Native American Art, but no Phipps. It led to another gallery: African Art, no Phipps, but an emergency exit.
Mark and the SWATs emerged onto Jackson Street. The street was blocked at both ends by patrol cars. Mark nodded for one SWAT to go east to Columbus, while he and the other SWAT ran west toward the cops blocking Michigan, Mark barking out a description of Phipps to them as he approached.
A Sergeant said, “Yeah, came through three-four minutes ago.”
“See which way he went?”
“Into that.” The Sergeant made a despairing gesture at what was behind him.
Mark and the SWAT ran up the museum’s front steps to get a better view. Police had barricaded the sidewalk and cordoned off a narrow corridor across Michigan Avenue directly in front of the museum, so emergency vehicles could get through by coming down Adams.
Nothing was gonna get through the churning human bog filling the rest of Michigan Avenue; outside the corridor formed by the police barriers, all eight of the avenue’s lanes were jammed with people, and the immobile cars and buses trapped by them, as thousands exiting the museum were joined by thousands rushing toward it, anxious not to miss the show.
Mark scanned the seething mass. Useless. Couldn’t pick out an individual—
“That’s him! That’s the cop who killed the bad guy!”
A cluster of weight-challenged art lovers who’d been on the curved staircase were being interviewed by a cluster of news crews—several of the art lovers were pointing at Mark—reporters and cameramen knocked over a barricade and stampeded toward Mark, shouting, filming and snapping stills as they ran—
“Shoot them or something,” Mark instructed the SWAT, then turned and trotted up the steps into the museum, pulling out his phone and calling Husak to tell him to get teams to Phipps’ residence and office, fast.
Seventy-Seven | 2012
Lou and Gianni spent some quality father-son time watching TV news together, then Lou took out his burner and called Dale’s burner. No answer. Tried Dale’s regular cell. No answer.
What a fucking roller coaster of a morning.
Started on a high: Lou’s men located Tommy Tesca’s trailer park. Tesca wasn’t there, but a neighbor ID’d his photo and confirmed his ride was a black Suburban.
Lou’s men tossed the trailer; didn’t find anything that told where Tesca had gone, but found a back-up hard drive and a couple of thumb drives they were now examining. Meanwhile Lou put eyes on the trailer, and the entrance to the park, and the road leading to it.
And then, while Lou was at Dad’s telling him the good news, the Art Institute happened.
Two morons tried to snatch a guy in the crowded museum, but got into it with him—and with a couple of cops. The morons end up one dead and one close to it, and their target gets away.
And it turns out the dead moron was carrying a miniature Hancock just like the one Tesca used for his last Art Critic gig.
And, nail in the coffin, witnesses described the target who was supposed to eat the Hancock as a guy who happens to have Dale Phipps’ height, build and remarkable complexion.
So now in addition to finding and killing Tesca before the cops found him, they had to find and kill Dale before the cops found him.
Then it was gonna be Jay Branko’s turn.
Had to be Jay who pulled this shit. Only other person who might want to whack Dale was Tommy, for the exact same reason as Jay: to sabotage the big European score.
But Tommy sure as shit did not match the descriptions of either museum moron. And Tommy sure as shit wouldn’t have paid good money to have those monkeys pull this lame-brain stunt.
Jay would. Jay would hire morons to pop Dale and leave that thing in his mouth, trying to pin the hit on Tommy. Jay had his head far enough up his ass to believe Lou and Gianni would fall for it.
“You want to hold off going at Branko?” Lou asked, because with the Old Man it was best to state your opinion in the form of a request for his decision.
Gianni stared at Lou.
The silence was punishment, Gianni whipping his son for not having been man enough to intimidate Branko out of ever trying this.
When the Old Man was done, he asked—challenged—“Can you sell Branko on we’re not after him?”
“I can get his hopes up.” Lou’s burner rang. “Speak of the devil.”
Gianni nodded for Lou to take the call. Sat there assessing Lou’s performance.
Lou put the phone to his ear and said, with his trademark nonchalance, “Hey dude, was just about to call. You believe this shit? I’m hoping the museum’s liability coverage isn’t with our company.”
Seventy-Eight | 20120
Jay Branko had to knock back a couple of vodkas to get his brain to do something besides scream he should right now grab a plane to the ass end of nowhere and never come back.
Fuck! FUCK! What was wrong with Zerbjka? What kind of stupid—fuck it, no time for that. Had to figure how to play this.
Would the Mastrizzis assume it was Jay who hired this clown-act hit? He’d for sure cross their minds. But they couldn’t be certain, long as he plays it cool… He should phone Lou, read the vibe. Besides, after this disaster, if Jay didn’t touch base, that’d be suspicious.
Jay dialed.
It rang.
Rang again.
Rang again. If Lou doesn’t pick up, does that mean—
Rang aga—
“Hey dude, was just about to call. You believe this shit? I’m hoping the museum’s liability coverage isn’t with our company.”
Same old Lou—banter, you dumb fuck. “You own an insurance company? Which one?”
“Never mind. You recognize the description of the man who got away?”
“How could I not. Gotta be the little guy.”
“Gotta be. The clincher is the souvenir the shooter was putting in the little guy’s mouth. That’s the fat guy’s signature, a final Fuck You, make sure we knew this was him.”
They think it’s Tesca!—maybe. “That’s what I figured. But… Why wouldn’t the fat guy just do it himself?” Good one, like you got nothing to be afraid of.
Lou chuckled. “Dude, the little guy would spot the fat guy a mile off. Hadda hire an unfamiliar face.”
“Right.”
“And speaking of the fat guy—good news—we’re close.”
“Close?”
“Very. Just a matter of time.”
“Boo-yah.” I could get away with this—if Lou kills Tesca without talking to him first. “And, the little guy?”
“Isn’t answering his phone. But we’ll find him.”
“And then?”
“Send him far, far away.”
“Right,” Jay sighed. “Shit, bro, when people say the art world is exciting…”
“You thought that meant humping skinny girls in the bathroom at gallery openings. Me too. I’ll call when there’s news,” Lou promised.
There’d been nothing in Lou’s voice except Lou’s usual voice, so… this could be as good as it sounded. The Mastrizzis believe Tesca hired the hit on Phipps. Soon they’ll kill Tesca, then Phipps. This shit’s gonna work out.
Or… Lou telling me what I want to hear means they’re setting me up, and I do have to grab the first plane to the ass end of nowhere.
Jay re-ran and re-ran the conversation, searching for a tell.
Seventy-Nine | 2012
“Sorry,” William J. Potinkin said, as he checked the caller ID, “I have to take this.”
“Thank God,” JaneDoe replied. They were two hours into Potinkin putting her through TV interview boot camp. And soon Potinkin’s stylist would show up with a load of Nice Girl clothes—
“Turn on the TV,” Potinkin ordered.
“Why?”
“The Art Critic might be dead.”
JaneDoe grabbed the remote.
Holy crap. There’d been running gun battles in the Art Institute.
Witnesses fleeing the museum said a gunman tried to
murder someone and stick a miniature Hancock Building in his mouth—just like the Art Critic did with Troy Horowitz. But before the would-be killer could finish, he’d been shot to death by a cop.
An accomplice of the possible Art Critic was badly wounded, and the injury toll to museum-goers trampled in a rush to escape was estimated to be in the hundreds.
It got weirder. The intended victim had a gun and had been trading shots with the possible Art Critic. After the cop saved his life, the man fled. Witnesses said he was white, short, slender, had some sort of indescribable skin disease and a bulging eye.
Police weren’t saying if they knew the identity of the intended victim, or the possible Art Critic and his accomplice.
Police did confirm this officer—footage of a plainclothes cop on the museum steps—was the one who’d killed the possible Art Critic. Officials had yet to release the officer’s name.
JaneDoe released it. “That’s Mark.”
“Hmm,” Potinkin grunted sagely. “Not the ugliest cop ever.”
“Yeah,” JaneDoe agreed, but what she was thinking was: Gunfight? Four years ago Mark almost died when he got shot busting another murderous fuckwad. This time there was blood on Mark’s shirt but he didn’t look wounded. Just intense, even for him. Well shit, he’d been shot at—again… and… and…
JaneDoe stared at Potinkin.
“No,” Potinkin ordered. “Not till this is over.”
JaneDoe stared at Potinkin.
“No,” he repeated. “You can bump into each other at Whole Foods and fall in love when this is finished. Not before. Not one word.”
Right. True. But…
Her cell rang. Lila Kasey, wanting to know how JaneDoe was doing, and was there anything she could do, maybe come over and keep JaneDoe company, and drive her to the TV station so she didn’t have to deal with that?
Oh Christ yeah. Potinkin had hired a car but fuck that. Lila was a rock. Having Lila here would make it easier for JaneDoe to deal with everything: Potinkin. Potinkin’s stylist. The TV interview. And Mark.
Lila was JaneDoe’s only friend who knew about her thing with Mark four years ago. JaneDoe hadn’t told Lila about current events. That might have to change. Gunfight. The word had taken up residence in the pit of JaneDoe’s stomach. She was reaching the point where if she couldn’t talk to Mark she’d have to talk about him.
Eighty | 2012
IA detectives relieved Mark of his weapon, then had to be walked through every move of the firefight.
Then came the obligatory micro-detailed debrief, in which they parsed the specific dispositions of the bystanders (especially the wounded one) and dissected Mark’s decision-making before firing every shot. Each bullet was a potential truck-bomb’s worth of liability damage.
But for some reason—perhaps because the shooting and stampeding began before Mark and Doonie drew their guns, and the museum’s security footage confirmed Mark’s account—the IA guys only questioned Mark a little over two hours.
Soon as it ended Mark called the ER. The doctors were finished harvesting glass from Doonie’s back. Doonie had been declared unfit to return to work, but fit to return to the Art Institute and walk IA through his own debriefing marathon.
The goon Doonie brained was in a coma.
• • •
First thing Mark noticed when he got back to the office were the changes on the murder board. At the top was a photo of Mark, labeled WYATT, and one of Doonie, labeled THOR.
Wyatt asked what progress had been in made in finding Dale Phipps.
None. Hadn’t turned up at his office or apartment—where his Prius had been found, lonely and unused, in the garage.
Kaz and Kimbrough were re-examining Phipps’ particulars for clues about who might want him dead, and where he might run. Techs were unpacking hard drives from Phipps’ office and apartment.
Husak had released Dale Phipps’ name to the media, along with a close-up lifted from a museum security cam.
• • •
As far as the shooters: The dead guy’s wallet said he was Antonije Zerbjka, a Serb with a green card. His fingerprints said he was Dejan Zupljanicz, a Serb with an intercontinental rap sheet.
The coma guy was Slobovan Zaentz. He wasn’t talking, but a snitch reported there was a third member of Zerbjka’s crew—a wheelman. Detectives were interviewing associates, friends and family.
No buzz about who’d hired the hit.
As far as the main attraction: There’d been no new sightings of the Art Critic’s Suburban.
Agent Rarey showed up. Said the FBI had been stonewalled by the Liechtenstien and Caribbean banks; there was no money trail.
The Feds had found no link between the Mastrizzis and the Lougian and Gianlou shell companies.
• • •
IA—in what Husak declared a land speed record—pronounced the shoot righteous and returned Mark’s weapon. But Wyatt Bergman was obliged to report for a psych eval, within 48 hours.
Sure thing.
• • •
Mark and Rarey were in Husak’s office theorizing about what the hell the attempt on Phipps might have to do with the Art Critic. There was a quick knock and Doonie walked in. All three men rose.
“No hugs,” Doonie warned. “Till the stitches come out I’m only takin’ compliments and drinks.”
“Good job today, great to see you alive,” Husak said. “Go home.”
“I’ll sit quiet and listen,” Doonie promised, easing down onto a couch. “What’re we talkin’ about?”
“For starters,” Husak said, “the media and god knows how many voters are obsessing over whether or not Zerbjka is—was—the Art Critic. HQ wants definitive yes or no evidence they can announce, or at least a strong opinion they can leak.”
“Zerbjka’s not him,” Mark declared. “The Critic kills artists. Plus which the Critic never uses the same totem twice—our Serbian friend didn’t know that.”
Husak nodded. “This does read like Zerbjka tried to pin this hit on the Critic.”
“Speaking of the Hancock, and the fact the Critic kills artists to cash in,” Mark said, “we have to revisit Horowitz. There’s no record of the Critic buying Horowitz sculptures. If the Critic was the doer, what was his motive?”
“Maybe the Critic wanted us to know he’s not her,” Doonie said, pointing at the TV on Husak’s wall.
JaneDoe was doing her interview on the 5 o’clock news.
“Can we unmute the sound?” Rarey asked.
Husak gave the young agent a weary squint. “We’re working.”
“So are my people,” Rarey said. “When JaneDoe left her house to go to the TV station, we went in. The bugs and taps are gone.”
Rarey kept his eyes on Husak while he said that. Not even a glance at Mark. No way Rarey was going to endanger his asset by indicating JaneDoe’s debugged apartment was of special interest to him.
Not that Rarey’s asset was going to trust Rarey’s claim the bugs were gone.
Mark took a brief look at the screen. The interview seemed to be going well. JaneDoe looked relaxed, sincere. Innocent and enjoying it.
Mark would have to wait to find out if his plan was working and JaneDoe had accepted Lila Casey’s offer of a lift to the studio.
He’d instructed Lila not to give JaneDoe his message until after the interview; no telling how far and wide she’d erupt when she found out all her recent conversations, emails and bowel movements had been recorded by a Federal agency.
Mark had told Lila not to call until late tonight to let him know how it went.
Mark was pretty sure JaneDoe would want to see him.
But he wasn’t certain.
He had to work at not looking at the TV.
Eighty-One | 2012
Lou’s cyber guy downloaded Tesca’s hard drive and tickled its clit until its encryption melted away. Files gushed forth.
The miserable shit had named his shell companies Lougian and Gianlou.
There was
detailed purchase and shipping data, along with descriptions and photos of the art. Tesca’s two most recent acquisitions made Lou’s day.
“Liz Paul” was a female Gibson guitar.
“Reflectoraptor” was a predatory dinosaur whose skin was made of curved, deeply colored Mylar mirrors; get near him and you got hit with a barrage of dark, distorted funhouse views of yourself.
Both pieces were functional costumes, which the text called Bio-Interactive Kinetic Sculptures.
The artist was the luscious young woman the cops had mistaken for Tommy Tesca.
When in fact JaneDoe clearly was Tommy’s next target.
Eighty-Two | 2012
William J. Potinkin informed JaneDoe she’d knocked it out of the park. Lila agreed. So did the blogosphere; by halfway through the interview, JaneDoe’s consensus identity had morphed from Arty Bizarre Murder Suspect to Wrongly Accused Edgy Buzz Babe.
And she’d answered all the juicy personal questions about her feelings; the rest of the media would quit camping on her doorstep now that all they could hope for were sloppy seconds.
Potinkin invited JaneDoe and Lila to One Sixty Blue for a celebratory dinner.
As they were being seated, JaneDoe got a call from her dealer, Marla Kretz. Marla congratulated her for not coming off like a crazy artist, and warned her not to party too hard, tomorrow she had to get back to work; interview highlights had been posted on YouTube, and Marla was hearing from collectors, worldwide, offering insane money to be first in line.
A cork popped. The sommelier poured a ’98 Deutz blanc de blancs. Potinkin offered a toast to innocent, talented, young, beautiful, tall clients and deductible business meals.
The food was brilliant, the wines off the hook, the mood pagan-pure exultation. Even after eating her dessert and half of Lila’s, JaneDoe weighed a thousand pounds less than she had since the moment her life had gone Kafka.
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