Natalie's Art: a Frank Renzi novel

by Susan Fleet

  It hit him like a flash-bang. DCI Stanford said Gregor Kraus had burn scars on his hands. If Kraus was at the gala to case the museum, he would have worn gloves to hide the scars. Cursing himself, Frank clenched his jaw. How could he have missed it? That was Natalie at the gala with Gregor Kraus. If he had chased them, he would have caught her.

  Hank Flynn came out of the Gardner and gave him a shout.

  When he got in the cruiser, Flynn said, “Sorry it took so long. I'll fill you in later. Right now I need coffee.”

  He had a million questions, but he wanted coffee, too. They stopped at a Dunkin' Donuts for coffee and pastries. When they got to the office, Flynn sank onto the padded chair behind his desk and massaged his temples. He looked beat, sallow skin, bags under his eyes. “I can't believe this happened now,” he said. “Two months from retirement and I gotta deal with a major case like this.”

  Frank took the visitor chair and sipped his black coffee. “Thanks for not telling the FBI woman about my interest in the London art heists.”

  With a grim smile, Flynn said, “When the FBI is involved, I tell them as little as possible, especially Georgette. She's been a pain in the butt ever since they promoted her to ASAC two years ago. If she solves this case, she'll be running the Boston office.”

  “When the shit hits the fan, let her take the heat.”

  “We're gonna catch heat, too.” Flynn sipped his coffee and bit into a cinnamon cruller. “My phone will be ringing off the hook, reporters looking for an inside scoop.”

  “What about the security guards?”

  “No sign of them, but there was blood all over the place. A lot of it was in the Dutch Room on the second floor, where they stole the Rembrandt Self-Portrait.”

  “Blood, but no bodies. Maybe one of the guards put up a fight. Any bullet holes?”

  “No, but there was blood in the hall and in the elevator. None in the Blue Room on the first floor where they stole the Manet. Someone shut down the security system at 1:05 AM and took the discs with the feeds from the security cameras. The CSI techs found tire tracks in the courtyard behind the museum. They're taking casts of the tracks.”

  “It might not do much good,” Frank said. “I hate to harp on the London heists, but that gang used stolen getaway cars and put stolen plates on them.”

  Flynn yawned and massaged his bloodshot eyes. “This will be huge, a media circus. Ten years after the other heist? We're in for it.” His phone rang and he grimaced. “See what I mean?” He took the call and smiled, suddenly animated. “Hey, Marty, what have you got?”

  Frank assumed he was talking to a detective and ate a bite of his blueberry muffin.

  Flynn ended the call and said, “The doctors are about to discharge Officer Sweeney. They found Taser marks on his neck. He told Marty he remembered seeing someone with a Dunkin' Donuts bag, nothing after that. Hold on a sec.” Flynn used his radio handset and told one of his officers to check the trash bins near the museum for a Dunkin' Donuts bag. Then his eyes widened. “No kidding. Good work! Get it in here. We'll have the lab process it.” He set the handset on his desk. “When they towed the cruiser on Palace Road, my guy spotted a drug syringe on the pavement under the car.”

  “After the cops called in the all-clear at one AM, they drugged them.”

  “Looks like it, but who? This was a team, not a lone robber.”

  Frank's cellphone rang. He checked the ID and said, “Kelly's calling me from New Orleans. I'll take it in the hall, let you get on with your work.” He stepped into the hall, punched on and said, “What's up, Kelly?”

  “A heist at the Gardner Museum, that's what. It was the lead story on Good Morning America. They said four paintings were stolen! Did you know about it?”

  “Yes. I'm at the station now, outside Hank Flynn's office. We just got back from the Gardner.”

  “You were right, Frank. It's got to be Natalie, just like you said.”

  He smiled. Quite an admission from his ladylove. “That's what I think, but she didn't do it by herself. What else did they say on Good Morning America?”

  “They said a police officer died. Is that true?”

  “Yes. A cop in one of the cruisers stationed outside the museum, but the other one is okay. Hank just got word that he might have been drugged. And there were Taser marks on his neck.”

  “What about the security guards?” Kelly asked.

  “All three of them are missing. I didn't get into the museum, but Hank did.” He glanced in the office and saw Hank signal him. “Gotta go, Kelly.”

  “Geez, Frank, aren't you going to ask me what I'm wearing?”

  Their running joke. Grateful for a bit of levity in an otherwise grim day, he smiled and said, “If you just got out of the shower, I'll be right over.” Kelly laughed. “Call you later,” he said, and went back in Flynn's office.

  “The museum director just emailed me the information on the overnight guards,” Flynn said.

  “Lay it on me. If this is related to the London art thefts, I figure one of them was in on the heist.”

  “Charles Lawson was the head guard, age fifty-five, lives alone in an apartment in Brookline, worked at the Gardner twenty-two years.” Flynn handed him a printout, a black-and-white copy of Lawson's driver’s license and a brief work history.

  He studied the photo. “Nothing stands out. Who are the other two?”

  “Anthony Falcone, age twenty-two, lives with his girlfriend on Symphony Road. He went to Berklee for a year but dropped out. Here's a red flag. He got the job at the Gardner three years ago while he was still at Berklee.”

  “The two guards working the overnight during the 1990 heist were Berklee students.”

  “Exactly, and Anthony's a big fella.” Flynn handed him the printout.

  “Six-three, two-forty? Maybe he killed the other two guards and helped steal the paintings.”

  “I like him for it better than Lawson.” Flynn handed him the third printout. “Daniel Leone, age twenty-eight, lives in an apartment on Mission Hill. The Gardner hired him six months ago.”

  Frank studied the photo. “I thought the name sounded familiar. He was guarding the Special Exhibit the night of the gala. Daniel Leone. Not an Asian name, but he looks Asian to me.”

  “As I recall,” Flynn said, “so does Natalie Brixton.”

  “True, and I might have spotted her at the Gardner gala.” He described the well-dressed couple he'd seen and explained the significance of man's gloves. “Bottom line, I'm pretty sure it was Natalie Brixton and Gregor Kraus.”

  “I like it,” Flynn said emphatically. “Maybe this time we'll catch her.”

  Lack of sleep and his failure to prevent the theft set off his temper, flaring like a rocket going into orbit. “Fuck maybe! Natalie stole those paintings and I'm going to get her.”

  _____

  Looking pleased, Doctor Wu put a fresh bandage on her arm and said, “The wound is healing well. No infection. I have put butterfly tape over the wound, but it may leave a scar.”

  Relieved, she sank back in the chair beside her bed. “Thank you so much, Doctor Wu. You have taken such good care of me.”

  “It was my pleasure, but I must see you again in one week.” He studied her for several seconds, his brow furrowed in a frown. At last he said, “Why did you cut off your hair?”

  “Mountain Man wants me to hide from the man who cut my arm.” She didn't want to tell him the real reason.

  Doctor Wu nodded, but his expressionless was dubious. “See you next week,” he said, and left the room.

  She hoped not. By next week she wanted to be out of Boston, better still, out of the country. This morning, after having the first passport photo taken, she had returned to her hotel room and chopped off her long black hair with scissors, flushing clumps of hair down the toilet. When she saw her image in the mirror, she wanted to cry. After spiking her hair with gel for a punk look, she had gone to a different store for the second photo. Before Doctor Wu arrived she had given
both photos to Pak Lam.

  Now he was him outside her room, thanking Doctor Wu. Moments later he entered the room and said, “Madame Li has completed your papers.” He handed her two U.S. passports.

  They looked very authentic, blue covers with a gold seal. She opened one and saw her photo, the one with long glossy black hair. Her new name was Ling Lam. Her birth date was August 22, 1978. The date surprised her. She had been born the same year.

  She opened the other passport and studied her photo, short spiky hair and a blank expression, no smile. Would it get her through a security checkpoint? Maybe, if she bound her breasts, wore a loose shirt and dressed like a man. Her idea to pose as a man had been an act of desperation, but after seeing the photograph, she thought it might be possible. Her name would be Liang Lam.

  Then she noticed his birth date: August 22, 1978. The exact same date as Ling Lam.

  Two passports, one female, one male, with the same birth dates. And the same last name.

  Her scalp pricked and her heart began to race. She had been so intent on studying the passports she had forgotten that Pak Lam was standing beside her chair, watching her. She looked up at him and said, “Are these your …?”

  “Yes,” he said, stone-faced, but his dark eyes had a haunted look about them. “My twins.”

  “But how can I use their passports? They might need them.”

  “They will not need them.” He gestured at a photograph on the bureau, similar to the one in his office, two small children and a beautiful woman, smiling into the camera. “The twins were six when this photo was taken. A month later a rival gang murdered them.”

  “No!” she gasped, shaking her head. “No!”

  Time seemed to stand still. She would never forget the day the policewoman came to her house. Mom was dead, murdered in a hotel room. Twenty-two years ago, but the memory was sharp and clear. The pain and anguish she'd felt was just as vivid.

  She had lost her mother, but Pak Lam had lost his wife and his children. No wonder his eyes always bore a hint of sadness.

  Fighting back tears, she said, “What happened?”

  “My wife took them to the waterfront to see the tall ships. On their way home, three men ambushed them. They shot my wife and both of the twins.”

  “That is monstrous. How could they do such a thing?”

  Expressionless, he said, “Ruthless people do monstrous things.”

  She took hold of his hands. “I am so sorry. I cannot even imagine the pain this caused you.”

  Something flickered in his eyes. “Natalie, you have told me the story of how you avenged your mother's murder. I too had my revenge.”

  Tentatively, she reached out and touched his cheek. “Was that how you got this scar?”

  “Yes,” he said tersely.

  “Please,” she said, “tell me about the twins. Your son and daughter. If I am to use their passports, I want to know about them.”

  Lam remained silent for a moment. His eyes had a faraway look in them. “Ling was very musical, singing all the time. When she was four, my wife had her take Suzuki violin lessons. She loved it. Ling was very talented. Soon she was playing melodies for us every night on her violin. Liang was not musical but he was an outstanding athlete.” Lam smiled. “The best pitcher on his Little League team. Maybe he would have pitched in the big leagues someday. For the Red Sox, perhaps.”

  He grew silent and his smile disappeared. Like a disintegrating iceberg, his face crumbled. Abruptly, he turned away.

  Her heart ached for him. The reason for the ever-present sadness in his eyes was now clear. His wife had been murdered, and Pak Lam’s hopes and dreams for children had been dashed, snuffed out by a rival gang.

  He turned to her, his face impassive. “But we must not dwell on the past. I have given this considerable thought.” He bent down and kissed both of her cheeks. “Now you are my adopted daughter.”

  Unable to speak, she rose from the chair and hugged him. “Thank you so much. I am honored to have you as my adopted father. I will try to make you proud of me.”

  He brushed tears from her cheeks. “I am sure you will. Feng is waiting outside with your car. Do your best to find the paintings and return them to their owners. If you are not able to do this, despite your best efforts, so be it. I wish you good fortune on your journey. Call me when you reach your destination and tell me how you are doing.”

  Overwhelmed with emotion, she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying. This was no time to show weakness, this was the time to show strength and determination. Gathering herself, she stood tall and gazed into his eyes. “I will,” she said. “I promise.”

  She would call him, of course. However, her assertion referred to finding the paintings and returning them. Only then would she leave Boston.

  CHAPTER 31

  Sunday July 12, 2014 – 1:15 PM

  Larry Ho sank onto his king-sized couch and emitted a resounding belch. Sunday was his day off so he'd slept until ten. After a refreshing bath, he put on his black silk robe with the red fire-breathing dragon on the back. While his wife prepared dinner, he had passed the time with his father playing Go, the ancient Chinese game the old man loved, listening as his father spoke of the old country: the floods, the famine, the hardships. Larry had heard this before, but he listened politely. Some day he too would be an old man of ninety. This was hard to imagine—he was only fifty, in the prime of life—but when that time came, his son and daughter would listen to his stories.

  Clatter from the kitchen interrupted his reverie, his wife cleaning up after dinner. She had outdone herself today: baked stuffed lobster, pan fried noodles and a delicious oyster sauce for the pea pods and straw mushrooms. His father was taking a nap. He had eaten only half of his lobster. Larry had eaten two.

  A sudden pain stabbed his belly. He dug out a roll of Tums, ate one and used the remote to turn on the big-screen TV. A news bulletin was on, something about an art theft. He paid no attention at first—the local stations were obsessed with crime—but then he realized they were talking about the Gardner. Photos of the stolen paintings appeared on the screen.

  He cared little for Western art—Chinese watercolors adorned the walls of his home—but the woman said these paintings were worth hundreds of millions of dollars. He popped another Tums, crunching the orange-flavored antacid as the woman said, “The three overnight guards are missing and law enforcement officials believe the robbers may have killed them.”

  A commercial blared and Larry hit the mute button. Commercials were loud and distracting, and he needed to think.

  Gardner Museum. Stolen art worth a fortune. Guards missing. Was Nicholas one of them? One thing was certain. If Nicholas was missing, he wasn’t dead. He was in on the heist.

  Larry mopped his brow with a handkerchief, recalling the day Nicholas had asked about Jamilla, his sudden interest when he learned she had once been a police officer. Larry did not believe this was a coincidence. But last week Jamilla had come in to tell him she was leaving Boston. The pain in his gut returned. Ignoring it, he rose from the couch and headed for the door.

  Forty-five minutes later he stood outside Jamilla’s apartment, sickened by the odors in the hallway: burnt cooking oil, onions, greasy meat. A baby squalled in a nearby apartment. “Open it up,” Larry said, looking down at the bald head of Leroy Jones, a short squat black man with a gold stud in his ear, sweating inside his fancy suit.

  Leroy pulled out a large key ring with many keys. “Dunno which one it is. Might take a while to find—”

  Larry put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Open the door!”

  While the landlord tested keys in the lock, Larry studied the newspaper he'd bought at the 7-Eleven downstairs. Gardner Heist Baffles Investigators! Below the headline were black-and-white photos of the missing guards. One of them was Nicholas, but the caption under it said: Daniel Leone. Strange. He had asked the 7-Eleven clerk if he'd seen Jamilla lately. The clerk said he hadn't so Larry had called Leroy on
the pay phone and told him to get his ass over here pronto. The shyster owned half the rat-infested apartments on the block and charged outrageous rent. Ripping off his own people.

  He chewed another Tums, recalling Jamilla’s frightened eyes when he asked if she knew Nicholas. She'd said she didn’t, but maybe she did.

  Leroy finally located the correct key and opened the door. Larry pushed him aside and stepped into a room with a worn-out sofa and a window with a tattered green shade. Toys were scattered over the floor, Hot-Wheel cars, crayons and a coloring book.

  “Jamilla,” he called. Not that he expected an answer, but he felt uneasy, being in her apartment uninvited. He went down a short hall, opened a door and saw a toilet, a sink, and a plastic shower curtain draped around a rusty tub with claw feet. He checked the medicine cabinet. Empty.

  In the kitchen across the hall dirty dishes stood in the sink, a coffee mug, two chipped plates, and a plastic glass with a Donald Duck sticker on it. “Show me the bedroom,” Larry said to Leroy, who was following him around like a puppy.

  Leroy took him through the living room to the bedroom. The closet door was open. No clothes, just wire hangers on a wooden rod. Larry returned to the living room and noticed two suitcases standing against the wall behind the entry door. He hefted the larger one, set it on the sofa and unzipped it. Two pairs of jeans, cotton shirts, underwear and assorted toiletries, Jamilla’s he assumed. He opened the smaller suitcase and saw kid’s clothes.

  “Looks like Jamilla be takin a trip,” the landlord said.

  Larry fixed him with a stare. “Did she tell you she was leaving? Give you notice?”

  The landlord shrugged. “She paid through the end of the month is all I know.”

  Larry wanted to slap him, but what good would that do? Leroy didn't give a damn about Jamilla. Questions buzzed his mind like fruit flies. If Nicholas was in on the heist, maybe Jamilla was mixed up in it. But if she’d left town like she'd said she was going to, why pack two suitcases and leave without them? The possibilities frightened him.