by Susan Fleet
He was using a fake ID. When they checked in yesterday, the desk clerk had said, “Welcome to the Hilton, Mr. Haas!” Greeting them like royalty. When they got to their room, she saw why.
Gregor had booked a two-bedroom, two-bath suite on the top floor. There was a privacy door between the rooms, not that Gregor gave her any privacy. Last night after dinner, he had propped it open and told her to go to bed. “Rest up for tomorrow,” he'd said. “Have a good sleep.”
But how could she sleep, with Gregor in the next room? Each time she dozed off, she jolted awake, fearing he was in her room. Then she lay awake, obsessing over one catastrophe after another. Renzi catching her outside the Gardner with the stolen paintings. And she didn't trust Nicholas. Would he do his job? Her safety depended on it. What about the other guards? But her biggest fear, the one that kept her awake all night was Gregor. The evil man with the scarred hands and the sinister voice that filled her with dread.
She worked the rowing machine faster. Tonight was the night. In twelve hours it would be over.
Last night she had locked herself in her bathroom to check her iPhone. She deleted the texts from the bugging device on the Saab. She knew where it had been. She'd been riding in it.
There was also a text message from Pak Lam: docs are ready. She deleted that, too. It took her a while to decide how to respond. Finally she had sent him a text: Boss took me out of town. See U when I can.
But would she? Tears filled her eyes. Her nerves were shot, her emotions raw.
Gregor wouldn't let her out of his sight. This morning he'd ordered breakfast from room service and made her eat with him in his room. They ate in silence. Gregor didn't do idle chitchat. When he said something, he did it to control her or needle her, sticking his nose into her personal life, asking about her mother.
She glanced at him. Now he was sitting on a bench, mopping sweat from his face with a towel. Watching her. She looked away and resumed her workout. Screw Gregor. She had to stay strong.
The most perilous journey begins with a single step.
Gregor approached her, his eyes fixed on her loose-fitting T-shirt. “We need to discuss the job.”
Finally, he was going to tell her about it. “Okay, but I need to take a shower first.”
“Come to my room at four o'clock. Dress for dinner. We eat early tonight. Wear your pretty dress.”
She clenched her teeth. Come to my room. Wear your pretty dress. What fun.
_____
Frank finished reading Ursula's case file and put it on Hank Flynn's desk. “No leads, no suspects.”
“Tough to work a murder case without a body,” Flynn said. “Her parents live in Germany, didn't report her missing for ten days. And her friend Lisa didn't give us much. You talked to her, right?”
“Yes. We had coffee at Starbucks. Lisa claimed she and Ursula were best friends. I let her ramble a while, then told her I needed information if I was going to find Ursula.”
Flynn's eyes widened. “She thinks Ursula is still alive?”
“I think she knows Ursula is dead. She just doesn't want to believe it. But she gave me something useful. Ursula told her the Global Interpreting manager was always undressing her with his eyes. Stefan Haas. But Marta slipped up once and called him Gregor. I figure Gregor Kraus is using Stefan's ID.”
“Why would he kill Ursula?”
Frank gestured at the file folder. “Did you see the pictures her parents sent? She looks like a movie star. Maybe Gregor's a sexual predator. Maybe he hit on her and she said no.”
“Wouldn't be the first time.” Hank's phone rang. He picked up and listened for a while, jotting notes. A minute later, he cradled the phone. “The New Hampshire Registry of Motor Vehicles.”
Hank had already called the Massachusetts RMV. No one by the name of Stefan Haas had a license to drive in Massachusetts.
“Stefan Haas was licensed to drive in New Hampshire for the past fifteen years,” Flynn said, “but his license lapsed in November 2008. He didn't renew it on his birthday.”
“Because he was dead.”
“Correct.” Hank glanced at his notes. “But prior to that he had four DUI arrests.”
“He was a party animal, liked to go to clubs and pick up girls.”
“If Gregor Kraus is as bad as you say, Stefan would have been a pushover. Kraus sees him flash an American passport to get into a London club, chats him up at the bar, gets him drunk?”
“Exactly. Kraus probably hung out at the clubs in London where Americans go. Stefan Haas was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“But if Kraus is driving around Boston using Stefan's expired DL, we might get him.” Hank flipped through the papers on his desk. “One of my detectives got a tip from his CI yesterday. He said some kind of street action was going down this weekend. No specifics.”
“No where or when?”
“No. My guy leaned on him but that's all he'd say.”
“On the weekend?”
Hank smiled. “That's when all the excitement happens, Frank. You know that.”
_____
She took a shower, dried her hair and put on the dress Gregor liked, the one with the low-cut jade-green top. Be who they want you to be. But if he hit on her, she'd kick him in the balls.
When she entered his room, he rose from one of the easy chairs grouped around a coffee table. “You look lovely, Valerie. Please have a seat.” Gesturing at the chair beside his. He had on a well-tailored suit, Armani, she guessed, and he wasn't wearing that ridiculous wig. His dark hair was damp but neatly combed, his face freshly shaved. She could smell his aftershave lotion.
“Would you care for a drink?”
“No, thank you. Tell me about the job. What about the cops in the cruisers?”
“At one o'clock they go to sleep for a while.”
“What does that mean? How do you know this?”
Gregor frowned. “Take my word for it. I know.”
Take his word for it? Not in a million years.
“I have set up a diversion to keep the cops busy during the heist,” he said. “A disturbance on the Fenway several blocks from the Gardner.”
“How do I get to the job? This hotel is miles from the Gardner.”
A brochure in her bedroom listed information about the hotel: 250 guest rooms and six meeting rooms for corporate events, conveniently located twenty miles from downtown Boston, seventeen miles from Logan Airport. It might as well be seven hundred. She had no car.
Gregor smiled at her. “A fine hotel, isn't it?”
She clenched her teeth and said nothing.
“I will drop you off at one of the apartment buildings on Tetlow Street behind the museum. You walk around the corner to the employee entrance and Nicolas lets you in.”
“What time do we leave?”
“Relax, Valerie. Not until after midnight. When it's dark.”
“Relax? How can I relax? You dole out details like a miser hoarding gold, a tidbit here, a tidbit there. When do I get my new passport?”
Gregor gazed at her, expressionless. “You get your new passport when you deliver the Vermeers.”
“When will that be? What's the timetable?”
“The cops go down at one o'clock and the hoodlums start the disturbance on the Fenway. Nicolas disables the security system and lets you in.”
“What about the other security guards?”
“That is not your concern. Nicolas will take care of them.”
“Take care of them? How?”
“Stop questioning me!” he shouted.
Shocked, she stared at him. Gregor had never raised his voice.
A moment later he said in his usual quiet voice, “You go to the Special Exhibit, take the Vermeers and leave through the employee entrance, the same as always. I will be waiting in a car on Palace Road.”
The same as always? What about Nicolas? What happens to him?
But she didn't dare ask. Gregor was giving her some of the details, but no
t all of them. What was he not telling her?
“You give me the paintings, I give you a new passport, and we drive away.” He smiled. “Happy now?”
Not the least bit happy. “I'll feel better when the job is over.”
“Let's have a drink.” He went to a sideboard that held several liquor bottles. “Want some cognac? Remy Martin. Not the best, but adequate. Or some wine, perhaps? A glass of Australian Merlot?”
When she didn't answer, he poured cognac into a snifter, opened a bottle of wine, poured some into a crystal wineglass and brought it to her. She took the glass and set it on the coffee table.
“I try to please you, Valerie. Why must you be so … standoffish?” He sank onto his chair and sipped his cognac, gazing at her. “You hate your father.”
Stunned, she stared at him. “What makes you say that?”
“You don't want to talk about him?”
“No.” She picked up her glass and gulped some wine.
“Why not?” Without waiting for an answer, he said, “I know why. You hate him.”
A headache stabbed her forehead. She didn't want to think about her father, much less talk about him.
“Why?” Gregor said quietly, gazing at her intently. “Why do you hate him?”
Why did she hate her father? For many reasons, too many to count. An ugly scene flashed in her mind, one she would never forget. A hotel room in Paris, the night she had confronted him. But she wasn't going to tell Gregor about it.
Gregor held out his hands. When they were together she avoided looking at them, unwilling to see the hideous scars.
“My father did this,” he said.
“Your father?” she gasped. And immediately thought, No wonder Gregor is so cruel.
“Yes. When I was five, I did not understand, but now I do. He did this to make me strong. The world is a cruel place, full of dangerous people. Physical pain is nothing to me now. Even when I was five, it was not the pain that frightened me. It was the anticipation. Knowing he would do it again and not knowing when.”
You bastard. That's why you won't tell me anything.
He sipped his cognac. “Why do you hate your father?”
“Because he abandoned me,” she snapped. “Me and my mother.”
“When was this?”
“A long time ago when I was two. Eight years later someone murdered my mother.”
“So you said. Who killed her? Not your father, you said.”
“An evil man.”
“Did you punish him for this?”
She drank some wine. “I don't want to talk about it.”
Gregor studied her for several seconds, then nodded. “You did. I see this on your face.”
She didn't want him reading her face, or her mind. “I'm tired, Gregor. I need to rest.”
He gestured at the king-sized bed. “We could rest together.”
“Gregor,” she snapped, “I told you before. I'm not going to have sex with you. We need to focus on the job.”
His face remained expressionless, but anger showed in his eyes.
“As you wish, Valerie. Come. We go to the dining room. A good meal will give you energy for the job.”
CHAPTER 23
Friday July 9, 2010 – 11:25 PM
Gregor averted his face as he drove past the police cruiser on Evans Way. His black two-door Chevy was innocuous enough, no reason for the cops to take note of it, but better safe than sorry. The rain was an unexpected bonus. Not many people would be walking around near the Gardner in this kind of weather. The wipers could barely keep up with the torrent of rain slashing the windshield.
But the rain and the traffic, people leaving town for the weekend, had delayed him. An hour ago he had parked the Saab at the storage facility in Revere. Marta had rented the Saab with her credit card, but if someone remembered seeing it near the Gardner tonight, the cops might trace it to Global Interpreting, and that wouldn't do. A taxi had driven him to a rental car agency near the airport. He'd rented the Chevy with the same stolen credit card he'd used at the hotel in Dedham.
He turned right onto Tetlow Street. To his left, brownstone apartment buildings faced the Gardner. He lowered his window and heard loud music. Lights blazed in several windows. Cars were parked nose to tail along the street, and two young men laughed as they ran up the steps to one building. They appeared to be college students, ready to party on a Friday night.
When he reached the corner of Palace Road, he saw the dark-brown Chevrolet Express mini-van Kwan had stolen. Kwan had found a good spot for it. He'd better make sure the Rhode Island license plate was also stolen. He stopped in front of the gate to the Simmons College parking lot on the opposite corner, not a legal space, but the guard booth was empty.
He killed the headlights but left the motor running. Rain drummed the roof of the car. He could barely see the employee entrance thirty yards away. Inside the watch room, a security guard was watching the video monitors. He craved a cigarette, but resisted it. The flare of his lighter might attract attention. Always be in control. Focus on the job.
Yesterday he’d given Kwan the stun gun, a hand-held Taser similar to those police used to subdue violent criminals. The ex-cop would know how to use it. A 200,000-volt jolt of electricity would incapacitate the cops in the cruisers long enough for her to put them to sleep. His San Francisco contact had sent him the stun gun and four speed-injectors of Scopolamine-S. The drug would induce a sleep-like stupor and the recipient would remember nothing later. Unfortunately, he had to take the gangster’s word for this, a violation of one of his rules. Trust no one.
He opened his leather briefcase and took out a two-way radio. Kwan and the ex-cop had the other two. Later tonight they would use them to stay in contact. The radios had 14 channels and an operating range of two miles, more than enough for his purpose, he believed, but he intended to make sure. Leave nothing to chance.
Again he felt the nicotine craving. Again he resisted. His appetite for nicotine was difficult to control. And thanks to Valerie, sex was never far from his mind these days.
He raised the two-way radio to his mouth and murmured, “San Francisco.” It had amused him to designate Kwan’s birthplace as their code word.
Moments later he heard, “Yesss.”
“Location?”
“Gothic Room.”
The terse answer reassured him. He’d warned the punk to use no unnecessary words. For once, Kwan was following orders. “Go to the Dutch Room.”
“Why?”
“Just do it,” he snapped.
Thirty seconds later he heard, “Dutch Room.”
“Listen carefully and do not interrupt. Take the Rembrandt Self-portrait first. It is one of the Gardner’s prized possessions. Make sure it is not damaged. Then take the Manet in the Blue Room.” He pictured the woman’s dour face. He still couldn't think who she reminded him of, but it had to be someone he disliked. “The Manet is our proof that we have the paintings. Take good care of it, understand?”
“Yesss.”
“You did well with the van. Is the plate stolen?”
“Yes.”
“Stick to the time-line. Do nothing until five minutes past one. By then the head security guard and the cops in the cruisers will have phoned in their all-clear calls. When you kill the guards, use the garrote. No blood, understand?”
“Yessss.”
“After the ex-cop drives the van into the courtyard, let Scorpio in through the employee entrance. After she delivers the two Vermeers, you know what to do. Don't waste time. You must leave by two at the latest. Drive directly to our meeting spot. Don't be late, understand?”
“Yesss.”
He shut off the radio and lit a Gitaines. The nicotine rush calmed him. Kwan thought the insurance companies were going to pay millions of dollars to ransom the four paintings. He was desperate for money so he could leave the country. Nicholas Kwan wanted to believe, and Gregor had no intention of spoiling his fantasy.
He put the two-w
ay in his briefcase, turned on the wipers and pulled out of the space. He drove past the cop in the cruiser at the corner of Palace Road, turned right on the Fenway and sped away.
Valerie was waiting at the hotel in Dedham, fuming probably, wondering where he was. He parked beside a fire hydrant on Huntington Avenue, took out his cell, hit his speed-dial.
She answered after one ring. “Yes.”
Poor Valerie, so anxious about this job. “Listen carefully, Scorpio,” he said, in a voice that cut off questions the way a sharp knife cuts off the tip of a fine cigar. “I cannot drive you to the job. The details are now in place but this took longer than I anticipated. I am near the target now. It is too late to come get you. I have ordered a taxi to pick you up at 12:15 exactly. Dedham Cab. He will drop you off at the location. Understand?”
There was a brief silence, then, “Yes.”
“Dress for the weather. It is raining. See you soon.” He punched off and closed the cellphone.
Judging by her terse response, Valerie was not happy. In fact, she had been angry and upset for two days. He could always tell when others feared him. Thanks to his experience as an enforcer, he knew the signs. Rapid eye movements, desperately seeking escape. Parted lips, shallow breathing, stiff posture.
But Valerie was up to something. It was written on her face and her body language was unmistakable. He didn't know what it was, but soon it wouldn't matter. He smiled, recalling her reaction when he asked why she hated her father. Gulping her wine, her inner turmoil displayed in her lovely almond-shaped eyes. What did her father do, he wondered. Try to fuck her? Why not? She had a luscious body.
He wanted to fuck her, too. A pity she had to die.
_____
Nicholas prowled the shadowy hallway on the third floor of the Gardner. His rubber-soled shoes made no sound on the floor. He didn't need his flashlight. He knew every inch of the building. Dust motes danced in a shaft of moonlight falling through a window. Beside it, an antique chair with a cushioned seat gave off a musty odor. He hated the overnights, hated the smells and the silence. Sometimes it took all the willpower he possessed to keep from screaming.