by Susan Fleet
“No. I don't trust you. Sit on the ground.”
Giving her a malevolent look, he bent his left knee, braced his hands on the cement and lowered himself to the garage floor. His chest heaved and beads of sweat dotted his forehead and upper lip. Gritting his teeth, he clutched his right knee with both hands.
Convinced he was no longer a threat, she sidestepped to the trunk of the Saab and opened the suitcase. Her heart soared. The Lacemaker!
She glanced at Gregor. He was watching her, teeth clenched, eyes full of fury. “They are all there,” he said. “Two Vermeers and the Rembrandt, which Nicholas also damaged, a rip in the lower right corner. But this is not significant. You will get plenty of money for it.”
She checked to make sure the other two paintings were there and slammed the trunk shut. And heard distant sirens.
Gregor heard them too. “Police,” he said in a quiet voice.
Natalie whirled and ran toward the sound. It was coming from the opposite side of the garage, the side facing the highway. Ten seconds later she stopped at a low cement wall, a wide opening supported by thick cement pillars. It was pitch dark now, but from here she had a panoramic view of Route 128. On the southbound side to her left, four lanes of vehicles with bright headlights were passing the train station. But off to her right on the northbound side, vehicles were swerving into the breakdown lane to let a speeding police car with flashing blue lights pass them.
A visceral jolt stabbed her gut. But why would they be coming here? Maybe there was an accident on the highway. And maybe there wasn't. If they came here, she was in trouble. She turned and ran back toward Gregor and the Saab, weaving through rows of parked cars.
Blam. A slug ripped into the cement pillar beside her, showering her with chips of cement. Her heart slammed her chest. Despite the shattered kneecap Gregor had retrieved his gun. Or maybe he had another one.
She ducked behind a car, twenty yards away from him. Holding the Beretta in both hands, she rose to a crouch, sighted over the car hood and fired at Gregor. And missed.
Braced awkwardly in a seated position, Gregor was shooting at her one-handed, using his uninjured knee as a gun rest. He shot at her again, but now she was moving, running at him as fast as she could. She stopped one row away, took careful aim and shot him in the left knee.
“Bitch!” he screamed. He dropped the snub-nosed semi-automatic and grabbed his left knee, screaming obscenities at her.
“I told you not to move!” She ran to him and kicked the gun away from him. It spun away and skittered across the car lane and stopped when it hit a low cement wall.
The sirens were closer now, more than one siren, she realized.
“Valerie,” he said in a low voice. “We could have been partners. I have always admired you. Your courage, your nerves of steel.”
She didn't believe a word of it. “You had an odd way of showing it.”
A haunted look appeared in his dark eyes. “It is true, Valerie. All true. But now the police are here.” He raised a hand in entreaty. “Do me one last favor. Finish the job.”
“No. I'll let the cops take you. You and the paintings.”
She sprinted to the stairs, raced down one level to the Toyota, unlocked it and jumped inside. But she would never escape in a car. The cops would stop her. With trembling hands, she shoved the Beretta into the duffel and took out her iPhone and the two passports. Hope for the best, plan for the worst.
The sirens were very close now, turning into the roadway that led to the garage.
If she was lucky and ran like the wind, she might be able to escape on foot.
_____
Waves of pain washed over him, excruciating pain, worse than he'd ever felt in his life, worse than when Papa held his hands over the gas flame.
Damn Valerie to hell!
Why didn't she take the paintings? She could have sold them or collected money from the insurance companies. Millions of dollars.
Drenched in sweat, he stared at his bloody fingers. If only the pain would stop. He knew it would not, but he knew how to manage it. He shut his eyes and concentrated, just as he'd done as a child. Put the pain away in a small box in the back of your mind.
Sweat rolled down his nose. He brushed it away with his sleeve and opened his eyes.
The cops were here. He could hear the whoop of sirens outside the garage.
Just as he knew how to deal with pain, he knew no one would help him escape. When he was a boy of twelve, someone had shot Papa. He had been on his own ever since. Over the years, no one had helped him. So he had done what was necessary to take control.
Tonight would be no different. He gritted his teeth, lay back on the cement and rolled over.
Agonizing pain stabbed his knees. It took his breath away. Panting, he lay still and wiped his face on the sleeve of his polo shirt.
He stared at the gun. Twenty-five feet away. An impossible distance, but he would not allow that to defeat him. Using his elbows, he dragged himself toward the gun, every inch an excruciating milestone, willing himself forward like a climber approaching the peak of Mount Everest.
If Kwan had not double-crossed him, he would be celebrating his victory tonight in New York. But in the end he had made the bastard pay for his treachery.
Ignoring the terrible pain, he inched forward, eyes fixed on the gun.
Valerie had betrayed him, too. He had as much as told her to kill him. But she hadn't. Because of her stupid code. Valerie had nerves of steel, but she didn't want to kill anyone. What good was that? She didn't understand the power of life and death. And the control it conveyed.
Panting, he stopped to rest. If the police captured him, he would spend the rest of his life in prison. He couldn't face that. Not again. Fighting off right-wing Aryans and black supremacists. And now he was a cripple. He would never walk normally again.
With grim determination, he fixed his eyes on the gun.
Now it was only fifteen feet away.
CHAPTER 40
9:30 PM
Frank stood beside Rafe's unmarked car in the pickup/drop-off garage adjacent to the train station. Holding his SIG in both hands, he surveyed the area, alert for any telltale sound or activity. Bigger than a football field, the shadowy cement structure was eerily silent and hot as hell, not a hint of a breeze. He mopped his brow with his sleeve. Even the stubble on his chin was damp with sweat.
Somewhere inside the massive four-story parking garage adjacent to the drop-off zone was a rented Saab. He presumed Gregor and Natalie were in the Saab with the stolen paintings. An Amtrak train was due to arrive in twenty minutes. The clock was ticking. He wanted to search the parking garage and find the Saab, but Rafe was inside the station, making sure the civilians were safe.
Rafe burst through the glass double-doors of the station and ran up to him, his Glock in his hand. “The station is secure,” he said, adding with a faint smile, “Nothing stirring, not even a mouse.”
Black humor to ease the tension. “Where are the passengers?”
“Two of Hank's District-4 detectives put the station workers and the people in the waiting area into a conference room,” Rafe said. “They'll stay with them. You ready to hit the parking garage?”
“Yes, but I better call Hank first and see what's happening at Global Interpreting.”
“Go for it,” Rafe said. “I'll keep an eye on things.”
Frank hit his speed dial. Flynn answered right away.
“My contact says Gregor's cellphone is still at the station,” Flynn said. “No response on the APB. What's your situation?”
“Six cruisers—three from Westwood PD, three from Dedham PD—are blocking the entrances and exits to the station, nobody goes in or out. The station is secure. Two of your detectives are guarding the civilians. Rafe and I are in the garage parked in the drop-off area near the station entrance. Some taxis were parked here but we made them leave. Pissed off the drivers, but we told them they wouldn't get any more fares tonight.”
“Good work. I convinced the Amtrak officials to contact the engineers on the 9:50 train and tell them not to stop there.” Flynn chuckled mirthlessly. “It wasn't hard. I said there might be gunfire, wouldn't want any of their passengers to get hurt.”
Frank gave Rafe a thumbs-up. To Flynn he said, “I assume Natalie and Gregor are in the Saab. We came in with sirens, so they know we're here.”
“They're probably armed. Plenty of cover in a garage if they want to ambush you. Ask Rafe if he's got vests in his car.”
“Rafe,” Frank called, “you got any vests in the car?”
“Got two or three,” Rafe said.
“He does,” Frank told Flynn. “What's doing with the federales?”
“I took the DA aside and explained the situation. He's fine with Boston PD doing the takedown. He's got enough problems dealing with Georgette. She knows Burt Smolinski was working for Global Interpreting, and she wants to take control of the crime scene, probably figures she'll find something here that will help her solve the Gardner heist. But she's got no clue about Gregor.”
“Good. Rafe and I are set to go after him.” And Natalie. This time I’m going to get her.
“Okay, but use the vests. Keep me informed.”
Frank punched off and told Rafe, “Flynn says go, but he wants us to use the vests.”
“No problem.” Rafe opened the trunk of his car, held out a Kevlar vest and said with a sardonic smile, “Big one for the big fella, medium one for the point guard.”
Frank holstered his SIG, took the vest and stood beside the car, facing the station entrance. The vest had Velcro straps on each shoulder. He adjusted them, started to adjust the straps on the side of the vest and stopped. His hyper-alert radar system picked up motion near the station entrance. The door to the stairway beside the station entrance opened a crack.
The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. No one should be roaming around the station. All the civilians were in the conference room. But Gregor and Natalie weren't.
He dropped the vest and drew his SIG. Fifteen yards away, a slender figure edged through the door, spotted them and took off running.
“Stay here,” he said to Rafe. “It's Natalie.”
She disappeared around the corner of the station. Frank sprinted to the corner and caught a glimpse of her as she darted onto a gravel path that ran alongside the train tracks. Pumped with adrenaline, he ran to the path, zigged left and saw her, thirty yards ahead of him.
To his right, a tall wire-mesh fence kept people away from the tracks. To his left, Halogen security floodlights on the upper levels of the garage gave off an eerie yellow glow, illuminating the path. Thick shrubs lined the wall of the parking garage. But Natalie wasn't looking to hide. She wanted to escape.
Fifty yards away at the end of the gravel path, a narrow tunnel ran underneath the highway. Above the tunnel headlights flashed as cars zoomed along on Route 128. He had to stop her before she got through the tunnel. He assumed she was armed. If she reached the other side of the highway, she might take a hostage in a nearby house or hijack a car.
“Stop or I'll shoot!” Not to kill, maybe, but he intended to stop her. Whatever it took.
She kept going, arms pumping, loping along, the same long-legged stride he'd seen in New Orleans. He saw no weapon in her hands, but that didn't mean she didn't have one. Breathing hard, thighs burning, he lengthened his stride. Now she was fifteen yards away. He was closing on her.
Natalie was ten years younger than he was, but his legs were longer and he was motivated. No, not just motivated, driven by anger and two years of frustration. This time she wasn't going to escape.
Summoning every ounce of energy he possessed, he put on a burst of speed. She glanced over her shoulder, still running but slower, looked like she was running out of gas.
“Stop,” he shouted. “You're surrounded.”
She slowed to jog, then stopped and turned to face him, panting for breath, her chest heaving. Beads of sweat dotted her forehead. She gazed at him, her almond-shaped eyes luminous in the moonlight. She had on a maroon T-shirt and black running pants. No sign of a weapon, but he wasn't taking any chances.
“On your knees, hands on your head!”
“I'm not armed,” she said. “I have no weapon.”
“Don't tell me what you've got. Hands on your head.” Watching her eyes. If she intended to bolt, he'd see it there.
She raised her hands and put them on her head.
“Get on your knees. I'm going to frisk you.”
Her lips quirked in annoyance, but she sank to her knees, a graceful fluid motion. She was in good shape, Frank observed, probably worked out regularly. Holding the SIG in his right hand, he stepped behind her and patted her down, shoulders to waist first, then her arms. No weapon, but a flesh-colored bandage, two inches by three inches, was taped to her right forearm.
“Okay, stand up and keep your feet apart.”
In another effortless motion, she rose and stood with her feet wide apart. He ran his left hand over her hips, then her legs, inside and out. No weapon. He took her arm and turned her to face him.
“Where are the paintings?”
“In the trunk of Gregor's car.”
The ready admission surprised him. “The Saab?”
Her eyes widened slightly. “Yes. It's in the parking garage on Level-3, near the stairs.”
He studied her face and realized why she looked different. “You cut your hair.”
Her lips parted in a faint smile. “Yes. You like it?”
He almost laughed. After hunting this woman for two years, he had finally caught her, and she wanted to know if he liked her new hairstyle.
“You stole the paintings.”
Her smile disappeared. “I stole the Vermeers. Not the others.”
“Who stole the others, Gregor Kraus?”
“No, one of the guards. But he double-crossed Gregor and kept them.”
And paid with his life, Frank thought, recalling the charred outline in the basement of the cottage in Providence. “Where's Gregor?”
She drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, staring off in the distance. At last she locked eyes with him and said, “I was going to return the paintings. But Gregor didn't want me to. He shot at me.”
“Where is he?”
“In the garage near the Saab. Can I put my arms down? I'm not armed and—”
“No.” He motioned toward the station. “Move. I'm right behind you. We'll talk later.”
When they entered the drop-off garage, he marched her to Rafe's car. Waiting beside the car, Rafe gave him a thumbs-up.
“She says the Saab is on the third level,” Frank said. “The paintings are in the trunk.”
Before Rafe could speak, Natalie said in a soft voice, “Detective Renzi, can I give you something?”
Startled that she had addressed him by name, he said, “What?”
“The keys to the Saab. You'll need them to open the trunk.”
“Show me.”
She lowered her arms, held out her right hand and opened her fist. A set of car keys lay on her palm.
He took them and glanced at Rafe, who looked at him, bemused.
“When I heard the sirens,” Natalie said, “I knew you would be here soon. I didn't want Gregor to get away so I shot him in the knee.”
“Ouch,” Rafe said, grimacing.
“I had already made him show me the paintings in the trunk.”
“Where's the gun?” Frank said. “The one you used to kneecap him?”
Avoiding his eyes, she muttered, “I got rid of it.”
A problematic answer, but he would question her about that later. To Rafe, he said, “Cuff her and put her in your car. I'll get two of the D-4 detectives to guard her. Then we can go to the parking garage and get Gregor.”
“Be careful,” Natalie said. “He has a gun.”
_____
Stressed-out and angry, she slumped against the seat. Her worst fear had come
true. Frank Renzi had captured her. His partner had handcuffed her and put her in the back seat of an unmarked police car. Now two policemen stood beside it with their guns drawn, to make sure she didn't escape. As if that were possible. A wire-mesh partition separated the back seat from the front, all the windows were shut, and there were no door handles. Not a breath of air and not a drop to drink.
She was hot and sweaty, her throat so parched she could barely swallow. She shifted in her seat, trying to get comfortable. Her shoulders ached and her wrists hurt from the handcuffs that bound them together behind her back. She didn't want to think about what would happen next. Renzi had patted her down, but he hadn't found the iPhone or the passports hidden in the crotch of her underpants. Passports she would never get to use.
Tears misted her eyes. She might never talk to Pak Lam again. Her adopted father, the man she had grown to love. Rather than flee Boston as every instinct urged her to do, she had tried to do the honorable thing and return the paintings. But when she tried to explain this to Renzi, she could tell he didn't believe it, gazing at her, expressionless, a skeptical look in his dark penetrating eyes.
And how could she blame him? She should not have stolen the paintings. This was her punishment.
We'll talk later. Soon Renzi would come back and interrogate her. A terrifying thought. Then she remembered something and smiled. In high school she had joined the drama club. She loved acting, pretending to be someone else and playing the role. It was easy. She had done this most of her life. Before a big performance, her drama coach always gave them a pep talk. “Don't be scared. Walk out on that stage and act confident. Act like you're having fun.”
Fun. While Renzi interrogated her? She couldn't imagine it.
_____
Weapons drawn, they crept up the cement stairs, Frank on the right, Rafe on the left, their eyes sweeping the cement stairwell above them. They reached the first landing and started up the next set of stairs. Be careful, he has a gun. Natalie’s words.
Frank pointed at the door to the third-level garage and whispered, “There's a window. Might be able to spot him.”