Jim McGill 05 The Devil on the Doorstep

by Joseph Flynn

  Even then, the practical side of his nature indulged these delusions at bedtime, but forbade them during daylight hours — until the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston was robbed in 1990. The thieves made off with a Manet, a Vermeer and four pieces by Rembrandt, among others. Their success electrified Fortier. Gave him reason to think that he could do the same.

  Then his spoilsport sensible side reminded him that he was no longer young; his youth had been spent in scholarly not gymnastic exercise. Even as an art historian, though, he had yet to make a name for himself. What chance would he have to enter a museum after hours undetected, rip paintings from the walls and elude both the museum guards and the police?

  The answer was none at all. He was unable to deceive himself about that. His despair returned and grew to the point that one night he couldn’t even be bothered with drinking himself to sleep. He lay abed and decided that at some point exhaustion would claim his consciousness and with any luck he would never wake up. Suicide by refusal to open one’s eyes.

  The first half of his plan worked. He crashed into the depths of a sleep so dense he felt as if he were suspended in a sea of thick black ink. He didn’t know where the surface lay or if there even was one. Finally, he saw a light. He did not swim to it; he pulled himself toward it, unsure why he was motivated to move at all. He reached out to grasp the light, and the moment he had it in his hand he woke up.

  With the most brilliant idea of his life.

  Certainly, not all the great works of Impressionism had been bought by the doyennes of American society. His two favorite Paris museums were stuffed with them and — here was the good part — other masterpieces had to hang in the homes of the patrons of the Impressionism, the canny native bourgeoisie whose commercial instincts had told them that here was the chance to get in on the ground floor of something that would become fabulously valuable.

  In a way, those patrons had been the venture capitalists of their day.

  Monet had been their Apple Computers; Manet had been their Google.

  Surely, some of those investors must have held onto their shares of stock.

  With his background in scholarly investigation, Fortier didn’t have any difficulty searching out the men and women in France who had supported the great artists of their times. The ones who foresaw the merit of the Impressionists in the times of the artists’ poverty, the days when they didn’t have a sou to call their own.

  Once he had compiled a long list of names, Fortier did what any smart burglar would do: He cased the houses he intended to rob. He looked for a happy medium, a property that indicated relative prosperity but was not surrounded by high walls or festooned with signage indicating the services of a private security company.

  Fortier was always scared when he broke into a home, but he was pleased, too, that his body while no longer youthful was still relatively supple and strong. The remnants of the athleticism of his boyhood was still adequate to break into an unguarded home — and he felt positively Herculean whenever he got away with a painting.

  He suffered no remorse for the pain he inflicted on a painting’s former owner. That selfish bastard and his family had hoarded it for more than a century. Generations of greedy swine had kept to themselves art that, rightfully, the French public should have been able to see on any day they chose. Before putting his plan into effect, Fortier decided that shortly prior to his death, he would send every painting he’d stolen to the Musée d’Orsay.

  He had no doubt the so-called rightful owners would charge forward to claim them. Perhaps they would even retrieve them. But before that happened there would be a loud national debate whether great art should ever belong to anyone but society as a whole. There would undoubtedly be those who would criticize him not only for his thefts but also for his holding the paintings for his personal enjoyment.

  Fortier did not care. He would be dead by then.

  His posthumous reputation would take a far greater blow should his other secret be discovered. For every painting he stole, he commissioned a brilliant forgery that he sold to the gullible, greedy, amoral rich. Thus he struck twofold at the bourgeoisie. He stole great art from them and sold knockoffs to them.

  In more than a few cases, he sold a forgery of, say, a Gauguin to the same fellow from whom he’d taken, say, a Cézanne. The stupid bastard consoled himself over the loss of one treasure by buying what he thought was another — that he surely had to assume was stolen from someone else.

  The idea was brilliant, but it was not his own.

  He was standing in the Musée d’Orsay one day, as he so often did, and was studying Caillebotte’s “Les Raboteurs,” The Floor Scrapers, when a beautiful, dark-haired young woman walked over to his side and whispered, “You’re up to something.”

  A chill ran through Fortier, but he did his best not to let it show.

  The woman continued, ever so quietly, “It’s almost certainly illegal.”

  Fortier’s head started to swim, but he kept his balance.

  He’d just been thinking he needed someplace better than his small Left Bank apartment to hide his growing collection of fine art. Only the night before, he’d made off with a Degas. He would have loved to hang it, and the other two masterpieces he’d taken, on his wall, but he knew if he did that his next living quarters would be a prison cell. He needed the money to buy a home of his own, a place with high walls around it and guard dogs to patrol the grounds.

  He was considering selling one of the paintings he’d stolen to buy such a place.

  Then the woman said, almost directly into his ear, “If you tell me what you’re doing, I’ll not only sleep with you, I’ll probably know a way to increase your profits.”

  Fortier finally turned to look directly at her. She was stunning, someone who never would have given him a second glance if all she’d been seeking was a handsome face. But she wanted something more and recognized that she could find it in Fortier. He’d never felt so flattered by a woman before.

  Feeling unusually sure of himself, he replied, “Sleep with me first and I might tell you.”

  That was how he’d met Duvessa Kinsale and, later, her father, the former Wall Street swindler who now called himself Giles Benedict. Before his scheme of massive fraud had been discovered, Benedict had learned he was a painter of great technical skill, but he had no sense of creative inspiration at all.

  His gift was for duplicity. Once he learned that his daughter, Duvessa, had found a chap in France who’d come up with the idea of seeking out and making off with the unknown works of some of the most famous names in art, it was only natural that he suggest a scheme to benefit both of them while bilking rich suckers. It had all the appeal of selling worthless securities to pension funds, while letting him wield his paint brush, too.

  The plan was: Fortier stole a painting, Benedict knocked off a near perfect forgery and Duvessa sold it out the back door of her gallery. After a short time, Benedict foresaw the need for both protection and an inside source of law enforcement information, just in case any customers or coppers caught on to their game. Duvessa roped in a special agent working for the FBI’s art crime team. Brought him over to the dark side.

  Benedict had never been more proud of his little girl.

  While reminiscing in the National Portrait Gallery, Fortier saw the man who’d told him about the Renoir hanging in the home of Augustin Pruet. The two men never acknowledged each other. When no one else was nearby, Fortier placed a paperback book he’d bought in the museum gift shop down on a bench. The receipt for his purchase acted as a bookmark. He walked away. The other fellow strolled over and picked up the book, opened it to the indicated page.

  There, he found a key. An address was written on the back of the receipt.

  In a storage locker in Alexandria, Virginia, the fellow would find his Renoir.

  Well, a very good facsimile thereof.

  McGill Investigations, Inc. — Georgetown

  Leo took Pruet and Odo back to their hotel. M
cGill sat behind his desk with Sweetie and Deke for company. He shared his concern about the magistrate with them.

  “I hate to dredge up a private eye cliché, but I’m pretty sure my client is holding something back on me.”

  “Like what?” Deke asked. He was peeking out the window behind McGill’s chair.

  You could take the boy out of the Secret Service, but you couldn’t take the Secret Service out of the boy. Circumstances did, however, take Deke’s Uzi away from him. Left him with a Beretta semi-auto, a situation he admitted often left him feeling undergunned.

  McGill, hearing that, had been tempted to tell Deke maybe he ought to do an ad for the NRA. Except he’d never want to see that happen. Most cops around the country hated the fact that they too often found themselves outgunned.

  Wouldn’t do to have an ex-fed make things worse.

  At first, McGill had thought, it might seem reasonable that the bodyguard of a high profile character like him might ask for an exception to the no-fully-automatic-weapons law. But if that was granted, the people guarding other pols — outside of those who rated Secret Service protection — would want their Uzis, too. No governor or big city mayor would fail to have a security detail armed for war.

  From there it would be only a short jump for titans of industry, superstar athletes and marquee entertainers to demand their own mini-militias.

  McGill told Deke to tough it out.

  Remembering that he, Sweetie and Leo were also armed.

  Deke grudgingly had agreed, but he didn’t like it.

  McGill answered Deke’s question, “It’s more like … Yves Pruet has lost someone rather than something.”

  “Do we know he didn’t?” Sweetie asked.

  McGill said, “I have —”

  “Someone coming,” Deke said from his vantage point.

  McGill turned his chair around and got up for a look.

  “Where?” he asked.

  “Just entered the building,” Deke said.

  Sweetie got to her feet, too.

  McGill felt the sudden tension in the room. His first impulse was to dispel it with a wisecrack, except he had a sense of foreboding, too. Without any obvious reason why.

  Except for the fact he received death threats the way most people got junk mail.

  Even so, he was about to suggest that maybe the person who’d entered the building was going to stop in at Wentworth & Willoughby, the accounting firm on the second floor, to get an early start on doing his tax return.

  But then everyone in McGill’s office heard Dikki’s voice yell, “No, no you may not … No, please, don’t! Do not shoot me!”

  Hearing those words, McGill led the charge out of his office.

  He, Sweetie and Deke all had their guns in hand.

  Colonial Suites Hotel Bar — Newport News, Virginia

  Celsus Crogher and Merilee Parker stepped onto the dance floor while everyone else was still in their seats. The trio on the bandstand started their set with Kenny Chesney’s “No Shoes, No Shirt, No Problems.” The Caribbean-influenced country tune had just the hip-swaying, easy-listening lilt to get the crowd in a dancing mood.

  The unlikely first couple on the dance floor only added to the spirit of the moment. She was tall, slim and graceful. A cascade of chestnut hair with streaks of gold framed an oval face alight with joy, and maybe something a bit more lustful. The tight little black dress she wore would have been daring in New York City let alone Tidewater Virginia.

  He was dressed like a cowboy, the working kind. Wore a Stetson, a Western cut shirt, low-riding jeans and scuffed Durango boots. But the way he led that lady around the floor they might have been ice skating. Smooth, brother. You could tell he was looking forward to later that night, too. The crowd saw the magic, whistled and cheered.

  All except for Arlo Carsten.

  And Welborn Yates.

  Welborn divided his attention between his compatriots and their target. Thought things were working out just fine. Arlo didn’t appear to be the type to start a bar fight, but he did have a glass in front of him. Looked like a whiskey and soda.

  Alcohol, Welborn’s mother had instructed him, was a depressant.

  Trampled nothing faster than common sense.

  Welborn had no doubt that Celsus could handle Arlo easily in any kind of fair contest, but that didn’t mean the little creep might not hurl his rock glass at the back of the former SAC’s head. He might even miss Celsus and hit Merilee.

  To forestall any sneak attack, Welborn moved closer, leaving only two empty barstools between Arlo and himself. The former NASA project manager never noticed. He was too busy staring at the dancers and clenching his fists. The fellow clearly felt a rising sense of anger.

  Hated to lose the woman he regarded as his, even if that was an ill-conceived notion.

  It had been Celsus’ idea to get Arlo to come after him.

  They’d talked things over with Merilee at the blacksmith’s cottage.

  “You led the guy on, right?” Celsus asked after Merilee explained how she’d talked with Arlo the night before, following Galia Mindel’s directions.

  “I flirted with him,” she said. “Just a little. Anything less would practically have been impolite. I did leave an open seat between us.”

  Welborn asked, “Did you lean his way? Put your hand on the stool between you?”

  “You sound like you know the game,” Merilee said to him with a smile.

  “I’ve played it a time or two.”

  Celsus hadn’t. He asked, “What comes next?”

  Merilee deferred to Welborn.

  He said, “If a lady leans your way, the only polite thing to do is lean her way. The better to look into her eyes. Or down her blouse if she’s the type to forget a button or two. While your attention is elsewhere, one of you might just happen to put a hand on top of a hand.”

  Celsus was following the scenario intently.

  “Yeah,” he said, “then what?”

  Merilee took it from there. “Well, that first point of contact might sometimes be thought of as the beginning of a greater physical intimacy.”

  Before the idea might be misconstrued, Welborn added, “The next step is generally thought to be a kiss.”

  “Oh,” Celsus said. He nodded. The progression making sense to him. The kiss first and then … He asked Merilee, “Did you kiss the guy?”

  She shook her head. “Not this guy. I knew just when he’d make his move. So I sat back and took my hand with me. The moment had passed. But I allowed as to how I might be back tonight.”

  “Wow,” Celsus said. “You played him just right.”

  “So when he goes a little too far this time you can break it up?” Merilee asked.

  “No, no,” Celsus said. “We don’t want to go to him. We want him to come to us.”

  “Us?” Merilee asked.

  “You and me,” Celsus said.

  “How are you go to manage that?” Welborn asked.

  “Well … do you dance, Merilee?”

  Her eyes sparkled. “I certainly do.”

  “And you dance, too?” Welborn asked Celsus, his voice filled with disbelief.

  “I do.” Celsus paused to consider his next words. Then he spilled his secret. “The inaugural ball that’s coming up? Where the president dances the first dance with Holmes?”

  “Who’s Holmes?” Merilee asked.

  “James J. McGill,” Welborn said.

  He wondered where this was leading.

  “I’ve got the second dance,” Celsus said.

  Merilee and Welborn looked at each other.

  They said in unison, “With the president?”

  Celsus nodded, looking more than a little smug.

  “That’s amazing,” Merilee said.

  That’s bullshit, Welborn thought.

  But he said, “Maybe you can show Merilee and me a step or two.”

  “What’ll we do for music?” Celsus asked.

  They went out to Merilee’s
BMW, opened the door and brought up The Righteous Brothers doing “You’re My Soul and Inspiration” on her iPod. And they danced on cold Virginia earth for three minutes and four seconds like they were teenagers in love.

  Without missing a beat, Celsus turned to Welborn and said, “When we’re done dancing, we’ll leave like we’ve got better things to do, and you don’t let the creep jump us from behind.”

  After the trio finished its Kenny Chesney number, a stunning young African-American woman stepped out onto the dance floor. She put a hand on Merilee and on Celsus. She had some words and a couple of laughs with them. As a few other couples approached the floor, she waved them away.

  “This next one’s just for this lovely couple. Y’all can join in after that.”

  Welborn didn’t know if what happened next was serendipity or Galia Mindel had somehow managed to put in the fix. But the other people stayed on the sideline, a tightly focused spotlight hit Merilee and Celsus and the young woman fronted the trio and began to sing “I Will Always Love You.”

  The Whitney Houston cover.

  To Welborn, it seemed liked Celsus Crogher had become a wholly new man, a cowboy with soul. He danced with Merilee as if they were celebrating their twentieth wedding anniversary. They certainly had to be falling in love, if only for the night. Welborn had a sudden intense longing to hold Kira in his arms, to sway in time to the music with her.

  Then, with a start, he remembered he was the guy who was supposed to be watching Celsus’ back. One look at Arlo Carsten’s grim expression told him that was going to be a necessity. The man looked ready to kill. Didn’t matter if he’d spent only a few minutes talking to Merilee the night before. No way was he going to graciously step aside.

  Welborn caught up to him just as Celsus helped Merilee into the cab of the pickup.