Gauguin Connection, The (9 page)

“You do that,” he said gruffly and got out of his chair. Suddenly he looked every one of his sixty-one years. “And take care of yourself this weekend. Do something other than just work on this case.”

“No promises on that one.” I was glad to see my comment tease a tired smile from him. “But I promise to take regular breaks, sleep and deliver something on Monday.”

Phillip only uttered a grunt and left the viewing room without a backward glance. The silence of the soundproof room surrounded me like a well-worn coat. This room and my apartment in a leafy and quiet area were the two places where I felt the safest. The noise of city traffic completely overwhelmed me and even the sound of a few colleagues chatting in the kitchen sometimes proved too much for my sound sensitivity.

I turned back to my computer, deciding whether to finish what I had started here or to pack everything up and continue at home. After a complex fifteen-minute debate with myself, I settled on working at home and began collecting everything I would need to take with me. While I performed this mindless task, my mind wandered to Colin. I had warned him to never enter my apartment again. Yet my ability to read people had been inerrant on so many occasions that I knew I was going to have to face him again sometime soon. Everything about him communicated unlimited self-confidence and pertinacity.

At least I had the half-hour commute home to work on a strategy to handle him. With a man who had eluded authorities for more than a decade, I knew that I needed a plan. I wanted him to comprehend that I would never work or even associate with a criminal. Even if his motives were noble and said criminal intrigued me.

“Nothing. Again you give me nothing.” I glared at the three computers on my dining room table, neatly arranged in a semi-circle. It was late Sunday afternoon and I had spent my entire weekend at my dining room table, on an uncomfortable chair, going through the shipping data Manny had sent me. Of course the email delivering the data was rife with sarcasm. He had ended his email with an order to not lose focus with my quixotic look into the ships. I made a point of counting how many times he referred to me ‘wasting my time’ with this. It was eight.

Neither he nor the Chief had been impressed with my report, a report heavily edited to not even hint at Colin’s involvement. The thought of Colin triggered a strange emotion in me and it took me a few seconds to identify it. Disappointment. I did not often experience that emotion since I had very few expectations of other people. My training had given me the exceptional skill to predict people’s behaviour and reactions, which protected me from disappointment.

The fact that Colin caused this intrigued me. Against all my expectations, the thief had not broken into my apartment again. I realised that I had actually been looking forward to the challenge of sparring with him again. That specific realisation irked me and I returned my attention to the notepad. I supported a paperless office environment, but I did my best thinking when I put pencil to paper. Not until I looked, really looked, at the notepad did I realise how many notes I had scribbled over the course of the weekend.

On the top page were the three sentences the Russian murderer had shouted. In neat blocks I had rearranged the words in six different ways. My first attempt was to translate it to Russian, a language I loved for its melodious richness. Of the six attempts, the first made the most sense, yet it made no sense at all. I traced the Russian lettering with my index finger, but nothing revealing was forthcoming.

The top page was the least of the riddles I was currently facing. I lifted a couple of sheets and stopped at the third page to look at it more intently. On it were all the players in this mystery that Manny had brought to our doors—the murdered girl who still had no identity, the Gauguin painting, the Russian murderer, the stolen Eurocorps weapons, the suspected EDA and Eurocorps insiders, the ships and the unknown Russian connection. I had written all these in a circle around the page and had drawn blocks around each item, separating them.

Now I was at a loss. I had made such negligible progress in forty-eight hours. What else could I enter into the search parameters to give me more results? Results that could solve this mystery.

“It’s all that thief’s fault.” Irrationally, I wanted to blame Colin for my unproductive weekend. He was the one who had sent me on this ship witch-hunt. Yet, I was the one who followed that trail. Now I was stuck. And annoyed with myself. My mind felt bruised from forcing it to look for different approaches. I couldn’t believe that I was contemplating it, but I realised that I might need Colin’s help. “If he ever sets foot in my place again, I will tell him how much I despise him.”

“I really hope you are not talking about me, Jenny.”

I shrieked. No other word would be apt to describe my undignified reaction. I closed my eyes for a second to regain control. When I opened them to glare at Colin, I allowed all the annoyance burning in my stomach to seep into my voice. “How did you get in?”

The art reappropriator was lounging in my reading chair. How had he walked past me without me noticing? His denim-clad legs were stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. This high-comfort position was not lost on me. He felt confident and safe. It annoyed me even more. While I was studying him, he simply sighed and tilted his head to the side with an amused smile. “Superglue? Really, Jenny, you should’ve known that was not going to keep me out.”

“Genevieve. My name is Genevieve. And I didn’t have anything else to seal the windows with.” I stopped abruptly when I realised I was justifying myself. “Why did you not just ring the doorbell?”

His only response was one lifted eyebrow and a sideways glance. “Moving on. Why are you so frustrated?”

“Because you are in my apartment. Again. Without an invitation. Again.” I got up and walked to the kitchen. Almost imperceptible footsteps alerted me to Colin following me.

He groaned. “That’s not quite what I meant by moving on.”

I spun around, ready to give him an earful, but didn’t get the chance.

“Let’s not hash through our last arguments again, Jenny.” He winced at my fierce look. “Genevieve. I’ve had a few days to think this over and have made a decision. I’m totally committed to working with you and finding out who the bastards are who killed my… these artists. Wait. Before you argue again. I know that one of your main arguments is that you can’t trust me. So, as a show of my trust in you, I will give you this.”

He reached into his designer charcoal jacket. Out came a folded piece of paper that he held out to me. I looked at the white paper as if it was a snake ready to strike. “What is that?”

“My trust in you.” He shook it towards me. “Please take it before I change my mind. I’ve never given anyone this.”

I took a moment to move past my distrust of this man and read him. The piece of paper in his hand quivered very lightly, indicating a surge of neurotransmitters and hormones. Most likely adrenalin, causing the uncontrollable quivering of his hands. Why was he stressed, nervous? There was no trace of any deception to be read on his face. Combined, all of these
unmanipulatable cues led me to only one conclusion. He was being truthful about never having trusted anyone with whatever was on that piece of paper. This made the accomplished criminal infinitely nervous.

Without a word, I reached out to take the piece of paper. I realised that with this gesture I had just sealed an agreement with a criminal. I had accepted his trust and in return had given some of mine. I took the paper and wondered how this piece of pulped, pressed wood was going to change my life.

“Open it.”

I looked up from the piece of paper in my hand and regarded Colin.

“Oh, stop reading me. Just open it or I’m taking it back.” He pulled his arms closer to his body and his eyes narrowed. He was exhibiting signs of discomfort with his decision to trust me and my hesitation to see what was on the paper. It gave me no pleasure to cause him such discomfort, but it went a long way to soothe my mind.

I unfolded the sheet of paper. On it were written, in strong masculine handwriting, five addresses, one of them in Strasbourg.

“What are these?”

He swallowed and then looked me straight in the eye. “My homes. All of them.”

“Your homes,” I repeated while trying to find the significance of this gesture. “Oh. Wow. Oh.”

“It’s not so many homes. Most of them are rather rustic.”

“I doubt that. But that is not why I am surprised.” I refolded the piece of paper and unconsciously pressed it against my heart. “You’re willing to trust me, a complete stranger, with your freedom?”

“That is how much I want to catch these bastards.”

“I’m working with…”

“…
the EDA. Yes, I know that. I have a theory that you’re working with Millard. Aha, you blinked. So, you are working with him. Good. He’s an irritating arsehole, but he’s good.”

“You know Manny?”

“Let’s just say that our paths have crossed a few times.”

“Translated, that means that either he arrested you or almost arrested you.” The piece of paper was still clutched to my chest. I closed my fist around it and then held it between us. “I don’t understand your trust.”

“You need something that will assure you that I’m not playing games and I gave it to you.”

“But why me?” Not many things confounded me, but Colin’s absolute trust had my mind reeling. People didn’t trust me. They felt uncomfortable around me and were even scared of me. Very few liked me. But trust?

“Because I know you will never use this”—he nodded at my fist—“against me. Not unless I betray your trust.”

I thought about this. “That’s correct. Would you like some coffee?”

Colin blinked his surprise and then awarded me with a smile that reached deep into his eyes. “I would like that very much.”

We stood in companionable silence for the time it took the coffee machine to drip out two cups of coffee. By offering him a cup of coffee, I had agreed to
co-operating with a criminal. I did not know when exactly I was going to regret this decision, but I knew it was going to be soon. I handed Colin one of the cups. “Milk? Sugar?”

“Black is fine.” He followed me to the dining room table. “So, what have you found so far?”

I hesitated for a moment. Was I really going to trust a criminal with my findings when I didn’t even trust Manny with them? Colin’s pointed look at the paper that was still in my hand made up my mind. I opened the piece of paper again, looked at the five addresses for a full minute and handed him back the page.

“Now what?” His eyes narrowed with anger.

“Calm down, Colin. I memorised your addresses.” I tapped with my index finger on my temple. “Once it’s in here, it stays. I don’t want the responsibility of it on paper in my home.”

“Oh. Okay.” The folded piece of paper disappeared into his jacket pocket.

“Let’s sit down.” I pointed to the chair next to mine and cringed slightly when he moved closer to look at the computer screens. I leaned away from him. “What is your interest in this case?”

“To stop the senseless murders of artists.”

I pushed my chair away from him, crossed my arms and glared at him. “Your main motivation for being involved in this is not to stop murders.”

“What do you know?” He mirrored my body language by also crossing his arms.

“Every time you talk about it, I see remorse. You are feeling guilty about something. What?”

He bit down hard and swallowed a few times before he answered. “I feel responsible.”

“How?”

“It was only after the seventh time that I became suspicious.” He smiled sadly. “As you know, I exposed forgeries whenever I found one. It was seven times too late when I realised that soon after my reports…”

“… an artist was murdered,” I finished softly. Guilt and regret were deeply etched on his face. It had no rational basis. “You could not have known.”

“Maybe not in the beginning. But once I had noticed the murders, I should’ve immediately made the connection and stopped.”

“Did you stop?”

“I did. Too late.”

“Have there been more murders since you stopped pointing out forgeries?”

Colin frowned and blinked a few times. “Yes.”

“Well, there you have it.”

“Are you always this rational?”

“Yes.”

I followed his thought process by watching the different expressions moving over his face. The last was relief. “Thank you.”

“No thanks needed. It’s simple logic.” I pointed at the computer screens. “Let me show you what I have so far.”

I moved a bit closer to the computers, which put me closer to him. From the corner of my eye I saw him take a sip of his coffee and he moved to place the cup on the table. I stopped him with a quick hand and a voice that came out too stern. “Please use the coaster.”

Colin’s hand stopped mid-air. With a slight smile he took the coaster I offered and placed his cup on it with care. “Why three computers?”

“It helps.” Not even Phillip knew that it helped me to have as many things visually in front of me as possible. My auditory memory had never been my strength. It was my visual memory, my visualisation of patterns that awarded me the reputation I had acquired. I was not about to explain this to Colin. In the next fifteen minutes I did, however, explain to him exactly what I had found in the last few days. I told him about the mysteriously recovered artwork and the non-existent private investigators.

“Then I started checking through all the shipping info,” I said.

“You have details on shipping?” Colin leaned closer. Again I leaned away.

“Manny sent me the shipping info for the last five years. It’s an incredible amount of data. It lists all the types of ships, the companies that own these ships, even the manifests for each voyage.”

“From your earlier frustration, I assume you didn’t find anything?”

“Of course I did.” The audacity to suggest otherwise drew my eyebrows together. “Just not as much as I hoped.”

“Okay,” he said slowly, as if careful not to offend me. Again. “What did you find?”

“When I entered the forty-seven miraculously discovered artworks, three of those were registered on the shipping manifests.”

Colin’s eyes widened. “Which ones?”

“A Degas pastel, a Gustav Klimt painting and an Amedeo Modigliani sculpture.”

“Valuable stuff.”

“But that’s not the most interesting.” My voice changed pitch as I became excited again with my meagre discoveries. “The Degas was shipped on a general cargo ship from St Petersburg to Rotterdam on 17 August 2009. The ship was called
Derbent
and belonged to a Russian shipping company. The final destination for the Degas was to be in France.”