg said, “Why are you doing this? Why are you treating me this way?”

  From inside his blazer pocket, Navarro withdrew a thin, dark object. He held it up and the lights of Zandvoort glinted off the blade. “This, my friend, is the weapon your client gave to his assassin, the one who tried to kill me. You would find it most interesting. I’ve never seen another like it. It’s old, inexplicably ancient, yet as deadly as the day it was forged.”

  He lowered the knife from the light and gripped it tightly in his hand. “I mean to return it to its owner. I need your help to find him.”

  “He didn’t tell me his name,” Van der Berg said.

  With a sigh, Navarro shook his head. “Julian, Julian. I know you better than that. You would not have called me unless you knew he was a credible seller.”

  He thrust the blade into Van der Berg’s thigh. Muted by the crashing waves, the Dutchman’s grisly shriek did not travel beyond the dunes. Navarro slowly slid the knife from the wound and briefly hovered it above Van der Berg’s chest before readying the dripping weapon to strike again.

  “Stop!” Van der Berg begged. “Please, stop!”

  Navarro rammed the blade into his shoulder. Another sickening scream echoed around the dunes.

  “Foucault!” he cried. “Jacques Foucault.”

  In between sobbing groans, he pleaded again for Navarro to stop. The Argentinian withdrew the knife and wiped the bloody blade across Van der Berg’s blazer. While the wounded man continued to whimper, Navarro stared out into the ocean. “Foucault…Foucault. I have heard the name before, but I do not know where.”

  Turning back to Van der Berg, he asked, “He is a client of yours?”

  Van der Berg nodded.

  “French or Belgian?”

  “French,” Van der Berg said between panting groans. “Please, I’ve told you what you want to know. I beg you, let me go. I’m bleeding badly.”

  Twirling the knife shaft in his hand, Navarro asked, “You have his address, of course?”

  “Yes, yes,” he said. “Please, Klaus! I swear to God, I thought he wanted to sell you his piece. That’s all. You must believe me.”

  The crouching Navarro patted the man’s knee and put away the knife. “I believe you, Julian.”

  Rising up, Navarro rattled off instructions to his men in Portuguese and then turned to walk away. As Van der Berg watched him sashay toward the dunes, the men lifted Van der Berg from the beach. At first, the weakened auctioneer closed his eyes and whimpered with relief. His nightmare was over. Within a few steps, however, Van der Berg realized the men were not following Navarro. Instead, they were carrying him back to the surf. He protested and squirmed against their hold. The men laughed as they staggered through the tide, once again mocking Van der Berg’s feeble protests.

  Navarro stood by the van with cell phone in hand. As he scrolled through results of his search on the name Jacques Foucault, he listened to Van der Berg’s urgent screams disappear beneath the crashing waves. He shook his head and said, “So sorry, Julian. You should have chosen your clients more carefully.”

  A few moments later, his men appeared over the dune. Navarro motioned them to hurry. When they reached the van, Navarro placed a hand on one man’s shoulder. “Manuel, it is time to fetch the girl with the pretty new necklace. Then we will all go together to pay a visit to Monsieur Foucault and return his special blade.”

  Chapter 3 – A Weave in Time

  New York, New York

  September 26

  Anlon Cully stood by the hotel window and peered down at competing waves of pedestrians moving along the sidewalks of Fifty-Ninth Street. With determined gaits, they dodged around one another, barely breaking stride, as they made their way toward Columbus Circle in one direction and Fifth Avenue in the other. On the street itself, drivers nudged their vehicles forward in fits and starts, generously applying their horns to urge movement. Raising his gaze, Anlon sipped coffee and looked out on Central Park and the eerie shadows that stretched across its green canopy from the east. He sighed and turned away from the window. As much as he preferred to linger, watching and listening as Manhattan awoke, it was time to call Foucault.

  First, though, he walked to the sofa and used his phone to send off a quick text to Pebbles. “Hey, good morning! Getting ready to call JF, then meeting Cesar. I’ll call you after I wrap up with Cesar.”

  To his surprise, he received a reply within seconds. “Good morning back atcha.”

  What is she doing up at this hour? he thought. It wasn’t even four thirty yet in Tahoe. He typed, “Up awful early. Everything okay?”

  “Awful is right,” she replied. The message was punctuated by an angry-faced emoticon. A second text followed shortly after. “I’m ok. Just couldn’t sleep after call with Jen.”

  “Ah. Sorry,” Anlon wrote. “If any consolation, I had a rough night, too.”

  The three-way call had been disturbing, to say the least. Jennifer had arranged it to run through the highlights of her meeting with the police at Anabel’s house. In the call, Jennifer had provided a vivid description of Anabel’s death scene and detailed the confusing array of evidence inside the house and out — including her discovery of the gold locket. They had discussed Jennifer’s theories of the possible scenarios and motives and debated whether to get involved in the investigation.

  In the end, they had agreed there was no choice but to get involved. One way or another, Anabel’s death was connected with the Lifintyls. As such, until an investigation produced a definitive answer as to who was responsible, there was a risk that the killer might come looking for more of the Tyls. The weight of the discussion and the decision had kept Anlon’s mind buzzing all night long. He typed, “How are you feeling about it this morning?”

  “Icky. Angry. A little scared.”

  “Scared?”

  “Yeah. The whole Muran ‘boogey-monster’ thing.”

  “I understand what you mean, but that’s only one possibility.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Pebbles replied. A moment later she sent a follow-on message. “Other possibilities aren’t exactly peachy, either. Navarro. Margaret Corchran. Yada yada.”

  “I hear you,” Anlon answered.

  “Even if JF tells you he did it, still got the heebie jeebies. What he did to her was sick. Twisted.”

  There was no way to argue with that point, Anlon thought. Looking at the time, he realized he was late for the call with the aforementioned Foucault. He texted Pebbles, “Hey, gotta run now. Check in with you after my meeting with Cesar?”

  “K. Good luck. Tell Cesar I said hello! xo”

  “Will do. Try and go back to sleep. xox”

  When Foucault answered the call, his voice was light and friendly. “Allô? Dr. Cully?”

  “Hello, Count Foucault. Yes, it’s Anlon Cully. I’m sorry I’m a little late calling. Is this still a good time to talk?”

  “Oui, oui. I have been on pins and needles since receiving your email last night,” Foucault said.

  “I’m glad it got through to you. I appreciate you responding so quickly.”

  “Of course. I trust you are well?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. And you?”

  “Comme ci comme ça,” Foucault said.

  “How is your man, Christian? Is he on the mend?” Anlon asked.

  “Oui. He is progressing nicely, thank you. I will tell him you asked about his health,” Foucault said. “I saw the announcement about Indio Maiz. Your project goes well?”

  “So far, so good. Cesar has had some productive talks with the Nicaraguans, and Pebbles has really rolled up her sleeves to get the museum underway.”

  “Bon! I’m pleased to hear it,” Foucault said. “Now, what is this matter you wished to speak about so urgently?”

  Leaning forward on the sofa, Anlon bowed his head. “I have some sad news to share.”

  “Oh?”

  “Anabel is dead.”
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  There was a long pause before Foucault said, “I’m afraid you have me at a loss. Who is Anabel?”

  “Anabel Simpson. She was a close friend of Devlin’s. You knew her, right?”

  “Non.”

  Anlon noted the nonchalant lilt with which Foucault delivered his one-word answer. Was it a sincere reaction or was Foucault putting on an act? “I’m surprised to hear that. She was a retired archaeology professor. She often traveled with Devlin.”

  “I see. You said she is dead?”

  “She was murdered.”

  “Mon Dieu,” Foucault whispered. “Murdered?”

  “Yes. Electrocuted.”

  “Oh, my. I’m very sorry. A friend of Devlin’s, you say?”

  “Yes, they shared a long romance.”

  “I see…”

  “I’m not sure you do. Anabel’s the one who gave me Devlin’s map after he died,” Anlon said.

  There was no answer from Foucault. Anlon stood and tilted the phone closer to his mouth. “Foucault, are you there? Did you hear me?”

  “Oui, Dr. Cully, I heard you,” whispered Foucault.

  After another uncomfortable silence, Anlon said, “You have nothing to say?”

  “What should I say? What do you expect me to say?” Foucault asked.

  Anlon began to pace in front of the sofa. “Look, forgive me for being so bold, Foucault, but I need to know. Did you have anything to do with it? Did you kill her?”

  “Non! Absolutely not!” Foucault said with quick defiance. “What makes you think this?”

  Clearing his throat, Anlon said, “Well, at the top of the list — right before you left us at Indio Maiz, you told us you had laid a trap for Muran.”

  “Oui. This is true. What of it?”

  “Was Anabel the target of your trap?”

  “Non.” Foucault paused, then said, “Dr. Cully, you seem to be suggesting this woman was Muran.”

  “You tell me,” Anlon said.

  “I have never heard of this woman. Of that you may be certain. What makes you think she was The Painted Lady?”