Black Sand

by William Caunitz

  “We were on patrol looking for the suspect wanted in connection with the Vassos homicide when we responded to a radio message that the perp might be here,” Lucas said, casting a warning look at his men. “We entered, saw armed men running to the back, identified ourselves as police officers, at which point one of them turned and aimed a shotgun at us, necessitating the use of deadly physical force.”

  “Okay,” Edgeworth said, nodding satisfaction. “Evidence?”

  “We discovered two shopping bags filled with records,” Lucas said. “We haven’t had a chance to go through it all, but a cursory examination reveals records recording the theft, counterfeiting, and resale of art.”

  “No money?” Edgeworth asked.

  “None,” Lucas lied smoothly.

  “Was this evidence obtained as the result of an illegal search?” Edgeworth asked as he walked into the closet with the stairless staircase.

  Lucas and his men followed. “No, sir,” Lucas answered. “It was in plain view when we arrested McKay.”

  “Did McKay make any statements?” the chief asked.

  “Before we had a chance to read him his rights, he pleaded for us not to kill him and claimed that he sent Cuttler and Simmons to Greece only on Matrazzo’s orders.”

  “Good. Good,” Edgeworth said. “A res gestae confession, spontaneous and extemporaneous.” He looked at Lucas. “The Greek ambassador telephoned me. They want no mention of Major Vassos in any of this. As far as anyone is concerned he was the victim of a robbery attempt.”

  Lucas said, “I understand.”

  “Anything else I should be made cognizant of?” the chief asked.

  “No, sir,” Lucas said, turning to look at Ulanov. “Ivan, the van is still blocking the entrance. One of our radios is still missing. Will you see if you can locate it?”

  “Sure, Lou,” Ulanov said, and quickly walked away.

  Emergency Service trucks cordoned off Ninth Avenue between Forty-eighth and Fiftieth streets. The department’s searchlight truck illuminated the building. Scruffy people leaned out of windows, watching the free show. Ulanov climbed up into the surveillance van and, bending, made his way inside, lowering himself to the stool in front of the communication console. “Mobile One to Mobile Five, K.” Only static cracked in response from the speakers.

  “Sergei Sergeyevich, where the hell are you?” Ulanov radioed in Russian.

  Police Commissioner Franklin Vaughn arrived at the scene at 2:47 A.M. accompanied by two men. One of them was a big mean-looking man around fifty dressed in a single-breasted seersucker suit with pleated trousers; he casually twirled a Panama hat on one finger. The other one was tall and thin, midforties, dressed in a dark blue suit; he had busy eyes that missed nothing and blow-dried brown hair streaked with gray at the sides.

  “You and your men did a good job, Lieutenant,” the PC said, nodding his approval at Big Jay and Gregory. “I’m going to see that all the detectives who worked on this case get grade money.” Motioning the two civilians over, Vaughn made the introductions. “This is Mr. Warren Cribb of the National Institute for the Fine Arts. And this is Mr. August Hayden of the State Department’s Bureau of Diplomatic Security,” the PC said, pointing to the man in the Panama hat.

  Oozing forced affability, Hayden said, “You did a good piece of police work, Lou.”

  Hayden talked with the gruff sureness of a cop. Lucas studied him for a long moment and said, “You sound like you might have been on the Job.”

  “Georgia State Police for ten years. I left there for a stint with the U. S. Marshal Service. And now I’m with State.”

  Looking Hayden in the eye, Lucas said, “I’ve heard of Diplomatic Security.”

  Hayden gave him a thoroughly unpleasant smile.

  Warren Cribb, the man from the National Institute for the Fine Arts, stepped forward to pump Lucas’s hand. “Your country and your department can be proud of you, Lieutenant. You and your men have enriched our cultural heritage.”

  Lucas hurled a quizzical look at the C of D, who shrugged ignorance.

  “I don’t understand. Enriched what cultural heritage?” Lucas said, his mistrust growing.

  “Alexander’s Iliad, Lieutenant,” Cribb said. “You’ve rediscovered a lost national treasure.”

  Lucas forced himself to remain calm. “I thought it belonged to Greece.”

  “That’s a matter for the courts, Lou,” Hayden said, “not a couple of cops like us. Besides, the Greeks think that they have a claim on everything ever dug up in their country.”

  “I see,” Lucas said, stealing a look at his detectives.

  Big Jay spit out the unlit cigar.

  “Actually, my understanding is that Paolo Matrazzo legally purchased it in 1939 and surreptitiously shipped it into this country,” Hayden said, twirling his hat.

  Cribb burst out angrily: “We have legal justification for taking Alexander’s Iliad into our possession. I can assure you, Lieutenant, that the National Institute for the Fine Arts is above reproach.”

  Bullshit, Lucas thought. Aloud: “I’m sure it is, Mr. Cribb, but you see, we don’t have it.”

  “You don’t have it?” barked the PC. “I was told that the case had been broken. What the hell is going on here?”

  C of D Edgeworth stepped forward. “A communication foul-up. We got the perps but the big cheese got away. We’ll have him before the day is out.”

  “Does he have the casket-copy with him?” Hayden asked.

  Thinking fast, Lucas said, “I don’t think so. He didn’t have time to come back here to get it.”

  “Then you believe it’s hidden somewhere in this building?” Cribb asked, rubbing his hands in anticipation.

  “Yes, sir, I do,” Lucas said. “Secreted upstairs, someplace.”

  “Didn’t you search for it?” Hayden asked, watching the lieutenant’s eyes.

  “You should know better than to ask that, Hayden. We didn’t have a search warrant. We put too much work into this caper to have it go out the window because we didn’t take the time to get a warrant,” Lucas said, meeting Hayden’s searching stare.

  “But your police commissioner told us that you retrieved a lot of evidence,” Cribb said.

  “We only seized what we saw out in the open,” Lucas said, going on to explain, “Whenever a police officer makes an arrest he may take possession of any evidence that is in plain view but is required to get a warrant to search further.”

  “Well, we’re not police officers,” Hayden said. “How do we get upstairs?”

  Lucas pointed to the staircase. “Put your feet on the risers, grab hold of the banister, and climb.”

  Hayden put on his Panama and began to climb the staircase without stairs. His face soon turned red and sweat began dripping off him. Lucas turned and moved out into the bar, followed by his two detectives.

  “Two untrustworthy types,” Gregory observed to Big Jay.

  “Uptown we’d call them a couple of hoodoo cunts,” Big Jay said, spitting out a snippet of tobacco. Lucas headed for the van.

  “Mobile Five, do you read this unit, K?” Ulanov radioed, tapping his knuckles over the control board.

  “Mobile One, pick up your land line, K,” Central ordered.

  “Ten-four.” Ulanov looked around for the cellular telephone and, not seeing it, remembered that they had secured it in the locker before the raid. He got off the stool and retrieved the instrument from the locker. As soon as he switched it on it began ringing.

  “Detective Ulanov.”

  The frazzled rush of air that came over the line was punctuated by clanging electronic sounds, then came an accented voice speaking in careful English: “Lieutenant Lucas, please.”

  “He’s not here. Can I help you?”

  “I am Lieutenant Suslov, and I am telephoning from Moscow. I have an urgent message from Colonel Sergei Nashin for Lieutenant Teddy Lucas.”

  Ulanov took out his pen and, reaching for the notepad, said in Russian, “You did say, M
oscow?”

  “Da. Moskva.”

  22

  Manhattan’s jagged profile shimmered under the rising morning sun as surveillance van 124 sped east on the Long Island Expressway. Ulanov steered it off the parkway at Woodhaven Boulevard and headed south at high speed. Lucas grinned nervously as Ulanov twisted the wheel, dodging around a taxi and a bus, arousing a host of angry horns as he fought his way through traffic. “You sure of the location?” Lucas asked.

  “Yep.”

  “From Moscow?”

  “Yep.”

  Lucas raised the radio to his mouth. “Big Jay?”

  “Yeah?”

  “They miss us yet?”

  “Negative.”

  Lucas lowered the radio to his lap.

  Ulanov made a sharp left turn on Myrtle Avenue and drove through Forest Park, exiting onto Park Lane South, continuing around the circle to Park Lane where he made a left up the driveway leading to the parking lot of the park’s administrative offices. He made a sharp turn in the lot and stopped the van alongside a black Chevy Monte Carlo with diplomatic license plates. Lucas pushed open the door and got out, leaving Ulanov monitoring transmissions.

  The parking lot was on a hill overlooking a section of Kew Gardens Hills, an exclusive enclave of well-manicured lawns and gardens and large expensive houses ranging in style from 1930s Tudor to ersatz Palladian. All was quiet in the clear light of the new day.

  Sliding into the Monte Carlo’s passenger seat, Lucas said, “Good morning, Sergei.”

  Nashin angrily shook the police department radio at Lucas’s tired face. “Your radio stinks. I can receive, but I can’t send.”

  “Happens, even in the Soviet Union.”

  Nashin’s weary face betrayed his deep sadness. “I’m sorry about Andreas. He was a good policeman.”

  Lucas closed his eyes and sucked in a mouthful of cool morning air. “Yes, he was a good policeman. And a good man.” He shifted in the seat, struggling to control his emotions. “What happened to you?”

  “We followed McKay to a meeting at the top of the World Trade Center. I got pictures of him with Matrazzo. When they left the building, I decided to follow the new man, not knowing who he was at the time. We tailed him to the Plaza and watched him go inside. I assumed that you would be there for the meet with Nina Pazza, so I stationed myself on Central Park South, across the street in the taxi stand where I could watch both exits. When I heard you pull Leone off of Widener, I dispatched my two men to take his place.”

  “Good move,” Lucas interjected.

  “When I heard your emergency transmission and then saw Matrazzo leave the hotel and jump into a taxi, I did what any policeman would do; I followed him.”

  “Where is he now?”

  Nashin pointed to a large stone house with leaded windows, rich ornamental details, and a slate-covered roof. The house was near the corner, at the top of a lawn that sloped down to the street.

  Lucas reached inside his jacket and took out the Beretta. He ejected the magazine and checked the number of rounds in the clip. Satisfied, he shoved the magazine back into the housing and, leaning forward in his seat, reached behind his back and stuck the automatic into his belt, to the right of his spine. Reaching down in front, he drew his .38 detective special from its in-trouser holster, checked to see it was fully loaded, and replaced it. “What was with that call from Moscow?”

  “I couldn’t leave this location and there are no public phones around, so …” He reached under his seat and pulled out an instrument that was shaped like and about the size of a hardcover book, with a recessed computer keyboard and a four-inch-long liquid crystal display on the top. “A burst transmitter radio, direct to Moscow. I had to wait until four o’clock when our relay satellite comes into orbit. Moscow Center relayed my message to you.”

  Lucas looked at him, a sardonic smile on his lips. “Standard equipment for the cop on the beat. Our job’s changing, my friend.” He pushed open the door and turned when he heard footsteps approaching.

  Ulanov, who had come over from the van, thrust a radio transceiver at him. “They’re calling you.”

  “Big Jay?” Lucas queried.

  “You’ve been missed. They’re sending out the hounds.”

  “Ten-four.” Lucas passed the set back to Ulanov. “Wait here with Sergei.”

  “I wanna come with you, Lou,” Ulanov said.

  “It’s my endgame, Ivan,” Lucas said.

  Folding his big frame into the passenger seat, Ulanov said, “Good morning, comrade.”

  Lucas drove the van out of the lot and across the street, straight into the winding driveway of the house. Tires crunching on the gravel in the parking area, the van lurched to a stop. Lucas leaped out, heading toward the vine-covered entrance portico.

  The heavy door was open, the sound of a Mozart divertimento coming from somewhere inside the house. He cautiously went inside and found himself in a ground-floor foyer that had a black-and-gray marble floor. He walked quietly over the carpet of the long hallway that led off the foyer, past heavy wood doors, and into a huge oblong room with a wall of French doors opening onto an emerald lawn with a towering weeping willow. A large tapestry, depicting a lush savanna and tropical birds, hung over a stone fireplace on the wall opposite the French doors.

  Following the sound of the music, he moved through a formal dining room with two crystal chandeliers and found himself standing in front of a closed door. The Mozart was clearly coming from the room on the other side of the door.

  Uncomfortably aware of the smell of his own unwashed body and the sweat pouring down his sides as well as the foul, “late-tour” taste in his mouth, Lucas drew his .38, threw open the door, and crouched inside in a firing stance.

  On guard, he trained his revolver around the room. He had never been in such a strange place; the cavernous chamber had four granite pillars which reached up to support a vaulted ceiling. Sitting on a wooden folding chair next to one of the pillars, a tape deck played Mozart.

  Display cases were arranged in a circle inside what was obviously some sort of shrine. All the tops were open; a dolly was on the floor inside the circle and strapped onto it were twenty-six unfurled papyrus scrolls encased between thick sheets of glass. His heart pounding, Lucas moved inside the ring, continuing to move his pointing gun around the room. Seeing that he was alone, Lucas knelt down beside the dolly.

  Eyes wide with wonderment, he looked down at the ancient Greek words. He started to touch one, but jerked his hand back as though afraid of committing sacrilege. And then, slowly, reverently, he placed his palm on one and was immediately overcome by feelings that he could not have described.

  The music stopped abruptly.

  Lucas knelt in the sudden and ominous silence, apprehension freezing on his face. He turned to assume a prone firing position.

  Matrazzo stepped out from behind a column in back of the policeman, a .45 automatic pointing at the back of Lucas’s head.

  “You might try and get a round off before I blow your head apart, Lieutenant, but you’ll be dead before you turn around. Now! Put your weapon down and slide it back to me.”

  Lucas looked across the room at the silent tape deck.

  “I pulled the plug,” Matrazzo said. “Extension cords are so helpful, don’t you think?”

  Lucas hesitated, and then reluctantly put his revolver on the floor and pushed it behind him. Matrazzo picked it up and stuck it in his belt. “You may now get up, but keep your hands clasped behind your head.”

  Standing, Lucas said, “You know you’re playing with half a deck, don’t you?”

  Matrazzo’s hand holding the gun was shaking from the man’s barely controlled rage; his eyes were icy. “Don’t you dare call me crazy, you pathetic civil servant. My father was a great man. I devoted my life to reclaiming what was his and is now mine. Now! Push the dolly through that door.” He motioned to a solid wood door between two leaded windows. “My treasure is going with me.”

  �
��You’re going to forge the casket-copy and sell the fake,” Lucas said, not moving. “And you’re betting that a certain museum is so anxious to have it that they’ll never even notice they’re buying a fake.”

  “Very astute of you. It will take me about twenty months to do a good job. I’ll make my own ink. I intend to sell both the casket-copy and the commentary. Thanks to your meddling, certain people in the art world are foaming at the mouth to get their greedy hands on the scrolls. I’ve already been in touch with some Japanese who fancy themselves collectors. They’re willing to pay up to sixty million. And I’ll get to keep the real ones. Now move the cart.”

  Bending, Lucas pushed the wheeled cart into a breezeway connecting the house and a stone garage.

  “Inside the garage,” Matrazzo ordered, treading softly behind the lieutenant.

  A station wagon was sticking halfway out of the front of the garage. It was set back from the main house, at the end of a parterre, with an asphalt lane winding down into the main driveway. It was too far back and off to the side for Ulanov and Sergei to see his deadly predicament. Easy does it, kiddo, easy does it. Wait for the right moment, Lucas counseled himself, looking around the garage. Gardening tools and an aluminum ladder hung from the wall, and there was a lawn mower on the floor next to two red gasoline cans with yellow bands around their centers.

  “Start loading them into the back,” Matrazzo ordered.

  Lucas held back. Matrazzo waved the .45. “I’ll splatter you all over the floor and walls. Move!”

  Lucas unbuckled the belt securing the plates on the dolly. He slid his hands under three of them and picked them up, commenting, “They’re in a remarkable state of preservation.”

  “The ancients knew how to reserve their heritage. Now, stop stalling and load.”

  Lucas lugged the plates over to the back of the station wagon. Bracing his knee under the plates, he tried to open the rear door. “It’s locked,” he lied, struggling to get his load back to the dolly.