Natalie's Art: a Frank Renzi novel

by Susan Fleet

  Tonight he'd call and tell her about Stefan, murdered two years ago in London. He was certain Gregor had killed him and stolen his identity. Maybe telling Kelly about it wasn't such a good idea. It would feed into her fears about Gregor. On the other hand, he didn't like hiding things from her. Besides, she was a great detective. He loved bouncing ideas off her.

  Did Natalie help Gregor ambush Stefan, he wondered? When he caught her, he'd ask her. Seeing her in the photo with Stefan was a shock, but it validated his theory. Two years ago Natalie had fled to London. She still invaded his dreams, a haunting reminder of his failure to capture her. He couldn't prove it, but his gut told him she was in Boston and so was Gregor Kraus, using Stefan's ID.

  Stefan was thirty-two, seven years younger than Gregor, but that wouldn't matter in a passport or driver’s license photo. Stefan was blond. Gregor had dark hair, but it was easy enough to dye your hair or wear a wig.

  Case closed. Gregor Kraus, posing as Stefan Haas, was the Global Interpreting manager.

  Given the late-afternoon traffic, the office would be closed by the time he got back to Boston. But tomorrow it wouldn't.

  CHAPTER 20

  Wednesday July 7, 2010

  She spread a dark green bath towel over the kitchen table, took a tube of grease and a four ounce container of oil out of her lube kit and set them on the towel beside the gun Pak Lam had sold her. The Beretta 92 FS felt comfortable in her hand, lightweight and compact, though it would be heavier when she loaded it with the 9mm hollow-point slugs. But a gun needed to be cleaned and oiled regularly.

  That's what Uncle Jerry said. When she was a teenager in Texas, she had asked him to teach her how to shoot. She didn't dare tell him why. His son, her disgusting cousin, was making his sister give him blowjobs. Natalie had put a stop to that.

  With practiced efficiency, she disassembled the Beretta. But cleaning and oiling the parts didn't erase the problems that tormented her. Frank Renzi. Gregor. Her doubts about Madame Li.

  Yesterday when she met Gregor to get the money she'd asked for, she had mustered the courage to ask when the heist would be. He didn't fly into a rage as she'd feared. He just didn't answer her.

  “Keep your cellphone with you at all times,” he'd said.

  Holding her hostage with the cellphone, her electronic leash.

  He didn't know about the bug on his car. Now she was tracking his movements. After he left her yesterday, he had driven the Saab to a residential street on the east side of Providence. After spending almost an hour there, he had driven to the strip club he'd visited last week. Cheetahs. To get a lap dance, probably. She'd danced at strip clubs in New York. She knew how it worked.

  She checked her iPhone. Now he was in Jamaica Plain, a few miles from her Mission Hill apartment. The Saab was parked beside a pond on the Jamaicaway, a secondary road people took to avoid using the highway to get in and out of Boston. She had no idea what Gregor was doing there, but this rash of activity made her nervous.

  She wouldn't get her new passport and documents until tomorrow. Madame Li would make them. An eighty-year-old woman. What if she had a heart attack? What if her flight from California was delayed? What if, what if.

  All this fretting accomplished nothing, and it was driving her mad.

  Annoyed, she slammed the magazine into the Beretta and took it into her bedroom. A shoebox lay open on her bed. Inside it were two boxes of 9mm hollow-point bullets. She put the Beretta in the shoebox beside the ammunition and hefted the box. It was heavy. Holding it in both hands, she went to the closet and hoisted it onto the top shelf. Not a great hiding place but she had no better one.

  Now she could go to Chinatown for her Taekwondo workout. She'd gone there every day this week. She had to stay strong and maintain her TKD skills. Her secret weapon.

  _____

  When Frank walked into Global Interpreting at ten-thirty, Marta was alone in the office. “Hi, Marta. Remember me?”

  She looked up from some papers, scowling as he approached her desk. “I remember you, Mr. Capone.”

  “I thought maybe you forgot. Stefan Haas didn’t call me.”

  Her lips tightened. “I gave him the message.”

  Frank went to the doorway beside her desk and looked down a long gray-carpeted hall, illuminated by florescent ceiling panels. “Is his office down there?”

  She swiveled her chair to face him. “Yes, but he’s not in today.”

  Three strides got him to her chair, looming over her, inches from her face. She recoiled, eyes wide with fear, hands raised to ward him off. “I don’t believe it. Show me.”

  Anger flared in her eyes. “I don’t have to—”

  “Show me,” he snapped, and strode down the hall. Too bad he’d left his 9mm SIG-Sauer in his motel room. So he wouldn’t be tempted to threaten Marta with it. At the end of the twenty-foot hall, he stopped at a wood-paneled door with a Yale lock. “What's in here?”

  Rigid with fury, Marta stormed down the hall, lips set in a line. “Mr. Haas’ office, but he’s not in today.”

  “Show me.”

  “I can't. I don't have a key. How many times must I tell you? He is not here!”

  Frank pounded the door with his fist. Waited thirty seconds. Looked at Marta. Her smug expression said: I told you so.

  “Okay,” he said, “let’s talk.”

  When they returned to the foyer, Marta sat in her chair with her arms folded over her chest. “Show me your client list,” he said.

  A big frown. “Why?”

  “I’d like some references, to see if your customers are satisfied.”

  “Why? We have never had any complaints.”

  “Give me some names then. What are you afraid of?”

  “I can’t. We’re very scrupulous about guarding our clients’ privacy.”

  “You keep telling me Stefan Haas isn't here. I'm beginning to think he doesn't exist.”

  She tucked a wisp of blonde hair behind her ear, glaring at him. “What do you want, Mr. Capone?”

  “What happened to Ursula?”

  She licked her lips. “Who? I don’t know any Ursula.”

  “Yes you do. She used to work here. Then she disappeared. You seem real concerned about your employees’ welfare when I ask for names. Aren’t you worried about her?”

  She clenched her jaw and said nothing.

  “How about Natalie? Does she work here?” Watching her closely to assess her reaction.

  She seemed surprised. “No one by that name ever worked here.”

  “How about Gregor Kraus?”

  Her mouth sagged open and her eyes shifted away, avoiding his.

  “Put me in touch with him. Why should you take all the heat?”

  A muscle worked in her jaw. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

  He knew he’d get nothing more out of her without flashing his NOPD badge. He wasn’t ready to do that, but her startled reaction confirmed his suspicion. Gregor Kraus was Stefan Haas.

  And Frank was determined to talk to him. He aimed his finger at Marta. Not as good as a gun, but safer.

  “Have him call me, Marta. If I have to come back, things could get ugly.”

  _____

  Kwan was late. Again. Gregor took out a Gitaines, his second in thirty minutes, he realized. Unacceptable. He put it back. He’d told the punk to meet him near the boathouse on the Jamaicaway, a four-lane road lined with scrub pine, older homes and brick apartment buildings.

  If Kwan didn’t show up in ten minutes he'd leave.

  He slammed his palms against the steering wheel of the Saab. It didn't matter how late the punk was. He would wait regardless. He had no choice. Without Kwan his plan was useless. He had violated his code—Trust no one—and now he was paying for it.

  He eyed the rearview mirror. A lime-green Toyota approached the Saab. Not Kwan. To calm himself, he shut his eyes and pictured Go-Go-Flo, relishing the memory of her enormous breasts and her talented mouth.

  His reward
for packing Burt off to Florida yesterday.

  After he sent Burt to the airport in a taxi, he had spent an hour in Burt's stinking cottage, completing his tasks. First he called the telephone company and had them disconnect the phone. Then he called the cable company and canceled the service. Kwan would stay there after the heist and Gregor didn't want him watching the news reports. Kwan thought they were going to collect a big ransom for the stolen paintings.

  Upon leaving the cottage, Gregor had carried the flat-screen TV out to the curb and left it there. Someone in the neighborhood was sure to grab it off the sidewalk after he left. One problem solved.

  But Valerie was another problem, lying to him after the party at the Gardner, some cock-and-bull story about the cop. He could always tell when someone was lying.

  Gregor studied the scars on his hands. As a child, he had learned to watch Papa carefully—his face, eyes and body language—trying to anticipate when Papa might burn him again. His ability to read people had facilitated his work as an enforcer for the London gang. People who owed you money would lie like crazy. Anything to make you believe they would pay the money tomorrow or the next day.

  Valerie had said the cop was after her for some teenage escapade. Bullshit.

  His cellphone rang. Thinking it might be Kwan, he answered without checking the ID.

  “Gregor! We have a problem!”

  Marta. The last thing he wanted to do right now was listen to a laundry list of Marta's problems. “What?” he snapped.

  “A man came to the office today, asking about Ursula.”

  He took out a Gitaines and lighted it. “Who is he? What did he say?”

  “John Capone, or so he said. I think he’s a cop. He came here last week, too.”

  “What did he want?”

  “Last week?”

  Rage coursed through him. Marta could be incredibly stupid sometimes. In his customary quiet voice he said, “Tell me what this man wants, Marta.”

  “Last week he wanted to talk to Stefan Haas. I told him I'd have you call him.”

  “And? So? What did he want today?”

  “He knows Ursula went missing.”

  “I told you that girl was trouble, Marta. You recruited her. Looks like you didn’t check her out very well. What did you tell him?”

  “I said she ran off to New York one weekend and never came back. But—”

  “Good.” He puffed his Gitaines and spewed smoke out the window. “I must get back to work.”

  “Wait! Don't hang up! He asked to talk to Stefan Haas again. When I said you weren't here, he went down the hall to your office.”

  Gregor frowned. That was disturbing. But Marta had no key to his office. “Did he show you his identification?”

  “No, but I know a cop when I see one. Gregor, I’m scared. He frightened me.”

  “You worry too much.”

  “Worry too much? Merde! He’s an animal! And then he asked for you, Gregor. Not Stefan Haas, you! Gregor Kraus.”

  He took another drag on his Gitaines and sucked it into his lungs. Why was some cop asking for Gregor Kraus?

  Was this the cop Valerie saw at the Gardner last week? “What does he look like, this animal you are so afraid of?”

  “Dark hair, dark eyes. Italian-looking. Tall and rugged.”

  He tried to recall if he'd seen anyone like that at the Gardner. But in truth he hadn't paid much attention to the other guests. His eyes were feasting on Valerie. “What did you tell him?”

  “I said I didn't know anyone by that name. He said if you didn't call him he would come back.”

  “Fine,” he snapped. “I’ll take care of it next week.”

  “Next week! What if he comes back tomorrow?”

  “Marta, I said I would take care of it.” He ended the call and stared out the window. No one would ever find Ursula, but these inquiries were worrisome. Especially now, when he had no time for them. To steal four masterpieces from the Gardner many details required his attention. Not to mention riding herd on his underlings. Burt. Jamilla, the ex-cop. Nicolas Kwan. Valerie. But the paintings would bring an enormous reward, millions of dollars. Fuck Pym. The money would go into Gregor’s bank account.

  But the heist would draw enormous media attention. Would Marta suspect him? He would deny it, of course. Even if she didn’t believe him, she’d keep her mouth shut. She had helped him steal several paintings in Europe. Not only that, she was still in love with him. Years ago he had thought her exciting. Now she disgusted him.

  Still, he longed to see a woman's eyes light up when he told her about his life of crime. Not just any woman, a woman he could trust. Valerie, perhaps? He had the art heists and the murder to hold over her head. An ache stirred in his groin.

  They said love made the world go round. Wrong. Love was a trap. Falling in love meant losing control. That’s why he paid his blonde beauties to pleasure him.

  In the rearview he saw Kwan’s Lexus approaching the Saab. He pulled away from the curb and Kwan followed him. At a rotary, he took the first exit and parked beside a grassy knoll shaded by giant oaks. When Kwan got out of the Lexus, Gregor motioned him to follow and walked down a grassy slope to the edge of the pond.

  The punk took his time, strolling down the hill, then saying, “Why do we meet here?”

  “Why are you always late? I told you eleven. It is eleven-thirty.”

  Kwan responded with a sullen shrug. Aching to punch the bastard’s mouth, Gregor clenched his fists. Took a deep breath. Forced himself to speak in a quiet voice. “We are three miles from your apartment, Nicolas. What will happen the night of the heist? Will you be late then too?”

  “Why are we meeting here?”

  “This is where we switch cars after the heist.”

  Kwan turned and looked up the hill. “Up there?”

  “No, over there.” Gregor pointed to a road that paralleled the Jamaicaway. Stately Victorians and towering oak trees lined the street. “Safe enough if I am not there too long, so don’t keep me waiting.”

  “You think I want to hang around with four stolen paintings and four bodies and wait for the cops to show up?”

  He fixed Kwan with an icy stare. “Do not be late. We meet here and switch vehicles. I take the van, you take the car. The hideout is in Providence, a cottage with an attached garage. Put the car in the garage and stay in the house. There will be plenty of food so you won’t need to go out.”

  “How long do I have to stay there?”

  “That depends on the negotiations.”

  Kwan gazed at him, his eyes flat and inscrutable. “How long?”

  “I don’t know. After Jamilla drives the van into the courtyard—”

  “How does she get the keys?”

  “Park the van on the street behind the museum before you go to work. Put the keys over the visor and leave the door unlocked.”

  Kwan fingered his beard, frowning. “What if someone steals it?”

  “No one will steal it,” he snapped. “Use a garrote to kill the guards. There must be no blood, understand? No evidence. Once the van is in the courtyard, kill the ex-cop and dump her in the van. This should take no more than ten minutes.”

  “Easy for you to say. What about Scorpio?”

  With a supreme effort, he fought down his anger. “She takes the Vermeers in the Special Exhibit, The Milkmaid and The Lacemaker. You take the Rembrandt Self Portrait in the Dutch Room.” He took two photos out of his picket, gave one to Kwan and studied the second photo, Manet’s Portrait of Madame Manet. For some reason her dour expression and stern eyes irritated him.

  He showed Kwan the photo. “The Manet is in the Blue Room on the first floor.”

  “I know where it is. It’s big and the frame is heavy. How do you expect me to carry—”

  “Stop complaining. The Manet is our insurance. When the negotiators demand proof that we have the paintings, we give them the Manet. It is an important painting, easily verified. The others are even more valuable. The ins
urance companies will pay millions for them.”

  Kwan said nothing, face expressionless.

  “Have Scorpio put the Vermeers in the van. Then you kill her and dump her body in the van.”

  “With pleasure. I don't understand why she is part of this job. Why do we need her?”

  “Because I say so. Take good care of the paintings. Make sure they are not damaged.”

  “Why are you so worried about the paintings?” Kwan sneered.

  Rage boiled into his throat. “Idiot! These paintings are worth millions! If they are damaged, the insurance companies will not pay. This is my operation, Nicolas. Listen to me and do exactly what I say. Treat these paintings like the treasures they are.”

  He grabbed the punk by the throat. “Do not fuck up, Nicholas. If you do, I will kill you.”

  Kwan jerked away and ran up the slope to his Lexus.

  Enraged, Gregor watched him. His hands trembled as he took out a Gitaines. He lighted it and took a deep drag to calm his nerves. Moments later he tossed the cigarette on the ground.

  Always be in control. He could not allow his underlings to infuriate him. Not Kwan. Not Marta. Not even Valerie.

  Gregor smiled. Tomorrow he would see Valerie again.

  He was looking forward to it. He had a surprise for her.

  CHAPTER 21

  Thursday July 8, 2010

  Natalie hopped off the Green Line trolley, hurried across the street and jogged up Tremont Street hill. An hour-long Taekwondo workout had put her in a better mood, but she was late. She had to meet Gregor in half an hour.

  Three blocks up the hill she trotted past the Mission Church, a massive beige-stone building. A huge circular window on the facade reminded her of Notre Dame in Paris. If only she were there. Then she wouldn't have to deal with Gregor.

  She turned onto a narrow side street and stopped short, horrified.

  Gregor's Saab was outside her apartment building, a three-story tenement with ugly brown siding.