I walked quietly to the door which I believed to be the entrance to Ms. Market’s apartment. I didn’t knock. I didn’t want to advertise my presence, and, besides, I didn’t believe anybody would answer my knock. Since the hall was empty I stood a few paces away and carefully examined the door and the door frame. I was pretty sure I saw where a tiny wide-angle camera lens might have been placed to surveil the immediate vicinity of the door.
Now, I could easily understand a hole in the door with a little lens to give a wide view. Anybody in an apartment building would want that, even if the building was locked or had some sort of security system. But a camera?
Seemed excessive, if that’s what it was. Another odd thing to add to my list of oddities about this woman.
I went to the office of the complex and talked to the receptionist. I watched her closely when I showed her the picture of Tiffany Market. She allowed as how the woman looked “Vaguely familiar,” but she wouldn’t identify her absolutely. She did recall having thought she occasionally saw a tenant wearing a long white overcoat with a fur-lined hood. She also explained it wasn’t the policy of the owners of the complex to talk about their tenants. Respect for privacy. It wasn’t much of an identification, but it added to my file.
When I got to Target Central I was able to grab a few minutes with a woman who worked in HR—human resources. She allowed as how she recognized Tiffany Market in the picture. Not new information, just confirmation. I always liked it when I got similar or identical answers from different sources.
Since there had been some inquires from across the river, according to my friend Ricardo Simon, I took myself across the frozen Mississippi to St. Paul, to a large imposing stone office building in the middle of downtown known as the Federal Building.
There, after some security scanning, I was allowed to enter an ordinary office on the top floor with a discreet plaque that identified it as Homeland Security. I was asked to wait for a little while after I explained my mission. The man who introduced himself as an agent led me to a small nondescript conference room. He was as bland and ordinary-looking as could be. That is to say he looked like any other mid-level professional one might encounter walking on the street in downtown Saint Paul of a summer noon. He had one head, two arms, two legs and was fully dressed in a nice-fitting suit. The suit was brown and so was his hair, a neatly trimmed cut. His shirt was tan and his tie was appropriate. I don’t think he said his name was Mr. Brown.
He smiled and seemed friendly, but he told me just about nothing. His answers to my queries were that he didn’t know, couldn’t say or wasn’t prepared to give a definitive answer. He did agree that were I presently or in the future to become the subject of scrutiny by any legally appropriate agency of the United States government, it would be for cause.
In other words, if I did something suspicious or intersected with someone already under investigation, there might be a file on me somewhere.
“Is there such a file?” I asked.
“That would fall under classified information,” he replied.
“I can request my files under the Freedom of Information Act, can I not?”
“Correct. Every citizen has the right to request access to whatever information the government may have on themselves.”
What he didn’t say was that such requests have a habit of taking an extremely long time to be filled. Understaffed agencies, I assume, owing to budget limitations.
“Are you aware that I was visited by a Justice Department attorney recently?”
“I can’t say,” my agent responded. “Do you happen to know which department he represented?”
“Yes,” I said. “He produced identification that said he worked for OSI, the Office of Special investigations.”
That got a small reaction. Mr. Brown Suit of Homeland Security had heard of that office and knew what it meant. I dropped some other names, Gehrz, Gottlieb, Madison, Murchison, and Market just to see what the reaction might be. Nada, almost nothing. So I thanked the man and left the office. I was only a little wiser than before. I felt certain that I was likely to have similar conversations with representatives of the other alphabets. So I tested my theory with the local FBI office. They wouldn’t tell me, of course, if I was the target of an active investigation, but, yes, my name was in their files, inevitably because of my occasional contacts with persons of interest to the bureau. But that was all they were prepared to say.
I was satisfied. Sort of. At least I was a little wiser. What I now was able to surmise with a reasonably high degree of accuracy was that all these people were linked. Gehrz, the woman, Ann/Anne who was most certainly also known as Tiffany Market, the unfortunate Gottlieb, attorney Derrol Madison and his repatriation group Atria, and the Murchison manufacturing family. It wasn’t that Homeland Security or the FBI had anything hot going with me or my associates in this case, but by talking to these agencies I was able to confirm in my own mind my assumptions as to this being a single case. I would proceed on those assumptions, but what I now needed was a better connection of all this to the Murchisons.
I also needed to figure out what, exactly, I had detected regarding Gehrz and the Market woman and the federales.
Chapter 28
My office answering machine indicated that I had several calls so I sat down to process them. The first two were calls from sales people trying to interest me in some kind of new fangled surveillance gear. In both cases I declined to schedule an interview or a demonstration, mainly because I rarely used such equipment and I wasn’t adept at setting up or operating it. I didn’t even have much interest in learning about such gear. If I decided I needed that kind of help, there were people I could call on, people who made it their business to learn and operate such equipment, experts. I was an expert in my own little realm, just not that one.
The other reason I rejected their entreaties was a vague feeling that there was something a little off about both callers. I didn’t think the suggested use of their gear was wholly legal. Was this an attempt to set me up? To catch me in something that might result in jail and loss of my license? Or was my paranoia antenna just a little more sensitive these days?
Mr. Gehrz called me. I offered to set up a meeting to give him a final report.
“Final report, Mr. Sean?”
The line buzzed in my ear and the man’s voice faded in and out. “Yeah. I found your Tiffany Market. In fact, I had a brief meeting with her late yesterday afternoon.”
“Did you indeed.”
“That’s right. I’m happy to report she’s just fine. I’ve surveilled the address you gave me and confirmed that she is or was living there and that she did in fact work briefly for Target Corporation. I know a couple of other things.” I paused to learn if I’d get a reaction.
“She’s alive then. You’re sure.”
I was tempted right then to offer him a recent picture of her. I considered that and thought about offering to meet him at the same Byerly’s restaurant where the picture had been made, just to tweak him a little. I refrained. I didn’t have a secure enough handle on this whole thing to indulge in a tweak without anticipating just how the tweakee would react. But I’d figure out a way, because I was still pissed at him for manipulating me, even knowing that he was still at it. Anyway, I was sure he had a recent picture. If I asked him to return the camera he’d snatched so I wouldn’t have to buy Wally a new one, that would be another tweak. So I didn’t ask.
There was a pause and electronics buzzed some more. That was odd and I wondered if Gehrz was using some kind of screening or recording device.
“Do I owe you some additional recompense?”
“No. If you’d like, I’ll be happy to provide a detailed written account of my expenses. You wouldn’t even have to come here. I could mail it to you.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’m greatly relieved to learn Ms.
Market is all right, which is all I asked of you.”
“Mmm. I had the impression when she and I last talked that she’ll be in touch with you shortly. I think that should relieve your mind.”
“I see. Thank you. Have a good day.”
We disconnected and I unplugged the little digital recorder I had activated as soon as I heard his voice. I copied the file to another, newer, digital voice recorder and put that one in a padded envelope which I addressed to one of my aforementioned experts and dropped it in the mail. My friend would examine, dissect, and extract all sorts of possibly useful information. Or not. I habitually recorded my phone conversations and like this one, most were of little or no use. But I made them anyway.
The original recording I left on the machine and stowed the recorder in its usual place in my desk. I assumed Gehrz had recorded all our conversations at his end, but there was a chance he’d decide to compare his with mine, just for the sake of accuracy. Yeah, right.
Meanwhile I reexamined my meeting with Ms. Market. I probably should have suggested to her that she get in touch with her swain, if that’s what he was. To do that, while we were at Byerly’s, would have required me to reveal more of my suspicions about the links between Ann/Anne/Tiffany and Mr. Gehrz. I wasn’t prepared to do that just yet. Knowing something about your adversary, and I was coming to the belief that Gehrz and I were adversaries, can be advantageous.
I pulled out my file on Gottlieb and added a scribbled note that could mean anything, depending on your paranoia or exposure to legal procedures. It said, Gottlieb-Madison-Atria-Radzyn. I added in block print the word TRACE.
I decided to do some research into what might be the genesis of this whole convoluted case. I had some sketchy information from Aaron about his family roots so I went off to my neighborhood library for some assistance.
Several hours later, with the help of a pleasant and patient librarian I had learned a good deal about a family named Gottlieb, from Radzyn, Poland. Since I was not in the genealogy business. I wasn’t interested in heavy validation, but I had a pile of notes that should interest both Aaron and the police and might just reveal the root cause of the case.
I took my notes and myself home to Kenwood and spread my stuff out on the table in Catherine’s extra bedroom which was now an office and housed her big computer and some exercise gear I tried to avoid looking at.
The telephone in my office rang. I picked up. It was Aaron Gottlieb calling from Chicago and he was pretty excited. “I found something interesting,” he said.
“Good,” I said. “What is it?”
“Well, I had most of the stuff from the Minneapolis house that was saved shipped here, remember?”
“Ah,” I said. Actually, I was pretty sure he hadn’t told me that, but I didn’t think it mattered. “And?”
“I’m donating a lot of it to places like Goodwill and the Salvation army, you know?”
“Yes,” I said. “So some friends were packing up the boxes, including a lot of books which weren’t damaged. Well, they smell smoky, some of them.”
“Okay,” I said. I kept the receiver to my ear and rolled my chair down the short hall to the kitchen where I snagged a bottle of Fat Tire out of the fridge.
“Anyway the other day one of the kids found something in the pages of a dictionary, I think it was. Receipts. Or bills of sale.” His words were becoming a river of sound.
“Easy, Aaron, slow down. Take a breath.”
“Okay, thanks, Mr. Sean. Anyway they’re in German, I think, but some of it’s in Polish. There were four pages in all. It’s a listing of goods, like furniture and clothes and other stuff like kitchen utensils. I made some copies and I just got a partial translation back.”
I remembered my conversation with Madison and the group tracing stolen goods from occupied countries in World War II. “Aaron,” I said sharply, breaking into his train of words. “I think I need to see that list. Send me a copy as fast as you can.”
“Oh, sure. Do you think it has anything to do with my uncle’s murder?”
“No way to tell until I can examine the documents. Send it overnight express to my address.” I gave him Catherine’s address because I knew a large envelope would be under lock and key downstairs until I could retrieve it. My mailbox in Roseville was at the curb and my office wasn’t much better.
“Aaron, be sure to put the original somewhere safe, like with your lawyer or maybe in an office safe. It could be very valuable.”
We rang off, as some Brits were wont to say and I went back to contemplating the materials I had before me.
Radzyn was a small city on the Bug River about seventy-five miles east of Warsaw, near the international boundary with the Soviet Union. The Gottliebs had apparently lived in the area or the town itself for generations until the pestilence that was called Nazism overran the country. Of Manfred Gottlieb and his immediate family I had found precious little information. What I did know was mostly inferences I could draw from collections of anecdotal narratives by members of the community before, during, and after the war. And there were a few family memories Aaron had dredged up and provided.
His ancestors had been reasonably well off and lived in a fairly substantial home, what we might call upper middle class. They were educated and appreciated cultural efforts by others. There were, according to Aaron, who got the information in bits and pieces from his great uncle Manfred, a few significant pictures on the walls of the home.
When Manny went back to Radzyn, he’d been recently liberated from a concentration camp. Before that he’d survived successive invasions by Soviet and then German regular army troops. Those troops were ultimately replaced by the Gestapo, and then the town was liberated by another wave of Soviet troops. He found the family house almost destroyed.
A small unit of American troops were deployed at the edge of town. It was apparently this unit to which old man Albert Murchison had been assigned. I couldn’t prove it, but I knew the American and Soviet troops were all over the place.
All well and good, but where did it get me? Not very far toward identifying the killer of Manfred Gottlieb, except for a couple of possible facts.
In the early middle years of the twentieth century, a painter came through Gottlieb’s town. He did a few portraits of important people and the stories were that he also produced a few landscapes. His name was Abraham Neumann. In later times, some of his paintings had gained a measure of attention in the art world. I decided that although I was far from being any kind of art connoisseur, I had better take a look at the painting that had been donated to the Institute by Al Murchison.
Chapter 29
The next day I found my way to South Minneapolis where after a brief inquiry I entered a long, high-ceilinged gallery. Off the gallery on one side was an entrance to a much smaller though still sizeable space and there, reverently displayed on one wall, was a single painting. An oil painting it was, a nice pastoral scene of meadows divided by a meandering stream between grass-thick banks. It was not large. There were no people or animals in the scene, but way in the distance on one side were daubs of paint signifying buildings of some sort. A village perhaps.
Affixed to the wall was some information of the usual kind, identifying what those in the art world call the provenance, or ownership of the work. The legend stated that the work had been donated to the institute by a present member of the board of trustees, one Albert M. Murchison. Interesting, to me, was the phrase, “Attributed to Abraham Neumann.” I learned years earlier that such a phrase usually meant the statement wasn’t ironclad or rock solid. I sat down, alone, on the long bench before the painting and regarded it in silence. It was the kind of art that seemed to generate a feeling of peace and well-being among viewers. After a while I got up and leaned in close to the surface of the painting, peering at the lower edges. In one corner, sure enough, I found a signature that w
as almost indecipherable. But if I stared at it hard enough I convinced myself it said A. Neumann.
I went back and sat down and thought about it. I was thinking about what it must have been like in that small far-off town at the end of the war. Soviet and American troops wandering about, doing whatever they were assigned to. Residents and former residents would be trying to find almost obliterated streets and avenues and homes and businesses. Apparently many if not all the homes and shops in the town had been indiscriminately destroyed during the successive invasions. Manfred Gottlieb arrived home after what must have been an arduous journey from the concentration camp, to find almost nothing of his home or family. So what Mr. Gottlieb did was to pack up everything he could find of any sort of value, personal or intrinsic, and shipped himself and his belongings off to America. I’d seen what he brought back, the big cabinet in the attic, packed with an odd assortment of stuff, and the books. I was deep into my contemplation, something I normally didn’t do in a public place because of the assorted bad guys who might be looking to beat on me for imagined wrongs.
I realized someone else had come into the small gallery and was approaching from behind. I tensed my thighs in case I had to move suddenly. Then she sat down beside me. Not close, you understand, but on the same bench. When I glanced over, I discovered Ursula Skranslund had joined me.
“Hello, Ursula,” I said softly.
The Case of the Purloined Painting Page 14