Natalie's Art: a Frank Renzi novel

by Susan Fleet

Gregor smiled. Of course he would. Rather than stay in a hotel and leave a credit card trail, he used the small furnished office down the hall from the reception area as his living quarters. What Marta really wanted to know was whether he would be there before she closed the office and went home. Marta was still in love with him.

  “Perhaps,” he said, and ended the call. Marta could piss up a rope. She was the cause of their only failure. Back then, Marta had been the one to enter the museums and steal the paintings. For a while they had been lovers, but that was over. And after Marta screwed up, Pym had found another woman to steal the art.

  Valerie, code-name Scorpio. Another problem. Never trust a scorpion, little beasts that struck suddenly, stinging their prey with deadly venom to kill or paralyze them. Like Nicholas Kwan, Valerie was part Asian. He knew nothing about her ancestors, but he knew she was smart. Dangerous.

  He took out another Gitaines, then put it back. He limited himself to ten cigarettes a day. Already five were gone. Thanks to the old biddies, he had wasted one. He took out his IronMan gripper and did ten reps with his right hand, ten with his left. In addition to keeping the muscles in his scarred hands supple, the motion soothed him.

  The sound of young laughter drew his attention, a high-pitched giggle. Nearing his bench, a small towheaded boy, perhaps five years old, trotted alongside a stocky man in his thirties, the boy's father, Gregor assumed. Where was the boy's mother, he wondered. His mother had died before he was two. Tuberculosis, Papa said. He had no memory of her. Papa had kept no photographs of her. To Gregor, it was as though she had never existed.

  He watched the man hoist the boy to his shoulders, letting the boy's legs dangle on either side of his neck. The boy squealed with delight, hugging his father's head as they passed him.

  Gregor squeezed the IronMan gripper. Now the boy was unafraid. Only later, when life dealt its first cruel blow would he know fear. Americans were so soft. They treated their children like babies, pampering them with vanilla pudding pops and chocolate cookies and ice cream cones. He studied the scars on his hands. Papa was right. Children had to learn to be tough. Thanks to Papa, he had. Some might say Papa was cruel, but this was how Papa had demonstrated his love. A good thing. When Gregor was twelve, a rival gang killed Papa.

  He had been on his own ever since. During those thirty-three years, he had learned—sometimes the hard way—never to leave important tasks to others. Better to do it yourself. Always be in control.

  Which brought him back to Valerie. He didn't trust her any more than he trusted Kwan.

  The day after the Oxford heist, Pym had burst into his quarters above the garage, livid with rage, saying he had warned him there must be no violence during these heists. Valerie, the sneaky scorpion, had told him that Gregor had ordered her to kill the two men. But she had disobeyed him. The Security Director was still alive. Gregor didn't bother to argue with the old man. Best to remain silent and wait for Pym to calm down. Eventually he did, and told Gregor to leave London at once. Two days later, Gregor Kraus had boarded a flight to the island of Majorca.

  Or so it was made to appear. In truth, he had flown to Boston using a different passport with a new name. Stefan Haas.

  And now Valerie was here. After her flight landed at Logan at 2:45, she had called him as instructed. He told her to meet him tomorrow morning, but when he told her where, she said, “No, that's too public. Meet me in the back room at Larry's Restaurant, near the Boston Medical Center.”

  He put the IronMan gripper in his pocket. How did she know this restaurant? According to Pym, Valerie had never been to Boston. Tomorrow he would question her about this. And about why she had disobeyed his orders.

  He had intended to meet her here at the Quincy Market, but if she wanted to meet in some dim-lit restaurant, so be it. In such a setting, perhaps he could persuade her to have sex with him. He was not particularly attracted to Asian women, but Valerie had a gorgeous body. Many times in London he had watched her go running in the early mornings. Shapely legs. A narrow waist. Melon-sized breasts. He couldn't wait to squeeze them.

  Having Valerie satisfy his sexual appetites might make this job more bearable. This would take his mind off other unpleasant chores. This Gardner heist would be complicated. But the money was impossible to resist.

  Pym wanted them to steal two Vermeers, but the old man was in for a surprise.

  CHAPTER 7

  Thursday June 24, 2010 –– New Orleans

  The women were stunning. Posed provocatively, seductive curves and flawless skin, lacy bras barely hiding their nipples, long flowing hair of every hue: black, light brown, bright red and platinum blonde. But no faces.

  Frank leaned closer to his computer monitor. The photos of the bare-breasted women were cropped to conceal their faces. The rest wore fancy masks like the ones people wore in New Orleans during Mardi Gras. If Natalie was one of the women, he couldn't identify her. Nor could a London vice cop.

  Elite Escorts billed itself as London's premier escort service. “Our sensuous ladies excel in the social graces necessary for high-class events.” The words whore and prostitute never appeared on these websites, and discretion was their watchword: “Complete confidentiality for your peace of mind.”

  Forget confidentiality. His peace of mind would come when he found Natalie. For eight years she had worked as a call girl in Paris. Trained by her escort-service employer, she had used her newfound knowledge of art to entertain her clients. When she wasn't entertaining them in bed. He skimmed the Elite Escorts blurb. “Our escorts come from all over the world. Many speak multiple languages. Why not enjoy London with a lovely lady who speaks your mother tongue?”

  Natalie spoke French. That could be a plus with French-speaking clients. The Elite Escorts pitch closed with an invitation.

  “Ring our friendly service now and our helpful staff will find you a stunning escort for your date tonight.”

  He punched the number into his phone, country and city code first, and heard the phone ring. True to their word, a man answered right away. “Elite Escorts, how may I help you?”

  “I'm looking for a women who knows something about art. You got anyone like that?”

  After a slight hesitation, the man said, “Did have. But she's gone now.”

  Natalie, he thought. “Where'd she go?”

  “I'm afraid I can't say.”

  “What's her name?”

  “We never give out the names of our ladies.”

  The guy giving him haughty, acting like he wasn't a pimp hawking whores. Frank wanted to throttle him. “I'm coming to London for an art conference next week. I want a woman who knows about art.”

  “How about Eva? She's one of our most popular ladies. A lovely woman, blonde hair, blue eyes.”

  Frank wondered if they did phone sex. Ask Eva if she knew the woman who specialized in art.

  But why waste time? He hung up and closed the website.

  If Natalie was the woman who specialized in art, Mr. Haughty wasn't going to tell him, and he didn't feel like surfing any more sex-bait websites, dozens of them located in big cities all over the world. But London was where a witness had seen the woman with a distinctive long-legged stride leave a museum after a heist four months ago. Last weekend a security guard had been shot during a heist near London.

  One to the head, game over. Natalie's MO.

  Tomorrow, he and Kelly would fly to London. Maybe DCI Stanford would have more information by then. Kelly was excited about the trip, poring over Fodor's guide to London, saying she hoped they'd get to see some sights before they flew back on Monday.

  He didn't give a damn about sightseeing. He wanted to find Natalie. Two years he'd been waiting. Where did she go after she escaped from New Orleans in 2008? Nowhere in the United States probably. Every police department in the country had a composite sketch of Natalie Brixton, wanted for murder in Boston and New Orleans.

  She knew he had her diary, which meant she wouldn't go to Paris. He figured she wa
s in Europe, a big city where she could lose herself in the crowds, a city where they spoke English. Like London.

  That's where Natalie was. He'd bet on it.

  His heart thrummed a slow inexorable beat that signaled his resolve, relentless and unstoppable. This time he was going to get her.

  _____

  10:55 AM – Boston

  She poured steamy tea from a silver pot into a small porcelain cup and wrapped her hands around it to warm them. A dark cloud of dread chilled her to the bone. In five minutes she would meet Gregor.

  She had arrived twenty minutes early. Preparation was the key. Anticipate the worst and plan your moves, like a Taekwondo competition. But this was no Taekwondo match. Gregor was a killer. The mere sound of his voice on the phone terrified her. Everything about this job terrified her. Steal a painting somewhere in Boston, the worst possible scenario.

  Two years ago she had killed a former CIA agent here. She was certain the cops were still looking for her. Pym didn't know this, of course, nor did Gregor. She raised the cup to her mouth, inhaled the fumes and took a sip. Pym had said she'd be back in London in two weeks. If everything went as planned. A veiled threat.

  She studied the Chinese horoscope on the place-mat in front of her. This was the Year of the Ox, a powerful figure in Chinese mythology, but her ancestors were Vietnamese. She had chosen birds and mountains to protect her. She offered a silent plea to the Vietnamese spirit gods. Help me escape this nightmare.

  She looked up and her heart almost stopped. A man was striding through the dining area toward her booth in the back room, eyes fixed on hers. Gregor. He was even bigger than she had imagined, over six feet tall, broad shoulders and muscular arms filling his black turtleneck. He reminded her of the relentless killer in a movie she'd seen. No Country For Old Men. Stone-faced, eyes implacable.

  Her heart pounded as he stopped at her booth. The only other booth was vacant. Looming over her, he said in the quiet voice she knew so well, “A good meeting place. No windows.”

  He jerked his chin at the other side of the booth. “Sit there. I never sit with my back to the door.”

  Without a word, she slid out of her seat and sat on the opposite side. Damned if she'd obey his every command, but she had to pick her spots.

  Gregor settled into the booth with his back to the wall and studied her. “You look like a librarian. So prim and proper. Your hair in a bun, big round tinted glasses, shirt buttoned up to your chin.” He pursed his lips and nodded. “Very sexy.”

  She put her hands in her lap and clenched her fists. “Tell me about the job, Gregor.”

  He stiffened and leaned forward over the table, so close she could smell his aftershave, a spicy scent. “Stupid,” he said in a soft voice. “No names. Not when we are in public.”

  In public? No one was anywhere near them. “Tell me about the job. Where is it? And when?”

  “Soon. A few days from now.”

  She waited for him to say more. When he didn't, she smiled at him. Be what they want you to be. “Would you like some tea?”

  “I don't drink tea.” He gazed at her, expressionless. “And I don't eat Chinese food. How do you know this place? Have you been to Boston before?”

  Her heart drummed against her chest. “A friend of mine in London recommended it.”

  “What friend?”

  “You wouldn't know him. He's a chef at an Asian restaurant.” A lie, but Gregor wouldn't know this.

  When she'd called Chen from Heathrow, he had given her a name and a number to call, the first thing she'd done after landing at Logan. Pak Lam had told her about Larry's Restaurant, a fine place to meet if one did not want to be seen or overheard, he'd said.

  Gregor appeared to digest this, then said, “Did you have any trouble locating your apartment?”

  “No. I took a cab from the airport. The place is a dump.”

  His expression changed, a slight relaxation of the muscles around his eyes. Despite his coarse features, he looked younger than she had expected, curly locks of light-brown hair spilling over his forehead. Maybe it was a wig. There were the crow's feet around his eyes and deep lines etched the corners of his thin lips.

  “Get a room at the Ritz if you want, but you must pay for it.”

  “I found a dead rat under the sink this morning.”

  He gazed at her, expressionless. “How big was it?”

  She held her hands two feet apart. “This big.”

  A smile tugged at his lips. “Really? Impressive. Think how much poison it took to kill it.”

  The words chilled her. Was that all he thought about? What it took to kill something?

  The waitress, a young Asian woman with long black hair, came to their booth, smiled at Gregor and said, “Would you care for a menu, sir? A beverage, perhaps?”

  “Nothing for me. My girlfriend already has her tea.”

  The waitress made a pleasant face, inclined her head and left.

  Annoyed, she said, “I'm not your girlfriend.”

  “Not yet.” His gaze roamed her body, a possessive gaze that disgusted her. He raised his hands and spread them palms down on the table in front of her.

  She gasped. Hideous scars covered the backs of his hands, ugly red patches of skin. With his eyes locked on hers, he flexed his fingers and the red patches crinkled with white lines. Then, smiling faintly, he put his hands in his lap. If he was trying to disgust her, he had succeeded.

  But never let them see you sweat. “Where is the job?”

  He glanced around the room to be sure no one was nearby and said softly, “The Gardner Museum.”

  Shocked, she said nothing. The Gardner? Was Pym out of his mind?

  “What is wrong? You know this museum?”

  “I know what happened there in 1990.”

  He waved a hand. “This is not 1990. That brought us a golden opportunity. There vill be a special exhibit there. Many fine paintings on loan from important museums, including two by Vermeer.”

  There vill be … a linguistic slip. Was he German?

  But forget ancestry. Pym's lecture on Vermeer last weekend was no accident. Her armpits dampened with sweat. They wanted her to steal a Vermeer from the Gardner Museum where thieves had stolen several paintings twenty years ago. Insanity.

  “Security will be tight,” she said.

  “Yes, but I have a plan.”

  What is it? she wanted to scream. But if she did Gregor might slap her. Or kill her.

  “This special exhibit,” she said. “When does it open?”

  “Friday, July second, just in time for the Fourth of July. The holiday these Americans are so proud of.”

  “Tell me about the security.”

  “The security is not your concern.”

  She raised her chin. “It is if I have to go into the museum.”

  “When the time comes, you will know these details. Right now your job is to get familiar with the area near the museum. But do not be conspicuous. Many students jog on the Fenway and the surrounding streets.” A faint smile. “Put on your sexy red shorts and go for a run.”

  Had he been watching her in London? The thought made her skin crawl. “Is the insider guard in place?”

  Gregor nodded, expressionless.

  “Who is he?”

  “You do not need to know this now.”

  A jolt of anger flamed her cheeks. Gregor was a control freak. “When will I meet him?”

  “You vill meet ...” He paused and blinked. “In good time, not now.”

  German, for sure. Twice he had slipped up, saying vill instead of will. Maybe her persistent questions had unsettled him. Maybe Gregor wasn't as invincible as he appeared.

  “You need to learn the transportation system. The MBTA.” He paused. “Unless you have used it when you were in Boston before.”

  The statement rattled her. But he had to be bluffing. He couldn't know she'd been here before. “Do you have my new passport?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wh
en will I get—?”

  “You ask too many questions. You get it when you need it. We meet twice a week to discuss the plan.”

  “Where?”

  A suggestive smile. “At your apartment.” He put his hands on the table again. Regarding her with an amused expression, he said, “Old battle scars. You have the designated cellphone, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Use it only to communicate with me. No one else.”

  “What about . . . the man in London?”

  “There is no need to call him. I am in charge, understand?”

  “Ja. Ich verstehe.”

  He flinched as though she'd slapped him. “Do not make jokes. Do not annoy me with stupid comments.” He reached across the table and touched her hair. “I like your hair. Is it a wig?”

  She pushed his hand away. “No. And we will not be meeting in my apartment.”

  “Why not? You might enjoy yourself. More than you do with the old man.”

  She removed her tinted glasses. His dark eyes were pools of venom, deadly heat-seeking missiles. Like most men, Gregor didn't handle rejection well. But he needed to understand that she had no intention of sleeping with him. “I'm leaving. When do you want to meet?”

  “Monday. At noon.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Meet me outside Symphony Hall by the T stop.”

  “No,” he said. “Stand outside the public library on Boylston Street. Near the Copley T stop.”

  Imposing his control. His way or the highway. “Fine. See you then.”

  Feeling his venomous gaze on her back, she left the booth and walked away. Intent on her mission, she hurried outside. Dodging traffic, she ran across the street to Sav-More-Drugs, went inside and stood by the window. A minute later Gregor left Larry's, went to the parking lot and got in an olive-green Saab.

  When he drove out of the lot, she dashed outside and memorized the license number. A New Jersey plate, a rental probably. Maybe she could find a way to bug the car. Considering the hellish problems facing her, she needed every advantage she could get. Gregor wanted to control her, withholding details about the job. He knew where she lived, but she didn't know where he lived or what he did when he wasn't with her. Worse, he wanted to have sex with her.