by Steven Henry
“What did he want, then?” Luke asked.
“The money,” she said. “At the gala, I saw his suit was looking a little frayed around the edges. The more a guy talks about how money doesn’t matter to him, the more you can bet it’s what he really cares about. When we run his financials, I’m betting we find some hefty debts.”
“Who would have been his buyer?”
She shrugged. “Take your pick. Any one of these sleazebags would’ve jumped at the chance to make a private sale instead of taking their chances at auction. They’d be guaranteed to end up with her, and they’d pay less. Luke, I don’t know how you live in that world.”
“This from the woman who chases criminals 24/7,” Luke said. He took a long pull at his beer and grimaced, clearly wishing for something stronger. “At least the art dealers don’t shoot each other. Usually. So what happens now?”
“Now?” Erin laughed bitterly. “Now I go before the Board and they decide whether or not to fire me. Then, if I’ve still got a job, I work Patrol until I retire, because as long as Spinelli’s in the Bureau I’m sure as hell never making Detective. He’ll hate me for going behind his back on this and spoiling the biggest case of his career.”
“I guess you won, though,” Luke said. “Good work, Erin. And thanks for sharing the drink.” He stood up from the bar.
“Where are you going?” she asked, confused.
“There’s some stuff I need to take care of, job-related,” he said. “And I need to think this over. I’ll call you. Thanks again.” But he didn’t meet her eyes.
Erin sat alone at the bar, finishing her Velvet. When it was done, she ordered another.
* * *
Erin didn’t know what to do with herself. She worked with Rolf a lot, honing his training and trying not to think about the fact that if she lost her job, she’d lose him too. She cleaned her apartment, watched movies, read the papers. That was probably a mistake, since they were filled with nonsense about the case—her case. Her name wasn’t even mentioned. Someone at the precinct, Spinelli probably, had managed the news output so the cop who’d arrested Van Ormond was described as “An off-duty New York Police Officer.” They didn’t even mention Rolf. It would all come out in the end, but by then her career would be in the toilet and the public would have moved on.
She felt completely alone. Luke didn’t call, and she didn’t dare contact him, remembering the troubled look in his eyes at their last meeting. She could have called on her family, but it would’ve gotten back to her dad, and that was one thing she couldn’t face. He’d been a beat cop his whole career, had never made Detective, but he’d been good police, reliable, dependable. He’d sure as hell never gone before a Board of Inquiry. The thought of hearing the disappointment in his voice was too much for her.
If Erin wasn’t a cop, she wasn’t anything. It was the only thing she’d ever wanted to be. And if they took her shield, they’d take Rolf. They’d give him to another officer. That was the worst of it.
She was slipping into depression. The only good thing was that she knew it. She stayed off alcohol, for the most part, and her daily walks with Rolf got her out of the apartment and reminded her there was a world out there. But she needed a lifeline.
Finally, four days into her suspension, it hit her. There was someone she could see, someone who knew the truth. And he was someone she’d meant to visit anyway. She shook herself together, dressed with a little more care than she’d used the last few days, and headed to the hospital.
Chapter 21
Rudolf Schenk wasn’t rich, but he was a foreign VIP and that made him important enough to rate a private room. Erin’s first thought on entering was that it was awfully empty for the room of a man who’d very nearly been shot to death. There were no flowers, no get-well cards, and no other visitors. Schenk lay alone, his gaunt face even hollower than she remembered it, a blue pastel hospital gown hanging loosely on his bony frame. A medical machine stood beside the bed, covered with indicator lights, connected to the man by a clip on his fingertip. Every couple of seconds it gave an ambiguous beep.
Erin paused in the doorway, suddenly uncertain. She lifted a hand and tentatively tapped on the door.
“Fräulein O’Reilly,” Schenk said, turning to her and smiling. It was a genuine smile, surprising in its warmth, and Erin felt a sudden rush of gratitude. She so desperately needed to see a friendly face that his gladness drew her like a magnet.
“How are you, Dr. Schenk?” she asked, stepping inside.
“I am well, thanks to you,” he said. “The operation was successful. The surgeon removed the bullet from my chest, and he believes I will make a full recovery in time. You saved my life, Fräulein.”
“We saved each other,” she said, “and Rolf saved both of us.”
“Yes, your excellent hound,” Schenk said. “He is not with you, I see.”
“It’s a hospital,” she said. “I didn’t think the doctors would like it.”
“Yes, you are correct,” he said. “The doctors, nothing pleases them. All the same, I would like to see him again. I think I shall give him a token of gratitude. A fine steak, perhaps?”
Erin grinned. “If you do that, you’ll have made a friend for life.”
“And how goes it with you, Fräulein?”
“I’m okay,” she said unconvincingly.
Schenk’s gaze sharpened. “What has happened?” he asked, sitting up, then sagging back with a wince.
“Nothing,” she said.
He waited, like a teacher who knows a student hasn’t done her homework, saying nothing.
“It’s just all going wrong,” she burst out. “Everything. The painting got wrecked, you got shot, the detectives hate me, they’ve taken away my shield and… and they’ll probably take my dog.” To her horror, she realized she was in danger of breaking down in tears.
Schenk waited until she ran out of breath. If he had spoken kindly and softly, she would have lost it completely. Instead, he rubbed his chin and stared at her with cool, clinical eyes. “Fräulein O’Reilly,” he said, “you are a good policewoman. You followed your clues and, even more, your instincts. You caught your thief and recovered his prize. You saved me from death. You did what none other in your police force could do. You did all this, and you ask for my pity? I refuse. What I give you is my respect.”
Erin sank into the room’s only chair. “I don’t need your respect,” she said.
“Of course you do,” he retorted. “Everyone needs respect, from oneself. If you have your self-respect, you laugh at the others.”
“Easy for you to say,” she said. “Those others can throw me off the force.”
Schenk shrugged, and then winced again. “But they cannot take away what you did. You avenged your fellow policeman. Did you not know when you set out the price you might pay?”
She sighed. “Yeah, I just thought I could get away without paying it.”
He smiled again. “And you claim to believe in justice.”
Erin had to laugh a little at the dark humor of that. “Everyone believes in justice—until it’s our own ass on the line,” she said.
Schenk joined in her laugh, though it clearly hurt him to do so. “Well said! So let there be no more self-pity. Let us think instead of what you have achieved. Do not worry about the blood on the painting, it is nothing. Fresh blood can be easily cleaned from paint. And the restorers of paintings, they have done more. I have learned they have cleaned the blood of my uncle from the Madonna as well, while they were about it. They have taken the blood away for testing, and she is cleansed from all stains. She will be placed again on exhibit, back at your museum, in three days’ time.”
“Yeah, I saw that in the paper,” Erin said. “I’m glad I didn’t ruin it—her, I mean. She’s beautiful.”
“Yes,” Schenk said wistfully. “She is. I would like to see her again.” He looked at her with a gleam almost of mischief in his eyes. “Fräulein O’Reilly, you are in trouble for breaking the
rules, ja? Will you help me by breaking another?”
“What did you have in mind, Doctor?” she asked, though she already had an idea.
“An escape,” he said. “I am to be kept prisoner here two to three weeks longer, so the surgeon says. But what does he know? I am old and tough. I will be able to go out for a short while, if I have a caretaker. And I must see the Madonna again. What say you?”
Erin held up a hand. “Dr. Schenk, I’m not going to break you out of the hospital. You’re grouchy enough; you just might keel over and die on me. If you want out, I’ll see what I can do, but we’re bringing a nurse. That’s not negotiable.”
“As you wish, Fräulein,” he said. “I leave it in your most capable hands.”
“Dr. Schenk, I have a question,” she said, changing the subject. “What were you doing at Van Ormond’s apartment?”
It was Schenk’s turn to sigh. “I was foolish,” he said. “I lost patience with you and your department. I wished to confront him before he left for England. I told him I knew he had stolen the Madonna, and that I would be watching him for all time. I told him he would not have a moment’s peace from me.”
“That wasn’t very smart,” Erin agreed. “Didn’t you realize how much danger you were putting yourself in?”
“I knew the man was capable of theft, but murder? I underestimated him. When he produced his pistol I recognized my error, but it was by then too late. I was too angry to stop, and I continued to promise revenge upon him. Then he shot me,” he finished ruefully.
“Don’t feel too bad about it,” Erin said. “The most common last words a guy says when he’s facing down a gunman are ‘You don’t have the guts!’”
Schenk nodded. “Our species rushes always toward self-destruction,” he said. “As individuals, and also as a whole.”
“On that note,” she said, “I’d love to take you to see some art. After all, it’s just a trip to the museum. What could possibly go wrong?”
“Please, Fräulein, have pity,” he said. “It pains me to laugh.”
* * *
As far as great escapes went, it wasn’t going to make any headlines. Erin worked within the rules, despite what Schenk had said, and talked to his surgeon. She explained how important the painting was to the German, suggesting that it would help his recovery to see it. Finally, the doctor agreed to a short outing, but only in a wheelchair, with a trained nurse present at all times, and only for an hour.
With nothing better to do, bored and restless, Erin bought herself a new dress. This was an unusual thing for her, but she found herself in an unusual situation with a lot of spare time on her hands. Besides, her last formal dress had been ruined. The bloodstains would never come out, and the hem had gotten torn. Her new dress was black, as a kind of memorial for John Brunanski. All the same, this didn’t really look like a mourning dress. Its velvet hugged her tightly, with lace panels on the sides, and showed off what she knew were her best assets, her arms and legs. It was high at the neck but left her shoulders bare, and the ankle-length skirt was slit high up her left thigh. She wore high-heeled ankle boots to finish off the ensemble.
She knew the dress was a success when she went to fetch Dr. Schenk. A male orderly, carrying a clipboard, walked straight into a support pillar when she passed him. Even Schenk, the dour professor, favored her with an appreciative look. His nurse had helped him dress in a dark, conservative suit, complete with a black bow tie. He was already in his wheelchair, waiting for her. Good Lord, Erin thought. I look like his damn trophy wife!
The nurse, a pleasant middle-aged Hispanic woman named Luisa, wheeled him down the hall, through the lobby, and out into the cool evening air. It was a little after nine, and the exhibition started at 9:30.
Chapter 22
Erin had a shiver of remembrance, almost a flashback, as they entered the museum. She instinctively glanced at the security personnel and was glad to see half a dozen NYPD uniforms along with the rent-a-cops. Clearly, no one was risking a repeat of the gala. The place was at least as crowded as it had been for the first opening, the ranks of art aficionados padded with a fair number of reporters. Luisa pushed Schenk’s wheelchair around the edge of the atrium, keeping him out of the thickest part of the crowd.
Then Erin saw a particular shape among the guests, a very tall, grim, dark-skinned man, and beside him, sporting a pair of crutches, another familiar figure. And they were headed her direction. “Oh, come on,” she said quietly.
Omar Haddad somehow managed to make his limping stride look graceful. He drew up in front of her, leaned on his left crutch, handed his right to Ibrahim, and extended his hand to her. In the absence of polite alternatives, she accepted it. He brought her hand smoothly up to his lips and brushed the back of it with a kiss.
“Good evening, Miss O’Reilly,” he said softly. “I had not anticipated the honor of your company. You look particularly lovely tonight.”
Erin, suddenly self-conscious, wished the slit on her skirt didn’t go up quite so high. “Yeah, these aren’t my work clothes,” she said.
“Of course not,” he said. “I understand thanks are in order, however. You have recovered a priceless work of culture from the hands of a grasping criminal.”
“So she can be fought over by more of the same,” Erin said, before she could stop herself.
Haddad froze, his mouth slightly open in astonishment. Even Schenk tilted his head to look at her, surprised. Then Haddad threw back his head and laughed. “Well said!” he exclaimed. “And quite true. We shall see which grasping criminal triumphs. It shall be much like a meeting of international politics, with a similar lack of morals. Herr Doktor Schenk, welcome. I had not thought to see you here, either. I trust you are recovering well?”
“Ja, I am well enough,” Schenk said, staring at Haddad as if the other man was something he’d found stuck to the bottom of his shoe. “And you?”
“A mere scratch,” Haddad said. “But I am keeping you. Please, enjoy the exhibition. And Miss O’Reilly, if you lack a suitable partner for conversation, or for whatever else you may require, consider me very much at your service.”
“You know,” she said, “I just might take you up on that.”
“I am delighted,” he said.
“See, we got the painting,” she said. “And we got the thieves. We even got the guy who hired them. But we haven’t got the intended buyer yet.”
Haddad’s face froze.
“But I’m sure it’s just a matter of time,” she said cheerfully. “After all, I’m sure Van Ormond’s gonna sing when the DA lays out the case. How long did you say you’d be in New York?”
“I have urgent business awaiting me at home,” he said, recovering a little. “I fear our further acquaintance must await a more opportune time and place.”
“Anytime you’re in town, I’ll look you up,” she promised, still managing to keep her tone light and pleasant.
Haddad bowed, a little stiffly, and murmured something to his servant. They moved off.
“Creep,” Erin muttered under her breath as he limped away.
“Ja, Fräulein,” Schenk said. “He is no pleasant man. But you know something about him, ja?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I’m pretty sure he’s Van Ormond’s buyer.”
“Really,” he said. “Why, then, do you not place the handcuffs on him?”
“I can’t make arrests. I’m suspended. Anyway, even if Van Ormond talks, we won’t be able to make it stick.”
“Why is that?”
“No proof,” she said. “Haddad’s too smart to leave a paper trail. It’s his word against Van Ormond’s.”
“So he gets away with it, as you say?”
“Yeah,” Erin sighed. “He does. But he goes home with nothing. I bet I scared him out of New York City for a while. Ten bucks says he flies out tonight, tomorrow morning at the outside.”
“I will make no wager with you,” he said, smiling. “But he can still purchase the painting at auction, in
person or through the Internet.”
“Maybe,” Erin said. “But he’s got to take his chance, like everyone else.”
“Like all the other scoundrels,” Schenk said. “Look around you. It is like in the old film. All of the usual suspects are, how you say, rounded up. See, there is Herr Atkins.” He flicked his index finger on the arm of his wheelchair. “He loves women, but cannot keep them. And beside him, arm in arm, Dominique de Vere. She murdered her husband, so they say. Herr Atkins should be careful.”
“Yeah,” Erin said, following Schenk’s extended finger. “They were two of my suspects, you know.”
“Good choices, Fräulein. I almost wish they had stolen her, so that you might arrest them.” Schenk smiled coldly. “Who else was on your list?”
“Adlai Martin,” she said.
“Ah, Herr Martin,” Schenk said. “Three wives have left him, all due to his brutish nature. He thinks he loves, but his love, as Dostoevsky writes, is more like hate. See him there, by the punch bowl?”
“The one with the arm candy half his age?” Erin asked, wrinkling her nose.
“Ja, that is he,” Schenk said. “Another good choice, but I fear he lacks the cunning to be a thief.”
“You know who else was on the list?” Erin retorted, growing tired of his self-righteousness. “You.”
Schenk was rendered momentarily speechless. Then he chuckled quietly. “Your point is taken, Fräulein,” he said. “I shall say no more.” Then he coughed and doubled over on the wheelchair. Luisa bent over him anxiously. He waved her impatiently back. “Take me to the Madonna, Fräulein O’Reilly,” he said in a whisper. “And then back to the hospital. I fear my strength is not yet recovered.”
* * *
The Madonna had been restored to her place of honor in the black velvet-draped gallery. Her serene smile caught Erin and drew her in, just as it had at her first sight of the painting. The blood had been cleaned from her, both new stains and old.