Natalie's Art: a Frank Renzi novel

by Susan Fleet

  “The Franz Hals Museum?” Frank said.

  “Yes. He was a security guard.”

  “How long did he work there?”

  “Almost ten years. He loved the job. It made him feel important, guarding famous paintings. But these people convinced him to do a bad thing.” Sonja heaved a sigh. “At first, I didn't want to believe it, but ...”

  he teashop woman arrived with a large tray and set down three large mugs of black coffee, a pewter pitcher of cream and a bowl of sugar. “Would you be wanting a pastry?” she asked.

  Still lost in thought, Sonja didn't answer. Frank glanced at Kelly, who shook her head.

  “No, thanks,” he said. “Just the coffee.”

  After the woman left, Kelly said in a low voice, “Were there any financial problems, Mrs. Wynkoop? Bills for large expenses, perhaps? For your children?”

  “Please, call me Sonja. No, no large expenses. Pieter and I had no children.” Her mouth twisted. “You are thinking what I was thinking. Why would Pieter agree to help these robbers steal a painting?”

  “Did you notice anything different about his behavior before the robbery?” Frank asked.

  Sonja added cream to her coffee and stirred it with a spoon. “Yes. He would go out sometimes at night without telling me where he was going.”

  “Was that unusual?” Kelly asked.

  “Yes. Pieter always told me where he was going. Once a week he would go to a pub with his friends, men he'd known for years. Some of them were on his rugby team. Not a professional team, a local team that played on weekends.”

  “How long before the robbery was this?” Kelly asked.

  “Two weeks before. Maybe three.”

  “How often?”

  “Three or four times.” Sonja's rosy cheeks darkened in a flush. “I thought he might be ...”

  “You thought he was seeing a woman,” Kelly said.

  Sonja nodded, her eyes full of anguish. She drew herself up and set her jaw. “But there was no need for him to see another woman,” she said, angrily. “We were not having what you call the sex problems. None of that. Never. And so I did something I thought I would never do.” She lapsed into silence.

  Frank waited. He didn't want to prompt her. Clearly she was reliving events that were upsetting to her.

  “One night I followed him.”

  “Good for you,” Kelly said. “That's what I would have done. What happened?”

  “He walked to a pub four blocks from our flat. I waited outside for a while before I went in.” Sonja pursed her lips. “I am not in the habit of going to bars by myself, not even when I was single. But I had to find out what my Pieter was doing. So I went inside and looked around and saw him sitting in a booth near the back with a man and a woman.”

  “Did you know them?” Frank asked. “Had you seen them before?”

  “Never. But I knew they were Krauts! I know that look. The Krauts killed my grandfather in World War Two. The bastards!”

  Amazed, Frank said, “You could tell by looking at them?”

  “Of course. The man had that hard Teutonic look, an angular face and thin lips. The woman's face was softer, but she had blonde hair and wore stylish clothes.” Sonja waved a hand. “All the German women wear fancy clothes. Expensive.”

  “What about the man?” Frank asked. “Was his hair blond?

  “No. He had dark hair.”

  “Could you identify them from a photograph?”

  “I'm not sure. The bar was dark and I did not stay long. I sat at the bar and ordered a beer, but I didn't drink it. The thought of my Pieter socializing with Krauts was too upsetting.”

  “Could you hear what they were saying?” Kelly asked.

  “No. They were too far away. So. Ten minutes later, I left. But that was not the end of it!” Her lips tightened. “When Pieter came home I confronted him. I told him I had followed him to the bar.”

  “What did he say? How did he react?” Kelly asked.

  Sonja frowned. “Not the way I expected. He seemed frightened. I asked him why he was out drinking with Krauts. He said he met the man when he was with his friends at a pub. Pieter said the woman was his translator. He said the man didn't speak Dutch. Pieter's English was not good.”

  “Did he tell you their names?” Frank asked.

  “No. And then came that horrible robbery. After the police questioned him Pieter was very upset. So anxious and nervous he couldn't eat. But the next week he seemed better. He took me out for a nice dinner at this expensive restaurant that he knows I like.”

  With the money the robbers paid him, Frank thought

  “He never told you about the robbery?” Kelly asked.

  “Never. And then he was dead.” Sonja's face worked with emotion. “But that is not the worst part. Now people think I married a drug addict. That's how he died. In a cheap hotel room, foaming at the mouth from a drug overdose. But my Pieter never used drugs, never! Not even for a headache!”

  Kelly reached over and touched Sonja's hand. “I'm so sorry for all the troubles you've had, Sonja. We want to find the robbers. If we catch the people you saw with Pieter, maybe we can clear Pieter's name.”

  “I have something that may help you.” Sonja opened her purse and took out a card, slightly larger than an American business card. “After the funeral, I was cleaning out Pieter's things, going through his clothes. I found this in the pocket of one of his shirts.” She set the card on the table. “There is not much on it. Only a name: G. Kraus. And a phone number. But when I called this number, it was disconnected.”

  “May we have the card?” Frank asked. “I'm sure DCI Stanford will want to investigate this.”

  “Of course,” Sonja said, “if it will clear my Pieter's name. But nothing will bring him back to me.”

  _____

  They took a taxi to DCI Stanford's office. Kelly didn't object. Like Frank, she was eager to tell Stanford what Sonja had said. Frank wanted to ask him about the name on the card. G. Kraus. Whose phone number had been disconnected.

  When they told Stanford about Sonja's surveillance operation, Stanford said, “Doesn't surprise me a bit. The woman's relentless when she wants something.”

  Frank showed him the card Sonja had given them. “She found this in Pieter's shirt pocket after he died. Does the name G. Kraus mean anything to you?”

  Stanford sat bolt upright in his chair. “Gregor Kraus. Must be!”

  “You know him?” Frank said. His heart thrummed his chest. Now they were getting somewhere.

  “Never met the bloke. Good thing, probably. Gregor's well known to the London coppers. Back in the '80s, his father, Ernst Kraus, worked for a London gang. I forget which one. Plenty of gangs in London. Ernst was an enforcer, vicious and brutal, passed his predilections on to his son. A rival gang killed Ernst in 1984. Gregor was only twelve but he was already working for the same gang as his father.”

  “Where is he now?” Frank asked.

  “Hold on, let me call my colleague in the Gang Unit.” Stanford picked up the phone and dialed a number. “He's been with the Gang Unit forever. He'll know.”

  Frank saw Kelly check her watch, already worried about getting to the airport.

  “Hallo,” Stanford said. “Len Stanford here. I need some information on Gregor Kraus. What's the bloke up to now?” He listened for a while, jotting notes on a yellow pad. “Burn scars on both hands? Right. So he's out of prison?” And after a moment, “Keeping his nose clean? Right. Thanks.”

  Stanford cradled the phone and said, “Okay. My colleague says Gregor was an enforcer for the Dorchester Gang during the '90s. Killed a few people and did serious damage to some others, but the cops couldn't nail him for it.” Stanford smiled tightly. “Nobody was willing to testify against him.”

  “Sounds familiar,” Frank said.

  “But they nailed him for running a protection racket in 1994. Gregor was twenty-four at the time. He spent eight years in prison, got out in 2002.” Stanford grimaced. “Time of
f for good behavior, the usual rubbish. Some British philanthropist offered him a job.”

  “Why?” Frank asked. “Who was he?”

  Stanford checked his notes. “Jonathan Pym, a wealthy businessman. Owns an import-export business.”

  “Import-export,” Frank said. “Sounds like a front. Who’s this guy Pym?”

  “Hold on.” Stanford did a search on his computer. Two minutes later, he said, “Okay, this should do it. Jonathan Pym owns Global Imports and Exports. Offices in the UK and Europe. Hold on. They opened another office in Boston in January. Global Interpreting.”

  “Interpreting?” Frank said. “Sonja said the woman with Gregor Kraus was his interpreter.”

  Stanford frowned. “Here's another red flag. Pym's quite the philanthropist. He's on the board of trustees of the Victoria & Albert Museum here in London.”

  “Bingo!” Frank said. “Gregor Kraus works for a rich businessman who's on the board of a London art museum? That's too big of a coincidence for me. What does Gregor do for Pym?”

  “No way to tell.” Stanford arched an eyebrow. “I could have Pym come in for informal chat.”

  “No,” he said. “Don't do that. It's too soon.”

  “Frank,” Kelly said, pointing at the clock. “We need to check out of the hotel and go to the airport.”

  “Right. In a minute. Whereabouts in Boston is this Global Interpreting?”

  Stanford checked his computer. “At the Copley Place Mall, corner of Boylston and Huntington.”

  “I know the area. Len, we need to get to the airport. But I'm going to stop over in Boston and check out Global Interpreting.”

  Kelly turned to him, frowning. “You are?”

  “Yes. I'll change my ticket when we get to Logan. You can fly on to New Orleans.”

  “Vobitch isn't going to like it,” Kelly said.

  “He'll like it if we catch Natalie Brixton.” To Stanford he said, “Did you check to see if she entered the UK two years ago?”

  “Put in a query,” Stanford said. “Nothing yet.”

  “Okay. Let's keep in touch. Anything else you can tell me about Jonathan Pym and Gregor Kraus would be a plus. After I check out Global Interpreting, I'll call you.” A sudden realization hit him. “You know, there are a lot of art museums in Boston.”

  Stanford nodded, grim-faced. “Indeed there are. Including the Isabella Steward Gardner Museum.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Monday June 28, 2010 – Boston

  At noon precisely, she took her position outside the Boylston Street entrance of the Boston Public Library. Not where she wanted to be. A horrible sense of Deja vu crushed her. The night they met she and Oliver had eaten dinner at the Prudential Center a few blocks to her left. Before her dreams of a romance were destroyed by his insatiable need to know more about Natalie Brixton.

  A honking horn drew her attention to the street. Not Gregor's Saab, a taxi jockeying for position amidst four lanes of one-way traffic headed for Copley Square. Moments later, Gregor's olive-green Saab pulled to the curb in front of her. She got in and shut the door.

  “A good day for a reconnaissance,” Gregor said without looking at her. “Cloudy, but no rain.”

  Excellent. They must be going to the Gardner. Maybe he'd tell her more about the heist and when it would be. She also wanted to attach the bug to his bumper. The tracking device was in her purse.

  He turned right at Copley Square, caught a green light at the next intersection and turned right onto Huntington Avenue. She closed her eyes, unwilling to look at Copley Place and the Marriott Hotel. More memories of Oliver, something she didn't need cluttering her mind right now.

  As they passed Symphony Hall Gregor said, “Why do you wear that silly hat? Are you a Red Sox fan?”

  “No, but lots of people wear them in Boston.”

  He grunted but said nothing. Now both sides of the street were lined with Northeastern University dormitories and classrooms, separated by the Green Line tracks in the middle. They stopped at a red light beside the Northeastern University Student Center.

  “Did you buy your Northeastern T-shirt there?” Gregor said.

  “Yes. And the Red Sox cap.”

  “Good idea. The T-shirt lets you blend in with the students.” He looked over at her. “Lots of foreign students in Boston. What are you, anyway? Japanese? Chinese?”

  “None of your business, Gregor.”

  “No names! I told you before.”

  Deliberately using his name again, she said, “Gregor, we're not in public. I'm stuck with you inside your car. What does it matter?”

  His jaw clenched as he stared at the red light, like an angry bull enraged by a matador's cape.

  The light changed and he turned right onto Ruggles Street. At the next intersection, he turned left onto the Fenway, joining the flow of cars and bicyclists. The Gardner was two blocks away, and groups of pedestrians walked along the sidewalk toward the museum. “Can we stop and walk from here?”

  “No. I do not want my car to be seen here. I will circle the museum once and tell you what to expect the night of the heist.” He turned left onto Evans Way, a one-way street alongside the museum. “A squad car with a police officer will be parked on this street.”

  “How do I—”

  “Quiet! Do not talk. Listen!”

  She clamped her lips together. Gregor, the control freak, turned right at the next corner, drove past the rear of the museum and turned right onto Palace Road, another one-way street.

  “A police car will also be parked at the far end of this street.”

  “How do I prevent the cops from seeing me?”

  “My plan for this is not yet in place. When it is, I will tell you.” Halfway down Palace Road, he pointed at the museum. “That is the employee entrance. The guard will let you in.”

  “What's his name?”

  “Nicholas.”

  “What's his last name?”

  “You do not need to know that.”

  “Gregor, I told Jonathan before I left London, and now I'm telling you. I will not kill anyone on this job. So don't call me on your cellphone and order me to shoot him because I won't.”

  “Nicholas will take care of the other two guards. You disable Nicholas and tie him up to make it look like he was not involved. Our usual plan.”

  “Our usual plan didn't work very well the last time.”

  Gregor gripped her left wrist in his scarred fist, a vise-like grip that sent pain through her forearm. “Shut your mouth and listen! Why do you act like an ignorant schoolgirl? After you take the Vermeers from the Special Exhibit, you walk out the employee entrance and I pick you up. Not in this car. A different one.”

  She jerked her arm away and massaged her wrist.

  “Tell me you understand, Valerie, and this time do not insult me with one of your feeble attempts at German. Tell me in English. Do you understand?”

  Shaken by his vehemence, she said, “I understand.” Gregor had a long memory and thin skin about his ancestry apparently.

  “Good. I will drive you to your apartment now.”

  He drove past the front of the Gardner Museum, continued to Huntington Avenue and turned right, merging into two lanes of traffic.

  She sat there, cursing his control-freak behavior, disappointed she hadn't been able to plant the bug on his car. But her dominant emotion was fear. Everything about this heist scared her. Too many factors were beyond her control. Gregor. Nicolas, the insider guard. Extra guards inside the museum, police patrols outside.

  Maybe she wouldn't do it. Maybe she'd get on a plane and disappear forever. But she couldn't do that with her current passport. Gregor would hunt her down like a dog. And she couldn't stay in this country. The police were looking for her.

  Gregor stopped in front of her apartment, a three-story tenement with ugly brown shingles. “Thursday night there will be a party at the museum. A private showing of the Special Exhibit for wealthy donors and other important people, political fi
gures and so forth. I have two tickets. We will go together.”

  She tried to decide if this was a good or a bad thing. She didn't want to spend any more time with Gregor than she had to, but attending a party at the Gardner might be helpful. She could scope out the layout before the heist.

  “Nicholas will be on duty. So you will see him and he will see you. For this important event, you need a fancy dress. I will buy you a new one, something elegant to go with my tuxedo. Meet me Wednesday morning at ten outside your favorite T-stop near Symphony Hall.” His eyes roved over her body. “Wear something nice, not a T-shirt. And no baseball cap. I don't want the sales clerk to think my girlfriend is an inexperienced college girl.” He smiled. “We both know you are not inexperienced, right, Valerie?”

  A haze of anger clouded her vision. She wanted to kick him in the balls and watch him writhe in pain. But that would be foolhardy. Gregor had a violent temper, and no compunctions about killing people. She gritted her teeth and said nothing.

  “See you Wednesday,” Gregor said. “Ten o'clock.”

  Fuming over his insult, she got out and slammed the door and walked away.

  _____

  Jamilla shifted her position on the park bench. The wooden slats were killing her butt. She looked at Jaylen, playing on the swings, then at the sun, trying to figure how long she’d been waiting. At least a half hour, so it had to be after noon.

  She wished she still had her watch, but she’d hocked it last month when money was tight.

  Where was Nicholas? The son-of-a-bitch scared her. The mirrored sunglasses were bad enough, but when he took them off it was worse. She’d seen eyes like that before. Killer eyes.

  Her scalp felt like bugs were crawling over it. No crank this week. She’d put the hundred bucks away so she couldn’t get at it in a moment of weakness. Soon as she got the rest she’d split this dirt-bag town with Jaylen and start a new life. She vaguely remembered the farmhouse in Georgia where she’d lived with her mother. Maybe that’s where she’d go. When she was three they’d moved to Boston so she didn’t remember much, but it had to beat her roach-and-rat infested apartment.