by Susan Fleet
They went outside and the clamor of traffic assaulted them. A UPS truck roared past them, then a yellow taxi, blasting its horn. Frank mopped his brow. Even at ten-thirty in the morning the heat was oppressive, had to be in the eighties, the brilliant sunlight beating down on Copley Square.
Hoping to escape the traffic noise, he pointed at the small park between Trinity Church and the Boston Public Library. While they waited for a Walk light, Frank said, “How's the team doing?”
Rafe worked the Gang Unit for Boston PD. They'd been friends for years, a relationship that had begun when they played on the District-Four basketball team.
“D-One team's got a new center,” Rafe said. “Bigger than Shaq.”
“Can he play?”
Rafe grinned, his white teeth a stark contrast to his ebony skin. “Takes up space in the lane, but he's got no footwork. I back him up, do my fancy moves, put the ball in the hoop. How’d it go with Marta?”
They caught the walk light and hustled across the street to the park.
“Man,” Rafe huffed, “you training for the Olympics?”
“What’s the matter? Can’t keep up?”
“That'll be the day,” Rafe said as they reached the sidewalk. “Stop holding out on me. Did Marta fall at your feet in a swoon?”
Yesterday afternoon over a beer, Frank had told Rafe why he was here: his suspicions about Natalie, Gregor Kraus and his employer, Jonathan Pym, the British philanthropist who'd recently opened a new office in Boston. Global Interpreting.
“More like Frosty the Snowqueen,” Frank said.
To conceal his identity, he'd given her the fake name he'd used when he worked undercover for Boston PD. He’d flash his NOPD badge later if he had to. “She stonewalled me, but sometimes the information you don’t get is just as useful. When I asked for a Dutch translator, she said they didn't have one. I got the feeling she's hiding something. This morning I checked the Yellow Pages. No ad for Global Interpreting, and the office is a wasteland, no magazines, no water cooler, no slick brochures. Marta says they don’t do written translations, just one-on-one interpreting. When I asked for names, she blew me off. She’s not interested in drumming up business. Not from me, anyway.”
A curvy redhead in a blue spandex running suit approached them, jogging past flowerbeds ablaze with orange and yellow marigolds. Rafe beamed her a smile. She smiled back but kept jogging. When Rafe turned to watch, Frank said, “Hey, you've already got a wife.”
Rafe shrugged. “Nice scenery. No harm in looking. Did you find out anything about Gregor Kraus?”
“No. Stefan Haas is the manager, allegedly. When I asked to speak to him Marta seemed shocked. She said he wasn't there. I told her to have him call me, but I’m not holding my breath.”
He figured Stefan Haas might actually be Gregor Kraus. After all, he'd used a fake name, nothing to stop Kraus from doing the same thing. He was determined to track him down. He wanted to help DCI Stanford solve the London art heists, also wanted to help Sonja Wynkoop. She was desperate to clear her husband's name.
He knew the feeling. He was desperate to find Natalie.
Pieter Wynkoop had died from a drug overdose, but Sonja believed he was murdered. At this point, Frank agreed, and Gregor Kraus was his prime suspect. For all he knew, Marta was the blonde Sonja had seen in the bar with her husband. No one could exonerate Pieter for helping them steal the painting, but if Frank could prove Kraus killed him, Sonja could at least have the satisfaction of telling her friends and family that her husband wasn't a drug addict. However, that wasn’t the most important point. If Kraus was in on the European art heists and he was in Boston, it would reinforce Frank’s theory. Natalie Brixton was here to steal a painting.
“Might have an interesting tidbit for you,” Rafe said.
Surprised, he said, “Yeah? Lay it on me.”
“After we talked yesterday I went back to the station, did my due diligence,” Rafe said. “Global Interpreting opened in February, figured I'd check the files, see what turned up. Two months ago a German exchange student disappeared, Ursula Schmidt, blue-eyed blond, age twenty-two and ….” With a triumphant smile, Rafe said, “Employed by Global Interpreting. Her girlfriend told the lead detective Ursula spoke fluent French and English in addition to German.”
“The body count is rising,” Frank muttered. And his sense of urgency was off the chart. An art heist was about to go down in Boston. He'd bet on it. But he didn't know where or when.
“What's the girlfriend's name and address? I want to talk to her.”
CHAPTER 14
Tuesday June 29, 2010 – 6:55 PM – Providence, RI
Gregor drove through an adult entertainment district on the south side of Providence. The main attraction was a windowless two-story building with a bubblegum-pink exterior. Bold black letters on the front said: CHEETAHS-GIRLS-GIRLS-GIRLS. The entrance was on a side street, sheltered by a mauve canvas awning flanked by two large signs: LADY GODIVA NUDE LOUNGE and CHEETAHS-TOPLESS-DANCING.
He parked in the lot beside the entrance and opened his car window. Whenever the door opened bump-and-grind music boomed into the sultry night air. Five minutes passed. He took out a Gitaines, then put it back. His daily limit was ten and he’d already smoked eight, but Kwan was testing his patience. The punk was late, and not for the first time.
Kwan was unpredictable, but essential to his plan. Six months ago the Gardner Museum had hired a new security guard. Nicholas Kwan, known to his employers as Daniel Leone.
A black Lexus roared into the parking lot, tires screeching. When Kwan got out, Gregor walked over to him. “You’re late,” he said.
“One night off and I have to drive to Rhode Island. Why do we have to meet here?”
Kwan's usual tactic: attack to deflect criticism. “I don’t want anyone to see us together in Boston. Someone might recognize me.”
“Why?” Kwan sneered. “Are you a celebrity?”
Gregor swallowed his anger. The punk would pay for his insolence soon enough.
Inside Cheetahs the music was unbearably loud. No overheard conversations here, just a roomful of lonely men with greedy eyes, sucking up draft beer. The air was pungent with cigarette smoke, and strobe lights raked the room, flashing on men seated elbow-to-elbow at the bar and at tables below two raised platforms.
Gregor recognized one of the dancers, Go-Go-Flo. A leggy platinum blonde with breasts like soccer balls, she was prancing around in red sandals with five-inch heels. Brass rings pierced her nipples. The red-white-and-blue tassels attached to them twirled crazily as she gyrated around a brass pole. When Gregor claimed a vacant table, Flo waved to him, whipping her breasts in circles.
A waitress in shorts and a halter top took their order, Glenlivet on the rocks for Gregor, Sprite for Kwan. Kwan drank no alcohol, nor did he smoke or use drugs. Kwan despised drug addicts. Flo gyrated her sweat-slicked body in an orgiastic frenzy, but Kwan didn’t look up. The first time they’d met here he had wondered if Kwan was gay, but quickly discarded the notion. Kwan wasn’t interested in sex, only killing, the bloodier the better. Nicholas Kwan killed for sport.
Gazing at him with the eyes of a cobra, Kwan said: “I hired someone to cause the diversion. A woman. She used to be a cop.”
“Used to be. What happened? Did she get fired?”
“No. She quit.”
“Why?”
Kwan guzzled some Sprite. “She is black and she is a woman. She couldn’t hack it.”
“Where did you find her?”
“In a Chinese restaurant near Boston Medical Center. Larry’s.”
He stiffened. The restaurant where he had met Valerie.
“Her name is Jamilla Wells. Like I said, she’s an ex-cop, which solves two problems. She lines up the gangbangers to create the diversion and she takes out the cops in the cruisers. If she wears her uniform, they will accept her as one of their own. They will never suspect a woman.”
Not a bad idea, Gregor had to admit. “She a
greed to it?”
“Of course. She needs money. She has a—” Kwan scratched his beard and bared his teeth in a smile. “Don’t worry, she’ll kill the two cops, no problem.”
“We are not going to kill the cops, Nicolas. Did you not learn anything in San Francisco? Killing cops is a mistake and we can’t afford mistakes. I told you before. She zaps them with a stun gun and knocks them out for a while with a drug.”
“How do you know this drug will put them out?”
“Stop questioning me!” He forced himself to be calm. Always be in control. He set his scarred hands on the table and felt a measure of satisfaction when Kwan stared at them. “This drug will do the job.”
Kwan rattled the ice in his glass. “I need more money. I gave the woman four-fifty to line up the six gangbangers. They want seventy-five apiece to get the riot going.”
“Screw the gangbangers. After she knocks out the cops, kill her.” He took out a Gitaines and lighted it. The woman wasn’t the problem, Kwan was. He was an animal. Vicious. Bloodthirsty. That’s why he’d hired him, of course. Controlling him was another matter.
The bump-and-grind music ended, eliciting whistles and catcalls as the strippers circled the platforms collecting their tips. Flo looked over, but Gregor waved her off. “The cops outside the museum call in every hour on the hour so you don't have much time.”
“How do you know this?”
“I know, because I have spent months planning this job.”
Sullen-eyed, Kwan fingered his thick dark beard.
“I will have two-way radios for you and the woman. Have her call you after she knocks out the second cop. Then you disable the alarm and the video cameras. You know how to do that, right?”
“Yesss.” An angry hiss.
“Use a garrote to take out the other two guards.”
Something flickered in Kwan’s eyes. “A knife is better.”
“No. Think, Nicholas. After the heist, three guards go missing. They’re all suspects. If the cops find blood from the other two and none of yours ...” He let the words hang in the air.
“What about my ID? Sooner or later they’ll find out it’s fake.”
“You shave your beard, we take a photo and I get you a new passport. Once we get the ransom, you hop a plane and split.” He leaned back in his chair. “Where are you going? Got any plans?”
“I’m not sure yet,” Kwan said, expressionless. “Why?”
“Just curious.” He sipped his scotch. “I need you to steal a van to transport the paintings. Have the woman drive it into the courtyard. Kill her and dump her in the rear compartment.”
“What if the cops in the cruisers wake up? I still think it’s better to kill—”
He slammed his palm on the table. “No!” A heavyset older man at the next table looked over. Gregor lowered his voice. “The other security guards and the woman know you. The cops in the cruisers won’t. Killing cops would only bring extra heat.”
Kwan’s eyes went flat and a muscle jumped in his jaw. Hiring Kwan might have been a mistake, the one flaw in an otherwise perfect plan.
The bump-and-grind music started again, and Go-Go-Flo shimmied around the platform, stroking her breasts. She paused beside their table, pursed her glossy red lips and said, “Want a lap dance, hon?”
“Not tonight, Flo. Maybe next time.” He slipped a twenty into her G-string, and she flounced away, twirling her red-white-and-blue tassels.
“After Scorpio puts the Vermeers in the van, kill her.” Scorpio was Valerie's code name. Kwan didn't know Gregor’s real name either. Kwan thought he was Stefan Haas.
“You didn’t tell me I had to kill four people. I want more money.”
Gregor stared at him, incredulous. “I have to talk you out of killing two cops, and you complain about offing the women?”
“I deserve a bigger share,” Kwan said. “I’m taking all the risks.”
Rage clogged his throat. Fighting for control, he waited until he was able to say, “I take plenty of risks. You forget something, Nicholas. I hired you. You work for me. After Scorpio delivers the Vermeers, kill her and dump her body in the van with the ex-cop. Then you put the other two paintings in the van.”
“What happens after I split with the paintings?”
“I meet you with a getaway car and we swap.”
“What about the bodies?”
“That’s my problem.”
“Hssss! Stefan, you keep me in the dark about everything!”
“You do your job, I do mine. I lined up a hideout. You go there and you wait.”
“Where is this hideout?”
“I will tell you the night of the heist—”
“Bullshit! Tell me now!”
“Keep your voice down,” Gregor snapped. “Stop arguing.”
“Get somebody else to do your shit work!” Kwan jumped up and stalked away.
He sat there, stunned. After all his preparations—months of work!—Kwan was backing out on him. Consumed with rage, he rushed to the exit. Hot humid air hit his face as he burst outside and ran to the parking lot. Kwan stood at the door of his Lexus, parked nose-in to the bubblegum-pink wall. He sprinted to the car, put his hands around Kwan's neck and squeezed.
“You think you can back out on me, you worthless piece of shit?”
Gasping for air, Kwan clawed at his fingers. Gregor shook him like a rat, then released him.
Kwan massaged his throat. “This job sucks. You treat me like a servant and tell me nothing. I'm stuck in a rat-trap apartment with no money—”
“I pay your expenses—”
“Shit money!”
“Really? That’s a fancy car you’re driving. Where did you get the money for it?”
Kwan clenched his jaw. “You’re not the one taking orders from those museum assholes. My boss is already apeshit about security. By the time the show opens on Friday he will be impossible.”
“Thursday,” Gregor said. “Don't forget the party Thursday night.”
“Right. A private show for the big shots.” Kwan spat on the pavement and glowered at him, dark eyes glittery with rage.
Gregor leaned closer and said in a quiet voice, “Listen carefully, Nicholas. No more questions. No more arguments. From now on, you will do exactly as I say. If you do not, I will kill you.”
Kwan gazed at him, expressionless. “I need more money to make sure the ex-cop cooperates.”
“How much?”
Kwan’s eyes shifted away. “Nine hundred.”
He took out his wallet. The punk was probably lying, but nine hundred was a pittance. Anything to keep him under control.
_____
She put her iPhone on the kitchen table, went in the living room and stood at the window, staring out at the inky darkness. Her apartment felt like a prison, claustrophobic, the walls closing in on her, dingy wallpaper above dark brown wainscoting in every room, infested with roaches and vermin. But rats and roaches were the least of her problems.
Frank Renzi was in Boston. Not just in Boston, at the Global Interpreting office. No one could connect her to the office, but why was Renzi there this morning? Who was he after? Jonathan Pym? Gregor Kraus? But how would he connect Jonathan and Gregor to Global Interpreting?
Why wouldn't Gregor give her any details about the Gardner heist? Especially the date. How long would she be able to fend off his sexual advances? All these questions were driving her mad.
She went in the bathroom and studied her face in the medicine cabinet mirror above the rust-stained sink. Her eyes had dark circles under them and her face was gaunt. She wasn't sleeping, and she wasn't eating much, either. Her stomach was too jumpy.
This morning at the travel agency, she hadn't bought a plane ticket to Rome. She didn't have enough cash and she never bought plane tickets with a credit card. Now she wished she had.
After leaving Copley Place, she had walked across the street to Back Bay Station, a massive structure with a T-stop and a terminal for Amtrak trains, cro
wded with people but she felt safe in her student disguise, just another anonymous traveler. Thinking she might leave Boston by train, she went to the electronic departure/arrival display. But a poster on the bulletin board beside it leaped out at her. Bold black letters at the top: Wanted For Murder. Below it was her driver’s license photo. The sight of it had made her physically ill.
She massaged her throbbing temples. The same poster was probably in the bus station. There might not be one at Logan, but the airport had its own State Police Barrack. What if the poster was on a bulletin board there? State Troopers patrolled the airport and the roadway outside the all departure and arrival terminals.
Stealing two Vermeers from the Gardner entailed huge risks. Now the stakes were even higher. Renzi was in Boston.
A feeling of dread overwhelmed her. She had to get out now.
She returned to the kitchen, punched the phone number of her Swiss bank into the iPhone, and entered a six-digit code to access her account. She checked the balance: $98,600. A paltry sum if she wanted to disappear forever, but she couldn't worry about that now.
A series of keystrokes took her to the withdrawal menu. She entered the amount: $10,000. If she needed more she would make another withdrawal. She finished the transaction by entering the name and number of the business where the bank could wire the money, a UPS store on Huntington Avenue. This made her feel a better. But if she used her Valerie Brown passport to fly out of Logan, Pym might find out.
She didn't know how often Gregor and Pym communicated, but Gregor was a control freak, and Pym had powerful friends. In addition to Sir Edmund Foxhill, Pym might have other contacts, powerful men with the clout to check flights departing from Logan.
Maybe she should tell Pak Lam that her need for a new passport was urgent. Forget the gender disguise. Any kind of a passport would do.
The most vexing question returned. Why was Renzi in Boston now?
What did he know and how did he know it?
If he knew she was here, she was trapped.
Her stomach revolted. She ran to the bathroom and heaved her guts out in the toilet. When she rose to her feet, her legs were shaking and her mouth tasted vile. She went to the sink and brushed her teeth, wet a facecloth with cold water and pressed it to her face.