Lying Eyes

by Robert Winter

  He still needed to have lunch, but he didn’t want to eat alone. As he pulled out of the garage, he wondered if Danny would like to come help out at the bar, for something to do. He put the phone on speaker and gave the voice command to call his home number. No answer.

  Strike two. He should probably buy a cell phone for Danny, since it looked like he’d be sticking around for a while.

  Fine. He’d just go grab a sandwich and then head to Mata Hari early.

  • • •

  That evening, the bar was unusually busy for a Wednesday. Randy was pleased at the extra customers because it signaled he was doing something right. As soon as six o’clock hit, he and Malcolm slung drinks steadily for what seemed like two hours straight. He’d understaffed because he expected the usual level of business, and his crew was having trouble keeping up with bussing and washing glasses.

  Miss Ethel was on fire at the piano, and her band of admirers sang along lustily to the score of Les Misérables. Randy took a short break at seven to call Danny again to see if he’d come help out, but once again the home number went unanswered. A tingle of unease crawled through Randy’s gut, but he dismissed it. Danny wasn’t accountable to him for every minute of his day. Maybe he’d made some friends, or gone to another movie.

  Around eight-thirty, the crowd slowed enough that Malcolm said to Randy, “Get some dinner, boss. I got this.”

  “You sure, Mal?”

  “Yeah, no sweat. Besides, the extra tips today will come in handy.” Malcolm grinned at him. “Got a date tonight after we close up.”

  “Where are you taking Sarah?”

  “Oh shit, I thought I told you. Sarah and I broke up. I’m seeing Latoya now.”

  “Should I say I’m sorry, or congratulations?”

  “It’s all good, boss. Sarah started pushing for something more serious, but I just want to play around while I can.”

  “Well, as long as you’re being careful.”

  Malcolm gave him a toothy grin. “Are you gonna tell me to wrap it up?”

  “Fuck no. Surely you’re smart enough to know that already.”

  “Yes, Dad. I always use a pecker checker.” Randy swatted backhand at Malcolm’s shoulder and he ducked away, laughing. “Hey, bring me back something to eat? Whatever you get is fine.”

  “Yeah, sure. I’m in the mood for a gyro from the place across P Street. No onions for you, right?”

  Randy pulled on his jacket and walked through the parking lot in front of Mata Hari to P Street, then crossed to the small Greek deli. As he waited for his order, he tried Danny again, and then Jack’s hotel. No answer at either place, but this time he left a message on the hotel system.

  He tried for an impersonal business tone. “Um, hi, Jack. It’s Randy Vaughan. I talked to a lawyer today, and I’d like to circle up with you to discuss next steps.” He hesitated, then went on more softly. “And I want to see if you’re okay, after the way we left things.”

  Immediately he wished for a way to erase the message, but when he started pressing buttons on his phone he heard a recording announce, “The message has been left for the guest you called.” Ah shit.

  Randy took the bag of food when it was ready and headed back to Mata Hari. No sooner had he reached the parking lot than his phone rang in his pocket. He pulled it out quickly, hoping to see either his own home number or Jack’s hotel. The number displayed was unfamiliar, though it did show the two-oh-two area code for DC. He accepted the call. “Randy Vaughan.”

  Danny’s frantic voice filled his ear. “Randy? Please. I need help!”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Randy dropped the bag of food on the pavement.

  “Danny? What’s going on? Where are you?”

  “He’s got a gun. I’m scared.” Danny sobbed. “He says you have to come here or he’ll… He’ll…”

  “I’m coming. Nothing’s going to happen to you. Tell me where.”

  There was the sound of a slap and a moan, then the rustle of paper. Danny choked out, “I’m in a warehouse in Northeast Washington.” He read an address on Florida Avenue. “And Randy? He says don’t tell anyone else. Unless you’re alone, he’s gonna… Oh God.”

  “I’ll come alone. I’ll be there as fast as I can.” The call ended abruptly, and Randy scooped up the food bag before running inside Mata Hari. He pulled Malcolm aside, shoved the bag at him, and said, “I have to take off. It’s urgent. Can you hold the fort? If not, go ahead and call in Wilson or anyone else available.”

  As he talked, he pulled his .357 Magnum from its storage space under the bar and ignored Malcolm’s shocked expression. A quick check showed the gun was loaded, so he decided against taking the time to grab extra bullets. Instead, he ran for his truck.

  Danny had said he wasn’t supposed to call anyone. Fuck that. He put his phone on speaker and called Maria Torres’s cell phone. She didn’t pick up—sure, why break the streak of unanswered phones today?—but he left a message. It was a professional call, and he found himself falling back into the habit of treating her as a police detective rather than a friend.

  “Torres, it’s Randy Vaughan. I need help. I’m on my way to a warehouse. This kid I’ve been helping has been grabbed and threatened. He says the person who took him has a gun, and I’m going in armed. I hope you get this and can send help.” He left the address for the warehouse, then disconnected.

  Should he call the regular police, or 911? He trusted Torres but retained his snobbishness about DC’s Metropolitan Police Department. Or really, any law enforcement other than the Secret Service. He could imagine unprepared officers rolling into the warehouse without proper surveillance and Danny getting killed in the crossfire.

  No. He had confidence in his twenty-five years of federal experience. He’d handle this.

  Traffic was brutal as he made his way through the busy streets. Once upon a time Washington had been a sleepy little town, but it was booming with new construction replacing long-abandoned and derelict buildings. Whether prosperity brought an influx of drivers or the other way around, road congestion grew worse every year. Like that evening, when jam after jam had Randy pounding his steering wheel in frustration. He was still about ten blocks from his destination when “La Vida Loca” sounded from his phone.

  “Randy, don’t be an idiot,” Torres said immediately when he connected the call. “You can’t go in alone. You have no way of knowing if there’s more than one person, or what you’re walking into. Wait until I can get a squad car there at least.”

  “I can’t wait, Torres. It could take another thirty minutes or more to get someone there, but if I know backup is coming, then I can play for time.”

  “Do you think this is tied to the break-in at your bar?”

  “Well shit. That never even occurred to me.” The pieces started to fit together in his head. Whoever broke in took nothing, but he’d had the impression his artwork had been disturbed. Like someone was looking for something specific and didn’t find it.

  “You’re too emotional, or you’d have thought of that first thing. So who is this kid? Tell me what’s going on.” He explained to Torres about helping Danny when he was being mugged, and how he’d given him a place to stay.

  “So why would someone grab a homeless boy to force you to go to a meeting like this?” When Randy delayed answering, she prompted him. “You need to tell me what’s happening, Vaughan. Right now.”

  “Okay. Remember that painting I told you that Fraser was asking about? I just found out recently that it may be extremely valuable. It could be worth millions. If whoever grabbed Danny knows that, then maybe this is a play to get me to ransom Danny with the painting.”

  “Mierda,” Torres breathed out heavily. “How would they know this Danny means anything to you, that a trade would be plausible?”

  Randy didn’t like the ideas that began to percolate in his head. Someone who knew how much the painting was worth. Someone who had seen Danny at Mata Hari on multiple occasions. Someone who coul
d play on Randy’s weakness for helping wherever he could. Someone Randy had refused access to the painting, multiple times.

  Torres might have been reading his mind. “Do you think this could have anything to do with Fraser? You were suspicious of him after the break-in.”

  Shit, she had to go and just say it like that. Randy huffed, “I don’t know.” More quietly, he said, “I hope not.” He finally turned onto the street for the warehouse. “I’m here, Torres. It’s been forty minutes since Danny called. I have to go in and see if he’s all right.”

  “Randy, please don’t. My guys are getting closer but they’re probably fifteen minutes out even with sirens. No one in this goddamn city gets out of the way for the flashers.”

  “I’ll be fine. I told you, I’m packing.”

  “Listen. I picked up this trick recently. You have an iPhone, right? Tell me your account and password. I can try to track your phone if anything goes wrong.”

  “Um, sure.” He rattled off his information without another thought. Maria Torres was someone he’d trust with his life, so account privacy was pretty small potatoes to him.

  “Leave your phone someplace inconspicuous, if you can. Like, tuck it in your boot. And put it on silent, dumbass.”

  He disconnected the call, hesitating with the phone in his hand. He turned off the ringer, then took it out of its protective case to make it as small and light as possible before sliding it into his jockey shorts. The cover glass was cold against his belly and genitals, but he took some comfort in Torres’s suggestion. He checked the safety on his pistol again and climbed out of his truck. His was the only vehicle in the parking area.

  The warehouse looked empty and abandoned, though a large sign plastered over the front indicated it would soon be part of a reconstruction project. The squat building was probably five stories tall, and made of an ugly grayish brick. Street lamps revealed large windows with a vaguely purple tint seemed to glare down at him, adding to the sense of oppression.

  Traffic hummed on Florida Avenue. He strained to catch the wail of a police siren, but nothing more than honking horns came to his ears. He couldn’t delay any longer.

  Randy approached the building carefully. The main entrance seemed to be double doors up a flight of concrete steps, but a chain was padlocked around the handles. He moved along the walk in front of the building, and where it turned a corner, he spotted what looked like a service entrance. Cautiously, he approached the metal door and tried the handle. It was unlocked.

  A god-awful screech of rusty hinges made him wince as he pulled open the door. So much for an unobtrusive entrance. A small room beyond still contained metal racks to hold time cards and an ancient clock for punching in. He crossed the sticky linoleum floor to a second, interior door. A small window was inset, with wire crisscrossing inside the glass. Peering through, he had an impression of a long, dark hallway. No movement, but a light showed at the far end.

  Carefully, he opened the door and looked around, then stepped through to the interior. The place had a dry, dusty smell that made him think of rats, and his hackles rose. He hated fucking rats. Nothing else moved in the hall, and as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he was reasonably sure he was alone there. He began to walk slowly toward the light. The source wasn’t visible, but appeared to be coming from around the corner.

  A small sound, like a chair leg scraping the floor, hit Randy’s ears. He froze. The sound didn’t repeat, but he became aware of another smell mixed with the stale air of the warehouse. It was faint, but distinctive. It was something tart, dark and earthy, entirely delicious.

  It smelled like Jack’s cologne.

  Mother fucker, Randy swore to himself. It was happening again. Just like with Trevor.

  He drew his .357 and moved quietly down the hallway, only to pause when he reached the end. Cautiously, he leaned around the corner.

  Twenty feet away, a floor lamp with no shade glowed next to a wooden chair. Danny sat in the chair, facing the junction where whoever took him obviously expected Randy to enter. It looked like his hands were tied behind him, and his head hung down. As Randy scoped the rest of the area, Danny moved in his chair to rock it. The same scraping noise came again.

  He saw no one else near, though he could still smell that damn cologne. His concern about Danny warred with his anger, and the mix of emotions threatened to choke him. He stepped into the corridor, and stopped when Danny’s head jolted upright.

  Expressive eyes wide, Danny didn’t speak but licked his lips. Randy put a finger to his own mouth. Danny looked pale and scared, but no obvious bruise or blood showed on his face. His purple sweatshirt was also clean. Whatever had happened when Danny was grabbed, apparently the person (not Jack, please, not Jack) hadn’t hurt him badly. Randy took a step forward and had a moment to register alarm as Danny’s eyes shifted to something behind him.

  A needle jabbed into his neck. Intense warmth at the injection site began to spread, and Randy whirled around too late. He couldn’t seem to speak or yell. He swung his arms wildly and brushed against a slick fabric of some kind. It seemed to slide through his fingers. His knees gave out as the warmth moved down his chest, and then he collapsed on his back.

  He wasn’t completely unconscious but that seemed only seconds away. He should be fighting but he couldn’t muster the energy to resist. The pistol was pried loose from his fingers. Oh yeah. I should have shot.

  He was almost under when he heard a distinctly English accent say, “Grab his feet and hoist him onto the cart,” and then he was out.

  • • •

  There was something heavy around his wrists.

  Randy was lying on cold concrete, still clothed though his boots were gone. He had no idea how much time had passed or where he was when he opened his eyes, but realized he was handcuffed with his arms in front. His head ached, and he fought off nausea.

  He staggered to his feet, and when he pulled on the cuffs, he registered that they had been secured through posts in a metal railing. He could slide them up and down as far as a cross-bar set about waist-high, but he couldn’t pull away from the structure. He looked around to get his bearings. The room was big, bigger than the hallway where he’d found Danny. And the smell seemed different to him—more like sawdust, or freshly cut wood. And that other smell again, the one of Jack’s pomegranate cologne.

  Lying son of a bitch. I should have known. Should have known he’d never wanted me at all. Just like Trevor.

  Randy choked down the hurt and rage. No, he had to be smart now since he’d been dumb enough to trust Jack and get himself drugged. Clearly he should have waited for the cops since he was useless.

  Two closed doors were visible, one directly ahead of him and the other to his right. A row of windows stretched high overhead. No light came in through the panes, so it must be night time. Still? Again? He didn’t know. But from what he could see and smell, Randy was pretty sure he had been brought someplace other than the warehouse where he was ambushed. He thought about the cops Torres had sent after him, but they’d be looking in the wrong place.

  There was no sight of Danny, but the fact that Randy was alive must be a good sign. His brain was fuzzy, but he pulled on the cuffs until his wrists ached. The pain seemed to help him focus. Finally, he became aware someone was standing near. He blinked until the blurriness passed. “Holy shit.”

  The man watching him had white hair and a mustache, ruddy cheeks, and was slightly pear-shaped. His khaki pants and button-down shirt were neatly pressed, and he even wore a tie. On a chair next to him rested what looked like a rain slicker. The handle of Randy’s pistol protruded from a pocket in the discarded coat.

  The man facing him looked less like a criminal mastermind than someone’s grandfather. Or, more correctly, the owner of an art gallery in London.

  “Bernard Gates,” Randy said with a sigh to the man who had sold him the Sunrise painting years earlier.

  “Mr. Vaughan,” Gates replied in his proper English tones with a qu
ick tip of the head. “So sorry we meet again in these circumstances.”

  Randy tugged feebly on his cuffs again. “All this to get back a painting,” he muttered.

  Gates didn’t deny it. “To be fair, I did offer to repurchase Sunrise from you. We could all have avoided a great deal of unpleasantness if you had simply restored my property.”

  Randy frowned. “Your property? I bought it from you.”

  “Ah, but I didn’t know what I was selling, did I? It was a mutual misunderstanding, and it wouldn’t be proper for you to take advantage of my ignorance to escape with a treasure.” Gates rocked on his heels and gazed quite earnestly at him, as if he actually expected that Randy would buy his bullshit. “In fact, I recall you were a devotee of Brousseau. Perhaps you knew even then.” Gates nodded rapidly. “Yes, that could be it. Even then, you knew. So it wasn’t just misunderstanding. You took advantage of me and stole the sunrise painting for a pittance.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “You know. Don’t pretend you don’t.” Gates leaned toward him but stayed well out of reach. “A previously unknown work by Jean-Pierre Brousseau. It’s worth many, many millions of pounds. Handled properly, tens of millions.” He hissed, “That’s rightly my painting, Mr. Vaughan. I’ve come to get it back.”

  “Where’s Danny? What have you done with him?”

  “He’ll be well as long as you cooperate. Now, can we resolve this like gentlemen? Will you return my property?”

  “You’re crazy,” Randy snarled and jerked harder on his cuffs. The movement tightened his stomach, and cold glass pressed against his skin. He had no idea if Torres’s trick of tracking his phone would really work, but it was his best hope. He needed to buy time for Torres to locate him, so he opted for ignorance. “There are no unknown Brousseaus. The painting you sold me is just a hack job by an imitator.”

  Gates grew agitated. “That’s not so. The evidence is compelling. Once the painting can be examined by an appropriate appraiser and compared to the paper trail, the conclusion will be unmistakable. Jean-Pierre Brousseau painted that work, and any museum in the world will pay dearly to own it.” He rubbed his hands. “I might even make more from a private collector. The Russian prime minister, for example, has paid unbelievable amounts of money for great works of art.”