by R. J. Jagger
Some were single.
Some were married.
He didn’t discriminate.
He was born and raised in Shanghai, but stayed on the island after getting a graduate degree at the University of Hong Kong in economics—a degree that he had never used and never would, but was still glad he had. He fluently spoke both of Hong Kong’s official languages—Cantonese and English—but also got by in Spanish and Japanese.
HE WOKE UP shortly before noon on Tuesday, stretched, slipped into trunks, headed topside and dove into the water. Then he swam out of the marina and straight out into Victoria Harbour for half an hour before turning around and heading back. Mid-afternoon, his phone rang and a surprise voice came through.
“It’s me,” the woman said.
The voice belonged to his blackmailer.
Kong’s chest tightened.
“We’re done,” he said. “No more.”
“I wish we were,” she said. “I don’t like this any more than you do.”
Kong rang his fingers through his hair.
“Here are your choices,” he said. “Hang up the phone, right now, and live; or wish you had, later, when I find out who you are—which I will.”
The woman chuckled.
“Same amount and same place as before,” she said. “Five o’clock tomorrow.”
The line went dead.
Kong closed the phone and threw it at a seagull with all his might.
The bird’s skull shattered with a pop.
Chapter Five
Day Two—August 4
Tuesday Morning
______________
TUESDAY MORNING, TEFFINGER’S ALARM CLOCK jerked him out of a fitful sleep with all the subtleness of a freight train. He took a three-mile jog, showered and got to the office just as dawn broke, well before anyone else. Working was impossible. Instead, he paced next to the windows, propped himself up with caffeine and nervously second-guessed the sanity of everything he did last night.
He may well have ruined his life.
Time would tell.
The only certain thing was that he couldn’t go back and undo it.
Sydney Heatherwood showed up shortly after seven, wearing a white blouse that looked extra crisp against her African American skin. Teffinger personally stole her out of the vice unit a year ago. Although she was only twenty-seven and still the newbie of the homicide unit, she had already cut her teeth on some of Denver’s worst.
John Ganjon.
Nathan Wickerfield.
Jack Draven.
Aaron Trane.
Dylan Jekker.
Trent Tripp.
She got coffee, took a seat in one of the worn leather chairs in front of Teffinger’s desk and said, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Something’s wrong, I can tell.”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
She stood up, gave him a sideways glance and said, “Fine, be that way.”
THE CALL TEFFINGER HAD BEEN DREADING came mid-morning. A body had been found next to a BNSF railroad spur on the north edge of the city. The victim was a woman, an Asian woman, about thirty, with a wound to her chest.
Teffinger jotted down the information, swung by Sydney’s desk and said, “You feel like taking a ride?”
She looked up.
“A body?”
He nodded.
“It sounds like the same place we found Angela Pfeiffer.”
She grunted.
“Now there’s a name from the past.”
THEY SPENT THREE HOURS processing the scene. On the drive back, Teffinger knew he shouldn’t do what he was about to do. It would put Sydney in a precarious position but telling her was necessary.
The Beatles’ “Thank You Girl” came from the Tundra’s radio.
Teffinger punched it off and said, “I need to tell you something.”
Sydney put a shocked look on her face.
“You just turned off a Beatles song,” she said.
“Yeah, I know.”
“You spend most of your waking moments trying to find a Beatles song.”
That was true.
“I knew something was wrong,” she said.
Teffinger exhaled.
“I’ve been debating whether I should tell you what I’m about to tell you,” he said. “I finally concluded that it would be wrong to do it but more wrong not to do it, so here it goes.” He told her about last night—he came home to find a woman sitting on his front steps in the rain; she was a model from Hong Kong named d’Asia who was running for her life; Teffinger said he’d help her; they got tipsy and ended up making love; someone showed up in the middle of the night and tried to kill her; she ended up wrestling the knife away from her attacker and killing her in self defense; then she disappeared into the storm.
Sydney frowned.
“Nothing’s ever normal with you Teffinger,” she said. “At least tell me you didn’t fall in love with this woman.”
Teffinger said nothing.
“God, I can’t believe you sometimes.”
Teffinger grunted.
“You’ve done this a thousand times, Nick,” she said. “You meet a woman and—bam!—everything else in the universe disappears.”
“There’s more to the story,” Teffinger said.
“More?”
“IT GETS WORSE,” Teffinger said. “I should have called the Lakewood P.D. but I didn’t,” he said. “Instead I had a couple of more beers. Then I did something stupid. I put the body in the back of my truck, threw a tarp over it and dumped it by some railroad tracks. The scene that you and I just investigated is the woman from last night.”
Sydney stared at him.
“You’re messing with me, right?”
No.
He wasn’t.
“I don’t get it,” she said. “Why? Why would do such a crazy thing? There was a homicide at your house. You tampered with it on purpose. You moved a body. That goes against every rule in the universe.”
Teffinger nodded.
He knew that.
“It’s not something I did lightly.”
“Lightly, heavily, what’s the difference?” Sydney said. “It’s insane. You could lose your job. No, not could, will.”
Teffinger didn’t disagree.
“Here’s the way I look at it,” he said. “If I called Lakewood, they’d chalk it up as self-defense—which it was—and close the case. I’d never find out who the woman was, much less who she works for. So I moved the body to Denver to get the case under my jurisdiction. If I’m the investigating officer, the Hong Kong authorities will cooperate with me. I’m not only going to find out who she was, but who she was working for. That’s the only way I can help d’Asia.”
Sydney shook her head in disbelief.
“So you put your entire career on the line to help some stranger?”
Silence.
Then Teffinger said, “I promised her. This was the only way I could figure out how to do it.” A pause, then he added, “But I’ll admit there’s more than that. I need to find her and get her in my life.” He squeezed Sydney’s hand. “I’m sorry to lay this on you, but I couldn’t have you wasting time on the case. Plus you have a right to know, on a personal level.”
She shook her head.
“I’m not going to tell anyone,” she said. “But between you and me, you went too far. You’ve always been on the edge, we both know that, but this is too much, even for you.”
Teffinger exhaled.
“I promised her,” he said.
“That’s not an excuse.”
“I know,” he said. “But when you strip away all the peripherals in life, all you really have is your word.”
Chapter Six
Day Two—August 4
Tuesday Morning
______________
MUSEE D’ORSAY SAT ON THE RIGHT BANK of the Seine and protected the world’s greatest collection of impressionistic art from the elements. Prarie started g
oing there at age four, when her father used to bring her to work, and even then understood there was something timelessly special about the colors and brushstrokes and vibrancy of the paintings that her father referred to as “his babies.” “Not like you though,” he always added. “You’re more special than everything in here put together.”
Really?
Really.
“All of Paris, even.”
Normally she felt a sense of exhilaration and awe when she went there. The paintings always energized her and deepened her and expanded her. This time, however, walking to the entrance with some stranger named Emmanuelle Laurent at her side, she didn’t feel any of that.
She felt serious, as if her life was about to change.
“What I’m going to tell you and show you must remain confidential,” Emmanuelle said. “You must give me your word that whether you decide to help me or not, you won’t tell anyone what I’m about to tell you.”
Help her?
What did that mean?
“I don’t understand what’s going on,” Prarie said.
“You will.”
FIVE MINUTES LATER they were standing in front of Claude Monet’s “Poppies,” which depicted women with hats strolling through a green field with red flowers. A line of dark trees on the horizon separated the field from a summer sky.
“Have you ever seen this painting before?” Emmanuelle asked.
Prarie nodded.
“About a hundred times.”
“A hundred times?”
Right.
“Do you like it?”
She did, very much.
Who wouldn’t?
“What do you like about it?”
Prarie shrugged. “I don’t understand what’s going on.”
“Just indulge me for a moment,” Emmanuelle said. “Look at the painting carefully and tell me what you like about it.” Prarie almost protested, enough was enough, but studied the painting.
“I don’t know … the colors, the composition, the brushstrokes—everything,” she said. “There’s no part of it I don’t like.”
“I agree,” Emmanuelle said. “It’s nice. There’s only one thing wrong with it, that I can tell.”
“What’s that?”
Emmanuelle looked around to be sure she wouldn’t be overheard, then whispered in Prarie’s ear, “It’s a fake.” Prarie must have had a look on her face as if she was about to repeat the words out loud, because Emmanuelle put her finger on Prarie’s lips and said, “Shhh.”
No.
That wasn’t possible.
“This painting has been authenticated a hundred times,” she said.
“Not in the last six months it hasn’t,” Emmanuelle said. “Want to see some more fakes?”
Prarie did.
She did indeed.
EMMANUELLE TOOK HER to see four more paintings.
Van Gogh’s “Self Portrait.”
August Renoir’s “Nude in the Sunlight.”
Edgar Degas’ “Absinthe.”
Edouard Manet’s “At the Beach.”
Prarie had seen each of these paintings before, many times before, spanning a period of years. They were exactly as she remembered them, right down to the faded colors, the textures, the paint over paint and the time begotten cracks. Not a one of them looked less than a hundred percent authentic or an iota different than she remembered.
Why did the woman think they were fakes?
Why did she care?
And why was she was bothering to tell any of this to Prarie?
She was just about to ask these questions when Emmanuelle grabbed her hand and led her towards the exit. “Let’s go outside where we can talk. I have to warn you in advance, though. This is going to be a little unsettling.”
“Unsettling how?”
“You’ll see in a minute,” she said. “Just be prepared.”
Chapter Seven
Day Two—August 4
Tuesday Morning
______________
PRARIE AND EMMANUELLE ended up on the cobblestone walkway next to the Seine. A Batobus carved a wake as it motored east and passed a slow-moving barge. The Parisian sun sparkled on the water. A seagull flew low over the river, warding off other gulls who were trying to steal something out of its mouth.
Survival of the fittest; it was everywhere, at every level, all the time.
“Okay, here’s the thing,” Emmanuelle said. “The five paintings I showed you—the original five paintings—were stolen from the museum six months ago and the fakes were substituted in their place at that time. The museum found out about it two months ago. It made a number of insurance claims. The CIM Group is the primary insurer for the museum, covering the first $200,000,000 in loss. There are excess insurance carriers behind CIM who are also on the hook. I’ve been retained by CIM in an ad hoc capacity to find the paintings. Technically, I’m an independent contractor, which gives me the flexibility to bend the law if I need to without getting CIM in trouble. No one knows who I’m working for and I need you to keep it that way. Will you?”
Prarie shrugged.
Sure.
Why not?
“Very few people know about this,” Emmanuelle said. “The fakes are extraordinarily accurate. They’re good enough that the museum is letting them hang until the matter can be resolved one way or the other.”
A teenage girl with too much makeup strolled past.
“I still don’t understand what any of this has to do with me,” Prarie said.
Emmanuelle exhaled.
“HERE’S WHAT HAPPENED as far as we can tell so far,” Emmanuelle said. “Someone did some research and found out who key museum employees were. They found out who worked in the preservation department.”
“That’s where my father worked,” Prarie said.
Emmanuelle nodded.
“Unfortunately, yes, your father,” she said. “They also found out who worked in the security department, which was headed by a man named Yves Blanc.”
Prarie didn’t recognize the name.
“I don’t know him,” she said.
“No reason you would,” Emmanuelle said. “Anyway, your father had a daughter, namely you. The head of the security department, Yves Blanc, also had a daughter, namely an 8-year-old named Dominique Blanc.”
Prarie chewed her lip, dreading the words to come.
“Your father, being in the preservation department, had access to all the paintings,” Emmanuelle said. “If he got motivated enough, and if security worked with him, he’d be able to get original paintings off the walls, into his department, and out the door. He’d also be able to get fakes hung in their place. All he needed was to be motivated enough. He got that motivation when you were kidnapped in Hong Kong.”
Now it made sense, perfect sense, finally after all this time.
“After they took you, they contacted your father and gave him an ultimatum,” Emmanuelle said. “They also contacted the head of security, Yves Blanc, and told him that both you and his daughter would die if he didn’t cooperate in the plan.”
Prarie cocked her head.
“So they never actually took the 8-year-old?”
Emmanuelle shook her head.
“No, they didn’t have to,” she said. “Taking you made it real enough to make Yves Blanc cooperate. The rest is pretty straightforward. The paintings were switched while you were held captive. Afterwards, they let you go.”
“I had no idea,” Prarie said.
Emmanuelle squeezed her hand.
“Your father stole art to save your life,” Emmanuelle said. “Unfortunately, it gets worse.”
“EVERYTHING WENT UNDETECTED for about four months,” Emmanuelle said. “Then one of the paintings—the Monet—was going to be shown in a special exhibit in London. Of course, whenever that happens, the piece is inspected by both the museum and the accepting party. That’s when it was discovered to be a fake. Over the next month, every painting in the museum was inspected, which le
ad to the discovery of the other four fakes. A lot of people did a lot of brainstorming about what happened and came up with the theory that I just told you.”
“What did my father have to say about it?” Prarie asked.
“Nothing,” Emmanuelle said. “He wouldn’t cooperate. Neither would Yves Blanc. They both denied having any knowledge or involvement, no doubt because they had been threatened that you would be killed if they ever cooperated with the police.”
“And the 8-year-old too, I assume,” Prarie added.
“Of course,” Emmanuelle said. “They were both protecting the lives of their daughters. The museum had no alternative but to discharge both of them. That’s why your father left the museum and took a job as a taxi driver. He didn’t quit, he was fired. He was a good man. He did what he did but he also had no choice. Everyone who knows about the situation agrees that they would have done the same thing in his position. No one blames him. They didn’t want to fire him, but couldn’t keep him on for obvious reasons. Everyone at the museum was very clear in that they would never file criminal charges against him. That’s why he never got arrested.” She sighed. “Unfortunately, it might have been better if he had.”
Prarie cocked her head.
“What does that mean?”
“IT MEANS THIS,” Emmanuelle said. “Word of what happened is getting out. Now, unfortunately, there is at least one group of people, and maybe more, who know the paintings are out there in the world somewhere and are hunting for them—not to return them, but for their own personal wealth. It’s our belief that one of those groups confronted your father to try to get a lead. Your father didn’t cooperate. They shot him in the back of the head and made it look like a routine robbery.”
Prarie pictured it and shivered.
“Yves Blanc was also killed last week,” Emmanuelle said. “Did you know that?”
No.
She didn’t.
“It gets worse,” Emmanuelle said. “With your father and Yves Blanc now gone, there’s only one connection left to the original robbers, namely you. That’s why I’m seeking you out and why they will be, too.”