by Susan Fleet
Maintaining a steady 55-mph, Natalie settled into the middle lane of the Massachusetts Turnpike. After the police cars passed the Saab, Gregor had taken off, weaving in and out through the heavy traffic at high speed. Still, she managed to stay with him. When he drove onto the entrance for the Mass Pike on Huntington Avenue, she had followed. Now the Saab was in the high-speed lane several car lengths ahead of her.
At seven o’clock, she had caught a news bulletin on the car radio. This afternoon Providence police had found the stolen Manet, badly damaged in a fire. That was a shock. Why would Gregor leave the Manet in the cottage and torch the place?
If Gregor wanted to leave town fast, the Mass Turnpike, a toll road, was the best way to do it. But why the hurry? Were the cops after him? Why would they go to the Global Interpreting office at this hour? Maybe Gregor knew something she didn't.
Although rush hour was over, there was still quite a lot of traffic. If Gregor was worried about cops, he'd be checking his mirrors to see if they were chasing him. Her black Toyota was innocuous enough, but if he noticed it, he might get suspicious. And if a cop stopped him, he'd be in trouble. She was certain the other stolen paintings were in the Saab, equally sure Gregor was carrying a gun.
Now they were coming to a tollbooth. She slowed down, waiting to see what Gregor would do. He bypassed the Alston-Brighton exit on the right and continued to the Mass Pike-West tollbooths. Most of the lanes were for cars with E-ZPass, but two cash-only booths were open.
The Saab got in a cash-only lane. Natalie got in line for the other one, pulled out her wallet and took out some bills.
When she reached the booth, she gave the man a five-dollar bill and waited for her change. One lane over, the Saab pulled forward and drove off in the high-speed lane. The toll taker dropped change into her palm and the barrier swung up.
She accelerated, passed several cars and spotted the Saab in the high-speed lane. Staying well behind it, she settled into the middle lane and pulled down the visor. Driving west into the glare of the setting sun hurt her eyes, but soon it would be dark. Where was Gregor going? She glanced at her gas gauge. Less than half a tank. If he was driving to New York, she was in trouble.
Ten minutes later she passed a sign for the Route 128-Route 95 exit. Ahead of her, the Saab merged into the middle lane, then the exit lane. Another tollbooth loomed. She took out her wallet. After paying the toll, Gregor would have to make a choice. Would he go north or south? She joined a different cash-only line, watching to see what Gregor did after he paid the toll. As she reached the booth, she saw the Saab veer onto the Route-128-South fork.
She paid the toll and let two cars precede her before entering the southbound ramp. A minute later she merged into the traffic on Route-128-South. Was Gregor going back to Providence? Why would he do that?
_____
A shelf with a coffee maker and a fax-printer-copier occupied one corner of the Global Interpreting office. Side by side, Frank and Rafe leaned against it, watching the turf war.
Moments after Hank put out the APB on the Saab, Georgette had stormed into the office with two FBI agents. She lit into Hank, asking how he got here so fast and why didn't he wait until she got here before he broke into the office? Ignoring the question, Flynn said, “I posted three uniforms in the hall to keep out unauthorized visitors.” Then the District Attorney arrived and Georgette had pounced on him, loudly asserting her status as lead investigator.
Now Georgette and the DA were huddled in the corner opposite Frank. Hard to tell who was winning. Both of them looked angry, Georgette still yammering but quieter, the DA responding with emphatic hand gestures. Meanwhile, the fetid odor of death hovered in the air, Marta's bodily wastes. The medical examiner hadn't arrived but was on his way. The CSI techs were busy taking photos, drawing diagrams, dusting for prints, vacuuming the carpeting, the usual bedlam at a homicide scene.
Rafe leaned closer and muttered, “Wish Hank would hurry up and get the cellphone location.”
“Me, too,” Frank said. “Every minute we lose is to Gregor's advantage. We almost got him.”
“Body was still warm,” Rafe said. “Only missed him by five or ten minutes.”
Marty Talbot and Hank Flynn came through the door of the hall that led to Gregor's office. Flynn looked around, his blue eyes flinty.
“There's too many people in here. Renzi and Hawkins, wait outside in your vehicle.” He gave Frank a hard look. “Stay off your cell so I can call if I need you.”
Frank suppressed a smile and nodded. “Will do.”
After he and Rafe got in the elevator, Rafe said, “Hank's been looking old and tired these days, but now that we got a lead, seems like he's got his mojo back. I loved how he finessed Georgette, dumping her onto the DA. Hoo-ee, let the slug-fest begin.”
Frank was tempted to tell him about the cancer diagnosis but decided against it. If Hank didn't want people to know, he would respect his wishes. Like Rafe, he was happy to see his former boss energized and excited. “He wants this one bad. So do I, for a lot of reasons, but it would be great to see Hank go out on top. If he solves the case, he should get the credit.”
The elevator door opened and they hustled outside to Rafe's car. Almost sunset but the heat and humidity were stifling, not a breath of air stirring. They got in the car and Frank took out his cellphone.
“You see that look Hank gave us? I think he's got something going with the cellphone company.”
“That'd be my guess.” Rafe opened a six-pack of bottled water, handed one to Frank, uncapped the other and chugged half of it. When Frank's cellphone rang, Rafe smiled. “Bingo.”
Frank answered, “We're here, set to go, what's doing?”
Speaking softly, Flynn said, “I had Marty guard the door of Gregor's office while I made some calls. All-Tech Wireless gave me a bunch of shit about privacy rights, said they needed a warrant to ping his cellphone. So I called in the chips with one of my contacts. The guy lives in Needham, near the All-Tech office. He's there now, should have the location soon so be ready. When I call and give you the location, you go.”
Frank shut his cell and relayed the news to Rafe. Incredulous, Rafe said, “We got a dead body, we're after a killer, and these schnooks are talking privacy rights? Kill somebody, your privacy rights are history. Good thing Flynn's got a connection.”
“Yes, but Gregor's got a head start, and it'll be dark soon.”
“Too bad about Marta. Seems like she was just a pawn in the game.”
“Don't feel too bad. If she'd told us where Gregor was, we might have nabbed him before he burned the Manet. Not to mention the guy who got burnt to a crisp. And don't forget Natalie. I figure Gregor's got the paintings. I don't know if Natalie was here when he killed Marta, but if she wasn't, he'll probably pick her up before he splits.”
His cellphone rang. He answered and heard Flynn say in a soft voice, “Got it. The cellphone is currently located at 50 University Avenue in Westwood. Otherwise known as the Route-128 train station.”
“Jesus! The Route-128 train station,” he said. Rafe immediately slammed the car in gear and peeled out.
“We're on our way, Hank. Any changes, let us know.”
“Will do,” Flynn said. “I'm sending three Boston PD cars to assist. Might get the Westwood and Dedham cops on it, too, but not until you're closer to the target. You two take charge of the scene.”
“We will. Do me a favor. Find out if any trains stop there tonight.”
“Damn,” Flynn said. “I didn't think of that. Hold on, I'll have Marty check.”
“Fuck speed limits,” Rafe said as he slewed around a corner.
“Go for it,” Frank said, and heard Flynn say, “Only one Amtrak train stops at the Route-128 station tonight, rolls in at 9:50 PM, destination Penn Station in New York City.”
_____
Gregor backed into a space on the third level of the Route-128 parking garage, shut off the motor and leaned back against the headrest. Finally, he c
ould relax. He hadn't seen any cops following him, but the police cruisers outside Copley Place had unnerved him. Still, they could have been going there for some other reason.
If they went to the office they would find Marta, but so what? Marta wouldn't be telling them anything, and they would find nothing incriminating there. Well, his fingerprints perhaps, but by the time they identified them he would be on his way to Europe.
This afternoon at Valerie's apartment he had watched the six o’clock news. The top story: Providence PD had found the Manet that had been stolen from the Gardner Museum. To his utter disgust, a file photo of the Manet, in pristine condition, appeared on the screen. The reporter said the Manet had been badly damaged in a fire; the fire marshal had found it in the basement of a burned-out cottage and recognized it, having seen news reports about the Gardner heist. Whereupon Gregor had screamed obscenities at the TV set, cursing his mistake. He should never have left the Manet there. But when the reporter described the charred body found at fire scene, he had smiled in satisfaction.
Kwan, the traitor, had died a horrible death.
Even now this gave him great satisfaction. He arched his back and flexed his shoulders. Eventually the cops would discover Kwan’s true identity, an Asian hood on the lam, hiding from the San Francisco cops. No big deal if the Manet had burned in the fire, but it hadn’t. The Manet would connect Kwan to the Gardner heist and his body was in Burt’s cellar. This was worrisome.
Had Burt seen the news reports on TV? Doubtful. Burt was too busy fucking little boys. Yesterday he’d called Burt and told him to meet him at JFK airport in New York tomorrow, his vacation was over. Burt wasn't happy about it, but screw Burt. Gregor had sent him the airline ticket overnight Express. Eventually the cops would connect Burt to Global Interpreting, but that wouldn’t matter.
Tomorrow Burt was going to take a nosedive off the top level of a parking garage at JFK.
He stifled a yawn and surveyed the cavernous garage. Less than a dozen cars were parked on the third level, most of them a good distance away from the Saab. He had parked three spaces away from the door to the staircase. He took out a pack of Gitaines, opened his briefcase and removed the flask of cognac. He didn't have to drive anywhere. Why not enjoy a cigarette and the cognac?
In an hour he'd be on a train to New York. The Business Class ticket had cost more than a hundred dollars but it had a reclining seat with a padded headrest. He'd sleep for four hours on the train, arrive at Penn Station at 2:15 AM, pack the paintings in a container and ship them to Cologne. Eventually, the cops would find the Saab here in the garage, but by then he would be long gone.
He unscrewed the flask and took a large swallow of cognac. Never again would he take orders from Jonathan Pym. Or anyone else, for that matter. Now he was in control. He rolled down the window, lighted a Gitaines and smiled.
Two days from now he would be in Cologne to collect his million-dollar paintings.
CHAPTER 39
Natalie flattened her back against the door of the Level-3 stairway, her eyes fixed on the Saab, her hands sweaty on the Beretta. At last, after interminable hours of surveillance, her opportunity to take the paintings away from Gregor had arrived.
She felt jubilant, but also, she had to admit, fearful.
Five yards to her right, a fire-engine-red Jeep stood in the space closest to the door. Beyond it was a black SUV, then an empty space. Gregor's olive-green Saab was in the next slot, nose out, facing the car lane. If Gregor looked this way he would see her.
The Saab's window was open. Gregor was smoking one of his European cigarettes. She could smell it.
She had parked her Toyota on Level-2 near the stairs, nose out for a fast getaway. The spaces beside it were vacant. She waited a while to make sure no one was around, planning her moves. She had to take Gregor by surprise. Her short-sleeved maroon T-shirt was dark, but her white shorts were too conspicuous. She removed them and put on her black running pants. After chambering a round in the Beretta, she hid her duffel in the passenger foot-well, locked the Toyota and crept up the stairs to the Level-3 door. But when she looked through the wire-mesh glass in the door, she couldn't see the Saab. Willing the door not to squeak, she had eased it open and slipped into the garage.
Now the shadowy garage was silent and still. The slightest motion might attract Gregor's attention. Ever so slowly, she lowered herself to a squatting position, hidden by the Jeep. Gregor couldn't see her, but if she made the slightest sound he might hear her. Holding the gun in her right hand, she braced her left hand on the cement floor, eased onto her knees and inched toward the Jeep.
Her heart was beating so hard she feared Gregor would hear it.
When her head bumped the door of the Jeep, she stopped. Inhaling the odor of Gregor's cigarette, she gripped the Beretta in both hands. Keeping her head below the windows of the Jeep, she eased into a squatting position. Slowly breathed in and out, to calm herself.
Another cloud of smoke spewed from the window, then a cigarette butt, showering sparks as it bounced and rolled into the car lane.
Now or never. She sprang to her feet and sprinted to the Saab. “Put your hands on the wheel, Gregor. Up top where I can see them.”
His mouth sagged open. “Valerie! What are you doing here?”
She aimed the Beretta at his head. “Hands on the wheel, up top, both of them. Do it! Now!”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. He put both hands on the wheel at twelve o'clock and looked at her, frowning now. “What happened to you hair? Why did you cut it?”
“Never mind. Where are the paintings? In the trunk?”
Gregor gazed at her, his expression earnest, not pleading but almost. “Things did not go exactly as I planned, Valerie, but we can still be partners. The old man will soon be dead.”
“Why did you burn the Manet?”
“So. You heard about the fire?”
“I didn't hear about it. I was there. I saw you run out of the house and a minute later the place was an inferno. Was Nicolas in the basement?”
Clearly shocked, Gregor stared at her. “You saw me? How did you know I was there?”
“Never mind. Why did you burn the Manet?”
“Nicholas ruined it. There was a big tear in the canvas, impossible to repair. But the other three will bring a large sum of money, millions of dollars. I would be happy to share it with you, Valerie. After Pym dies, we wait a while, sell the paintings on the black market and split the money, fifty-fifty.”
He gazed at her expectantly. When she didn't respond, he said, “There is no reason why you and I cannot steal more paintings. There are plenty to be had. We make a good team.”
A good team? The words sickened her. How could he think such a thing?
“No we don't. You kill anyone who gets in your way. You told Nicholas to kill me, but I got away.”
Gregor smiled faintly. “This does not surprise me. You are very fit, Valerie. I took note of this at the hotel fitness center when you worked out on the machines.”
“You got Nicholas to help you double-cross Pym and then you killed him.”
Gregor said nothing, his dark eyes boring into hers. Her stomach plummeted in a free-fall of fear. Even though she was holding a gun on him, he still terrified her. She stepped back so he couldn't grab her and flicked the Beretta, a threatening motion.
“Give me the car keys, Gregor. Use your left hand. Slowly.”
“Trust me, Valerie, the paintings are in the trunk.”
“Trust you? You wanted me dead! Keep your right hand on the wheel. Give me the keys, slowly, with your left hand. Don't make me shoot you. One wrong move and I will.”
He clenched his jaw, his lips set in a grim line. With his left hand, he took the keys out of the ignition, extended his hand through the window and put them in her left hand.
She tucked them into the sleeve of her T-shirt. “Out of the car. When I step back, open the door. Slowly. Keep your hands where I can see them.”
Gripping t
he Beretta in both hands, she aimed it at his head and stepped back from the Saab.
He slowly opened the door, swung one leg out, then the other. “Stand up. Slowly. Hands over your head.”
He eased forward, cleared the doorframe and stood there with his hands raised. She tried not to look at hideous scars on his hands. She motioned with the Beretta. “Stand over there in the vacant space. Keep your hands up where I can see them.”
Moving slowly, he backed up three paces and stopped in the vacant space. With one foot, she kicked the door of the Saab shut.
“Put your back against the black SUV. One wrong move and I will shoot.”
He backed up to the black SUV and stood with his feet spread apart, watching her, his eyes wary. He was wearing a short-sleeved royal-blue polo shirt and gray slacks. No gun visible, but he might have a small one tucked away somewhere.
“Put your feet together.”
His eyes grew cold. “Valerie, stop giving me orders.”
She aimed the Beretta at his center of mass, as she had been taught, midway between his bellybutton and his heart.
“Shut up and do it, Gregor. Feet together.”
Glaring at her, he put his feet together. “There. Happy now?”
She didn't answer. Training the Beretta on him with her right hand, she retrieved the car keys, opened the trunk and saw the gray-fabric suitcase. Just as she'd thought. The paintings were in the suitcase. This filled her with joy, but not so much that she missed a sudden motion, Gregor bending down, reaching for his ankle, pulling out a gun …
She shot him in the kneecap.
“Arrrgh!” he screamed. He dropped the gun and the snub-nosed semi-automatic clattered to the cement. Gregor bent over, clutching his right knee with both hands, grimacing in pain. “Damn you! See what you've done to me.” Blood was seeping through his gray slacks, leaking through his fingers.
She kicked the short-barreled gun away from him. “Back away from the SUV and sit on the ground.”
Favoring his right leg, he hobbled away from the SUV, his face clenched in pain. “Help me,” he said. “I cannot bend my knee.”