A World Without Secrets (13 page)

"Quiet down, Billy," I whispered. "I don't want the entire Lower West Side to know I have money now. It won't be safe to walk the streets."

"Oh, sorry, bro," Billy said quietly as he sat back down. "It's just that it's
so
much money." A strange expression came over his face. "I guess you'll be moving away now."

"I've been considering it. I may have to do that just to get away from the press. I don't want my picture in the paper. I drove by my house and saw several reporters hanging around, so for now I've taken a room at a hotel. Hopefully it'll be old news in a couple of days."

"Where would you move to?"

"I've thought about moving over to the East Side."

Billy smiled. "Near Kathy's place?"

"That's a definite possibility," I said, smiling.

* * *

I treated Billy to a steak dinner as a sort of celebration, then returned to my hotel room a few hours later. It was still early, so I called Kathy.

"Well, the conquering hero returns," she said. "Congratulations, you're the talk of the art world right now."

"I got lucky."

"Maybe, but that's not the general consensus. I spoke to the Von Waggermanns today. They're beside themselves with joy. I couldn't help but put in a little plug for our museum. I told them you were visiting me at the museum during the security examination and that was how you got involved in the case. I said that if they hadn't agreed to let us exhibit part of their collection, the other five paintings wouldn't have been recovered. I wanted to make them feel better about allowing part of their collection out again."

"I'm glad it worked out so well. How about dinner and a show on Saturday— to celebrate?"

"Great. What show?"

"You name it. I'll get the tickets."

"I'd love to see the show at the Orpheum."

"You've got it. I'll pick up the tickets tomorrow."

We talked for a while and even made plans to have lunch on Thursday. After hanging up, I turned on the television to catch the evening news and was just in time to see my own face staring back at me. The network had somehow gotten hold of the interview I had given outside my house following the explosion of the apartment building. The interview was being played as part of the news story that the paintings had been authenticated and were now awaiting restoration work before being placed back into their original frames and returned to the family. I flipped through the channels and saw that every network had apparently gotten the interview footage from the cable news station that had shot it.

"So much for anonymity," I said, sighing.

Since my image was plastered all over the news anyway, I moved back home the next morning. A plethora of reporters and photographers were camped outside my house, but I pushed my way through the forest of microphones held towards my face without stopping to answer questions.

My answering machine was full, and after stopping to put my things down, I started the messages playing. A few were from friends congratulating me, but most were from people who wanted to hire me to find things— everything from lost relatives to dogs and cats. A few of the calls were from women who wanted to meet me and had left their numbers so I could call. One call was from a gay man wondering if I'd be interested in meeting him for a drink.

As I listened to the machine, the phone continued to ring with new calls. I tried to ignore it and finally felt tempted to pull the plug from the wall socket, but instead I turned on my computer and logged on to the internet. The connection would result in callers getting a busy signal.

At least my email file was pretty clean, except for the usual spam and virus emails that clog every active surfer's email box. I cleared them off without opening any and sat down to respond to the legitimate mail and fan letters that were left.

It was still too early for lunch when I finished, so I called the two insurance companies listed on the message forms Bill Kovacs had given me. Mr. Stillworth was out, but when I called the other, I was immediately put through to Mr. Fodor.

"Mr. James, thanks for returning my call. I'd like to know if you're available to take on a special case?"

"I've decided to retire for awhile, Mr. Fodor. I want to concentrate on my writing. I just wanted to let you know and thank you for your interest."

"Mr. James, please hear me out. This is very important. Our own people have given up and I need someone who can look at it from a fresh perspective. It could be very lucrative for you."

I thought for a few seconds. It couldn't hurt to hear him out. "Very well, Mr. Fodor. What is it that you've lost?"

"I can't speak about it on the phone. Can we meet for lunch at my club?"

Club?
I thought.
Well, why not?
"Okay, Mr. Fodor. Where and when?"

I copied down the information and agreed to be there at noon. After completing the call, I called the phone company and arranged for a new number— unlisted of course.

* * *

Fodor exuded financial success. I estimated he was in his mid fifties, tan and fit, impeccably dressed in a suit that must have cost five thousand dollars, and he had a million-dollar smile. My suit, on the other hand, was right off the rack from a mid-town discount men's warehouse. It was clean and pressed, but I felt like the poor relation.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Fodor. I'm Colton James," I said as I was escorted to his table.

"Good afternoon, Mr. James," Fodor said, rising and extending his hand. "I recognize you from the news broadcasts last night. Thank you for consenting to meet with me. Shall we order first, and then we can discuss my problem? I recommend the lobster. Alex, the head chef, is particularly adept at preparing seafood."

After the dinner order was taken and drinks were delivered, Fodor lowered his voice and said, "Mr. James, you're familiar, of course, with the theft from the Merchendes Collection?"

"No, I can't say I am."

Fodor looked astonished. "You're not?"

"No, sorry."

"Well, never mind. That theft is the reason I wanted to meet with you. Nine pieces were stolen from their collection. We've done our best to keep the news people from sensationalizing the theft and hoped the thieves would contact us looking to exchange the art for the reward. It's been eleven months now and we haven't heard a word. Our own investigators don't have a single lead. We need outside help and I'm turning to you. As soon as I heard you had recovered artwork that was stolen over two years ago, I knew you were our man."

"Where did the theft occur?"

"At the family home in Boston. The thieves invaded the home, manhandled the staff, and took the paintings while the family was at a benefit dinner. They arrived home to find the front door wide open and the staff locked in the walk-in cooler. They were lucky no one was seriously injured."

"What's the valued amount of the missing pieces?"

"The policy on the missing pieces was eleven million."

"How many assailants?"

"We know of four, armed with small automatic weapons, although they never fired them."

"So you're dealing with a group of particularly nasty people rather than thieves who rely on finesse to acquire their loot."

"I'm afraid so."

"Well— as I tried to tell you, I've decided to retire for a while to concentrate on my writing. I wish to enjoy some of my recovery fees, and diving into a nest of gun-wielding thugs doesn't fit into my plans right now."

"I've heard you were formerly a skip tracer, so danger can't be your only objection to taking this case."

"No, but it figures into it— prominently."

"I've been authorized to raise the normal recovery percentage from ten percent to fifteen. That's one million, six hundred fifty thousand dollars."

I hesitated for a few seconds as I thought about the money. "No, sorry. I won't say I'm not tempted, but I have to pass."

"Okay, my final offer. Two million dollars recovery fee, if you get all the pieces back within thirty days. That's when we have to pay out the policy amount."

"Two million?"

Fodor nodded.

"Do you require that the crooks be convicted?"

"We don't even care if they're arrested, although that would be a wonderful bonus. We're only interested in getting the artwork back, intact, before we have to pay out the claim."

"I can't guarantee it hasn't been damaged already. Did they cut them out of the frames?"

"No, they took the entire pieces, frames and all."

"Then the frames are probably damaged to some degree."

"They can be easily repaired or replaced. We're more concerned with the canvases."

I took a deep breath and then released it slowly. "Very well, Mr. Fodor. I'll look into it. I'll need to see everything you have in your files, and I'll need to visit the family home where the robbery occurred."

Mr. Fodor extended his hand and I shook it.

"I'll also need a letter outlining our agreement. Payment for the recovery is required within twenty-four hours of the artwork coming back into your possession and being authenticated."

"Agreed. Ah, here's our order. Perfect timing."

Fodor was right— the lobster was excellent.

* * *

A messenger delivered two boxes from Fodor the next day. They contained photocopies of the entire investigation file, a signed letter spelling out the agreement, and, because I had requested that I be permitted to visit the house and question the staff, Fodor included a letter of introduction to the family.

Rather than reading through the investigation file, I just picked out the date, time, and address of the robbery and used the gizmo to watch it as it progressed. I watched it several times, feeling more uncomfortable with each viewing. The brutality of the thieves was exhibited several times as servants were struck with fists and gun butts if they hesitated for a fraction of a second. I never felt the thieves had any qualms about maiming or killing the staff members. As I had hypothesized to Fodor, these were particularly nasty people. I discovered that there were actually five assailants. One, armed with an AR-15 rifle with a folding stock, remained outside with the van, listening to a police scanner and watching for any arriving visitors.

After viewing the crime, I reluctantly read through the entire file. The investigation was very complete, and the investigators had done their jobs well. This was certainly not an inside job. The thieves had all worn gloves and black knit caps that covered all but their eyes. The van, stolen earlier in the evening, was found abandoned the following morning. The thieves had torched it to further hide any incriminating evidence. The investigation was presently stalled, without any place to go.

Using the gizmo, I traced the robbers to the present and got a good look at all their faces. Then I traced the artwork and found that eight of the nine pieces were locked away at an indoor storage facility in Cambridge. The ninth piece was in a room built like a vault. There was a single reclining chair facing three pictures hanging on a wall. There was no one in the vault, but a small lamp over each of the picture frames showed the artwork very clearly.

I recorded the coordinates of the house and used my computer to translate that into an address. Then I jumped backward an hour at a time until I found a man sitting in the chair. Using the square that changed from black to blue, I tagged him. Returning to the night of the robbery, I tagged the man I had identified as the ringleader. Instantly, I was brought forward to a scene where the thief delivered the painting to the second man, who was waiting in a car. A large manila envelope, bulging with what I assumed was cash, was turned over to the thief and he left.

"There must have been an earlier meeting," I said aloud.

Setting the date back a year, I touched the blue and red squares again. The time advanced until the scene changed to another meeting between the men. They sat in the car and talked for about fifteen minutes before the older man handed over an envelope. I assumed it contained cash as a down payment. The date was over a month before the robbery. Touching the two dots again, I watched the delivery again. So they had only met two times, at least in connection with this theft, unless there had been a much earlier meeting to discuss the theft and decide upon a price and down payment. It appeared that the theft was prearranged just to get the one painting. The others were probably taken to lead suspicion away from the collector, who may have tried to acquire the painting in the past. Or they might have been taken as extra loot, even though they didn't have a buyer waiting.

Having sleuthed all of the parties involved in the theft, I set about trying to identify them. I wished again that the gizmo had audio capability.

In late afternoon, my doorbell rang. I was ready to blast the reporters for annoying me at home, but it turned out to be a delivery man from a car dealership.

"Good afternoon, Mr. James. We have your car all ready. The first year of insurance is paid, and it's been registered with the Department of Motor Vehicles."

"Wait a minute. I didn't order a car."

"Yes, sir. I understand that the arrangements were made by a Mr. Von Waggermann. The vehicle cost and all prep charges have been paid. Here are the keys and paperwork."

I accepted the package, then reached into my pocket for some cash. The deliveryman saw my movement and guessed the reason.

"I've already been compensated, sir. Mr. Von Waggermann was most generous. Your new car is parked out front. Just call the dealership if you have any problems or need to have it picked up for service."

"Thank you."

"My pleasure, sir. Have a great day."

As the deliveryman disappeared down the stairs, I looked at the package I had been handed. The car was a top of the line BMW, with all the options. Mr. Von Waggermann had indeed been exceedingly generous. A note included with the package read, 'I learned from the television reports that you recently lost your car. Please accept this one in grateful appreciation for your recovery of our family heirlooms. R.L. Von Waggermann.'