Natalie's Art: a Frank Renzi novel

by Susan Fleet

  Two minutes later, Doctor Wu, frowning in concentration, began working on the deep gash in her arm. She felt no pain, only pressure as he cleaned the wound. The white-robed woman returned with a large basin that gave off a spicy aroma.

  “Soak your arm in this liquid for five minutes,” Dr. Wu said. He gave the woman an envelope with a sterile gauze bandage and a roll of clear tape. “Use this to bandage her wound.” To Natalie, he said, “I will see you tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” she said. Doctor Wu made a nice face and left.

  Natalie eased her forearm in the aromatic liquid. It was hot, but not scalding. When the five minutes were up, the woman dried her arm with a towel, bandaged her arm and left.

  Pak Lam immediately entered the room, his concern obvious, though he appeared less worried than before. In a reflexive gesture, he fingered the scar on his cheek. Not for the first time, she wondered how he'd gotten it. Had he been injured in a knife fight?

  “You stay here tonight. Rest now. We talk in the morning.”

  “Thank you, but I cannot stay here tonight.”

  Lam frowned. “Why not?”

  She hesitated, gathering her thoughts. When Gregor found out she was still alive, he would call her, a conversation she didn't want Pak Lam to overhear. But she couldn't say this.

  “I think the man who stabbed me took the paintings,” she said, and stopped. She needed a better reason to convince Pak Lam she couldn't stay here. Then, as though beamed into her brain by her Vietnamese ancestor gods, the solution came to her. “I want to find the paintings and return them to the museum.”

  Another frown. “No. You stay here tonight. Doctor Wu will come back tomorrow to check your arm. And we must take photographs for your new passports. For the second one, you must cut off your hair.”

  “Cut off my hair? Why?”

  “For the male passport.”

  She had almost forgotten about the passports. Maybe she could get out of Boston after all. The police would be watching the airport and the train and bus stations, but they wouldn't be looking for a man.

  “Thank you, but I really can't stay here tonight. I will come back tomorrow. I promise.”

  Clearly unhappy, Lam gazed at her. A muscle worked in his cheek, accentuating the jagged scar.

  “Please, hear me out. The man who stabbed me was supposed to give the paintings to my boss, but I'm not sure he did. If he didn't, my boss might think I took them. Could you hand me the iPhone? It's in my duffel bag.” Along with the cellphone Gregor would call her on when he found out she wasn't dead.

  Using the iPhone, she searched for a hotel near Copley Square. A small hotel on Huntington Avenue opposite Copley Place looked promising. She dialed the number. When the clerk answered, she said, “Bon soir, monsieur,” and launched into a torrent of French.

  Pak Lam stared at her, his eyes wide.

  After completing the transaction, she said, “Tres bien. Merci beaucoup.” She clicked off and said, “I booked a room at a hotel in Copley Square. Could Feng drive me there?”

  A faint smile of amusement appeared on Lam's face. “You are a formidable woman, Natalie. I will have Feng drive you there, but you must use a credit card with another name. Only then will you be safe. Wait here while I get one for you. And you must come back tomorrow to see the doctor.”

  “Thank you for understanding. And for all of your help. I'll be back tomorrow. I promise.”

  _____

  Nicholas got off the Jamaicaway and took the back roads to Mission Hill. Three blocks from his apartment, the Mission Church stood atop a steep hill, shrouded in fog. He parked behind the church, entered through a rear door and stopped to listen. Hearing nothing, he crept up a flight of stairs and stood at the rear of the sanctuary to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

  In an alcove at the front of the church, votive candles flickered, casting an eerie glow over the altar. He walked down the long center aisle, eyes fixed on the crucifix above the altar. It had been years since he’d been inside a Catholic church. Mesmerized, he gazed at the life-sized figure nailed to the cross, head tilted in agony, crimson blood-drops vivid against the alabaster-white skin.

  Thirteen years ago, he had sought shelter in Our Lady of Precious Blood Catholic Church. For the first time he had seen the man on the cross. He was fourteen, deemed incorrigible after his fifth arrest for a series of robberies. A judge sent him to a juvenile detention center. Bigger boys forced him to do unspeakable things. He and Bobby, his cellmate, plotted their escape. They stole two eating utensils and sharpened them. One night when a guard came to their room, they attacked. Nicholas had taken great pleasure in slitting the bastard’s throat. But when they left the building, guards in the towers shot at them. Nicholas escaped. Bobby did not. For months he had roamed southern California, eating out of garbage cans, sleeping in the woods. That night in the church he had hidden inside the confessional until the sexton locked the church. Then he had curled up on a pew and slept.

  “Hey buddy, whaddaya doin?”

  Nicholas froze, conscious of a presence near the flickering candles. He smelled the man before he saw him, the putrid stench of body odor and rotgut wine. Dressed in a torn T-shirt and filthy jeans, the man shuffled toward him. He was six feet tall, but thin as a cadaver with a scrawny neck and rheumy eyes. Eyes that grew crafty as he said, “Got any spare change?”

  What was this wino doing inside the church? Did he know about the paintings?

  Nicholas whirled and ran up the aisle to the confessional. A thick maroon curtain hung over the right-hand stall. He parted the curtain and felt a rush of relief. The paintings were still there.

  The drunk sidled up to him. “Ya wanna go to confession? Ain’t no priests here now. They’re tucked into their nice warm beds in the rectory down the street.” The wino smiled, exposing yellow rotted teeth.

  Nicholas turned on him with the knife in his hand. “Shut up, motherfucker.”

  “Wait. Hold on buddy—”

  “I’m not your buddy.”

  The wino backed away, but not fast enough. Nicholas slashed at his face.

  “Don’t! Wait!” The man put up a feeble defense, but Nicholas lunged and sliced open his neck. Gouts of dark-red blood spurted.

  The man’s rheumy eyes registered shock, then panic.

  He went in for the kill, stabbing him in a vicious frenzy. The wino slumped to the floor. Nicholas slit his throat from ear to ear, sniffing the coppery blood-scent, waiting for the death gurgle to subside.

  But he had wasted precious time. By now the pigs would know the museum had been robbed. He wiped the blade on the wino’s trousers, returned it to the sheath on his belt and hurried to the confessional.

  Three minutes later, four paintings were stacked against the wall by the downstairs door. The rain had stopped and patchy fog swirled over the blacktop. Nicholas loaded the paintings into the trunk of the black Chevy and drove off.

  Stefan's directions to the safe house lay on the seat beside him, but he had already memorized the route to the cottage in Providence, armpit of the universe. Italians ran the city, even the gangs. He had no contacts there, but he had something better.

  He had his bargaining chip.

  CHAPTER 28

  Stopped at a traffic light, Gregor drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. It had taken him forty-five minutes to get to Revere. In weather like this, cops had better things to do than stop speeders, but he didn't want to take any chances, not with dead bodies and stolen art in the rear compartment. He could hardly wait to see the paintings, four of them, worth millions of dollars.

  Never again would he take orders from the old man in London. A triumphant smile parted his lips. Until he remembered the jolt of fear when Kwan held the knife to his throat. It had been many years since he had felt this emotion.

  Fear was something he instilled in others. He took out a pack of Gitaines, noting with satisfaction that his hand was rock steady, not the slightest tremor. Kwan had threatened h
im but now he was in control. He put the cigarettes back in his pocket.

  He had to maintain discipline. Trusting Kwan had been a mistake, one he did not intend to repeat.

  When the light turned green, he stayed in the left lane and used the U-turn to drive to the storage facility. Other than security lights mounted on poles along the massive two-story building, the place was dark. Two moving vans were parked out front, dark and unoccupied. He circled the building and backed the Chevrolet mini-van up to the storage locker he'd rented. The Saab was parked in a space opposite the locker.

  He could barely contain his excitement, his heart thrumming with anticipation. After hours of planning and weeks of work, he was about to reap the rewards. He climbed out of the mini-van. The fresh air was a welcome relief after the sickening stench.

  He went to the rear compartment, unlocked the doors and swung them open. The stench of death hit him. Back here the stink was a hundred times worse. He covered his nose with his sleeve. Kwan had disabled the light in the rear compartment. Although he could smell the bodies, he couldn't see them.

  But forget the bodies. Find the paintings. He groped the floor of the compartment with his hand and felt nothing. Where were they?

  Alarmed, he ran to the Saab, unlocked it, took a small flashlight out of the glove box and ran back to the van. His chest felt as though two giant hands were squeezing it.Ignoring the stench, he beamed the flashlight over the compartment. Farther back he could see bodies, lying in a heap.

  Bodies, but no paintings. His body trembled and a red haze clouded his vision. For an instant he thought he was having a heart attack.

  He gripped the doorframe to steady himself. Unable to believe his eyes, he stared at the floor of the mini-van. Willing the paintings to appear, he flashed the light around the compartment. No paintings.

  Bile rose in his throat and he feared he would vomit. Your precious paintings are in the van, Nicholas had said. The miserable cocksucker!

  A fulminating fury rose up inside him, rage worse than he'd felt that first night in prison, lying on his cot in the darkness, trapped and powerless. But he had used his brains and his brawn to exert his power over the other prisoners, thereby regaining control.

  Control. He had to maintain control.

  Steeling himself, he climbed into the compartment and flashed the light over the bodies. Two security guards in their distinctive uniforms, one of them drenched with blood. The ex-cop in her police uniform, also bloody. Three bodies. Not four. Where was Valerie?

  He clenched his fists and studied the scars on his hands. Despite his efforts to control his underlings, Nicholas and the ex-cop and Valerie, someone had double-crossed him. But they would not defeat him.

  He jumped out of the van, shut the rear doors and locked them. Using the key to the storage locker, he unlocked the handle and rolled up the door. Inside the enclosed space the stench would quickly grow worse, but by the time anyone discovered the bodies he would be long gone. He backed the mini-van into the locker, went outside, rolled down the door and locked it.

  Blind with rage, he got into the Saab, lighted a Gitaines and took a deep drag. The nicotine did not quell his fury but it allowed him to think. Where was Valerie? Kwan had said he would take pleasure in killing her, but Valerie was no pushover, she was strong and fit.

  He puffed the Gitaines and blew smoke out the window.

  Did Nicholas have the paintings? The bastard had no way to sell them, didn't have the smarts to deal with the insurance companies to collect a ransom. But Valerie would. The apartments he had leased for Valerie and Nicholas were in Mission Hill, two blocks apart. Had they been conspiring against him all along?

  He tossed the butt out the window. He didn't know where the paintings were, but one thing was certain.

  Whoever had them would pay for their treachery.

  _____

  When Natalie left the Royal Dragon, Feng was waiting in his car. His eyes widened when he saw her outfit, but he said nothing, just drove her to the hotel in Copley Square. She swept into the lobby of the hotel like a movie star, decked out in her blond wig, dark glasses, her little black dress and black pumps. To the desk clerk, she said in accented English, “I 'ave called to make the reservation. Three nights, n'est pas?”

  The man eyed the bandage on her arm, frowned, then fussed with the computer. After a moment he said, “I see the reservation. Could I have your credit card, please?”

  She handed him the credit card Pak Lam had given her, which bore the name Albert Roberts. To distract him, she continued her broken English routine. “This wretched airline, c'est impossible! They sent my … how you say? Luggage, yes? My luggage they sent to California by mistake.”

  The clerk studied the credit card. “And your name, madam?”

  “Lily. Lily Roberts.” Choosing a new name was second nature to her now. She liked to use the names of the months—April, May, June—or the names of flowers. Lily had a nice ring to it.

  The clerk swiped the card, returned it to her and asked if she needed help with her luggage.

  “If I had my luggage I would not need to stay here. These carry-on bags I can carry myself.” The ammo and the Beretta were in her duffel. If a bellhop took it, he might wonder why it was so heavy.

  She rode the elevator to the top floor, used the key card and entered her room. Justifying the exorbitant room rates, plush royal-blue carpeting covered the floor and matching curtains draped the windows. Ivory wallpaper embossed with pale-blue flowers decorated the walls. Catering to their well-heeled guests, the room boasted a teak writing desk, two blue-velvet easy chairs, a big screen TV, a mini-bar and a small refrigerator.

  Exhausted, she dropped her bags on the floor, kicked off her shoes and sank onto the king-sized bed. Now she was Lily Roberts, staying in a luxury hotel. Gregor would never find her here.

  The digital clock on the bedside table stood at 4:15 AM. She wanted to sleep for a week, but that was wishful thinking. When Gregor found out she was still alive, he would call her. What had become of the two Vermeers. Did Nicholas give them to Gregor?

  The wound on her arm still hurt, but less than before. Despite her exhaustion, she rose from the bed, went in the bathroom and studied herself in the mirror above the blue-veined marble vanity. She had to cut off her hair for the second passport photo. A drastic step, one she hadn't considered when she'd asked Pak Lam to get her a male passport. But she'd worry about that tomorrow.

  A white terrycloth robe lay on the vanity beside the sink. She stripped off her clothes, put on the robe and lay on the bed. An overpowering urge to sleep hit her. She yawned and closed her eyes.

  Her cellphone rang. She jerked upright and her heart began to race. Gregor.

  Gathering her courage, she waited until the third ring to answer. “Yes.”

  “Valerie, where are you?”

  She smiled grimly. Gregor wanted to know where she was. So he could come and kill her. “I'm still alive, no thanks to Nicholas. He tried to kill me, but I escaped.”

  “Where are the paintings?”

  “I don't know. Don't you have them?”

  After a short silence, he said, “I waited outside the Gardner in my car but you never came out. Then I heard sirens, so I drove away. Did you get the Vermeers?”

  “Yes. I put them inside trash bags to protect them from the rain. Nicholas said a van was parked in the courtyard behind the museum. He told me to put them in the rear compartment, so I did.”

  Another silence. “Where are they now?”

  She parsed his words. If Gregor was asking her where the paintings were, he must not have them. Which meant Nicholas did.

  “I don't know,” she said. “Ask Nicholas.”

  “I am asking you, Valerie. Where are the paintings?”

  “I don't know. I don't have them. Maybe Nicholas took them.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “He tried to kill me!”

  In the quiet voice she knew so well, he said, “I
think you lie. I think you and Nicholas decided to take the paintings for yourselves. This was a bad idea, Valerie. Very bad. Where are you?”

  As if she would tell him. “Gregor, I don't have the Vermeers. If Nicholas didn't give them to you, he must have taken them.”

  Another silence. Then, “Meet me outside the library on Boylston Street tomorrow at noon. We will discuss what to do about this.”

  When hell freezes over. “Fine,” she said, and shut off the phone.

  But her hands were shaking when she put it on the bedside table. She might be in a ritzy hotel registered under a different name, but that didn't mean she was safe. When Gregor was angry—and clearly he was angry now—he could be utterly ruthless.

  To Gregor, people were disposable, as easily discarded as a child's paper-dolls. And Gregor wasn't her only problem. The Gardner heist would attract enormous publicity. Police would swarm the city, searching for the thieves and the paintings and asking for tips.

  Using the remote, she turned on the big-screen TV, propped two pillows against the headboard, leaned against them and channel surfed, hunting for news. She tuned in Channel-4. The Eye-Opener News at four-thirty was just starting.

  A breaking news banner appeared on the screen. Art Thieves Hit Gardner Museum Again. A young anchorwoman said, “We have breaking news about an overnight theft at the Gardner Museum. Our reporter is at the scene. What can you tell us, John?”

  The picture shifted to a young man doing a standup on the Fenway near the Gardner. “Police officials aren't saying much, just that four paintings were stolen from the museum sometime after midnight.”

  Natalie gasped. Four paintings? How could that be?

  “Twenty years ago,” John said, gazing into the camera, “paintings worth many millions of dollars were stolen from the Gardner. They're still missing. To increase the reward for their safe return, Gardner officials mounted a Special Exhibit, which opened last weekend, ten paintings on loan from other museums, two by Johannes Vermeer. According to our sources, both were stolen.”