by Susan Fleet
Then he remembered the boy. If something had happened to Jamilla, where was her son?
He popped another Tums. These questions with no answers were killing his digestion.
He stomped down the smelly staircase. When he got outside, he gulped fresh air and headed for his Lincoln Town Car, parked beside his restaurant. Halfway there, he stopped at a pay phone outside a barbershop, pulled out a scrap of paper, dropped in some coins and dialed.
“Special Agent Jeff Loring,” a voice said. “Can I help you?”
Larry’s stomach burned with acid. “I got information on that art heist.”
“What sort of information?”
“I can’t discuss it over the phone.”
Smooth as a snake, the agent said, “Anything you say will be kept confidential.”
Larry smiled at this absurdity. Then the agent said, “Could I have your name, sir?”
He blurted the first name that entered his mind. For years during his morning commute, he had listened to traffic reports, Joe Green whirling overhead in his helicopter. “Joe Green. I got important information and I want to look you in the eye when I give it to you.
“Certainly, Mr. Green. What time would you like to come in?”
His stomach cramped and he almost hung up. Then he remembered Jamilla's little boy.
“I'll be there at five o'clock,” Larry said.
_____
Frank got to the station at 2:35 and went straight to the interview room. A half hour ago Hank Flynn had called, saying he might have a lead. When he entered the interview room, Flynn did the introductions.
“Frank, this is Mr. Johnson. He called the station an hour ago. This is Homicide Detective Renzi, Mr. Johnson.”
Johnson, a white male, mid-thirties, blond hair, blue eyes, didn't look thrilled about being here.
“Mr. Johnson drives a cab,” Flynn said, by way of explanation. “Tell us what happened.”
“The heist at the Gardner took up most of the news,” Johnson said, “so I almost missed the story about the murder at the Mission Church. I dropped a passenger there early Saturday morning. A woman.”
Frank's heart sped up. “What time was this?”
“Right around two. I picked her up on Huntington Avenue, three blocks south of Ruggles Street. She asked me to drive her to the church, so I did. Didn't take long, ten minutes tops. She didn't talk, just sat there in back seat, holding her arm. Like it was hurt, maybe.”
“Can you describe her,” Frank asked.
“Not really. It was raining. She was wearing a windbreaker and dark glasses.”
“Was she tall? Short?” Flynn asked.
“Average. Five-six or seven, right around there.”
“What color was her hair?” Frank asked.
“I don't know. The hood of the windbreaker covered it.”
“How about her face?” Frank asked. “Do you remember what she looked like?”
Johnson shrugged. “I don't pay a lot of attention to my passengers, male or female. Plus, I wanted to go back to Copley Square, pick up a few customers leaving the bars, make some bucks and go home. Like I said, she wasn't on my radar screen until I saw the story about the dead veteran. You think she killed him?”
“We can't comment on that,” Flynn said. “But this is good information. Very helpful.”
Frank took out the composite sketch of Natalie Brixton and showed it to Johnson. “Was this the woman?”
Johnson studied the composite, frowning. “I don't know. She was wearing dark glasses so I couldn't see her eyes. It might have been, but I couldn't swear to it.”
Disappointed, Frank took the sketch and put it in his pocket.
“Can I go?” Johnson asked, ready to bolt from his chair.
“Yes,” Flynn said. “We've got your phone number if we need to talk to you again. Thanks Mr. Johnson. You've been very helpful.”
“You won't give out my name, will you? If she killed that guy, I don't want her coming after me.”
“No need to use your name,” Flynn said. “As long as you don't tell anyone what you've told us.”
“Don't worry,” Johnson said, rising from his chair. “I won't.”
After Johnson left, Flynn said, “You think it was Natalie?”
“Yes, but I don't think she killed the guy in the church. Not her MO. She uses a gun, not a knife. But I think she was in on the heist.”
“So do I. Hold on while I make a call. We might not have heard about the cab ride if this guy had called the tip line.” Flynn dialed a number, waited moment and said, “Hi Georgette, this is Lieutenant Harrison Flynn. Ten of my officers are assigned to the tip line. If a tip looks promising, they email me and copy it to you, but I don't get any emails from your FBI agents. Why is that?”
Frank wished he could hear Georgette's response. Nothing beat a pissing contest with the FBI.
Gazing at him, Flynn made his blue Irish-eyes go wide. “Georgette, you assigned three FBI agents to work the tip line. I put ten of my officers on the tip line, so here's the deal. If your agents don't email me the promising tips they get, I'll pull my officers off the tip line and—”
Frank couldn't hear the ASAC's words, only her loud angry voice.
After a moment Flynn said, “Email me the leads or my officers will be working homicide cases, not the tip line.” He cradled the phone and smiled. “That should do it.”
“No leads from the FBI agents?” Frank said.
“No, and they must have gotten a few. So. Assuming Natalie Brixton was the woman the cabbie drove to the Mission Church, why did she go there?”
“Maybe she's got an apartment near the church. The security guard, Daniel Leone, had an apartment in Mission Hill. Did your detectives find anything at his apartment?”
“Dead end there. Just a few clothes and toiletries and a shitload of movie videos. The guy's a big fan of Sylvester Stallone. Dammit, Frank, we need a break.”
“That was Natalie in the cab. But where is she now?”
“We've got the airport and the train and bus stations covered.”
“All well and good, but she's clever at using disguises, wigs and hats and dark glasses.”
“Frank, nobody's getting out of Boston with these paintings. We've got sniffer dogs at the airport. Anything suspicious, the State troopers will pull the person out of line and call in the dogs.”
He fingered the scar on his chin. The cabby's tip was another confirmation that Natalie was in Boston. And he was going to find her.
“First thing tomorrow I'm going to Global Interpreting and lean on Marta. This time I'll flash my NOPD creds. Maybe that will scare her into telling me where Gregor Kraus is.”
“Want Marty to go with you? He's my best detective.”
“Thanks, but Rafe tipped me off about Ursula. I'll take him with me.” Frank smiled grimly. “Rafe and I are good at playing good-cop, bad-cop.”
CHAPTER 32
Sunday July 12, 2014 – 3:30 PM
Nicholas stood at the kitchen counter, brewing a mug of green tea. The kitchen was a pigsty, bits of food crusted on the stove, rust stains in the sink. He had revised his theory about a little old lady living here with her cats. He didn’t know where the cats were, but whoever had lived here was no old lady. Last night he’d found stacks of porn magazines in the bedroom closet.
Pictures of children having sex. Disgusting.
He took the tea in the living room. With the blinds closed, the room was dark and gloomy, lit by a sixty-watt bulb in the ceiling fixture. A Sony 12-inch television stood on a black footlocker in front of the couch. Yesterday, after he'd stashed the paintings in a safe place, he had driven to Sears Roebucks and waited for the store to open at 9 AM. Then, using the cash Stefan had given him, he bought the Sony TV and a cowboy hat, a black Stetson with silver studs. It was expensive, seventy dollars, but he believed Sylvester Stallone might have worn such a hat. On his way back to the cottage, he had bought a box of green tea. Stefan had stocked the cupboards
with coffee. He hated coffee.
The sound of screeching brakes sent his pulse racing. He ran to the window. A teenager in cut-off jeans and a muscle T-shirt got out of an old Ford Thunderbird and went in the house across the street.
Nicholas kicked the couch and dust motes rose in the air. Yesterday he had waited all day, but Stefan never arrived. Now the bastard wasn't answering his phone calls. Three times he had called, but Stefan didn't answer. He flexed his shoulders to relieve the tension. While he did not fear Stefan, he was not looking forward to their meeting.
The Manet was in the bedroom. Stefan would not be happy about the tear in the canvas. He would show him the Manet but not the others. Not until he got his money.
On the noon news a Providence TV station had run a special report on the Gardner heist. The stolen paintings were worth hundreds of millions of dollars. Hundreds of millions, and Stefan had offered him two. Then black-and-white photographs had appeared on the screen: Charles Lawson, Anthony Falcone and Daniel Leone. His picture on the news!
He ran to the bathroom and studied his face in the grimy mirror. Could anyone recognize him from the picture on the TV? In the photo he had black hair and a thick dark beard. But the worst news had come at the end. An FBI agent said the insurance companies would not pay a ransom for the stolen art.
Murderous thoughts rampaged through his mind as he stormed into the kitchen. He took the Nakura hunting knife out of the leather sheath on the kitchen counter and touched the blade. After he got his money he would slice Stefan to ribbons. His blood would flow like a river.
The cottage was sweltering. His T-shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat. He slid the knife into the sheath, clipped it to his belt and pulled on his windbreaker. Stefan said the black Chevy was stolen, but Stefan lied. Stefan wanted to keep him a prisoner in this filthy little cottage. Screw that. Rigid with fury, he put on his cowboy hat, went in the garage, rolled up the garage door, got in the Chevy and drove off.
Five minutes later he parked at a small strip-mall with a Dunkin' Donuts on one end, a Store-24 at the other. When he went in the Store-24, a line of college students stood at the register. He took a bottle of iced tea from a cooler, tugged the brim of the cowboy hat down over his forehead and joined the line. When he paid for the iced tea, he added two dollars and asked for quarters. The clerk shoved the coins at him without looking up.
He got in the Chevy and headed for the payphone he’d seen yesterday behind a pizza shop, fury raging in his mind. The more he thought about Stefan, the more agitated he became. Worse, when he parked beside the payphone, a girl in a Brown University T-shirt was using it. He got out of the car and circled the booth. Oblivious to him, she played with her blond ponytail, laughing and talking. Couldn’t the bitch see he needed the phone? He circled the booth again, unzipped his jacket and touched the knife. If she didn’t leave in one minute, he would cut her.
His fingers curled around the handle of the knife as he counted the seconds. A pudgy middle-aged man in a polo shirt passed him, carrying a red-and-white pizza box. The man went to a tan Bronco and opened the door. But he didn’t get in the Bronco, he turned and stared at Nicholas, frowning.
Nicholas gripped the handle of the knife. Did the man see his photograph on the news and recognize him? Finally, the man got in the Bronco and barreled out of the lot. Nicholas let out the breath he’d been holding.
The girl with the ponytail left the phone booth, beamed him a cheerful smile and walked away.
You’re lucky I didn’t slit your throat, bitch. He went in the booth, lined up eight quarters on the metal shelf below the phone, dropped in one quarter and punched the numbers. He heard the phone ring, and a mechanical voice said: Please deposit one dollar and forty-five cents.
He dropped in more quarters. The phone rang three times before Stefan answered. “Yes?”
“My picture was on the news and the insurance companies won’t pay a ransom!”
“Nicholas! Where are you?”
“At a pay phone. When I call you on my cell, you don't answer!”
“I told you not to leave the cottage.”
“I want my money!”
“Your ex-cop screwed up. One of the cops died. That makes it harder for me to negotiate. When things cool down, you will get your money.”
“On the news it said they wouldn’t pay—”
“Of course they will pay. But only if the paintings are in perfect condition.”
Nicholas visualized the tear in the Manet canvas. “The paintings are fine,” he said.
“I will believe this when you show them to me.”
He ground his teeth. “Well? When are you coming to see them?”
“Tomorrow. Stay in the cottage until I get there.”
Nicholas slammed down the receiver.
_____
Larry sniffed the fetid air whipping through the window of the crowded MBTA train as it rattled along the underground track. An ebony-skinned man-child with dreadlocks sat on the opposite seat, oblivious to the clack-clack of the wheels, eyes shut, head bobbing to whatever came through the headset clamped over his ears. Intermittent bursts of sound leaked out.
To Larry, it sounded like electronic swarms of locusts.
He should have driven to the meeting, but downtown parking prices were ridiculous, seven dollars for a half hour. Vague discomfort stirred in his midsection. He popped a Tums. Dealing with cops was bad enough; the FBI was worse.
The train jerked to a halt. Larry glimpsed the station sign: Copley. Four stops to Government Center.
The man-child with the dreadlocks departed, taking his electronic pestilence with him. Unfortunately someone equally unpleasant replaced him, an immense woman with pasty-white skin. A tent-like blue-flowered dress draped her bulging body. As the train left the station she removed a Styrofoam container from a McDonald’s bag. The odor of greasy meat and onions filled the car. Oblivious to the disgusted glances of other passengers, she bit into what appeared to be a double-hamburger with cheese.
Larry dug out a crumpled roll of Tums—his second roll today—extracted the last one and put it in his mouth. Fascinated, he watched the woman attack the burger with furious concentration. Gobs of mustard and ketchup dribbled down her double chin. By the time the train rolled into Government Center, the burger was gone, though the odor languished inside the car.
Desperate for fresh air, Larry lunged out the door. The escalator was out of order, so he climbed a steep flight of stairs. Short of breath and sweating profusely, he stepped out onto Government Plaza. A wave of dizziness hit him. He sank onto a cement bench and mopped his face with a handkerchief. Pain radiated up his arm to his neck. He patted his pockets, searching for another roll of Tums, but couldn't find one.
He massaged his left shoulder, then his neck. More than anything in the world he wanted to go home and lie down on his comfortable king-sized bed and rest. But he couldn’t. He had to talk to the FBI agent.
Where was Jamilla’s little boy? Where was Jamilla? She would never abandon her son. Larry mopped his forehead. He was certain Nicholas was involved in the Gardner heist, with some other scumbags, probably. He didn’t care who, as long as it wasn’t Jamilla. He knew where Kwan lived. He would give the FBI agent the address and tell him to go there and ask Kwan what happened to Jamilla. He’d tell him about that other guy, too, the foreign-looking man with the dead-fish eyes who'd asked about her at the restaurant. Joe Jones.
He levered himself off the bench. It was almost five o’clock and the FBI agent was expecting him. Another wave of dizziness staggered him, but he kept going, laboring up the red-brick stairs to Government Plaza. As he reached the top step, excruciating pain exploded in his chest.
For an instant he thought someone had shot him.
His knees buckled and he collapsed. His chest was on fire and he couldn’t breathe. Fighting the pain, he rolled onto his side. He felt hot and cold at the same time, and a buzzing noise rang in his ears. He shut his eyes, but the loud b
uzzing noise continued.
Worst of all was the pain, pounding his chest like a sledgehammer. Distant voices mixed with the buzzing noise and his raspy breathing.
He tried to think. Meeting. He had to go to a meeting. He opened his eyes.
A circle of faces hovered above him, but he couldn’t speak, could only fight the terrible pain in his chest.
A great roar sounded in his ears, and everything faded to black.
One of the bystanders, an Asian medical student from Massachusetts General Hospital, performed CPR, and someone called an ambulance. The EMTs worked feverishly on the unconscious man, but by the time they rolled Larry into the MGH emergency room at five o'clock he was dead.
_____
Natalie went to the coffee machine in her hotel room and used the hot water dispenser to fix herself a cup of tea. Exhausted by last night's ordeal, she’d slept until noon, the king-sized bed a soothing cocoon, crisp clean sheets and plump downy pillows. For the first time in weeks she felt rested. Best of all, no one was looking for Lily Roberts.
No more calls from Gregor since their tense phone conversation, a conversation that had convinced her he didn't have the paintings. She hoped it had convinced Gregor that she didn't have them. If Nicholas had the paintings—and it seemed clear that he did—Gregor would find him.
Which meant Gregor would lead her to the stolen paintings. She checked her iPhone. No text messages.
She had analyzed his movements after the heist. According to the text messages on her iPhone, the Saab had left the storage building in Revere at 3:30 AM. From there it had gone to an apartment two blocks from hers in Mission Hill. Ten minutes later Gregor had stopped at her apartment. And found it empty, which was why he had asked where she was. Then he had driven to the garage at Global Interpreting. The Saab had remained there all night. Maybe Gregor was sleeping in the office.