The Great Beau
Page 6
“There’s nothing loving and sweet about this situation,” goes Jessie, drawing a glare from her sister.
After supper, they settle in the living room, Jessie and Beau on the sofa – straining to restrain themselves from copulating because Stefi lies on the loveseat as they watch Spider-Man fight Doctor Octopus.
“Guess who wins?” Jessie whispers in Beau’s ear.
Stella gets up on the sofa’s arm next to Beau to give him smoochies, rubbing her face against his neck and reaching up with her paw to guide his nose to hers, the little hussy.
THE FOLIO FROM Interpol arrives as Beau mixes his morning coffee. Lot of pretty red and blue piping on thick velum paper with information about Erich Wolfschlucht, born 1871 in Augsburg, Kingdom of Bavaria, Deutches Reich (German Empire). In 1915, during the First World War, Erich was linked to the sale of two stolen paintings by Flemish artist Victor Janssens to a Swiss banker. The paintings were seized, along with over 200 uncut diamonds and stolen paintings by Eugéne Delacroix and Camille Pissarro. No arrest was made, however, and the link to the stolen items was ‘tenuous’, whatever that means.
Erich emigrated to America in 1917, just before the US entered WWI with his wife Hilda and son Albert Wolfschlucht and changed the family name to D’Loup. Erich died in 1919 during the Spanish flu epidemic. The D’Loup name did not resurface until the end of WWII as U.S. Army Intelligence officers frantically tried to recover art and jewels stolen by the Nazi horde. Albert D’Loup was on a half-burned list of suspected black market dealers in America. No direct link was established as the trail went cold in Switzerland and Liechtenstein. D’Loup’s name continued to surface after major art thefts through the second half of the 20th Century but there has been no solid evidence linking D’Loup to the thefts.
New Orleans – particularly D’Loup – is listed as a possible transit point for stolen art.
The folio is signed: Luc Brissot, Analyste D’intelligence Criminelle.
Beau goes to the dashboard on his MacBook and types in the man’s title in the translation widget, from French to English and sees: Criminal Intelligence Analyst
There is an email address and phone number.
Beau wonders what time it is in Paris. Again his computer tells him there’s a six hour difference so it’s 8:42 a.m. here and 2:42 p.m. there. Jordan comes in wearing a khaki polo shirt with a blue-and-gold AFT logo over his heart and dark brown tactical RipStop pants.
“Take a look at this.” Beau slides the folio across his desk.
He searches for INTERPOL online. Established in 1923, Organisation Internationale de Police Criminelle or the International Criminal Police Organization is an intergovernmental organization facilitating international police cooperation of 190 member countries. Headquartered in Lyon, France, the agency provides liaison between law enforcement agencies and shares information on international crimes including crimes against humanity, terrorism, environmental crime, genocide, war crimes, organized crime, piracy, illicit traffic in works of art, illicit drug production, drug trafficking, weapons smuggling, human trafficking, money laundering, child pornography, white-collar crime, computer crime, intellectual property crime and corruption.
There are no agents who can make arrests, just intelligence analysts who sometimes go in the field with local police. Interesting.
“Read that phone number to me.” Beau nods to the folio and picks up his phone, punches in the number Jordan reads to him. A woman answers after the third ring, speaking French of course. Beau asks for Luc Brissot.
“Who may I zay is calleeng?” the woman’s French accent is thick and sexy. Something about a woman with a French accent.
“Chief Inspector John Raven Beau. New Orleans Police Department.”
“Nouvelle Orléans? You do not speak French?”
“Americans are too lazy to learn another language. No, ma’am.”
“Ma’am? Poof. I am only 22. I am not a Ma’am yet. I will send you through to Monsieur Brissot.”
Beau almost laughs at the ‘hold’ music on the phone. It’s the Can-Can.”
“You just said, ‘New Orleans’.” Jordan says. “Didn’t have to say Louisiana or USA.”
“Get used to it. New Orleans isn’t a city. It’s an idea.”
Brissot sounds old but his English is good. He will get back to Beau with a master a list of all Renoirs reported stolen along with Remingtons and Claudels and Beau promises to email pictures of the art, jewels and jewelry found in D’Loup’s house and antique shop.
CLAIRE SOUNDS WINDED when she answers the phone, tells Beau she’s taking pictures in the antique shop with a real camera, a Nikon.
“You wanna let us in?”
“You’re downstairs?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She brushes her hair away from her face as she opens the door for them. Barrettes in her hair on either side of her hair have failed to keep loose strands in place. She wears a pink blouse and faded jeans, white tennis shoes A digital Nikon dangles from around her neck.
Beau introduces Jordan who shakes Claire’s hand and doesn’t let go.
“You have a boyfriend? Husband? Fiancé? Are you in love with anyone?”
Claire looks at Beau and he covers his eyes with a hand, tells Jordan to let go of her hand.
“Oh. Sorry. She’s just, well, damn. Do you know if she’s in love with anyone?”
“Special Agent Jordan. Did they teach you this interview technique when you went through your academy?”
“Hell, no.” Jordan keeps staring at Claire. “You have your own place? Or do you live with your parents?”
Claire folds her arms. “My parents are deceased.”
“Damn. Sorry about your parents. Wasn’t recent I hope.”
Beau reaches over, puts a hand on Jordan’s shoulder next to his neck. He saw this on TV. The Vulcan nerve pinch.
“Ow. That hurts.”
Unfortunately it doesn’t knock Jordon out.
“It supposed to hurt. Lucky I didn’t use the Sioux drop kick.”
Beau gets Claire’s attention, asks, “Find anything new?”
“No. I’m just recording everything for the expert. He’s coming tomorrow after the funeral.”
“Funeral?”
Jordan leans closer to Claire, brushes her hair back. “She’s a natural redhead. Nobody can dye hair this pretty.”
Beau almost says – the color is called Scottish deerhound red – but catches himself.
Claire points a finger at Jordan’s nose.
“Don’t touch me until I say you can.”
Jordan takes a step back, raises his hands and smiles.
“The lady said, ‘until I say you can’.” He grins at Beau. “Which means she may say I can one day.”
Back to Claire, he says, “I could dig a woman like you. Pretty. Smart. Sexy. Has a nice camera. You wanna go out sometimes, just let me know.”
She looks at him then at Beau again.
“I’m sorry,” Jordan adds. “If you have a girlfriend, you know, like all gay, just let me know and I understand. Won’t bother you again.”
Beau gets her back to the subject of the funeral.
Jordan keeps staring at her as she explains, a sly smile on his face.
“Can we help you with anything here?” Beau asks.
Claire looks at Jordan again, her eyebrows lowering as she tells them no.
“Find any paperwork on the Renoir?”
“No.”
“Any indication what was in the other crate?”
“No clue.”
“Tomorrow then.” Beau backs away. “The funeral then the vault with your expert.”
He reaches back and grabs Jordan’s arm.
“Till tomorrow, Baby.” Jordan smiles again.
“What makes you think I’d like a man like you?”
“What? You prejudiced or something?”
“Just against complete idiots.”
Jordan laughs as he backs away with Beau, tel
ls her, “You’ll see. I’m just a partial idiot.”
Beau’s not sure but it looks like Claire’s trying not to smile as they step out the door and Jordan goes, “I wonder what’s wrong with her?”
“What makes you think there’s something wrong with her?”
“That good looking and no romance. Come on.”
Beau shrugs. “You really think I understand women?”
They climb into the SUV.
“Better than me. You got a girlfriend who wears skirts up to her ass, don’t you?”
IT TAKES JORDAN and Beau a half hour to find a 12 year old kid who saw the elegant lady – who he said looked like maybe she was 40. Pretty. Blond hair. Dressed nice. She’d left in a yellow taxi cab.
Beau underlines the kids’ name in his notes – Lee Hawkins – along with the fact Lee lives across the street and two doors down from the D’Loup house.
“Did you see the old man with her?”
“No.” He says he saw the woman three times on the gallery during the last two weeks and saw her arrive and leave in a yellow taxi. Always alone. Lee’s mother gives Beau an angry look as she begins to pull her son back into the house.
“Don’t you need my permission to talk with my son?”
He wants to snarl at her. He’s a witness. Not a fuckin’ suspect.
“We thank you and Lee for your help, Ma’am.” Beau smiles and the woman lets go of her son. Beau hands them both a business card, then backs away.
“If you saw the woman again, do you think you could identify her?”
“Yes.” Lee almost bounces.
Beau starts down the porch steps. “If she comes back, give us a call.”
“Is this dangerous?” the mother asks.
“Not if you call us.”
THE SEPULCHRE LIES near the center of Cypress Grove Cemetery, corner Canal Street and City Park Avenue. Claire D’Loup stands alone on the far side of the dark wood casket resting atop a roller gurney. On the other side of the casket a Catholic priest recites a prayer in Latin. An altar boy next to him swings a silver canister leaking smoke. Stinky incense fills the steamy summer air.
Claire wears a black dress and oversized Elton John-looking dark sunglasses, her hair loose. She wears high heels but no stockings. Women raised in New Orleans only wear stockings at night during summer or if they have to at work. Even at a funeral. A gnomish man with a cane stands just beyond the priest. In a black suit the old man wears a fedora. Albert lived 94 years and the only people at his funeral are one granddaughter, a gnome, a priest, altar boy and two cops.
John Raven Beau stands next to one of the huge oaks about twenty yards away, takes out his notebook and notes the names carved into the D’Loup family sepulchre:
Erich W. D’Loup 1871-1919
Zilfia Kolar D’Loup 1880-1929
Olivia Robert D’Loup 1927-1952
Joseph I. D’Loup 1952-2005
Maureen Callan D’Loup 1966-2005
Standing next to Beau, SA Hillel Jordan takes off his black suit coat, drapes it over his arm. His face is damp from perspiration.
“Don’t get much humidity in Watertown, New York, do you?”
“I’m having trouble breathing.”
“It’s only 95 with 90% humidity. In about a month we’ll we get triple digit temperatures and 99% humidity. Hell, we got a nice breeze today.”
“What breeze?”
The casket is positioned to slide into the open chamber next to Olivia Robert D’Loup. From the dates, Beau thinks she must have been Albert’s wife.
Claire places a red rose atop the casket, bows her head as the priest and altar boy move away, the priest still praying. The gnome moves away as well. Three grave workers step around a crypt. They spot Claire and stop until she makes the sign of the cross, turns and moves toward Beau and Jordan.
“Did you just run through a water sprinkler?”
Jordan tries to smile at her.
Beau says, “He’s sweating you.”
Jordan manages to croak, “Sauna.” Smiles. “Humidity.”
“Well, you better get in your car. Turn up the AC.” She looks at Beau, pulls out her cell phone. “I’ll call the art expert. He’ll meet us there.”
They head out and Beau watches his new temporary partner, makes sure the Yankee makes it out of the graveyard.
“Who was the gnome?”
“What?”
“Old man with the hat and cane.”
“My grandfather’s attorney. Can you come to the reading of the will?”
“When?”
“Monday. 9 a.m. Can you come?”
“Sure. You’re expecting trouble?”
“No, but from what I read about you on the internet, you’d be able to handle it.”
Great. Checking up on me.
He’d parked behind her gold Volkswagen SUV.
Claire opens the back door of her car, reaches into a white cooler and pulls out a bottled water.
“I always keep ice water in a cooler in summer.” She opens the water, hands it to Jordan and he drinks half down before coming up for breath. He nods, takes a couples steps back and pours water on his hand and pats his face.
“No more suits,” Beau tells him and Jordan nods.
Beau’s new navy blue SUV is another GMC Acadia Denali, Secret Service edition with a souped up engine, extra dark windows and subdued blue lights barely visible through the front grill. Beau cranks up the engine and puts the AC on high, calls Jessie to warn her they’re en route.
Jordan puts his face in front of the AC vent and goes, “Ahhh.”
JESSIE COMES FROM behind her desk, moves straight to Beau for a kiss. She checks his lips for lipstick. She’s pinned up the sides of her long hair in silver barrettes and wears a royal blue dress with buttons down the front. As usual, she’s left the top buttons undone to show cleavage and a hint of her bra and the bottom buttons unfastened to show the tops of her thigh-hi stockings. Her stiletto high heels has her well above her 5’4” frame.
Claire introduces the expert from the Smithsonian. Dr. Eric Fukoda stands maybe 5’2”, wears a black suit and horn-rimmed glasses. He bows slightly, his gaze returning to Jessie’s chest as he’s almost eye-level with it. Claire had explained on their way up in the elevator, Dr. Fukoda holds a Ph.D. in Fine Art and another in Art History. His father served with the US Army in Italy during WWII, one of those tough Nisei troops – Japanese Americans born in the US to immigrant families.
Beau introduces Jordan who steps close to Jessie, says, “You’re right. She’d look good even in a burlap sack.”
He stares at her face.
“What?”
He leans close.
“You have Brigitte Bardot lips.”
She laughs and he steps even closer, points at her lips.
“The double curve of your upper lip, like the bow of Cupid. And you have that full bottom lip. Brigitte Bardot lips.”
Beau’s not sure who is Brigitte Bardot. French actress, he thinks.
Jessie laughs again and Jordon slaps his forehead and tells Beau, “Damn. I forgot to give you a kiss.” To Jessica – “You give him a kiss. I was asked to give Beau a kiss but I’m not into that.”
“A kiss?” Jessica looks at her boyfriend. “From who?”
Beau shuts his eyes.
“Special Agent Linda Pickett. The prettiest agent in the ATF, a honey-blond darling. Really.”
Beau rubs his temples.
“Linda talks a lot, claims she and John Raven shared a little carnal knowledge right after Katrina.”
Jessica’s right eyebrow rises. “A honey-blond darling?” She butts Beau’s hip with hers. “To go along with your movie star?
“What movie star? Jordan asks.
“Judy Barlow.”
“Judy Barlow? The actress?”
“One and only.” Jessie’s enjoying this.
“Damn. Judy Barlow. The Breathtaking Brunette. Love that movie.”
Beau goes, “She wasn�
�t Judy Barlow when we went out.”
Jordan hugs Beau who shoves him away.
“When I saw Jessie here, I thought – ‘you’re my hero’. You humped Linda Pickett too. But you … fucked Judy Barlow? Beau, you’re my superhero.”
Beau sits in a chair in front of Jessie’s desk. She moves behind her desk, sits. Jordan, Claire and Fukoda step into the vault, which Jessie left cracked open.
Jessie waits for Beau to look at her. “Lunch. You feel like Mama Guzzardi’s?”
“Pizza Grande. Absolutely.”
She makes the pizza call, then answers two calls and Beau watches her work. Her smooth voice is unhesitant as she talks of numbers and spreadsheets and balances. She types on her iMac and sheets pop out on the laser printer behind her desk. Mrs. Soffon comes in with the mail. It takes the old woman nearly two minutes to cross the room, then two minutes to leave again.
Just as the pizzas arrive, Claire lets out a little shriek. Jordan comes out of the vault, shrugs, says, “Don’t look at me.”
Claire comes out with a glazed look. Dr. Fukoda follows, his glasses and white cleaning cloth in hand.
“So, it’s genuine?” asks Beau.
“The Claudel is genuine no doubt and the jewels are real. As for the Renoir, we shall need to date the materials – canvas, paint, wooden frame. My preliminary Morellian analysis is this is from the hand of Pierre-Auguste Renoir. I welcome other experts to confirm my recognition of the idiosyncrasies, stylistic details known as Renoir’s artistic signature.”
Fukoda puts his glasses back on.
“We study the brushstrokes. The artist’s application of paint in creating faces, eyes, clothing as well as the unique paints used by Monsieur Renoir. If this is by one of his students, the artistic signature would not be the same. The signature at the bottom of the painting looks authentic as well.”
Claire sits on the sofa next to the windows while the others step to the table where the pizzas and soft drinks are laid out. They sit and Beau watches Jordan check out Claire, then Jessie, then Claire again. Fukoda explains to Jessie a special courier service will come to take the loot to the Smithsonian. He thanks her for keeping the items safe.