Sleeper

by Gene Riehl

  Monk forced a smile as the helicopter lifted suddenly, accelerating with a swoosh that he felt in the pit of his stomach. The District of Columbia swept past beneath them, but before long they crossed the Beltway into the dense forest of southeastern Pennsylvania. Monk had time, however, to notice the traffic, the gridlock below them on every street and highway. He glanced at Franklin and realized that despite his discomfort he was grateful for the ride.

  “Something to see, isn’t it?” Franklin said, his voice jolting Monk back to reality. “I’ve been commuting like this for years, and I still can’t get used to how quickly the city turns into country.”

  Monk nodded, but said nothing. The next twenty-seven minutes felt like two hours before the Sikorsky was descending toward the farm.

  “These are my woods,” Franklin said, pointing out the window. “I hated to cut even one tree down when I built the golf course. As it is, I probably should have cut more.” He grinned. “At least that’s what my golfing buddies tell me.”

  Monk watched as they hurtled past the golf course, the skeet range, the airstrip with the big Gulfstream jet in the same place it had been the other night, then the mansion itself, before making a sweeping turn. He looked for the front lawn, expecting to land there, but the chopper flew directly to the roof of the mansion instead. There was a helipad atop the only flat portion of the many different rooflines. A moment later they were hovering above the pad, then settling onto it. The pilot cut the engines. The rotors slowed to a stop. The copilot came around and opened the door.

  “Be ready in an hour,” Franklin told the young woman as they left the chopper. “You’ll be taking Agent Monk back to town when he’s finished here.” He turned to Monk. “An hour … will that be long enough for you?”

  Monk nodded, then followed Franklin into yet another elevator, and a few moments later they were downstairs on the main floor of the house. A tall woman—middle-aged, with short, stylish hair, and wearing a severe blue suit—stood waiting.

  “Mrs. Woods,” Franklin said to her. “I’d like you to meet Special Agent Monk of the FBI.” He turned to Monk. “My housekeeper,” he said. “Grace Woods.”

  She smiled and held out her hand. Monk took it. Her handshake was firm and dry. Monk could smell her perfume, a hint of jasmine. Her blue eyes appraised him without any suggestion she was impressed, and Monk wasn’t surprised. Considering the status of most of the people who passed through her house, it was a wonder she bothered offering her hand to an FBI agent at all.

  “Mrs. Woods runs the house,” Franklin said. “I’d be lost without her.”

  “It’s a pleasure,” Monk said. “I won’t disrupt your routine any longer than necessary.”

  “Anything you need,” she said, “just ask.”

  “What he needs,” Franklin told her, “is to see my bedroom.”

  Her eyebrows lifted, but just barely. “Of course. If you give me a moment, I’ll be glad to take you upstairs.”

  Monk turned to Franklin. “I would prefer to have you show me.”

  What I would really prefer is that you not get out of my sight before I see that secret room.

  Franklin’s eyes flickered for an instant before he smiled again, but Monk had seen his displeasure, and realized he was happy to see it. Franklin and his people were very good at smiling. Monk wondered what they were like when they weren’t.

  “I’d be happy to take you upstairs,” Franklin said. “Please follow me.” He turned to Monk and this time his eyes were dead flat. “Although I’m sure you remember the way.”

  Franklin led as the three of them climbed the sweeping main staircase to the second floor, and on to the top floor. They walked down the wide corridor—across the collection of Persian carpets, past the alcoves with the marble statuary Monk had admired the other night—to the open double doors of the master bedroom. Not locked today, Monk saw. He glanced at the potted tree next to the doors. It would be nice to get a moment alone to retrieve his lock picks.

  Franklin took them straight into the panic room. The door slid closed behind them. Franklin touched a key on the keyboard under the closed-circuit TV monitors, and Monk heard the secret-room door slide open around the corner of the L. They moved around the corner and into the private gallery. Franklin turned to Monk.

  “Now,” he said, “you say the da Vinci was in here, in this room.”

  “It was in here … but I didn’t actually see it while I was in here.”

  Franklin frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “I didn’t see it until I was back out in the panic room. On one of the monitors.” Monk looked up at the ceiling. “Show me where the cameras are and I’ll get my bearings.”

  “There are only two.” Franklin pointed to their left, at a small camera mounted on the wall just beneath the ceiling. “That one covers the front of the room, up here where we’re standing. The second one is halfway back.” He pointed again. “There.” He started toward the back of the room. “Come along, I’ll show you.”

  Monk followed him. He looked for the paintings he’d seen on the monitor the other night. He recognized the Jackson Pollock immediately, and turned to his right. There it was, the Madonna he’d seen. He took two steps toward the painting on the easel in front of him.

  “Here,” he said. “Here it is right …”

  Monk’s voice died.

  He stared at the painting in front of him. He stepped right up and touched the frame. It wasn’t the da Vinci, not the Madonna with the Yarn Winder, not any kind of Madonna at all. He scowled. Damn it. The painting was similar. The same size, the same muted Renaissance colors. A religious theme, a saint of some kind, but decidedly not the mother of God. Franklin coughed quietly, and Monk forced himself to turn to the man.

  “This isn’t it,” he said. He looked around the room. “I’m … I’m confused. This is the only room, the only private gallery?”

  “The only one, I’m afraid.”

  Monk glanced to his left. “Do you mind if I look around? Make sure I haven’t lost my bearings?”

  “Take all the time you need.”

  Monk started with the Pollock, then moved to his left, all the way to the far end of the room, his eyes examining the paintings. He touched the frames of a couple of them, absentmindedly brushed away an inch-long streak of dust from the largest of the frames. He toured the entire gallery, then stood staring at the floor. This time Franklin didn’t bother to cough, but Monk knew he had to be staring. That he and his housekeeper both had to be staring. Again Monk forced himself to turn around and face them.

  TWENTY-TWO

  “Mary Anne!” Steve Batcholder said, when Sung Kim pulled her white Dodge Grand Caravan up to the guard shack at the entrance to Battle Valley Farm. “What are you doing back here so soon?”

  The size of the gate guard’s smile showed that he wasn’t a bit disappointed to see her again, as he glanced over Sung Kim’s shoulder at the plants and flowers in the back of the van.

  “What was it?” he said, “Two days ago? Three?” He laughed. “Look at me, asking you … when I’m the one who’s getting paid to keep track.”

  Sung Kim tossed her long brown hair. “The day before yesterday, and I’m flattered you care.”

  Steve blushed, then turned away for a moment before looking at her again. He was clearly flustered by her flirting, and why wouldn’t he be? She’d spent almost as much time learning to use her sexuality as she had learning how to kill.

  “I …” he began, then started over. “I don’t really get too many through here I do care about.” Steve straightened his tie and ran a hand through his thick black hair. “Not many who look as good as you, I mean.”

  Sung Kim stretched through the van’s open window to touch his hand. “I could say the same thing, you know.”

  His face got even redder before he shook his head and changed the subject.

  “Good thing you’re here today,” he told her. “Better hope you won’t have to come ba
ck soon.”

  She arranged her features in a look of surprise. “Why? What’s going on?” Steve glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the mansion in the distance, then turned back to her and lowered his voice. “I don’t know who’s coming, but the Secret Service has been all over this place for days.”

  “I was wondering why Mr. Franklin wanted so many plants and flowers.” She looked at him. “I don’t know when I’ll be back … it’s not really up to me. You know the man. He’s liable to call me at midnight tonight and order more.” And he was likely to call, Sung Kim knew, although Franklin’s needs had nothing to do with flowers.

  “Well, if you do have to come, just be ready for a real hassle.” He pointed at the ID badge pinned to her white smock, the badge she made it a habit to wear to the farm because she never knew when the Secret Service would be around. “I know you always have your badge, but be sure not to forget it. Even I won’t be able to get you in without it.” Then he gestured toward the plants behind her. “And make sure what you bring isn’t too delicate. The Secret Service people will manhandle your flowers until there won’t be anything left of them.”

  She nodded. “Thanks for the heads-up. I hope I don’t have to come back that soon, but if I do, you can be sure I’ll be ready.”

  And Steve could count on that, Sung Kim thought, as she smiled one last time, then waved at him before stepping on the gas and heading through the gate toward the mansion. A few minutes later, she was at the rear of the big house, at the delivery door, and ringing the bell. To her surprise, the door was answered by Grace Woods herself. Thomas Franklin’s impressive housekeeper was frowning.

  “He specifically asked to talk with you today, Mary Anne,” she said, “but I don’t want you taking a lot of his time. We’re very busy, and he’s a little …” Grace appeared to be looking for the right word to use with the hired help. “Mr. Franklin’s a little testy today. He’s in his office with the door closed, but I’ve already heard his voice a couple of times. Didn’t sound happy.”

  Sung Kim nodded. “I’ll only be a few minutes.”

  Grace gestured toward the front of the house. “He’s waiting for you, but stop and check with me on your way out. We’ll need some special floral arrangements in the next few days. I want to make sure we choose exactly the right things.”

  Sung Kim smiled. “Of course. Anything I can do to help.”

  Franklin was sitting behind his desk when she entered his office, but rose quickly to come around the desk and meet her before she got there. She took one look at his face and guessed what had happened, and that it was going to take all her skill to work him through this thing.

  “Damn it, Mary Anne, what took you so long?”

  Sung Kim reached out and touched his arm. “I was in the middle of a delivery, Thomas.” She smiled and moved up close to him, only a few inches from his face. “You want me on a shorter leash, you’ve got to hire me full time.”

  He scowled. “Yeah, that’s all I need. People are already wondering why I need so goddamned many flowers.”

  “You could make an honest woman of me.” Still teasing, but he didn’t even smile. As a matter of fact, he looked awful. His eyes were lifeless, as if someone had drained all the fluid out of them, and he was shifting from foot to foot in a way she couldn’t ever remember seeing. “What’s the matter, Thomas?” She took his arm and tried to lead him toward the chairs near the fireplace, but he shook her hand away.

  “The FBI was here again,” he said. “Puller Monk. The same agent as Saturday night.” He stared at the floor before looking up at her. “We’ve got a problem, Mary Anne … a big problem.”

  Sung Kim looked away, toward the windows beyond the desk, and the golf course across the driveway. It was important to play this just right. She turned back to Franklin.

  “Tell me what happened. Exactly what happened.”

  Franklin turned toward the chairs, then walked slowly to the closest one and sat. Sung Kim followed and sat in the other one. She listened as Franklin told her about Puller Monk showing up at his office downtown and his insistence on looking for the da Vinci. The helicopter ride out here, and the rest of it.

  “I moved it out of the vault right after I talked to you,” he said. “I moved all of them out of there.”

  “So he saw nothing.”

  “But he didn’t buy it … I could tell from the way he went all through the vault.” He hesitated. “Monk will be back, Mary Anne. The bureau will be back. And when they do, they’re going to …” He stopped and shook his head. “We’ve got to …” Again he stopped, and suddenly his voice was a lot tougher. “I’m not going to let him destroy me.”

  Good, Sung Kim thought. She needed him tough. For a few more days he had to stay tough.

  “He’s not going to destroy anybody. Your nosy agent was on a fishing expedition. If Monk had any evidence, he’d have come with a search warrant. You and I would already be in jail.”

  “That’s what I keep telling myself, but …”

  “But nothing. It’s over.”

  “You sound so damned sure.”

  “I’m a thief, Thomas, a professional, and I know exactly what happened. Trust me, Monk wasn’t sent to your party to conduct an illegal search. There wouldn’t be any point. As a matter of fact, what he did would destroy their case.”

  Franklin stared at her. “A coincidence? He just happened to show up after the robbery? Just happened to walk into the vault where I put the da Vinci?” Franklin shook his head. “Give me a fucking break.”

  She knew better than to argue. Especially when he was dead right. “So what do you want to do about it?”

  “Get the da Vinci out of here, for one thing. Get the other five out of here.” He rose from his chair. “You’re right about one thing, Mary Anne. If Monk had any evidence, he wouldn’t have asked for my consent to search. If I get rid of the paintings, there’s no way any of this can come back to me. Or you, either.”

  Sung Kim nodded. “I’ll have them out of the house in an hour.” She grinned. “But before I do, I’ve got to put a smile back on your face.”

  Franklin frowned. “Now? Christ, Mary Anne, how can you think about …”

  His voice died as she stood and came to him, pushed him gently back down into his chair, and got on her knees in front of him. She reached for the zipper on his pants, but he deflected her hand.

  “No way,” he said. “Not after what’s happened. Even you aren’t that good.”

  She looked up at him, her brown eyes playful. “You know how I love a challenge.”

  “The door’s unlocked, Mary Anne.”

  “Someone could walk in,” she told him, staying with the game they always played. There wasn’t a chance in hell anyone would walk into Thomas Franklin’s office without his permission.

  But this time he shook his head. “You’re wasting your—”

  He stopped abruptly as her hand found his flaccid penis and pulled it out of his pants. He was sure as hell right about his lack of motivation, Sung Kim saw, as she lowered her head and began to work with her lips and tongue. She couldn’t help thinking about the first time she’d done this to him, three and a half years ago in this very chair. She could still hear his tortured breathing, still see his eagerness to get it out of his pants, and feel his gasping release only moments after she’d started. No challenge in it at all, back then. This time it would take all her skill, but she had more than enough in reserve. More than enough to keep him firmly in line.

  Afterward, Sung Kim went back to her Dodge van for a wheeled cart filled with plants and floral arrangements, along with a folded canvas tarpaulin, then headed upstairs, where Franklin accompanied her from room to room as they placed the floral displays. The cart empty, their last stop was a locked room on the third floor, at the opposite end of the wide corridor from the master bedroom. Franklin had already boxed the six paintings, none of them large enough to attract any attention. He set the paintings on her cart and she cov
ered them with the tarpaulin from the van. Then he accompanied her back downstairs and out to the van.

  “Thanks, Mary Anne,” he said loudly, for the benefit of anyone who might be in a position to hear. “I get a lot of compliments about the flowers, and I owe it all to you.”

  “I still have to see Grace for a few minutes,” she told him, “before I leave.”

  “Good,” he said, then dropped his voice to barely above a whisper. “Then get these fucking paintings as far away from here as you can take them.”

  Steve Batcholder grinned and waved at Sung Kim as she drove through the main gate and turned right toward Washington. As soon as she got out of his sight she pulled over to the side of the road and reached into the console for a cell phone she tried never to use. She dialed a number that started an electronic signal that bounced off three satellites over a dozen countries before ending up in Paris. A voice answered in Korean. This time she and her controller had no need to speak English, although she still had to be circumspect.

  “There’s a problem at the farm,” she told him. “I suspect some kind of burrowing animal.”

  “I’ll need to know more, madam. Can you be a bit more specific?”

  It was the signal that the phone connection was secure, that she could be a bit less cryptic, although nowhere near the level of what they called plaintext.

  “We’ve had a visitor who seems to know all about this animal,” she said, “but he didn’t mention a specific name. Which makes it hard to treat the problem.”

  “Of course,” her controller replied. “We will make inquiries at this end and let you know. I’m certain we can take care of the situation before it gets out of control.”

  Inquiries. Just the word made Sung Kim shudder.

  “And our visitor?” she said. “Are you telling me there’s no longer any point keeping him around?”

  She listened to her controller’s blunt response, then nodded as he added a specific instruction. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, of course. I will make sure of that.”