by Susan Fleet
He peered through the windshield. Who was that walking along the sidewalk beside the museum? Then he smiled. A uniform, carrying a pink-and-white Dunkin' Donuts bag.
As the officer came closer, he could see it was a black woman. Why was she walking the Fenway beat at night by herself?
But then it came to him. She was a friend of Johnny’s and he’d sent her for coffee. Johnny was a prince.
He rolled down the window.
_____
Shaking with rage, Nicolas left the watch room and stood in the hall, pacing back and forth. If the bitch didn't call soon, he would make good on his promise and carve her little monkey into a million pieces.
Thirty seconds later his 2-way radio bleeped. He flicked it on and said, “Yes?”
I took them out, like you said. Jamilla’s voice, shaky and high pitched.
“Good. A brown Chevrolet mini-van is parked at the corner of Palace Road. It is unlocked. Sit inside and wait for my instructions.”
“Wait? Are you crazy? With two cops in—”
“Shut up and do it! Or your little monkey will be minus some fingers and toes.”
He put the 2-way in his pocket and checked the monitors. Shit! Falcone was in the Veronese Room, the last stop on his third floor patrol.
In two minutes Falcone would go downstairs to the second floor. Scorpio was probably waiting outside the employee entrance, but screw her. He shut down the security system and ran to the staircase that led to the second floor.
_____
With a final wail of its siren, a twenty-foot ladder truck pulled up in front of the Northeastern University dormitory on the Fenway. Seated at the wheel of his cruiser, Sergeant Neil Weaver checked the time. 1:13. Ten minutes ago all hell had broken loose, 911-calls about a disturbance on the Fenway near the NU dorms.
Pelted with rocks and bottles by a gang of rowdies, the officers in the first cruiser called for backup. The punks hid behind shrubs, waging a guerrilla-type action until three more cruisers arrived, Weaver’s among them.
The rowdies had disappeared, but college kids were hanging out the windows of the five-story dorm, watching the show. Then someone pulled a fire alarm and they had to evacuate the building, kids straggling outside in pajamas or T-shirts, half of them angry, the others excited by the commotion.
Weaver called the dispatcher. “Better send another unit for traffic control, Louise. I got a bunch of college kids milling around over here. Be hell to pay if some idiot driver hits one.”
A burst of rain splattered the windshield. He got out, hunching his shoulders against the rain. Now he had to coordinate with the fire unit captain to make sure the building was clear. It was shaping up as a long night.
CHAPTER 25
Shrouded in darkness in the back seat of the taxi, Natalie pressed the stem of her watch to illuminate the dial. Almost 1:30. She was late. Traffic on the Expressway had been backed up behind an accident, and after they passed it, cars were moving at a snail’s-pace to avoid deep puddles on the rain-slicked highway.
She hadn't heard from Gregor since his earlier phone call. She didn't know if this was good or bad. There were too many things she didn't know.
The driver turned left onto Evans Way. She sank lower in the seat as they passed the police cruiser parked near the corner. When they got to Tetlow Street, she said, “You can let me off here.”
The driver, a young guy with bushy brown hair, said, “You sure? It's a nasty night.”
“It's fine.” She took her wallet out of the duffel bag. “How much is the fare?”
“Forty-two dollars.”
She gave him two twenties and a ten. “Keep the change.”
She waited until the cab drove off before continuing down Tetlow Street. Wind-driven rain hit her face. Before leaving the hotel, she had stopped at the gift shop to buy a windbreaker with a hood, partly to keep her dry, partly to hide her outfit and her hair. The jacket was lightweight but the waterproof outer layer acted like an insulator, and her black turtleneck clung to her back, soaked with sweat. The storm had brought no relief from the heat and humidity.
Cars were parked bumper to bumper along Tetlow Street. No pedestrians, but lights were visible in some of the apartments. Behind a tall wrought-iron fence across the street, the Greenhouse loomed behind the Gardner Museum.
She walked faster, hurrying now. At the corner of Palace Road she spotted someone behind the wheel of a dark brown mini-van. Was it Gregor? If it was, he gave no sign, no quick flick of the headlights. If it was a cop she was in trouble.
She kept walking at a steady pace. Attract no attention.
The employee entrance was thirty yards away. All she had to do was go inside, deal with Nicholas, get the Vermeers and deliver them to Gregor. Her mouth went dry and her stomach clenched. Nicholas was a thug and Gregor would probably kill her after she gave him the Vermeers.
During the cab ride, she had remembered what he'd said during their reconnaissance mission, gesturing at the employee entrance, saying: I will pick you up, not in this car, another one.
He hadn't told her what car he'd be driving, but there wouldn't be many cars driving around the museum at this hour. A flick of the headlights would signal that it was him.
She didn't want to think about what would happen then.
As she approached the employee entrance she ducked her head. She had no idea if Nicholas had disabled the security camera yet.
The door was closed. She took a deep slow breath. Exhaled slowly through her nose. Counted to sixty. She couldn't wait here long.
If a patrol car drove by and saw her, they would stop and question her. Game over.
_____
Inside the Dutch Room Nicholas flattened himself against the wall beside the door, poised on the balls of his feet, gripping the handles of the garrote. His body tingled with excitement. Falcone would be here any minute. He drew in a deep breath. Dust tickled his nose. A sudden urge to sneeze sent his heart racing. He blew soft puffs of air out his nostrils. The urge subsided, but it rattled him.
Sweat beaded his forehead. Breathing through his mouth, he waited. His timing had to be perfect. Falcone was dull-witted and genial, but he was built like Godzilla.
He heard a soft scuffling sound. Footsteps in the hall. His hands tightened on the garrote.
Falcone stepped through the door, a hulking presence in the shadowy room. Nicholas flipped the wire over his head and yanked it tight. Falcone let out a strangled yelp and threw an elbow, striking Nicholas in the ribs. It knocked the wind out of him, but he kept hold of the garrote, twisting it tighter around the guard’s windpipe. Falcone flailed his arms, fighting him.
He kicked the back of Falcone's knees. The guard lost his balance and pitched forward onto his knees, emitting a hideous raspy sound.
Die you motherfucker! The words rang out so clearly in his mind, he feared he had spoken them aloud.
Fingernails raked his face. Searing pain made him drop the garrote.
Falcone turned and shoved him away. “Leone, you stupid fuck! Get off me!”
His heart hammered his chest. Falcone had seen him! He reached in his jacket and withdrew the Nakura hunting knife. As Falcone's fingers groped at the wire digging into his neck, Nicholas slashed his throat with the serrated edge of the knife.
Blood spurted, bringing a familiar coppery odor. Falcone scrabbled away on his hand and knees, but now the floor was slick with blood. Nicholas straddled his back, riding him like a bull, stabbing him again and again.
The motherfucker kept fighting him, flailing his arms. The bastard refused to die! Enraged, he plunged the sharp point of the knife into Falcone's gut and ripped it upward.
The guard's moans became a harsh rasp, a death rattle. Falcone pitched forward, face down on the floor. Nicholas grasped clumps of his hair, jerked his head up and slammed it down against the floor. A horrible stench filled the air. Falcone’s bowels had let go. A sure sign he was dead.
He grasped the guard’s ankles and
dragged him across the room. It was slow going. Falcone was heavier than a dead moose. Panting, he hauled the body into the hall, dropped it in front of the elevator and paused to catch his breath.
His muscles ached and his cheek throbbed. He touched his cheek, felt something wet and sticky. Blood. Leave no evidence, Stefan had said. Stefan had told him to use the garrote to kill the other guards. As if strangling someone was a simple matter.
He wiped his fingers on his uniform pants and slid the elevator key into the lock. The door opened on an empty car, just as he’d left it. But he had to hurry. At two o’clock there would be no all-clear calls from Lawson or the cops in the cruisers. He hauled the body inside and checked the time. 1:23. He had thirty-five minutes.
He ran back to the Dutch Room, positioned a high-backed antique chair with an upholstered seat under the Rembrandt Self-Portrait and stood on the chair. But when he yanked on the frame, it didn’t budge. Stefan had given him bolt cutters to snip the wires that held the painting to the wall. Screw that. He jumped off the chair, knelt beside a chest of drawers and took out the crowbar he’d hidden beneath it. He climbed onto the chair and set the crowbar behind the frame.
Ignoring the shriek of splintering wood, he pried the frame off the wall and jumped off the chair. And saw stains on the seat.
Even in the dim light he could see the footprints. Blood from the soles of his shoes. If he didn’t get it off his shoes, he would leave a trail of bloody footprints. The cops would be on them like flies on rice. He leaned the Rembrandt against the wall and scuffed his shoes on the worn carpet in the center of the room until he was certain no blood remained on the soles of his shoes.
Now it was 1:26. Falcone had cost him precious minutes. He carried the Rembrandt to the elevator and rode it down to the first floor, breathing through his mouth to avoid the stench of Falcone's body.
When the doors opened, he ran to the Blue Room and attacked the frame of the Manet with the crowbar, ripping it off the wall. The frame splintered, but the painting was undamaged.
He carried it to the elevator and left it inside. Scorpio was probably outside the employee entrance.
After he let her in, she would steal the Vermeers. Then he would deliver his little surprise.
_____
She was about to abandon her position outside the employee entrance when the door suddenly opened.
“Get inside. Hurry up,” said a sibilant voice.
Nicholas, the guard she didn't trust. He appeared agitated, wild-eyed and sweaty-faced. She smelled stale sweat and something else, a funky odor. She half-expected him to yell at her for being late, but he motioned her down the hall.
“The Special Exhibit is down there. Hurry up and get the Vermeers.”
“Where are the other guards?”
“Don't worry. I already took care of them.”
Chills prickled her neck. Took care of them? What did that mean? “Is the security system disabled?”
“Yesss! Get the Vermeers and take them to the Cafe at the far end of the hall. An emergency exit opens onto the grounds of the Greenhouse. A brown mini-van will be parked there with the back door open. Put the Vermeers in the rear compartment and wait there for me.”
“No. I'm supposed to take them out through the employee entrance.”
Nicholas glared at her, his dark eyes hard and cold. “Just do it.”
Unwilling to argue with him, she turned and walked down the hall to the Special Exhibit. Nicolas reminded her of the gangsters she'd seen in London. Ruthless and vicious. Like Gregor.
Everything was different from what he had told her. Did Gregor have some secret plan that she knew nothing about? But she had no time to analyze it. She had to get the Vermeers and get out.
Inside the Special Exhibit she paused to let her eyes adjust to the dim light. The Milkmaid was beside the door. It was even more beautiful than the reproductions she'd seen. A glorious painting, centuries old, on loan from the Rijksmuseum. After tonight, no one would see it again. Because some rich bastard wanted it for himself.
But she couldn't think about that now. She set the duffel bag on the floor, opened it and took out the tin snips. A sign warned visitors to stay behind the velvet rope hanging from two stanchions in front of the painting or an alarm would sound.
But Nicholas had disabled the security system. Or so he'd said.
Her heart thudded against her ribs as she went around the rope. No alarms, no flashing lights.
Using the tin snips, she cut the wires that held The Milkmaid to the wall.
Two minutes later she leaned the frame against the wall and took two large black trash bags out of the duffel. It was raining and she didn't want the painting to get wet. She shook open the bags, slipped one over the frame of The Milkmaid, then the other.
If only she had time to admire the other paintings, but she didn't.
She found The Lacemaker and got to work.
_____
Jamilla hugged her arms to her chest. It was sweltering inside the van, but her teeth were chattering worse than they did in a raging blizzard. She'd never been so terrified in her whole life. Fuck the money. She wanted to run home and get Jaylen and disappear.
But she couldn’t. The bastard wanted her to back the van into the courtyard of the Greenhouse.
If you don't, I will find your little monkey and carve him into little pieces.
Urine dribbled into her underpants. She was desperate to pee but she was trapped in this van like a mouse in a hole. Her eyes brimmed over and tears ran down her cheeks. She jockeyed the van out of the space and shifted into reverse.
The side mirror was blurry with raindrops. She lowered the window and stuck out her head. Rain spattered her face, mixing with her tears. She backed the van down Tetlow Street, slowly and carefully, so as not to sideswipe any parked cars.
Then she saw the wrought-iron gate in front of the Greenhouse. One side of the gate swung open, then the other. The gates of hell.
Would this nightmare ever end? Would she ever see Jaylen again?
She backed up to the gate.
_____
Crouched behind a hedge in the courtyard of the Greenhouse, Nicholas wiped blood off his knife. It hadn't taken long to dispose of Jamilla. Her body was lying on the front seat of the van.
Later he would dump it in the rear compartment. He would have to wipe the blood off the front seat before he drove it.
He looked up at the moon, barely visible in the dark sky. The storm clouds had parted and the rain had slowed to a drizzle. He peered around the thick shrubbery and studied the emergency exit from the museum cafe.
No Scorpio, but it would take her a few minutes to get the Vermeers off the wall. She wouldn't use a crowbar the way he had. She was too docile, following Stefan's orders, anxious when he told her the new plan. He didn’t know how Stefan bamboozled her into doing this job and he didn’t care. Now she would pay for it.
He squatted, balancing on his heels, hidden behind the thick shrubbery. Gripping the handle of his Nakura hunting knife in his right hand, he checked his watch. 1:43.
If she didn't come out soon, he would go back inside and kill her.
CHAPTER 26
Natalie slung the duffel bag over her shoulder and picked up the trash bags with the Vermeers, one in each hand. Anxious to leave, she stepped out the door of the Special Exhibit and stood in the hall. Her neck prickled. The corridor was dark, silent and still.
No sounds, no sign of Nicholas. Where was he?
To her right at the far end of the hall, dim light shone in the cafe. Alert for any odd motions or sounds, she hurried down the hall to the cafe. Vacant chairs stood around the square tables. On the far wall an exit door was propped open.
Cautiously, she approached the door. Beyond the slate entryway, a dark-colored paneled van was parked ten yards away, the rear doors spread open like butterfly wings. The same van she had noticed at the corner of Tetlow Street. But where was Nicholas?
And where was t
he person she'd seen sitting behind the wheel?
Alarm bells went off in her mind. Something didn't feel right.
But the sooner she delivered the paintings, the sooner she could get out of here. Puddles of rainwater stood on the uneven slate floor, which would make it slippery. A sudden gust of wind-driven rain spattered the entryway. The trash bags would protect the Vermeers. Should she put on the windbreaker? No, forget the rain and get out!
Grasping a trash bag in each hand, she avoided the puddles on the slate floor, stepped onto the gravel and approached the van. It had a Rhode Island license plate. Maybe it was stolen. That was Gregor's usual ploy. Steal a getaway vehicle and slap a stolen plate on it.
She carefully placed the trash bags on the floor inside the rear compartment and felt a rush of relief. But then she smelled a foul odor. She knew that smell.
She ducked around the open door and approached the driver’s side of the van. The window was closed. No light inside. She brushed raindrops off the window and peered through the glass. Her heart slammed her chest. A woman in a police uniform lay on the front seat in a pool of blood.
She heard a faint sound behind her. Stealthy footsteps on the gravel.
Already spooked, she whirled, hyper-alert, her heart beating her chest like a wild thing.
Out of the shadows, Nicholas came at her in a street-fighter crouch, his lips drawn back in a snarl, his eyes hard and ruthless. In his hand was a vicious-looking knife.
Adrenaline jolted her into action. She yanked the duffel bag strap off her shoulder, dropped the bag on the ground and faced him, legs wide apart, arms by her side. Her Taekwondo fighting stance.
He lunged at her with the knife.
Instinctively, she raised her right arm to parry the blow. She felt a burning sensation on her forearm and backed away.