Harry Bronson Box Set

by L C Hayden

  “Mr. Bronson? Harry Bronson?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Maggie.”

  Maggie? The name clicked. “From Fine Homes Realty Company?”

  “Yes.”

  Bronson felt his breath taken away. He knew what she was going to say, but he wanted that knowledge verified. “Were you able to find out who rented Miller his studio space?”

  “Not who, what.”

  “Meanin’?”

  “A corporation owns the duplexes, and not just the ones with the studio, but several others scattered throughout the city.”

  Not what Bronson had expected to hear. “What’s the name of the corporation?”

  “Land Development, Inc.”

  “Who’s the head?”

  “That’s the strange part. Nowhere in the contract could I find a person’s name. Even the signature line reads Land Development, Inc.”

  “How about a contact number?”

  “There’s none.”

  “An address?” Bronson’s hope faded.

  “It’s a P. O. Box. Do you want me to give it to you?”

  Bronson pulled off to the side of the road. He fumbled in his pocket for his notebook and pen. “I’m ready. Go ahead.”

  She gave him the information and Bronson wrote it down. “Thanks for getting back to me.”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t more help.”

  “You did just fine.” He disconnected and tapped the cell on the steering wheel. He really didn’t want to bother Mike. On the other hand, he’d want to help.

  Mike picked up on the first ring. “Yo, Bronson. What kind of trouble did you get yourself in?”

  “No trouble at all. Just needed for you to check on somethin’ when you get a chance, and I’m sorry I’m interrupting your date.”

  “No, you’re not. What do you want me to look up?”

  “I need to know who owns Land Development, Inc. Their address is a P. O. Box in Delaware, the easiest damn state for a corporation. I want the names of the biggest share holders, as well as the officers. All I have is the name which I gave you and a P. O. Box number in Delaware.”

  “Let me get something to write on.” A small pause followed. “Okay, go ahead.”

  Bronson gave him the information.

  “And you need this information because why? Oh, wait don’t tell me. Let me guess. You’re not at the museum.”

  “This just fell in my lap. I got a call, giving me the information. Carnegie Museum of Natural History is a terrific museum. You should consider bringing Ellen for a tour. You’ll both enjoy it.”

  “Sure, partner, whatever you say. When I get home, I expect full details about the Land Development angle.”

  “Will do.” Bronson pocketed his cell and blended in with the rest of the traffic. Five minutes later, he parked the car in front of Miller’s studio. Across the street, Bronson detected the curtains barely moving.

  He hurried, jimmied Miller’s studio door and quickly entered.

  Chapter 43

  Bronson showing up at Miller’s studio came as a complete surprise. That had been the last thing Barbara expected Bronson to do. The man was full of surprises.

  She liked that. Finally, she had found an opponent worthy of the cat and mouse game they were about to play.

  Maybe he had come back to return the paintings he had stolen. This way, no one would be the wiser. If so, he should soon be making trips to the car, carrying the paintings. So far, that hadn’t happened. Maybe greed had taken over, and he came back for more. Either way, he had barricaded himself in the studio.

  Why? Curiosity poked at her but she knew better than to go sneaking around. Lots of fools had fallen by sticking their noses where they didn’t belong. Barbara knew better. She was no fool.

  Her mind told her that she should call in this latest development, but the last time she had called the jerk, he had placed his client’s need above hers. Screw him. She had her orders.

  Kill Bronson.

  What an easy target he’d make. Eventually, he would have to head out of the studio and back to his car. At that precise moment, bang, one sweet pull of the trigger would end his life.

  Barbara studied the display of weapons hanging on the living room wall behind her. For Bronson, she would use only the best. Choosing the correct one meant the difference between stopping power and killing power. If she shot him in the belly with a .25 caliber pistol, his vital organs would look like Swiss cheese after the bullet bounced around consuming its energy. Bronson would most likely die, but that process would take about a week.

  A week.

  She could drag him to her duplex where she’d lay him in the middle of the floor, chain him, then sit back and watch him agonize and struggle, like an earthworm on a hot sidewalk. She might give him a glass of water once or twice a day just to make sure he hung on longer.

  She loved living in this neighborhood where everybody minded their own business. If someone heard a shot, no one would question it. If someone was killed in the middle of the street, the neighbors would turn away. No one knew anything. No one saw anything unless it directly affected him. Bronson’s accident wouldn’t concern anybody in the neighborhood except her. That meant she could not only just shoot him, but also drag the body inside, for her to enjoy.

  A week for her to watch him squirm, sweat, grow weak, and die. The idea caused a tingle of excitement in her body. It began at the nape of her neck and moved down her arms.

  A week with Bronson while he died.

  She licked her lips.

  Barbara grabbed the Beretta .45 and headed for the window. Leaving the curtains drawn, she opened the window and removed the screen. Now she would have a perfect shot.

  Soon Bronson would step out of Miller’s studio. She was ready. Her anticipation grew. She had all the advantages.

  The perfect shot.

  Chapter 44

  Bronson edged his way toward the front window of the studio. From there, he had a clear view of the duplex across from him.

  He watched.

  He waited.

  Nothing.

  More than likely, his over active imagination blossoming out of guilt made him paranoid. He hated operating outside the law, made him feel like an outcast. It went against all his principles.

  He thought of Lorraine.

  Don’t leave me.

  To do her justice, he would turn over the tiniest pebbles if they held the smallest of possibilities that they somehow related to her death. He’d do whatever needed to be done, even if it cost him his integrity.

  Don’t leave me.

  The words echoed in his brain bouncing around with never-ending springs.

  Don’t leave me.

  Maybe this painting angle had little or nothing to do with his sister’s murder. Maybe it had everything to do with it. Either way, it was an angle he had to pursue.

  He would never get anything accomplished if he spent his time hiding behind the window like a scared rabbit waiting for the mighty hunter to show up. Casting the duplex one last look, he stepped away and focused on the opened briefcase resting between the paintings.

  Before touching it, he looked at it from every possible angle. He picked it up and laid it on the floor in the middle of the room, still in its opened state. He walked around it. He bent down and closed it and eyed it some more.

  Something clicked.

  When he looked at it in its opened position, it seemed only large enough to hold one painting, but when it was closed, it could easily hold two paintings.

  Bronson thumped, pushed, pulled, did everything possible to reveal a fake bottom. He couldn’t find one. He closed it and stood it upright. He studied the side facing him, then its opposite side. He opened the case. Closed it. Walked around and opened it again. “Well, I’ll be,” he said aloud even though he knew no one could hear him.

  The briefcase opened from each side to reveal only one of the two compartments. The seller would open the briefcase to reveal only one p
ainting. That one, the original one, would be the one the expert would see and authenticate. Then in plain view, the seller would return the painting to the briefcase. He’d collect his money, open the briefcase, take out the painting and place the money in the empty space vacated by the painting.

  What the buyer would not see was the seller turning the briefcase one-hundred-eighty degrees so that when he once again opened it, the duplicate showed.

  Bronson retrieved his cell, put it on photo mode and snapped pictures of the briefcase both opened and closed. He sent the picture to Mike’s, Carol’s, and Ellen’s cells.

  He returned the briefcase to where he found it, felt for the gun hidden in the small of his back, pulled it out, and placed it in his pant pocket where it’d be more accessible. He looked out the window at the duplex facing him. The right hand side curtain billowed in the breeze. Nothing wrong with that. People had the right to open their windows and let the fresh air in.

  He watched the place a bit longer. No sign of life. He stepped out, making sure the door remained unlocked.

  Chapter 45

  Barbara’s body slightly stiffened, something it always did prior to killing. She raised the gun and watched.

  She aimed.

  She waited.

  By now Bronson had reached the car.

  “Bang,” she said and lowered the gun. Had she actually shot him that would have been the end of the game. Way too easy. For Bronson, she had something else in mind.

  A little mental torture.

  Follow him.

  Let him feel her presence.

  Let him taste fear.

  Then shoot. Bring him home and watch him die.

  The game had just begun.

  *****

  Bronson sat in the car and breathed easier. No action from across the street. He had worried for nothing. He busied himself returning the three paintings. He placed each one on the exact pile he had found it in.

  Bronson could taste the sour sting in his mouth. What he had to do next made his stomach grumble with anxiety, but it was the right thing to do. He had no choice.

  Forty-five minutes later, he pulled into the troopers’ station. He asked to see Cannady.

  She frowned when she saw him but invited him to sit. “Thought I got rid of you. What do you want?”

  Hello to you, too. “I got some information to share.”

  Cannady retrieved a notepad and a pen. “Go on.”

  Bronson explained his theory about fake art being sold underground as original paintings. Cannady listened carefully without interrupting. While Bronson talked, she jotted more notes.

  When he finished, he folded his hands on his lap. “Questions?”

  She took time to read through her notes. “You said this is happening in Pittsburgh. Why come to me? You know this falls under the Pittsburgh jurisdiction.”

  “Because this ties to my sister and that makes it your jurisdiction.”

  Cannady’s eyes widened. “How?”

  “Wellington gave her an original François La Carcé worth about a million dollars. The paintin’ was missin’ from her house, so I set out to look for it.”

  “And?”

  “And that’s what led me to the discovery.”

  Cannady tapped the top of the pen against the desk. “How did your sister get involved with these art thieves?”

  “Seems my sister, for some reason or the other, wanted or needed money. She thought about selling the paintin’ but didn’t want to hurt Wellington’s feelings, so she came up with this great idea. If Miller made a duplicate for her, she’d hang that one in her house and Wellington wouldn’t be the wiser. She’d then be free to sell the original.”

  “How did she know to go to Miller?”

  “I don’t know, at least not yet.”

  “But you do have leads.” A statement, not a question.

  “Maybe.”

  “How do we get from your sister wanting to deceive her benefactor to Miller selling the paintings?”

  “Miller was a mousey man. He could never pull the deception. Someone else is involved.”

  “You think your sister was the one who sold the paintings?”

  “No, this had been going on way before my sister got involved with Miller. Miller worked for someone else.”

  Cannady sat up, her features pinched in together. “Miller worked . . . as in past tense.”

  “He was murdered.”

  “I see. Just a minor detail you forgot to mention.”

  “Actually, I was going to tell you.” He handed her Miller’s checkbook register. “The Pittsburgh police may be interested in seeing that. It belonged to Miller.”

  “And how did you come to have that in your possession?”

  Bronson’s glance slipped away from her, down to the floor, and back up at her.

  “Your sister had it.” She looked down and wrote something. “So what is it that you’re trying to tell me?”

  “I’m thinkin’ my sister got a whiff of the art theft, so whoever killed Miller also killed my sister.”

  Cannady bolted out of her seat. “I’m only going to say this once. Mario Serafin killed your sister. It was a lover’s quarrel. End of story.” Her eyes sparkled with venom. “You have been warned to stay away. If I catch you interfering again, I will drag your sorry ass to jail faster than you can blink. Do I make myself clear?”

  The room grew silent. Troopers stopped doing their job and watched with interest as Cannady’s voice grew louder. Most moved their hands so that weapons could easily be reached. “I didn’t hear an answer.”

  Bronson stood up. “You made it perfectly clear.”

  She reached out and shoved him in the chest, pushing him away. “Then get out of here.”

  Bronson nodded and walked out to the sounds of cheers and clapping for Cannady. He held his head up as he headed for the car. He drove five blocks before he felt safe enough to pull over. He checked the rearview mirror and the side mirrors. No signs of troopers.

  When Cannady placed her hands on his chest and pushed him away, she had also done something else. Something, he hoped, no one had noticed.

  She had stuffed a piece of paper in his shirt pocket. He pulled it out, opened it, and straightened it out. It read: Tonight 7:00 Jacob’s Pizza House Pittsburgh.

  Chapter 46

  Just as Bronson was about to pull out and merge with the traffic, his cell went off. The caller I.D. read Penn Woods College. That had to be Dr. Rugbie. Good thing he thought about giving her his business card before she walked away. He put the cell on speaker mode. “Hello, Dr. Rugbie. What can I do for you?”

  “Hello, Bronson. I have some information you’ll want to know. It’s about the paintings.”

  “Go on.”

  “When I saw the paintings—the originals, or at least what I perceive to be the originals—something bothered me, but I didn’t want to say anything. I wanted to be sure.”

  “And what did you want to be sure about?”

  “You showed me three paintings.”

  “I did.”

  “One was a gift to your sister, an original La Carcé, I believe.”

  “You are correct.”

  “The other two have been reported stolen.”

  Bronson rubbed his forehead. “I suspected as much. Thanks for verifying it and saving me the time.”

  “You’re welcome. I have the names of the museums and names of the owners so you can return the work to the rightful owners.”

  “I’ll take that list. But at least temporarily, the Pittsburgh Police Department will impound the paintings. I’m sure they’ll contact the owners and return them their paintings as soon as possible. They won’t want to have those any longer than necessary.”

  “I’m sure the owners will be ecstatic when they get the call.”

  “Definitely so, and I’ll let them know you were the one who pieced it together.” Bronson looked at his watch. “I’ve got some free time right now. I can meet you so I can pick up
the list.”

  “I’m still at the college at my office.”

  “I can be there around six. Will that be too late?”

  “Not at all.”

  Bronson made a U-turn and headed back. He dialed Carol’s number and talked to her all the way to the college.

  *****

  Barbara hummed as she prepared dinner for one. Bronson didn’t know it, but the game had already begun. She chopped a tomato, savoring the memory of watching Bronson from the parked car’s front side window. She set the small pieces of tomato aside and reached for the bag of carrots. She took three out and cut them. She smiled, remembering how Jack, following her instructions, shot at Bronson as he left Miller’s house.

  Bronson had hunched down, run in a zigzag pattern, and dove into the car that Hoover drove. That showed guts and initiative. She liked that. She took out the chunk of cheese from its bag and grated it.

  Bronson shouldn’t have expected to be shot at from the side, only from the front. But when the bullet came flying from his left, that didn’t cause him to falter. He was running for his life. Not that Jack planned to kill him. He had specifically been told to miss.

  It had all been a scare tactic, a test. See how Bronson would react under pressure, a boiling pressure that was just about to heat up.

  The lettuce came next. She shredded it and placed it in a salad bowl. She wiped her hands, picked up the phone, and dialed a familiar number by memory.

  When Jack answered she said, “I have a job for you and your twin.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “I want you to follow Bronson. Let him know you’re there, but don’t let him catch you.”

  “We can do that.”

  “How long do we follow him?”

  “All of tomorrow, maybe the next day, too.”

  “Mind if I ask what’s the purpose of this?”

  “Get him agitated, put him on the defensive.” The Raven hung up and smiled.

  Chapter 47