#37 (picker mysteries)

by Scott Soloff

  Drop the shovel, take the gun back, grab her hand and run for the barn door. Once outside I whisper, "Did you get the keys?"

  "Yes."

  "Give me his cell phone. There's the van. Get in it and go."

  She looks worried. "What about you."

  "I'll be right behind you. Just go, now."

  Kelly hops into the van and starts it up. I run up towards the house and get cover behind a large oak.

  Sure enough, just as I thought, Gunman A comes running out of the main house and points his gun at the van. He’s going to shoot Kelly! I step around the tree, lift the gun with both hands and fire. Once in the chest. He drops.

  I don't hesitate. I run up the steps, swing the door open and turn left, then right. Standing ten feet from me is what I can only describe as a very elegant gentleman. Tall, mature, well kept. White hair combed straight back. The suit must cost at least five grand.

  "Ah, Mr. Picker, how nice to finally meet you." Slight French accent.

  "Wish I could say the same. Empty your pockets, carefully."

  He places his keys, wallet and phone on the dining room table. No gun. Interesting. Must be upper management.

  I tell him to step back. I place his items into my pocket and snap his picture with B's cell phone.

  "Mr. Picker, I think that maybe you are making a big mistake."

  "Why do people keep telling me that?" I lead him over to the basement door, very nicely suggest that he goes downstairs and lock the door behind him.

  The painting’s on the table in the dining room. It's not the "real" one, but I don't want them to know that. I grab it. Outside is a brand new Chevy sedan. Inconspicuous. These boys, whoever they are, are very sharp. Give credit where credit is due.

  Throw the painting into the back seat, start that sucker up and the get the hell out of Dodge.

  September 1975 New York City-Next Day

  4:00am at the Guggenheim.

  Price was in the conservation room removing 'Montagnes a Saint-Remy' from the frame. A few days earlier he had ordered six paintings taken down for examination and possible care. He placed Van Gogh's masterpiece side by side with the copy. Looking from one to the other it was clear that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to distinguish them apart without scientific analysis. Hell, he couldn’t tell, and he was an expert. The tension drained from his shoulders. For the first time since this nightmare began it appeared as if they might pull it off.

  "Sherry, I'm expecting a package at the front desk at noon. Please be there to receive it when it arrives." That was a little more than sixteen hours ago. Price wanted to make sure that the only person to handle it was his secretary.

  In Philadelphia that morning a white cargo van pulled up in front of Simon's antique shop. Two men got out. The driver was DeAngelo's eldest son, Anthony, Jr. The other a nephew.

  Simon opened the front door to the shop. The two boys removed a small antique chest of drawers and loaded it onto the van. A Schwinn bicycle was the only other item in the rear of the van.

  Simon handed Anthony, Jr. a clipboard. "There's a black messenger tube in the bottom drawer of the chest. Park three blocks away from the museum. Deliver the tube to the front desk and have them sign for it. Give the receptionist the pink copy. And Anthony, this is the most important bit; make sure that it is there at twelve sharp. Not earlier, not a minute later. Twelve on the nose."

  Anthony, Jr. was a handsome young man. He smiled and said, "No problem, Mr. Jones. Don't you worry now."

  Simon liked the plan. Like DeAngelo had said, simple and elegant. Very few moving parts. The painting stayed in their hands till the very last minute. Brilliant.

  The most risky aspect of this phase was about to begin. Personally, Price thought this part was either completely insane or genius. He spent the next couple of hours placing the copy into the original frame. Once finished, the faux Van Gogh was placed in the storage spot in the conservation room once held by the original.

  Next was the dicey part. He carefully wrapped the real masterpiece and sealed it in a cardboard box. This box was then placed into a larger cardboard box. The space between the two boxes was then stuffed with styrofoam peanuts. With a black marker he addressed the box:

  Olde World Antiques

  919 Pine Street

  Philadelphia, PA

  Price took the box up to his office. It was now seven in the morning. No one would be in until about nine o'clock. He put on a pot of coffee; shaved with an electric razor and put on a clean white shirt. The box with the hundred million dollar painting would not leave his sight until the last possible minute.

  He picked up the phone and got an outside line. "Sophia darling, I'm sorry. I worked late at the office and passed out in my chair. Perhaps you could come into town and join me for lunch?"

  Price buzzed his secretary at nine-ten. She stepped into his office."Sherry, please post this box immediately."

  "Insurance?"

  "A thousand dollars for art supplies." Just enough that the post office would handle it with care. Not enough to cause suspicion.

  Sherry closed the door behind her. Price leaned back in his chair and let out a huge breath.

  "My God, what have I done?"

  Special agent man

  I took a sip of my coffee.

  I empty my pockets and push the items across the formica table top to TJ. "There are pictures of the bad guys on the cell. Send them to Connor along with the numbers stored in the phone."

  Pushing the Chevy hard had brought me out to Route 30 in Lancaster County. At the first red light I pulled out Frenchie's phone and called TJ. They had already found Kelly and stopped at a twenty-four hour diner in Wayne.

  TJ: "Use the anonymous site?"

  "Screw that, we don't have time. Encrypt everything and upload it to Amazon S3. Call Connor on the phone. He has what he needs to access everything. Tell him that this is urgent."

  TJ and Jaw-long were on their way to Tai-Chi when Moe popped up. They were racing down Lancaster Avenue when Kelly called him after her escape. Knowing how I enjoy eating after a crisis, they stopped at Minella's to wait until I turned up.

  "Pick, who were those guys?" Kelly asks.

  "No idea. Can't keep track of the players because I don't have a score card. Nothing makes sense. The only thing that I know for certain is that Doo Wop was killed. Somehow, someone found out about the existence of #37. After that I'm completely lost. How did they know to come after me? Why are these different types of guys coming after us? The Gunn brothers are nothing but South Philly low life. Then two rogue FBI agents. Now professional thugs. There are only two conclusions that I can reach. The first is that whoever is behind this is not well organized. He does not have an organization in place. The other conclusion is that he is both well funded and even connected. Other than that, I'm lost."

  "What now, boss?" Jaw spoke. Jeez, who would of thought? Boss?

  "Simple. We back track. Find out who leaked the existence of 'Millie' and work from there. And, if we're lucky, Connor may have something for us by the end of the day."

  Kelly: "What about right now?"

  "Finish breakfast."

  "And after that?" asks TJ.

  "Drop Kelly and me off at home. I don't want to drive these vehicles, just leave them here."

  Jaw: "Boss, what about the dead body? And the prints on the car and van?" Unbelievable. Aren't we talkative today?

  "Don't worry about them. If I'm not mistaken, no body will ever be found. The car and van won't be reported missing, for that matter. Just leave them."

  Thirty minutes later Kelly and I walked into my house. Kato jumped up, placed his paws on my chest and gave me a kiss.

  "Nice to see you, too, but you know better than that." For the rest of the day that poor dog didn't leave my side.

  It was still early in the day. I walked over to the mantle, placed the Glock there, opened the humidor and grabbed a cigar. Stuck it between my teeth and chewed on it. I dropped onto t
he sofa and felt the energy drain right out of me. Kelly plopped down next to me.

  "Well?" she said.

  "Let me guess. You want to hear about my brother."

  "Sure. We have time."

  "Well, there's not too much to tell at this point. We left the solicitor’s office and walked back to The Ritz. Went into their bar and drank some twenty-five year old scotch and fired up two more Cubans." Talking about cigars, I decided to light mine. "In one pocket I had a folded copy of my father's will. In another pocket was the DVD that I supposed my father had made. My pants pocket held the keys to who knows what. At this point in time, the only thing that seemed important to me was to get to know the brother that I didn't know I had."

  Kelly pulled her legs up under her, turned sideways to look at me and placed her arm on the back of the sofa. "What can you tell me about him?"

  "I'm not exactly sure how to categorize what Connor does for a living. Hell, that's not true. He's a con man. But not just any con man. From what I understand, he only goes after the wealthy. After a successful 'job', a portion of the proceeds goes into an account in order to draw salaries, pay overhead and fund future endeavors. Just like any business enterprise. The rest is distributed to those that are less fortunate. Poor people.

  "Connor's father was an extremely successful international con man who bordered on sociopathy. His mother is a great beauty devoted to humane causes. As a result, Connor's shrink says that he suffers from a skewed moral perspective. In lay terms, he has a Robin Hood Complex."

  She looked puzzled. "He sees a shrink? What the hell for?"

  "Hell if I know. To me he seems pretty together, but what do I know. Everybody has their 'stuff' and I guess he goes to a shrink to deal with his."

  Just then the phone rang.

  "Picker, old boy, it's me!" Connor.

  "Nice to hear your voice, bro. How the hell are you? What have you got for me?"

  "Great, never better. But you, quite the pickle, eh? Fill me in."

  I spent the next half hour telling Connor the entire story. "Well, well, well. Then perhaps what I have will be useful. Mr. No Name turns out to work for Interpol."

  This is what he told me: Robert Simmons, forty-two years old, originally a Brooklyn kid turned New York City Policeman. Recruited by the Federal Bureau of Investigation, followed by a short stint at the National Security Agency. Two years ago he went to work for International Criminal Police Organization, better known as Interpol.

  Connor continued, “At the present, his group is charged with tracking down a really big fish. I couldn't get details on the exact target of the investigation. I did, however, learn the identity of your Frenchman. LaVache. Jean Pierre LaVache. Very cool dude, as you Yanks would say." Connor likes Americanisms. "Very cool, but very, very bad. Apparently, he directs a great deal of criminal activity, but from a distance. He, himself, never gets his hands dirty. LaVache has no criminal record. Not even a parking ticket. As you have often said, his fingers are not in the pie."

  "Well, brother, they are this time. Anything else?"

  "Not yet, I'm working on the other photos and tracking those phone numbers. Let you know as soon as I know something."

  "Thanks, greatly appreciated."

  "One last thing. You want some help? I'd be glad to hop the pond, lend a hand."

  "No, I'm good. Thanks for the offer. Send my love to your mother. Talk soon."

  Connor hung up and I turned to Kelly. She shrugged her shoulders. "How does Connor get all of this information?"

  "As benign as it is, he has a criminal organization all his own. When I say organization, I mean it’s more like a group of talented people that cooperate with one another from time to time. For this stuff, he does business with a German hacker. World class, one of the best. Back doors into government and large business data bases. I only know him by his first name, Eckhart. I met him once, briefly."

  At that moment, the doorbell rang. Finally, someone with some manners. I get up and open the door. It's Mr. No Name himself.

  "Mr. Simmons, what can I do for you today?"

  The Interpol agent looks momentarily stunned but recovers quickly. "Very impressive Mr. Picker, very impressive indeed. May I come in for a few moments?"

  "Sure. Robert Simmons, this is Kelly Lane. Can I get you something to drink?"

  "Coffee would be great."

  We sat in the living room. Kelly went to put on some coffee. RS started right in, "Mr. Picker, as I've just said, what you've done is very impressive. But the truth is that you're playing out of your league. To be perfectly frank, I don't understand how you're still alive."

  "It's just Picker, no mister. I'm flattered Bob, but that doesn't tell me what you're doing here. What interest does Interpol have in the murder of a local nobody?"

  "Two things really. The first is to inform you that we are investigating a successful, international criminal organization. Well, not so much a criminal organization as a criminal enterprise."

  I gave him a quick smile. "You mean LaVache?"

  For the second time this morning Interpol's Special Agent Robert Simmons looked stunned. This time he did not recover so quickly. "Yes and no. You continue to surprise me Picker. I don't have any idea how you can be so well informed. But to answer your question, yes, we're on LaVache's trail. However, LaVache is not the big fish. Jean Pierre is someone's lieutenant; most likely he's the second in command."

  "And the second thing?"

  "We want to know how you're involved. Why are they coming after you?"

  Kelly brought the coffee in and set it down. We all helped ourselves.

  "Honestly Special Agent, I have no idea. You are in possession of all the facts that I have. Possibly the only thing that I can add is what the two FBI agents said when they broke in. They said that they wanted the painting. They did not specify what painting they were looking for."

  I glanced over my shoulder at the wall of paintings. "I have one valuable painting that was left to me by my father."

  SARS: "Which one?"

  "The Van Gogh."

  He stands up and moves closer to the paintings. "I know that one. I've seen it in a museum."

  "The one in the museum is a copy. The one that you're looking at is the real McCoy. And before you ask, Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum expressed absolutely no interest in it."

  Bob chuckled. "Is that what you named those two guys in your head?"

  "Yeah, that's before I had names for them."

  He looks over at the mantle and says, "Nice Glock."

  My response, "Not mine. Picked it up this morning from a couple of guys that stopped in. The serial number hasn't been disturbed, so it's probably registered legally. Take it with you; see what you can find out."

  "Thanks, I will. One last thing before I go. Outing those two on the web didn't exactly make you any friends."

  "I didn't do it to make friends."

  I asked him how long he was going to be in town. When he said a few days, I walked over to my desk and retrieved two more tickets to the next Phillies game. I handed them to him and said, "Maybe you can catch a game while you're here."

  This seemed to take him aback just a little bit. He paused for a moment as though he was considering something. Finally he handed me his card with his private cell written on the back and said, "If you need any help, call me."

  January 1976 Philadelphia

  "It's a boy."

  The doctor had just come from the delivery room. Simon had been pacing the waiting room. In some aspects, he was not a patient man and this was driving him insane. Uncle Moe, on the other hand, sat patiently reading an outdated magazine.

  "When can I see her doctor?"

  Moses Aronson had arrived in the States after the New Year. Simon had been traveling between the U.S. and Europe and had asked his uncle to keep a helpful eye on Emily and the baby. The simple truth was that he was not sure where he would settle. That decision was being put off for as long as possible.

  The d
octor appeared weary. It was the end of a long shift. "In a few minutes, after we get them cleaned up. The nurse will let you know."

  Simon was in a mild state of euphoria. Intuitively understanding that all of life was in constant flux; his natural instinct was to tap down his excitement. The Van Gogh arrived in the mail at the end of September the previous year. He marveled; the near perfect crime. No breaking and entry; no guns or force; no alarm systems to bypass. Best of all, no knowledge that a crime had been committed.

  In the end, all of this was no consolation. The tricky bit, phase two, was under way. And he still had to deal with Engelond.

  "You may go in now." Somehow, even after long hours, nurses always managed to look happy after the delivery of a child.

  The successful theft of one of the world's great masterpieces dimmed in comparison to meeting Emily. Simon was in love. And now, a beautiful baby boy.

  He leaned over, kissed Emily and whispered in her ear. He turned around, took his son and held him. Simon was delirious. He could not believe how happy he was.

  "Well, lassie, what will you be namin’ the wee one?"

  Emily recalled when she first met Moses. She gave him a big hug. "Uncle Moe, I've heard so much about you. This is such a pleasure."

  "No, gearrchaile, I believe that the pleasure is mine."

  She leaned in to him and stood on her tip toes. "Is that Borneo story really true?"

  "Every word, dear one, every blessed word."

  Moses was standing at the foot of the bed. She couldn't decide if he reminded her of a big, soft teddy bear or Santa Claus. "Haven't decided yet Uncle Moe. If you have any suggestions, I'd be happy to hear them."

  Emily turned to Simon. "Where are you going now?"

  "Nowhere. I'm planting my ass in that chair until you and No Name are free to go."

  Kato stops a bad guy

  Kelly: "What do you make of that?"

  "Fishing expedition. Not a bad guy, sort of liked him."

  "What's next, genius?"