by Aaron Elkins
It was after 1:00 a.m. when I got back to Columbia House, where I found a note from Anne asking me to call her whatever the time. When I did, she sleepily asked me to give her ten minutes to change and then to come over for something to drink and to tell her everything.
I asked for an additional ten minutes so that I could shower and change, too. I even managed a fast shave, but the cozy fantasies I'd begun to hatch didn't last any longer than it took me to walk the hundred feet of curving corridor between our suites. She had put on jeans, a blousy denim shirt, and tennis shoes, and not—of course not—the silky shift I'd been dreaming her into, and in which she would have looked smashing. And the drinks were tea, coffee, or hot chocolate.
As a matter of fact, hot chocolate sounded great after those long, grubby hours at police headquarters, and she looked smashing just the way she was. Which is not a bad way to look at things when nobody's given you a choice anyway.
"OK, first of all," she said, "what was the point of it all? Bolzano had that micropattern drilled in a real Vermeer, and a fake provenance made up, and all the rest of it. Why, exactly?"
"Because he couldn't afford to let anyone know he had his old painting back," I said, stirring the contents of the cocoa packet into the hot milk and contentedly sniffing the friendly aroma.
"But why? Had he collected some insurance on it that he didn't want to give back?" She shook her head. "No, that doesn't make sense. Why would anyone that rich need to go around killing people over insurance money?"
"It wasn't insurance money; it was self-preservation. They'd have put him away for the rest of his life if word had gotten out that he had his old Vermeer back."
"For the rest of his life? Are you serious?"
"He got it back on his own, you see, from an ex-Nazi in Potsdam, and he broke a lot of East German, West German, and Italian laws to do it. And apparently there was another murder at that time, too, aside from a few waggeries like smuggling and bribery. They would have had enough to lock him up for a hundred years."
She shivered. "What a horrible little man. Chris, what was going on in Peter's mind? Why did he tell you Bolzano didn't know anything about it?"
"Well, consider: Here's Bolzano, fiendishly proud of his collection and loving Vermeer above all other painters. Does it seem likely he'd pretend a beautiful, fantastically rare Vermeer was just a second-rate copy and stick it away with a bunch of old fakes that he obviously didn't give a damn about? There have been plenty of cases where collectors pretended their fakes were originals, but this is the first one I ever heard of the other way around."
I took a swallow of the chocolate. "I'd have said the same thing Peter did: Of all the people in the world, he'd be the last one likely to know."
"But what did Peter think was going on? After all, he knew the picture was supposed to be a copy of a real one that'd been looted. If this was the real one, then where did he think ... I mean .. . I'm confused."
"I don't think Peter had that quite figured out, either. But he knew what he knew."
"And it killed him." She was holding her cup in both hands before her face. "And it almost killed you," she said quietly into it.
"You call that almost getting killed? Broken nose, bullet crease, bomb that missed by a whole thirty feet? Nah, those are just the usual curatorial contingencies. 'Other duties as required.'
"She laughed, but not very enthusiastically. "You know, I can understand, why Bolzano tried to get rid of you; you're a Vermeer expert—"
"Who's been staring at a Vermeer for two weeks," I muttered, "without knowing it."
"But why Peter? Wasn't his field nineteenth-century art? How did he know Peter had found out?"
"Oh, he called him that night—from Frankfurt."
"I thought you told me he didn't call him."
"I told you Bolzano told me he didn't call him. But he did. Peter beat around the bush, I guess, but Bolzano was able to figure out that he was onto it." I shrugged. "He had him murdered the same night, before he could come back and talk to me or anyone else connected with the show. And then he staged the break-in in the basement."
"The break-in in the basement," Anne said, putting down her cup and leaning forward. "That part I think I understand. He was stealing his own Vermeer before you got a good look at it."
"Exactly."
"But he couldn't take just the Vermeer, because that would have seemed suspicious—since it wasn't even supposed to be real."
"Right."
"So those men were going to take everything?"
"No, because then he'd have to keep them all in hiding from then on. No, they were just going to steal the Vermeer, plus a few of the copies, and one or two originals to make it look good."
"Pretty devious."
'To say the least. And then when the theft didn't come off, he tried to use it anyway as an excuse to pull out of the show. He used Earl's ridiculous Schliemann-Gründung the same way."
"Vile, clever man." She uncoiled her long legs and stood up. "Are you hungry? Have you had anything to eat?" "I'm starved."
She went to the waist-high refrigerator, crouched, and peered inside. "Blueberry yogurt, apples, sliced ham, bread. What sounds good? There are a couple of botties of beer too."
"How about a ham sandwich?"
"Coming up."
She stood at the refrigerator, her back to me, making up the sandwich on a plate. The living room was a duplicate of mine, but she had the knack of making even a hotel room look homey and personal. Some of the chairs had been rearranged; a couple of family pictures were on the desk along with her portable typewriter; and magazines, newspapers, and working files lay in healthy disarray, of which my friend Louis would have vigorously approved. No anal-retentive, Anne.
I stretched out my legs and leaned back, hands clasped behind my neck. I was comfortable and relaxed, and happy to be there, right there in her personal space, as Louis might have put it. It was lovely to have her making a sandwich for me.
"And a beer too," I called masterfully.
"Righto. Want a glass?"
"No thanks." A glass? I was ready to drink it in my undershirt and suspenders (if I'd had an undershirt or suspenders) and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
"Chris," she said over her shoulder, "what in the world ever possessed Bolzano to put that painting in the show in the first place? If he'd just left it in Florence, none of this would have happened."
"He didn't put it in the show; Lorenzo did, while Bolzano was in the hospital. He wanted desperately to get it out, but of course I summoned all my charms to pressure him into leaving the copies in. So I guess he figured it'd be safer to kill me than to keep making waves."
"All right, then, why was he so ready to let you investigate the pictures? Wasn't he worried?"
"No, what harm could it do? It just focused my attention in the wrong direction: on the originals instead of the copies. He figured I'd never waste my time studying fakes— which I didn't—and it would give him more time to do something about me before I accidentally stumbled onto the Vermeer. Which is what I did, with Lorenzo's help, of all people's. How'd Lorenzo take things, by the way?"
"He stayed around biting his fingernails with the rest of us until Harry called Colonel Robey to let us know what was happening. Then he seemed to pull himself together—I think he realizes he's the head of the family now. He said The Plundered Past is going to continue, by the way, whatever else happens."
"That's great. I think Lorenzo's going to be all right."
She brought the sandwich and set it down on the coffee table along with a bottle of Beck's. "No mustard or butter or anything. I suppose I could smear it with blueberry yogurt."
"No thanks, this'll do fine."
She settled down a cushion away, pushed off her tennis shoes with her toes, and turned sideways to face me, one arm over the back of the sofa, one leg tucked under the other, the pale blue denim tight against her thighs. Some women have legs that seem to catch your eye no matter what
they're doing with them or what they're wearing on them. Anne, happily, was one.
"Only two more questions," she said, after waiting for me to take a couple of bites and have a swig of beer. (I wiped my mouth with a paper napkin.) "First, if Bolzano is such a great art lover, why would he be so cavalier about blowing up his El Greco to get at you? I mean, if he'd do that, why not just have one of his thugs destroy the Vermeer in the first place? Wouldn't that have been easier than all this killing?"
"Good question," I said, chewing. "I'm just guessing, because no one thought to ask him, but I assume he figured he could live without an El Greco—especially with two million dollars' insurance to soothe him—but he couldn't stand the idea of losing his Vermeer. I know that's the way I'd feel about it."
"Oh? Vermeer over El Greco? Is that an objective art-historical judgment or personal preference?"
"Personal preference. Of an objective art historian. What's your other question? Last one, mind you."
"How Bolzano knew you were going to be at the Christmas shooting. Did he have somebody following you?"
"Nope, that was me telling Jessick telling Mark telling Bolzano. Bolzano came up with some excuse to call Mark and just casually asked him what I was doing over Christmas. And you know how he found out I'd be on the truck with the El Greco?"
"Traben told him?"
"Nope. Bolzano paid a guy that works at my hotel in Florence to tape my telephone calls—one of which was from the Kunstmuseum—and send the tapes to him."
"Like in the movies."
"Uh-huh. Wait'll that rotten Luigi sees what kind of a tip he gets from me next time."
She watched me finish the sandwich, her head tilted to one side, a look in her eyes that I hoped I was reading correctly for once. "I'm glad you didn't get killed." She shrugged and gave a small, shy laugh. "I just thought you might like to know."
"I'm very glad to know." I put my hands on either side of her face, pulled her head closer, and kissed her gentiy on the lips. Her hair, soft and warm and tousled, tingled against the backs of my hands. "I'm extremely glad to know. You don't have any idea how glad I am to know."
She pressed my hands to her face for a moment, then let go and sank back down on the sofa.
"Chris, has it ever struck you that for a couple of mature adults we're having a remarkably chaste, old-fashioned sort of romance? If this is a romance."
"Oh, the thought may have crossed my mind. Once or twice. And yes, I believe this is a romance."
She put her hand on my knee and I covered it with mine. "I'm sorry about the other night at the General Walker," she said. "I kicked myself the minute you left."
"No, you were right. I realized it later; it wasn't the right time."
"No." And then, softly: "Not then."
I leaned across and kissed her again, getting up on one knee to do it. "I want to ask you something."
She looked mutely up at me, her clear violet eyes huge and shining.
"Do you mind if I use your telephone?"
She laughed.
"No, I'm serious."
"You want to make a telephone call right now? This minute?"
"Yup, this minute."
I charged the call to my room and waited for it to go through. If I'd ever felt happier in my life, I couldn't remember it.
"Rita? Chris Norgren."
Rita laughed ropily. "I don't believe it. You're actually returning a call after only eight days? Hey, it must be the middle of the night there."
"It is. Listen, I'm calling about Bev's last counteroffer."
"Okay, just a sec." I heard her scrabbling for my file. "It's been so long I . .. All right, here it is: nine-and-three-quarters percent of Jan van der Meer van Delft, including the advance; fifty percent of proceeds from sale of house— sorry, she reneged on the forty—car to her, Murphy to you, but she gets visiting—"
"Fine."
"—privileges. Library to .. . What?"
"It's fine. I accept."
"But—but there's more—"
"That's fine, too. Let's go with it. It's gone on way too long already."
A hiss wooshed out of her chair all the way from San Francisco as she fell heavily back into it. "Do my ears deceive me? Don't you have a counteroffer? Don't you want to think it over and call me right back, like next month sometime? Don't—"
"No sarcasm is necessary, Rita. Just send it. I'll sign it."
"Well, well, well," she said. "Well, well."
When I put back the receiver, Anne was watching me with a quiet, luminous smile, very still and alert, sitting with both feet tucked up under her, her forefingers steepled against her mouth.
I smiled back, feeling as if an enormous weight that had been strapped to my shoulders for years had finally been lifted, which indeed it had.
I was finally ready, in every sense of the word; ready to give my full and wholehearted attention to Anne, ready to move forward again with my life, ready to take on a significant new dyadic interrelationship.
Louis will be glad to hear it.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21