According to the Web site’s canned version of the school’s history the Mind Over Matter motto fit the school’s original purpose. Founded in 1895 by a Calvinist minister named George Haverford, the first principle of the school was to remove boys from the temptations of the opposite sex in an utterly isolated environment where they could turn their attentions to the Teddy Roosevelt concept of manliness in all things-particularly sports, military training and rigorous academics. Add cold showers and a hefty dose of hard-edged religious teaching and you had a school that every parent of the time could love. Reading between the lines it was the epitome of “Children should be seen and not heard”-and seen as rarely as possible. In every way that Finn could see it was the worst of everything she’d ever heard about English boarding schools.
Searching the Web and using Valentine’s private and very complicated search engine, something called ISPY-XRAY, Finn found a variety of Web sites, some established by ex-Greyfriars students and others by run-of-the-mill information junkies that told a different story. Looked at a little closer it appeared that Greyfriars had a less illustrious background than the official Web site suggested. According to what she’d discovered, the “manliness” of the school had led to half of the alumni from the mid nineteen hundreds being slaughtered in the trenches of Belgium and France. An inordinate number had committed suicide. The hazing of lower form kids by their “betters” in the senior grades had led to at least one death and a series of lawsuits just before the Crash of 1929 that had nearly bankrupted the school. What the lawsuits didn’t take, the Depression did, and the school foundered, buried under debt and bad publicity. In 1934 a group of alumni purchased the school, which by then was in receivership. At this point, Finn stumbled on her first real clue: a list of Greyfriars’s new trustees. There were twelve names in all but it was the first six that caught her attention:
Alfred Andrew Wharton
Lauder J. Cornwall
Admiral Tobias Gatty
Jonas Hale Parker III
Orville Dupont Hale
Jerome C. Crawley
There was no room for coincidence; there couldn’t be. A. A. Wharton was presumably the present headmaster’s grandfather; Lauder Cornwall had to be related to James Cornwall, the late director of the Parker-Hale; Jonas Parker and Orville Hale were descendants of the museum’s founder; Tobias Gatty was obviously connected to the colonel; and Jerome C. Crawley related to Alexander Crawley. No coincidence, but no real connection either. What did six school trustees from the thirties have to do with a pair of present-day homicides and an errant page torn from a notebook half a millennia ago? Mysteries were mysteries but this was verging on the impossible.
Finn glanced up from her notes and looked around the room and its Sherlockian dйcor. She vaguely remembered something from a Sherlock Holmes story she’d read in first year English lit: “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” So if the venerable detective was anything to go by, there was a connection; she just wasn’t seeing it. The next two hours spent in front of the computer didn’t make anything any clearer though; if anything, her research into the names and their associations only made things more confused.
Using the ISPY search engine, Google, and everything else she could think of, Finn ran not only the first six names but the rest as well, tracing them forward from 1934. Unlike schools such as Phillips Andover in Massachusetts-with alumni including everything from the creator of Tarzan to gay rights activists and assorted recent presidents of the United States-Greyfriars seemed to specialize in people just under the public radar. Of the twelve trustees who took over the school in the 1930s none was truly “A” material. Parker and Hale were only the inheritors of family fortunes and not their creators, like a Cornelius Vanderbilt or a John D. Rockefeller. Gatty was only a rear admiral and the ship eventually named after him was a Liberty cargo vessel, not a battleship or an aircraft carrier. Jerome Crawley, a lawyer, had worked with Bill Donovan, the man who headed up the OSS, precursor to the Central Intelligence Agency. All twelve trustees were like that: senators but not governors or presidents, secretary of the interior but not secretary of state, deputy directors of the CIA but never the head. In fact, when it came to government, the trustees and the sons who followed them were almost invariably non-political appointments: clerks to Supreme Court judges, but never the judges themselves. In business and every other facet of life it was the same-not quite famous, but never scandalized and never dropped. It was almost as though it had been planned that way, and after a while Finn began seeing a vague pattern: the trustees and their progeny weren’t the movers and shakers, they were the bureaucrats and bean counters-the people who held the real power, and held it the longest. A president lasted four years, eight at best; a senator could go on for half a century if he was smart about it, quietly inserting himself or herself onto a dozen or more critical committees. A businessman could collect board memberships like matchbook covers, few people knowing who he was or the clout he wielded. Expediency over ego. Power by proxy. It could easily have been the real motto of the school.
The only other piece of information Finn managed to discover was the fact that all twelve of the trustees had purchased the school under the aegis of something called the Carduss Club. Carduss, she discovered, was the Latin word for “thistle,” possibly in reference to the thistle on the school crest. It was also, obscurely, a pagan sect of Satanists. As far as she could tell, the Carduss Club had ceased to exist in 1945. She found no reference to it after that date. Checking the Web site again she found that everything on it was copyrighted to the Greyfriars Alumni Association LLC-which, she discovered, was actually a numbered trusteeship that had been incorporated in Delaware for some reason.
At that point Finn gave up for good. It was all too confusing. She checked her watch, discovered that most of the day had vanished and gathered up her papers. Maybe it would make more sense to Michael. She smiled at the thought. She thought of him as Michael now. A lover, an assault victim and a fugitive, all in seventy-two hours. She stood, stretched then threaded her way through the gloomy top-floor stacks of Ex Libris and went upstairs to the loft.
She rode up in the elevator, a thousand facts and feelings whirling around in her head. She reached the upper level of the building, waited until the elevator had thumped to a stop then pushed up the gate and opened the rumbling doorway. She stepped out into the brightly lit foyer that opened into the living room, the elevator door shutting automatically behind her. She paused, her heart beginning to thump wildly in her chest, her mind emptying of everything but a single, simple thought: when she’d gone down to the office hours before, the foyer light hadn’t been turned on. Somewhere in the back of the loft she heard the sound of breaking glass.
33
Bobby Izzard smoked a cigarette and poked around in Carl Kressman’s past, meandering through each room in the expensively decorated beach house, opening drawers and looking in cupboards. Maggie and her beefy assistants had zipped Kressman up and taken him away in the big Vandura coroner’s van hours ago. Kenny Frizell was still outside by the pool, fishing for broken bottles with the skimmer net and methodically putting each deadly piece of glass into paper evidence bags, each one with its own little ID tag filled out scrupulously by the young detective. Izzy was alone in the empty house, the last of the light slanting in through the porch screens and the windows, filling the rooms with bars of dusty golden light. They’d done an initial ID by running the guy’s plates. Year-rounder, no snowbird, no record, no violations, no nothing.
Kressman’s house was a classic Gulf Coast “cottage” of the old style, even though it was clearly very new. Covered and screened porches wrapped around the bottom floor, the second floor contained a master bedroom and a guest room and a spiral staircase led from the master bedroom to an eight-by-ten captain’s walk on the peaked roof, fitted like the bell tower of a one-room school-house.
The main floor had a living room
and dining room that looked out onto the beach and the Gulf beyond. A kitchen led off from the dining room and behind that was a small bedroom facing the pool. Across the hall from the small bedroom was a large den. The bedroom, the den and the hall all had doors leading out to the pool area.
Even someone who had no idea of the victim’s identity would have picked up on a couple of things as soon as they entered the front door, or maybe even before. The car outside in the garage was a top-of-the-line S-class Mercedes and the furniture inside the house was mostly Edwardian, antique and expensive. Kressman had money. As well as the furniture, all of the art on the walls looked like the real McCoy, canvases thick with paint and framed with lots of gold. Izzy didn’t know art from a horse’s ass but most of it had the same rich feel as the butter-soft leather on the inside of the Benz.
Kressman had been no fool about it either. There was a class-A burglar alarm system and it was connected to the cop shop up on Clubhouse Road, not some empty office in a strip mall and a tape that told everybody the cops had been called in a loud, bullshit voice. At the price the old man had paid for the setup in the cottage there’d have been a cruiser at his front door thirty seconds after anyone so much as breathed too hard on his precious paintings. Not only that, as it turned out the art was all lag-bolted into the wall.
Izzy looked through the kitchen, checking the refrigerator first. In the first place it was huge, and in the second place it was almost empty. Automatic ice maker and a frigid bottle of white label Flagman vodka. Pricey stuff.
Down below a few takeout cartons from local joints, the carefully wrapped remains of a salad and a good supply of beer, most of it in the form of stubby brown bottles of Schultheiss Berliner Weisse which probably cost more to mail order than a single glass would cost in Germany. If it was one thing Izzy knew it was his beer.
He didn’t hesitate for a moment. He reached in, picked up one of the frosty bottles and snapped it open. He took a sip. Like old gold. The picture on the label showed women with parasols walking down a tree-lined boulevard. Even the guy’s beer was old-fashioned. Izzy gave a contented little sigh, belched lightly and continued on his tour, careful to keep the bottle top in his jacket pocket.
He moved into the study. It was good-sized, maybe fifteen feet on a side, and there wasn’t any sign of a woman’s touch. The curtains were dark, the walls were paneled in bookshelves filled with books by the yard and he had one of those Queen Anne-style globes that slid open to reveal a well-stocked bar.
Maker’s Mark, Hennessy Five Star, Jack Daniel’s, Johnny Walker Blue Label and a couple of single malts with unpronounceable names. Izzy grinned and wondered what Maggie would find when she sliced up the old man’s liver. He thought about the coroner’s exquisite, firm little fanny for a moment, took another sip of beer and continued his investigation.
Collection of beer steins, collection of model cars, a ship in a bottle, an old-fashioned rolltop desk. It was locked. Earlier on, Kenny had found a set of keys on a bureau which Izzy now had in his pocket. The detective sergeant took out the ring and tried the keys one by one.
He hit it right third time around and he pushed the rolltop back. Everything neat as a pin, envelopes and this and that sorted into the various pigeonholes. Right up front was an Acer Ferrari laptop in flame red, fitted with a wireless net access modem, very futuristic. Izzy tapped the computer on and spent five minutes noodling around in the old man’s files. Half of them were password protected.
He got up, went out onto the porch and called Kenny in to work his magic fingers on the machine, then went upstairs to the bedrooms. Nothing in the guest bedroom, nothing of real interest in the bathroom except an array of high blood pressure medications and dandruff shampoo. No Preparation H, so Kressman had been hemmie free. He went into the master bedroom and looked around. More big furniture including an ornate four-poster bed that reminded Izzy of that scene in the old black-and-white Scrooge movie where he wakes up and realizes it’s Christmas morning.
An old-fashioned hanging lamp hung from the ceiling and there was a palm tree in one corner, so tall its fronds were bent at the ceiling. Little rugs scattered everywhere, no wall to wall carpeting for a change. Izzy’s old man had worked house construction for forty years and Izzy’d spent his summers building crap all over New York and Jersey. He knew exactly the kind of shit you could hide under spackle ceilings and cheap broadloom. Not here: this was all top-grade stuff.
The walls were hung with more art. Like the paintings he’d seen downstairs, these looked like the real thing, and even a slob like him could almost recognize some of it. Even a slob like him could recognize the little dwarf guy’s stuff, the one they’d made the movie about. Always wore a top hat and liked hookers-what was his name? Toulouse-Lautrec-yeah, that was it.
The painting in question hung over the head of the bed, big, showing a man and a woman, both of them ugly, standing in some kind of beer hall at the edge of a dance floor. There was another one by the same guy, the same ugly hooker standing with a busy bar behind her. She looked bored. So was Izzy. Paintings weren’t high on his list for holiday giving.
He went over and gave the one of the old broad standing by herself a tug. Lag bolted like all the others. Ugly or not, this wasn’t the kind of thing you picked up at the starving-artists sale down at the Holiday Inn. The burglar alarm and the lag bolts said big insurance policies. Too bad one of them hadn’t been stolen, at least then he’d have a motive to work with, but to steal one you’d have to cut it out of the frame with a utility knife and that hadn’t happened. He went over to a big chest of drawers. There was a big silver plate with personal goods in it.
Rolex Daytona, money clip with half a dozen twenties and hundreds, loose change, pinky ring with a big green stone in it, a wallet and a cell phone. Izzy didn’t know art, but he knew watches. The last time he’d looked at a Daytona they’d been ten or eleven grand. He stared at it, shook his head and sighed. Lovely but he’d never be able to explain it in a million years. Whatever, it hadn’t been a robbery. Someone had whacked the guy for something other than money.
Izzy flipped open the wallet. Alabama driver’s license in the name of Carl Kressman, showing a birth date that made the corpse seventy-five years old. The issue date was five years ago with this address, which meant he’d been here for at least that long. He flipped open the other flap and went through five major credit cards, social security card and a laminated Gulf Shores Library card. There was a single lambskin condom tucked into one of the interior pockets and something behind it. He pulled. A New York State driver’s license in the name of Karel Kress. What was the guy doing with two names and two driver’s licenses? Weird, but at least it was getting a little more interesting than just another dead old man. He went downstairs and checked in on Kenny, who was bent over the Acer laptop in the study, pecking away.
“Find anything?”
“The guy was rich.”
“Figured that out for myself.”
“He collected art.”
“That too,” Izzy answered, glancing around the room. Paintings everywhere…
“He got them all from someplace in New York, the Hoffman Gallery.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, and he paid lots of money for them, look.” The younger man leaned back and Izzy leaned forward. There was a row of names and figures on the screen.
The list continued on for half a dozen pages. There were at least two hundred paintings, far more than were in the cottage. Most carried a price tag well over a million. Kenny demonstrated the depth of the program by randomly picking a name on the list by clicking the cursor on the odd, underlined letter code:
Renoir, Pierre-Auguste/awlohe 750,000
Almost instantly the computer jumped to a digitized photograph of a painting showing a woman leaning on her hand with some sort of multicolored background, perhaps flowers.
The title underneath read:
Algerian Woman Leaning on Her Elbow
1881
Hoffman Gallery New York 1995
Deaccessioned: Park-Hale Museum of Art 1993
Grange Foundation bequest 1957
“I don’t get any of this shit.”
“It’s a list of paintings.”
“You really must think I’m some kind of an asshole. I got that, Kenny, even though I didn’t go to college.”
“The list is keyed into these records through the letter code.”
“The letter code being the name of the painting, yeah, I got that too, Ken.”
“The other stuff is what we call ‘provenance.’ ”
“We?”
“It’s the name for where the picture came from, its background and sales history.”
“And?”
“And so far they all ran through the same provenance. The same history. The Grange Foundation gives it to the Parker-Hale, who gets rid of it by selling it to the Hoffman Gallery, who then flogs it to private citizens like Kressman.”
“Who winds up being sliced to ribbons in his swimming pool.”
“You think the two things have anything to do with each other?”
“Lot of money.”
“But nothing’s been stolen.”
“Any way you can add up all the figures on those sheets?”
“I think so.” Kenny played with the computer for a few minutes. The figure appeared:
$273,570,000
“To one guy?” said Kenny. “Christ on a crutch!”
“I think we’re out of our depth here, Kenny,” said Izzy. “In deep water, you might say.” And then he laughed. Kenny didn’t think it was funny at all.
34
Eric Taschen’s apartment on Fifth Avenue was on the top floor of a mid-1940s building, facing Central Park with a spectacular view out over the Sheep Meadow and the Ramble. From what Valentine could tell the apartment itself was modest enough, five or six rooms, one bedroom with a study, but the location, the view and the art on the walls were definitely high end. A Warhol John Wayne silkscreen in the foyer, a Roy Lichtenstein taking up almost an entire wall in the living room and a crockery-plastered Julian Schnabel facing it. There were no obvious clues to his domestic situation, no telltale feminine touch, nothing that spoke overtly about a male presence either. At a guess, Taschen lived alone.
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