Chameleon's Death Dance Page 9

  “And if he is?”

  “Then I have to figure out how to recover it. Wil, the Rembrandt is too damned big to carry it out by myself. I’d need to drive the van into his compound. I don’t think that’s very likely. But if he has it, then we’ll have to figure out how to get it back.”

  Wil caught my hand. “Be damned careful, Libby. A man like Reagan has a lot of experience in making people disappear.” He brought my fingers to his mouth and kissed them. “I love you.”

  My heart melted. He didn’t say it too often, but often enough that I knew he didn’t take me for granted.

  “I love you, too. Let’s get out of here.”

  Chapter 11

  Finding the layout of Reagan’s estate wasn’t easy. Finding the blueprints of the house was harder. Most people didn’t ever think about the plans after their house was built, even the super-rich ones. It took me two days to trace the architect to Ireland, and another day to break into the systems of every firm he’d worked for over the previous fifteen years. Finally, I found where he’d archived Reagan’s documents.

  My next problem was where to print them. My place in Toronto had all the equipment I needed, but in Vancouver, all I had was a laptop and a tiny portable printer. Reading the plans of a seventeen thousand square foot mansion on a laptop screen wasn’t particularly useful. My eyes were good, but not that good. I called Wil.

  “Wil, do you have a plotter at Chamber headquarters?”

  “What is a plotter?”

  “A machine that will print full-size blueprints. A four-foot one will do. A six-foot one would be better.”

  Silence, then, “Blueprints?”

  “Yes. I need to do an estimate for a new security system.”

  “Or to bypass an old security system?”

  “Do you have one or not?”

  Big sigh. “I’ll check and call you back.”

  Twenty minutes later. “No, we don’t have a plotter. My tech people suggested that you call an architectural or engineering firm. Or a company that makes it their business to print blueprints.”

  Right. Such companies keep records of that sort of thing. After all, you never know when a thief might be printing something they can’t prove a legitimate right to possess.

  I spent another two hours checking out architectural firms until I found one with a lousy security system and no night watchman. I called Wil again.

  “Wil, I have something I need to take care of this evening,” I said when he answered the phone. “I probably won’t be finished until midnight. If I don’t show up, I’m sleeping at my place.”

  The offices of Moorcroft, Alison and Wheeler were located in a small two-story building a couple of miles east of BC University. When darkness fell, I waited until the last light went out, and shortly thereafter, the last car drove out of the parking lot.

  Blueprints took a long time to print. I didn’t bother with the plumbing drawings, but the electrical drawings were critical. Out of sixty drawings for Reagan’s mansion, I only printed a dozen, but it took until one o’clock in the morning. I took the drawings back to my safe house and fell into bed.

  Wil called the following morning, checking to make sure I was all right. I assured him I was, then started studying the drawings. Myron called at mid-morning and gave me an address to deliver the stolen artworks. I told him I’d deliver them that afternoon. Then I went back to studying the plans.

  Around noon, my stomach started rumbling, so I took a shower, got dressed, and drove into town. On the way, I called Wil and asked him to lunch.

  “I spent some time with Inspector Fenton this morning,” Wil said as we waited for our meals. “He told me there’s been a rash of burglaries at high-end residences over the past couple of months.”

  “That list wouldn’t happen to correspond with the list I gave you of people involved in the illicit art trade?”

  “There is a remarkable overlap.”

  I grinned. “If you would like a look at the art they didn’t report in their lists of stolen goods, you can help me take the paintings I’ve recovered to Chung this afternoon.”

  That got me one of his patented raised eyebrows.

  “It could be very dangerous transporting several million in art,” I said. “It would be nice if one of the Chamber’s finest could supply a bit of security.”

  “Am I going to see anything illicit that isn’t on a list of items previously stolen?”

  I shook my head. “I’m in the art recovery business now days. I do have a few things that I’m not giving Chung, but the most recent owner isn’t looking for them.” I also kept jewelry separate from paintings. No need to confuse things.

  “Oh? And why not?”

  “He’s dead. I have some paintings that Boyle had in his possession. And no one needs to know that.”

  Wil stared at me with his mouth open for at least a full minute, then asked, “Is that all you’re going to tell me?”

  “For right now. I can’t find any reports that the paintings were stolen, but I also can’t find any information as to where they are supposed to be. They disappeared during The Fall. The chance that Boyle acquired them legally is nil. He didn’t have that kind of wealth. There’s always the chance that they’re forgeries, but I don’t think so.”

  I didn’t mention the paintings I’d taken from Abramowitz’s home, but their provenance was broken when I stole them. I had checked on them, and he legally owned them, along with the other art he had there.

  Wil didn’t look happy, but he agreed to help me transport the paintings to the gallery Chung designated. We drove out to my safe house, and I asked him to wait with the van in the driveway.

  “I can’t come in?”

  “No. I don’t want you to know where I’m hiding things.”

  “You don’t trust me.”

  “Of course I don’t trust you. You’re a cop.”

  I thought his eyes were going to pop out of his head.

  With a smile, I pulled his head toward me and kissed him. “Don’t take it personally. You do understand ‘need to know’, right? It’s for your own good. Now be a good boy and wait here until I call you.”

  The paintings were in a closet in the spare bedroom. The security device I’d installed on the door wouldn’t kill anyone with a strong heart, but it would incapacitate anyone in the room if it activated. I disabled it and carried the nine stolen paintings I had liberated from the elite of Vancouver to the garage and opened the garage door.

  “Wil,” I called. “Can you please back the van into the garage?”

  He did so, then got out of the van and looked at the paintings. “I didn’t think about the frames,” he said.

  “I only took what I could carry. It takes time to properly remove a large painting from its frame without damaging it, so, I recovered small, high-value works. I have a list of other stolen works I found. If someone wants to pay me to retrieve them, I can do so, but it’s going to cost them, and I don’t just mean a recovery fee.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, what is the standard recovery fee?” he asked.

  “One to two percent of the insured value.”

  “And how much is all this worth?”

  “One hundred thirty-two million. When the insurance companies get around to authenticating them, which could take a year or more, I’ll make roughly one million three.”

  I had bought some styrofoam and butcher paper. We loaded the paintings and padded them to keep them from shifting or bouncing around. I called Myron to tell him we were on our way, then got behind the wheel of the van.

  Myron had arranged with Feitler’s, one of the most prestigious galleries in the city, to store the paintings in their climate-controlled vault. He would then post on the Art Loss infonet site that the art had been recovered, and the legitimate owners and insurance representatives would come and claim the pieces. Normally, the storage would be at a local museum, but the Gallery was under too much suspicion.

  We were a block from
Feitler’s Gallery when a rental truck pulled out of the cross street ahead of me and stopped in the intersection. I slammed on the brakes and glanced quickly in my rearview mirror. Another truck with the same markings was following me.

  I jerked the wheel to the left, and the van skidded, sliding into the truck sideways. We hit with a loud crash, and I floored the accelerator. Metal screamed as the van and the truck scraped against each other. Once the van passed beyond the truck, I whipped the wheel to the right, jumped the curb, and fishtailed down the sidewalk.

  Wil’s pistol firing sounded like an explosion in the close confines of the van. My heart jumped in my chest, and I almost lost control of the vehicle.

  “Damn! Get a silencer for that thing. You about scared me to death,” I shouted at him while wrestling the van back onto the street. A bullet hit the van, and Wil leaned out of the window and fired again.

  “Get back inside and get down, you damned fool!” I screamed. I had already scooted as far down in my seat as I could, while still being able see the road.

  More bullets hit the van, and he did as I suggested.

  The van fought me, listing to the right. I was pretty sure the right rear tire was flat, and it was making terrible noises as it rubbed against the van’s sheet metal. Wil was covered in glass from the shattered window next to him, and his door was caved inward.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah,” he answered. “Probably a little bruised. I’ll let you know when the adrenaline wears off.”

  I could see the gallery on the corner ahead of me, but I didn’t know if I should go there. On the other hand, the van wasn’t going much farther in any direction.

  “I’m going to try to make the corner to the left,” I said. “When I stop, get out my door.”

  He barked a laugh. “Thanks for the suggestion.”

  We made the corner, and when I hit the brakes, the van lurched to the left, hitting the curb and a sign, and scraping to a stop. I shrugged out of my seat belt, drew my pistol, then opened the door and rolled out onto the sidewalk.

  I crawled to the end of the building and peered around the corner. The rental truck still sat in the middle of the street. A man got out on my side, but didn’t move toward me. Instead, he turned and helped another man out. The second man limped around the truck while the first man covered him, and they both disappeared.

  The rear loading door of the truck opened, but from my angle I couldn’t see what was happening there.

  A glance behind me confirmed that Wil was out of the van and on his feet.

  “Stay here,” I said, then blurred my form. I jumped to my feet and raced down the sidewalk toward the truck. Behind me, I heard Wil shout my name, then start cursing.

  I passed the truck I had hit and reached the truck that had come up behind me. I stopped in front of it and shot the driver through the windshield. The man sitting on the other side ducked, and I saw his door open.

  Half a dozen men stood at the back, helping the injured driver of the first truck into the back of the second truck. I braced my back against the wall of a building, took careful aim, and started firing. I was less than thirty feet away, and they couldn’t see me. Three of them fell, and a fourth spun away around the truck away from me, grabbing at his shoulder.

  The driver of the first truck huddled on the street, trying to make himself small. I shot him in the leg to make sure he didn’t go anywhere, changed clips, and edged farther up the street.

  I reached a position where I could see two men lying in the back of the truck, pistols pointed out at the street. Another man crouched behind the truck on the side away from me. Three more were running away. They disappeared into an alley.

  “Throw your guns down and come out with your hands up,” I shouted.

  They couldn’t see me, and couldn’t locate my voice. I fired and hit the tire next to the man crouched outside the truck. The whole vehicle shifted as the tire deflated.

  “Last warning,” I called, then shouted louder, “On my mark, fire for effect!”

  The bluff worked. All the men threw their pistols out into the street.

  “Don’t shoot,” one of them yelled. “We’re coming out.”

  I backed out of their sight, into the closed doorway of a shop, and unblurred my form, hoping that no one saw. I looked back toward the gallery and saw Wil walking toward me. I could hear sirens, so I assumed help was on the way.

  Wil showing his Chamber identification kept the police from arresting us, and when Fenton arrived half an hour later to confirm our bona fides, they finally relaxed.

  Fenton took charge, and allowed Myron to move the paintings from my van into the gallery. A couple of the frames had taken some damage, but the paintings themselves looked all right. The hijackers’ trucks were rented using fictitious names, which we all expected.

  An ambulance took the wounded man away, and several cops stood guard over the other three I’d captured. I stood watching a paramedic check Wil over. Judging from the bruising that was starting on his right side, he wouldn’t be very mobile for several days.

  “Four dead, one wounded, and three captured. And you say at least three got away?” Fenton asked me.

  “At least. I never did get a complete count. The guy riding shotgun in the second truck isn’t here. He’s the only one I got a good look at. Sandy blond hair and mustache. I could identify him in a lineup. Then three men ran down that alley, but all I saw was their backs.”

  Fenton shook his head. “I’m glad you two are on my side. Damned good shooting.”

  Wil glared at me. I winked at him.

  Chapter 12

  Myron stood in Feitler’s storage room surveying the art his assistants had rescued from the van.

  “That’s quite a haul,” he finally said. “A Monet, a Manet, a Holcomb, a Harrill, a Rubens, a Pollock, a Warhol, and a Rousseau. Pretty eclectic. I notice they’re all relatively small.” He turned to me. “So, am I seeing the tip of the iceberg?”

  “Yes. Pieces small enough to carry by myself and that would fit in the van.”

  He sighed.

  “What are we looking at here?” Fenton asked. We all turned to him, and he said, “I mean, the value.”

  “Each of these paintings is insured for between five hundred thousand and forty million,” Myron said. “In total, a lot of money.”

  Fenton whistled.

  “Assuming they’re all genuine,” Wil said.

  I turned to him. “And why would you think otherwise?”

  “After we’re through here, we’ll go over to the museum,” Myron said. “The audit is turning up some very interesting things.”

  The light dawned. “No. Please tell me that Boyle wasn’t substituting fakes and selling the originals.”

  “If you like,” Myron said. “I’ll tell you Santa Claus is real if it will make you happy.”

  “Crap. Good fakes?” I asked.

  “Damned good.” He gave me a strange look. “You look like someone kicked your puppy.”

  I did feel slightly sick to my stomach. “I can understand stealing a painting. I can even understand someone wanting to hang it on their wall, so they could look at it every morning. I’ve felt that way about an artwork a few times, and if I can’t afford it, I buy a print. But painting a copy and taking the real one away from the world…” I shook my head, not able to put my feelings into words. “It just doesn’t sit right.”

  I thought about the implications of forgeries hanging in a major museum. The art world would be turned upside down for a while. Curators and collectors would have to go through their inventories to verify the paintings they had, and top appraisers would be raking in the money.

  “What does that mean for business?” Wil asked.

  Myron rubbed the top of his head. “Nothing good. It will depress the value of every painting in the world until things shake out. Everyone will be afraid to buy anything.”

  Adrian Martel, Director of Compliance for the North American Museu
m Alliance, was a totally imposing individual, immaculately attired in a suit that cost a small fortune. He stood four or five inches taller than Wil’s six-four, and weighed at least three hundred pounds. I guessed him to be in his fifties, with skin the color of black coffee, a hawks-beak nose, and curly salt-and-pepper hair.

  He led us to a large room with two guards stationed at both doors. Sweeping his hand toward a number of paintings leaning against the left-hand wall, he said, “Those twenty are stolen. We found most of them in the storerooms, but two were actually hanging on the damned walls.”

  Turning to a couple of tables on the other side of the room that held seven paintings, he said, “Those are forgeries we found in the storerooms.”

  “How much of the inventory have you gone through?” I asked.

  “Maybe ten percent. The inventory is a mess. Nothing is where it should be, we can’t find pieces that should be here, and we’re finding pieces that aren’t catalogued.” He glared at us. “It’s as if things are screwed up on purpose so no one can figure out what’s going on. Hell, I found a damned Matisse hanging in the Director’s office that isn’t catalogued.”

  The longer he talked the more agitated he became, pacing and gesticulating, his voice growing louder.

  “Wonderful,” I said. “Myron told us the forgeries are well done.”

  “Of the seven, four would pass almost anywhere. The others would pass anyone but an expert.” He pounded the table with his fist for emphasis, and the paintings all jumped and did a dance.

  He was so angry that I didn’t risk asking how he knew they were fakes. I figured it was safer to take his word for it. I recognized three of the paintings from seeing pictures of them. That meant they were fairly famous.

  “How long do you think it’s going to take you to get it all straight?” Myron asked in a calm, quiet voice.

  “Until fucking doomsday!” Martel shouted.

  “I don’t think we can shut the museum down that long,” Wil said.