Natalie's Art: a Frank Renzi novel

by Susan Fleet

  She heard her iPhone beep. Gregor was on the move. She ran to the kitchen, snatched the iPhone and retrieved the text, which gave the Saab's location. What was he doing in Providence? Not that she cared.

  She was more worried about Renzi, but she couldn't afford to forget about Gregor. She accessed Google Earth, switched to the street view and zoomed in on the location.

  It appeared to be some kind of bar. No, not a bar, a strip club. Cheetahs. No surprise there. Gregor was obsessed with sex.

  Tomorrow she had go with him to buy a dress for the Thursday night party at the Gardner Museum. Gregor wanted to have sex with her. And Gregor usually got what he wanted.

  Another problem with no solution.

  CHAPTER 15

  Tuesday July 1, 2010 – Boston

  “You got the feeling Ursula wasn’t happy with her job?” Frank said.

  Lisa Malone took a dainty sip of black coffee. “Yes, but she didn’t talk about it much.”

  The morning rush at Starbucks had cleared, and they were perched on stools beside a window overlooking Charles Street at the foot of Beacon Hill. Lisa groomed her auburn hair with long skinny fingers. She had baby-blue eyes, a flawless complexion, and a black halter top and black spandex pants hugged her rail-thin body. Frank wanted to buy her a decent meal, put some meat on her.

  “Did she mention any boyfriends?”

  “No. She could have had most any guy she wanted, but she was totally focused on her career. She wanted to be an actress. Anytime she wasn’t working, she was studying books on acting and movie scripts. She only had a nine-month visa and she didn’t want to waste time.”

  “How’d you meet her?”

  Lisa flashed a smile, showing her flawless, pearly-white teeth. “At a Bruce Springsteen concert. He played the FleetCenter in February. Do you like Bruce Springsteen?”

  Frank wasn’t wild about him, decided it wasn’t worth the discussion. “Doesn’t everyone? What happened at the concert?”

  “I was standing beside Ursula in the ladies room line and we had on the exact same outfit, isn’t that weird?” Lisa’s baby-blues went wide. “We hit it off right away. She’d only been in Boston a week and didn’t know anybody so she came by herself. I made her sit with me and my friends. Later, we went out for a drink and—you’ll never believe this!—Ursula’s sign is the same as mine. I’m into astrology. Are you?”

  Frank grinned. “Only when the newspaper horoscope says I’m gonna make lots of money and meet the love of my life.”

  It got a laugh out of her. “Right, but newspaper horoscopes are very general. You have to have your chart done by a professional if you want an accurate reading.”

  He was willing to bet his chart wouldn’t help him find Ursula. Or Gregor. Or Natalie.

  “What made you think Ursula was unhappy with her job?”

  Lisa stared out the window at a mounted policeman clip-clopping down Charles Street, nursing her black coffee as if it were a fine cognac. “She was sort of vague when I asked about it. But every job has its drawbacks. I did a fashion shoot last August during that heat wave? Ninety degrees and I’m out on the beach in a fur coat! People think models have it easy, but it’s not as glamorous as it sounds.”

  Weary of the chitchat, he said, “Lisa, I need help if I’m going to find Ursula. Think carefully. What did she tell you about her job?”

  “She said it was boring, translating for French and German businessmen. She spoke French, too, and her English was perfect, hardly any accent at all!”

  “Did she mention any client in particular, maybe drop a name?”

  “Not really. She said the Frenchmen liked to eat and the Germans liked to drink.” Lisa gazed at him over the rim of her coffee cup. “She liked the French guys better because they took her to nice restaurants. She went to dinner with them. For business meetings, I guess.”

  “Any of them hit on her? You know, give her a hard time?”

  “Guys hit on women all the time, unless you’re fat and ugly, and Ursula wasn’t fat or ugly.” She frowned. “But I got the impression something happened at the office that upset her. She said whenever she was there the manager would look at her.” Lisa grimaced. “You know, the way guys do when they're mentally undressing you.”

  “When was this?”

  “In March. We went shopping at Copley Place. Ursula wanted to buy her parents a gift for their wedding anniversary. When I asked if she felt safe working there, her eyes got this, I don’t know, haunted look. Maybe if I’d paid more attention …” Lisa gnawed her lip. “Ursula would never take off without calling me, I just know it!”

  “The manager was bothering her? Stefan Haas?”

  “Yes. But she said when she went there to pick up her paycheck once, the woman who runs the office called him by another name.”

  His heart sped up. Gregor. “What did she call him?”

  “I can't remember,” she said. “Some kind of G-name.”

  “Think, Lisa. It could be important.” He didn't want to prompt her.

  “Gary? No, that wasn't it. It sounded foreign. Gustav, maybe? Wait, I think it was Gregor.”

  Frank wanted to kiss her. Just as he'd thought. Gregor was working at with Global Interpreting using a fake name. Stefan Haas. He'd better pay Marta another visit and ask her about Ursula and Gregor.

  Lisa’s eyes brimmed with tears. “Do you think you’ll find her?”

  “I hope so.” But he doubted it. He wrote his cellphone number on his card and gave it to her. “If you think of anything else, anything at all, give me a buzz, okay?”

  “And if you find Ursula, you’ll call me, won’t you? No matter what?”

  Frank said he would. Got a bad feeling as he said it.

  ____

  Nicholas paced his apartment, a shitty third-floor walk-up in Mission Hill. Compared to his San Francisco condo it was a dump, ancient appliances in the kitchen, mismatched furniture in the living room and a closet-sized bedroom with a lumpy bed.

  Because Stefan wouldn’t spring for a better one.

  He scratched his beard. He couldn’t wait to shave it off. The bristles irritated his skin.

  A whistling teakettle drew him to the kitchen. He spooned tea leaves into a mug, poured hot water over them and set the steaming brew on the table. A stack of papers lay on the yellow Formica tabletop, articles he had copied when he visited the periodicals room at the Boston Public Library yesterday. He picked up the first one, dated March 19, 1990, and began to read.

  $200m Gardner Museum art theft

  In the biggest art robbery since the 1911 theft of the Mona Lisa, two men posing as police officers gained entry to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum last night, overpowered two guards and fled with an estimated $200 million worth of art.

  Karen Howe, acting curator of the famous museum, said the stolen art, including a Vermeer and a seascape by Rembrandt, were worth “hundreds of millions of dollars.” The art was not insured for theft, Howe said, because the cost of such a policy would have exceeded the museum’s $2.8 million budget.

  However, if the thieves don't have a prearranged buyer, the works may be worthless. “They’re too hot to handle,” said one expert. “The Vermeer and the Rembrandt will be impossible to sell.” Some speculate that an art connoisseur engineered the theft. Others say this doesn’t fit the psychology of owning famous art. “It’s all about ego-gratification,” said one. “You don’t get that if you can’t show it off.” Others believe the paintings were stolen for use as “bargaining chips,” but questioned whether law enforcement officials would agree to such demands.

  Nicholas sipped his tea. Bargaining chips. Interesting.

  He skimmed the next article, published one week after the theft.

  Motive, recovery of art elude investigators

  A $1 million reward has been offered for the safe return of the $200 million treasures stolen from the Gardner Museum. The case has focused attention on an epidemic of art heists. Soaring prices make art theft a
$1-billion-a-year industry, investigators say. Art is easier to smuggle than cash, and political extremists sometimes use stolen art as bargaining chips.

  Sources close to the investigation say that FBI agents and police detectives are checking discrepancies in the stories of the overnight guards, who were paid $6.85 an hour. In the early morning of March 18, one guard sat in a cramped room at the museum’s watch desk, scanning four television security monitors, while the other made his rounds.

  Nicholas studied the floor plan beside the article. Even now it was reasonably accurate, but this time three guards would work the overnight, and this time the cops would have no guards to question. Two would be dead and he would be a rich man. He picked up the next article.

  Masterpieces, masterminds.

  Ten years ago today, on a night when many Bostonians were celebrating St. Patrick's Day, two men disguised as police officers forced their way into the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum and pulled off the biggest art theft in modern history. In less than 90 minutes, they stole 13 art works worth hundreds of millions of dollars and vanished into the rainy night.

  In 1997 the Gardner boosted the reward for their safe return to $5 million, but FBI agents see no sign of a break. Law enforcement officials believe the thieves assumed the art was insured and the insurance company would offer the customary reward—5 to 10 percent of the paintings’ value—but the Gardner carried no theft insurance.

  “Thirteen art works,” Nicolas muttered, “worth hundreds of millions.” But the Rembrandt and the Vermeer appeared to account for most of it. If they stole two Vermeers, why did Stefan want him to steal two more paintings? He had a lot to do. Kill the other guards. Have Jamilla drive the van into the courtyard and kill her.

  Then he had to deal with Scorpio. She and Stefan would be at the gala tonight. To see the Vermeers, Stefan said.

  After she put them in the van, Stefan wanted him to kill her. This he would happily do. He could think of only one reason why Stefan was using her. Stefan didn't trust him. Good to know that she wouldn’t collect any of the money.

  At the last staff meeting the security chief had said each of the ten paintings in the Special Exhibit was insured for fifty million dollars. Nicholas did some calculations. If they stole four, and the insurance companies paid ten percent of the insured value, Stefan might collect a twenty million dollar ransom.

  “Motherfucker!” He pounded his fist on the table. Stefan had offered him a measly half-million. Stefan thought he was too stupid to research the previous Gardner heist. Wrong.

  Stefan thought he could cheat him. Wrong again.

  He envisioned the exquisite pleasure he would have slitting Stefan's throat after they collected the ransom.

  Maybe he’d watch a movie before he went to work. Rambo, with Sylvester Stallone. Rambo took no shit from anyone.

  But one term in the articles kept running through his mind. Bargaining chip.

  He needed a bargaining chip to prevent Stefan from cheating him.

  _____

  Revere, MA

  Frank entered his motel room at 4:15 and dropped his keys on the table beside the door. He'd rented the room for a week but had told the desk clerk he might stay longer. Whatever it took to find Natalie.

  He popped the cap on a Heineken and put the rest of the six-pack in the mini-fridge. Not bad for a low-budget motel, a queen-sized bed and cable TV. The rates were cheap because the MBTA Blue Line ran behind the motel, trains rattling by every few minutes. But they stopped at midnight, didn't resume until 6 AM. He was seldom in bed before midnight, almost always up by six.

  And the Beachmont T-stop was two blocks away, hop on the T, he'd be downtown in thirty minutes. Plus, there was a Dunkin' Donuts outside the T-station and a liquor store on the opposite corner beside an Italian pastry shop that made espresso.

  Only thing missing was Kelly. He sat on the faux-leather easy chair and sipped his beer. He felt bad that she didn't get to see any sights in London. Or Boston. She had a tight connection and had dashed off to catch her flight as soon as they’d landed.

  He used the clicker to turn on the TV. When his cellphone rang, he hit the mute button and answered.

  “How's things up there in Boston Bruins land?” Vobitch said. He sounded annoyed. Moreover, he knew Frank had no interest in hockey. The only Boston sports team he followed was the Celtics.

  “Last night at the Garden there was a fight and a hockey game broke out.” The oft-quoted canard about hockey players always fighting.

  “Believe it or not,” Vobitch said, “we got plenty of fights down here. We got a few homicides, too.”

  Frank sipped his beer. Sometimes he enjoyed Vobitch's sarcasm. But not when it was directed at him.

  “When are you coming back? I'm short a detective.”

  “Morgan, I've got a lead on those art heists, a lead in Boston. Didn't Kelly tell you?”

  “NOPD isn't paying you to solve art heists. You're a homicide detective.”

  “Okay, but Natalie might be here.” He told Vobitch about the State Trooper who'd spotted her at Logan. “If she's in Boston, she might be getting ready to pull another art heist.”

  “Last I heard Boston's got a police department. Let them handle it.”

  “If she's in Boston, I'm going to get her.”

  “Frank, let it go. You don't know for sure she's there.”

  His irritation escalated. Vobitch didn't understand how badly he wanted Natalie. He didn’t just want her; he was bound and determined to get her. “You know, I haven't spent much time with my father lately. I've got some vacation time. Maybe I'll take it now.”

  “Vacation time.”

  He pictured Vobitch's outraged expression, slate-gray eyes cold as ice. But if Natalie was in Boston, she was here to steal a painting. And he was going to grab her before she did.

  “Can you fax me the form I need to put in for vacation time?”

  A heavy sigh. “Okay, but no more than a week. We got three homicides over the weekend and I'm catching heat.”

  “Thanks for understanding,” he said, and felt a stab of guilt. Morgan was a good guy, and the NOPD brass was leaning on him.

  “I'll email you the form,” Vobitch said. “And you can email me your report on the London trip.”

  Frank grinned. Vobitch running true to form: Tit for tat. “You got it,” he said. He punched off and sipped his beer. If he was going to be here for the Fourth of July, why not invite Kelly up? They could watch the Boston Pops and the fireworks on the Esplanade.

  When he called her, she answered right away. “What's up, Frank?”

  “Missing you, that's what's up. Can you fly up for the weekend? I'll pay your plane fare.”

  “I'd love to, but I'm on patrol duty Friday night. You know how it is on holiday weekends.”

  “Come up Saturday then and fly back Monday. I'll pick you up at the airport, show you the sights.”

  Kelly laughed. “You don't have to ask me twice. Book the flight and send me the details.”

  “Great. I'll email you.” He closed his cellphone and looked around the motel room. It would look a lot better when Kelly got here on Saturday. Four days from now, but work would keep him busy.

  Tonight he was going to the gala at the Gardner Museum.

  CHAPTER 16

  Thursday July 1, 2010 – 7:10 PM – Boston

  She clenched her jaw and stared out the window. It did nothing to quell her anxiety. Or her anger. Not with Gregor sitting beside her in the limousine. Yesterday at a boutique on Newbury Street, he had told the saleswoman he wanted to buy his girlfriend a fancy dress. He picked out three and made her model them for him, devouring her with his eyes when she came out of the dressing room. He'd chosen the gaudiest one, a form-fitting gold lamé dress with a plunging neckline and a skirt that came halfway up her thigh.

  She hated it. It made her look like a hooker.

  Gregor was wearing a tuxedo with a white dress shirt and a red cummerbund, and white gloves, t
o hide the scars on his hands, she assumed. He'd told her to wear her blonde wig, but she hadn't. She had fashioned her long black hair into a French twist.

  A small act of defiance, but it made her feel better.

  Their limo turned onto the Fenway. Spotlights crisscrossed the facade of the Gardner museum, and whistle-tooting police officers directed traffic around a line of limousines disgorging passengers. Across the street mounted policemen patrolled a throng of spectators. It reminded her of the Academy Award ceremonies she'd seen on television. Outside a tall wrought-iron fence, television cameras filmed well-dressed couples as they left their limos and strolled down a red carpet.

  Her fear blossomed into panic. Television cameras would film her with Gregor, at the Gardner.

  Their limousine pulled forward and stopped at the red carpet. When the driver opened her door, she put on her dark glasses. Gregor stood on the sidewalk, wearing sunglasses. “You look frightened, Valerie. Don't be. You look stunning in your new dress.”

  “Television cameras,” she hissed through a fake smile.

  He took her arm and they walked down the red carpet. Heat from the television lights warmed her face. Maintaining a fixed smile, she strode past the cameras. Although it felt like an eternity, thirty seconds later a uniformed guard checked their tickets and waved them inside.

  A line for the Special Exhibit extended all the way to the door. A sign for the reception pointed left.

  “The line is too long,” Gregor said. “Let's have a drink.” When she didn't respond, he said, “No need to be rude, Valerie. This is a party. Why not enjoy yourself?”

  I would if I wasn't with you. She removed her dark glasses and went to a wide archway that opened onto an interior courtyard. The garden was amazing, an oasis of calm. Mesmerized, she gazed at the lush green ferns, towering palms trees and fragrant flowers. She had chosen birds and mountains to protect her, but flowers were part of the natural world, too. The tension in her neck and shoulder muscles eased.