by Blake Banner
She shrugged. “Okay, whatever you say. So what is it that’s confusing you?”
I frowned. “The whole thing sounds fantastic. The two sisters separated. One is brought to the States. The other is brought up in England. The younger one falls in with a guy who is ‘pure evil’ and ‘has no soul.’ It’s like a Mexican soap opera. Now she has her hidden and can’t tell me where she is. All the cloak-and-dagger mystery.” I sat forward and put my elbows on my knees. “I’ll tell you, before she arrived and told me her crazy story, I was convinced I had it sewn up. Now I don’t know what to believe.”
She drained her glass, stood, and went inside. She came out with the bottle and refilled my glass and her own.
“I’ll replace this tomorrow,” she said, and sat. “You want my advice?” I nodded. “Bring her in.”
“What?”
“Come on, Stone. It’s as clear as daylight. If it was anybody else, you wouldn’t think twice about it.”
“I can get more out of her if I play her along.”
“Bullshit. We have an eyewitness who saw Tamara Gunthersen commit a double homicide, and she may well have been party to a third. Emma Girt is harboring a suspected murderer. Bring her in and throw the book at her. Threaten her with jail time if she doesn’t give up the whereabouts of her sister. Make her understand that if she does not cooperate, her husband, her business, and her million-dollar lifestyle on Madison Avenue are going to go up in smoke.”
She watched me and read my face like a book. I puffed out my cheeks and blew hard. She pointed at me. “Now you need to be asking yourself, what makes her different? Because you and I both know, if it was anybody else, you would be all over them like a rash. So what makes this dame different?”
I thought about it.
“Nothing.”
“So?”
“I am not protecting her.”
“So what are you doing?”
I spread my hands. “I’m trying to understand, Dehan. This woman is hiding a lot of secrets. If we go charging in like a bull in a china shop, we risk her clamming up and blowing our one shot at this case. I am not convinced that her million-dollar lifestyle on Madison Avenue is all that important to her.”
“You think her aspirations are more spiritual?”
“Don’t be sarcastic.”
“Sorry. Let me ask you something, Stone.”
“What?”
“Why did you ask me to come here tonight?”
I shrugged. “I value your…”
“No. Not all that. Why did you ask me here. Why did you ask somebody, anybody, to come here tonight.”
I frowned. “Because I was confused. I needed to…”
She cut across me. “When was the last time you were this kind of confused about a case?”
She had me pinned like a bug on a board. I stared at her a long time. “Never.”
She raised her eyebrows and said, “So here is the John Stone classic question. What is it about this case that makes it so much more confusing than any other? And you and I both know the answer.”
“Her.”
“You said it yourself, Stone, you had the whole thing clear in your head until she showed up and started putting lipstick on your cheek. And only on your cheek. Let me ask you another question, partner.”
I sighed. “What?”
“When was the last time you got laid?”
“That is none of your goddamn business.”
“Are you sure?”
“My sexual frustration, assuming I have any, is not affecting my professional judgment, Dehan!”
“But your lust for this woman—and I am assuming that is all it is, Stone—may be. I sure as hell hope you are not falling in love with her.”
I drained my glass and put it on the table.
“Let’s get something clear for once and for all, Dehan. I am not in love with Emma. I am not lusting after Emma.” I nodded several times. “Yes, she has thrown me a curveball. Whether she has done it deliberately or whether there is some other reason, I don’t know. But my judgment is not impaired by lust or love. Are we clear?”
She shook her head. “No. I’ll take your word for it, and I trust you, but I am not clear on either of those two points. And make no mistake, I am going to be watching you like a hawk. Now, I am giving you my advice. Haul her in and put her on the rack.”
I thought about it a long time. In the end I shook my head.
“Watch me. Like you said, watch me like a hawk. If you see me making a seriously bad move, jump on me. But right now, I know we can get a lot more from her if I play along. She said she’d come back and share everything with me. If she does, we may get not just Tammy but Geronimo too. Let’s wait.”
She sighed. She wasn’t happy, but she agreed. She nodded and said, “Okay, Stone, but stop scaring me, will you?”
I laughed. “I can’t promise the impossible, Dehan. One for the road?”
“Come on, then. One for the road.”
We toasted and drank. She smacked her lips and sighed, with that inscrutable smile she had sometimes.
“Guess I’m the lucky one, then.”
“How’s that?”
“She drives you crazy, but I get to stay the night.”
I chuckled. “And you cook me breakfast.”
“What woman does that for you, Stone?”
“Nobody. Only you, Dehan.”
“That’s what I’m sayin’.”
TWENTY
We didn’t have to wait long. Next morning, as we were releasing Peter Gunthersen, at about half ten, my phone rang. It was Emma.
“John, we need to talk.”
“Wait.” I signaled Dehan with my eyebrows and took myself outside. “What is it?”
“I haven’t slept all night.”
“I didn’t sleep a lot myself.”
“You have upset everything. I don’t know if I am coming or going.”
“I’m at work. I can’t talk a lot. What’s on your mind?”
“I have to see you.”
“Tonight.”
“No. Now.”
“What for? I told you I’m at work.”
“It’s urgent, John. I told you our lives are at risk.”
I made a show of thinking about it.
“Where?”
“At your house.”
“This better be worth it, Emma. I don’t aim to play any games with you.”
“I’ll make it worth your while, I promise…”
“You know you will. Give me an hour.”
“I’ll be there.”
Dehan was watching me from the doorway. I walked back to her.
“She wants to see me in an hour, at my place. Go find Baxter. If he’s not there, wait for him. Bring him in. Hold him. Don’t let him see a lawyer—delay him, bullshit him, do whatever you have to do. Threaten him with a charge of conspiracy to murder. I want an address for dos Santos.”
She nodded. “Okay.”
She went inside and I headed home, wondering what Emma was going to hit me with this time. I tried to focus on what the case had originally been about. Who murdered Steve Springfellow, and maybe Tamara Gunthersen. But with every clue we unearthed, we seemed to get not just further from an answer, but further from the original question.
I pulled in in front of Dehan’s car and sat staring at it, remembering her words that night. “What is it about this case in particular that makes it so confusing?”
I got out and went inside.
Twenty minutes later, Emma arrived in a cab. I watched her pay the driver, then run across the road. She was carrying a small parcel. I opened the door and let her in.
She didn’t say anything. She just put her hand on my chest and stared up into my face. Then she walked inside and put the parcel on the dining table.
“Give me a drink, will you?”
“It’s eleven in the morning.”
A spasm of anger flashed across her face. “Oh, fuck that! Just give me a fucking drink, will
you!” She closed her eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. “My nerves are shot to pieces.”
I poured her a shot of whiskey, and she downed it in one. Then she held out the glass for me to refill it. I did. She sipped it and set it down on the table, next to the parcel. I nodded at it.
“What’s this?”
“I have had enough, John. Baxter, and then you, crashing into my life, threatening me, forever having to look over my shoulder. I can’t. I can’t live like this. I want out. I want to take Tammy and get out.”
“That’s not going to be so easy.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“Who did Tamara steal from, Emma?”
She sighed. “Technically, from Hugh Duffy. But as far as dos Santos is concerned, she stole for him, and whatever she stole belongs to him.”
“What the hell did she steal?”
“This.”
She undid the wrapping to reveal a wooden box, about one foot square and three or four inches deep. She opened the box and extracted a small painting in a fairly plain, gold leaf frame. It was a portrait of a woman. She was in Renaissance dress and had been watching the artist as he worked. She had humorous eyes and very elegant clothes. I studied it a moment, then looked at Emma and shrugged.
She said, “That is Clarice Orsini, the wife of Lorenzo de Medici, Leonardo da Vinci’s patron. It was painted by Leonardo in 1469, just after their marriage. Its value is incalculable.”
I raised an eyebrow. “This is an original da Vinci, and you’re carrying it around in a box?”
“This is what Tammy stole from Hugh Duffy on Geronimo dos Santos’s orders.”
I put the painting back in the box. “Why have you brought it here?”
“Because I want you to hold it. I want you to conduct the negotiations. All I ask is that you make it so that dos Santos leaves us alone and we can go back to a normal life. Whatever money you make on the sale, keep for yourself. I want no part of it, and neither does Tammy. All we want is our lives back.”
“Slow down, sister.” I went and got a glass and poured myself a shot. I took a slug and rested my ass against the back of the armchair. “In the first place, it’s not just dos Santos. It’s the cops, too. Tammy is wanted in connection with two, maybe three murders. And in the second place, what makes you think I’m not just going to take the money and run?”
She pulled out a chair and sat. “John, with what you make from that painting, you will never have to work again as long as you live. You won’t just be rich, you will be fabulously rich.” She paused, studying my face. “And I am not stupid. I know it would be easy for you to fix it so that suspicion is deflected away from Tammy. Her case went cold through lack of evidence. It can go cold again, or better still, it can get closed. Steve was shot with Pete’s revolver; so was Ernesto and so was Danny Schultz. How hard would it be to pin the murders on Peter?” She watched me a moment and then gave a knowing smile. “Or if that troubles your conscience, pin it on Danny, who then got mugged and rained on with his own .38.”
She stood and came to me, slipping her silky thigh between my legs and sliding her hands over my chest. “And what you get in return is more money than you can imagine in your wildest dreams… and anything else you want.” I didn’t respond and she smiled. “The answer to your second question is that I can see right through that tough façade to the real man inside. I know what you want, John Stone, and so do you. You want me.” She pushed herself away from me and returned to the table. “Of course, if you’re not interested…”
I smiled. “You know I am, babe. But this has to be done right. Can you contact dos Santos?”
She nodded. “Yes, I know how to get a message to him.”
“I don’t want Baxter involved.”
She shook her head. “He won’t be involved.”
“But getting him off your back is not going to be easy. He will want to punish Tammy. He has to punish Tammy to make an example of her.”
She nodded. “I know. I’ve thought of that. If, between us, we can get enough information on him to incriminate him, the deal would be, he buys back his painting—he isn’t paying anyway, so he won’t care—and we don’t use the information against him.”
“What do you mean, he isn’t paying? If he isn’t, who is?”
“His master in Galicia, in Spain. Cardinal Guzman. Ultimately, the Vatican.”
“Sweet. So how do we get this information?”
She smiled and her eyes seemed to sparkle with an unholy light. “You gave me the idea last night. We arrange a negotiation. You are there as my muscle and my representative. But you wear a wire. Ostensibly, we are there to negotiate, but in reality, we are there to gather information.”
I nodded. “It might work.”
“Oh, John! It will work, I know it will! And think, when it is all over, you will be rich! We can…” She faltered. “I’m sorry…”
“Not yet, Emma. Let’s stay focused. Then we’ll see what happens.”
She looked down into her drink. “You probably hate me anyway.”
“Probably.”
She looked up at me. I smiled. After a moment, she smiled back.
“Tammy worries me. She sounds like a loose cannon. I want to meet her and talk to her. Today. Then you set up the meeting with dos Santos.” I stood. “You better go, and I need to get back to the precinct. Fix it with Tammy and call me.”
She stood. She hesitated a moment, then took two quick steps and clung to me. “John, thank you. I have been so scared. I am so grateful…”
I held her face in my hands and looked into her eyes. “There will be plenty of time for gratitude later, Emma. For now, let’s stay focused. This is not going to be easy.”
“I know.”
Her body was warm and soft, and every instinct in me was telling me to give in and take what she was offering. But I knew that would be as good as suicide, and I wasn’t ready for that quite yet. She reached up and kissed me on the cheek again, then said, “Let me just use your loo,” and she trotted up the stairs with her purse.
I gathered up the glasses and took them to the kitchen, then I called her a cab. Two minutes later she was down again, smiling.
I watched her drive away. I felt troubled. We were moving forward, but where to? She was playing a subtle game, that much was obvious, but whose game?
I went inside and put some coffee on. While it was brewing, I went upstairs to have a shower and clear my head. While I was stripping off my shirt, I saw it on the floor, behind the toilet. It was a package, maybe six or seven inches square and three inches deep. It looked like it had fallen out of her purse while she was using what she called the loo. It was gift wrapped and tied with a bow, but there was no name tag on it.
I picked up my cell and called her.
“John, what is it?”
“You left a gift behind.”
“What?” There was a pause. I could hear her rummaging. “Oh, damn! It’s Tammy’s birthday tomorrow. It’s just a silly gift. Can you hang on to it for me and give it to me when we meet later?”
“Sure.”
“Thank you, darling.”
She hung up.
I put the package on my bed and stepped into the shower.
TWENTY-ONE
After my shower, I did a few things I needed to do, then went downstairs feeling better. I poured myself some coffee and called Dehan. She sounded relieved to hear from me.
“How’d it go?”
“It went well. I’ll tell you about it when we meet. How about you?”
“He’s not in his office, and I’ve been sitting here all morning watching the damn place. He hasn’t shown.”
“Okay, I’ll come over. We need to talk. Then we’ll decide what to do about Baxter.”
Half an hour later, I pulled up on Melrose Avenue, a few cars behind Dehan’s unmarked vehicle. I walked up and she lowered the window.
“No sign?”
She shook her head. It felt wrong, an
d all the way there, in the car, I’d been getting more edgy. There were alarm bells going off everywhere, but I couldn’t see the cause. I glanced over at the street entrance, then up at his window, like I had Superman’s X-ray vision and I could somehow see inside his office. I couldn’t. I gave the roof of her car a couple of gentle thumps and said, “Let’s go up.”
She got out and we dodged through the traffic. Then we rode the slow, ancient elevator from the dark lobby up to the top floor. His door was locked. I listened.
“Do you hear that?”
She grinned. “What, a woman crying for help? That’s not going to work here, Stone.”
I shook my head. “No, the fan. The electric fan is still on.” I sniffed the air. There was everything from carbon monoxide and furniture polish to boiled cabbage and bacon, all the smells of a city. But there was something else too. I pulled out my piece and shot out the lock. It’s the quickest way known to man of opening a door.
Baxter was at his desk. He was sitting back, watching us as we walked in. His electric fan ruffled his hair as it made another relentless sweep of his office, but he didn’t feel it. His mouth was open and his eyes were staring, but he wasn’t breathing or seeing. Decay had set in, and the smell was pretty bad. There were already flies swarming over the big wound in his chest. For them, his death was not a problem, it was an opportunity. I wondered if Baxter had anybody to mourn him.
I pulled out my cell and called the 43rd.
“This is Stone. We need a meat wagon and crime scene team at Melrose and 154th. Notify the ME, too.”
Dehan was over by the door, examining the bits of lock and wood that had been punched out by my slug. “I can’t find the key,” she said, and then, after a moment, “He’s sitting down. You notice the first time we came to see him, he got up to greet us? Whoever came in, he was familiar enough with them not to feel the need.” She stood. “They just walked in, pulled a gun, shot him, took the key, and locked him in.”
I nodded. “Sounds about right.”
“Tamara?”
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
“She heard through Emma that Baxter was onto her, so she came and shot him.”
“That would mean that Baxter was familiar with Tamara.”