Hemlock Bay (22 page)

“Go to hell, boyo.”

“Or maybe you had to stop with the Sarah Elliotts altogether now that they’re gone from the museum? So you’re doing something else now?”

“I’d break your head for you right this minute, right here, but not with my new stuff around. You want to come outside?”

“You were right about the lady,” Simon said. “She isn’t my wife. She’s Lily Savich, Sarah Elliott’s granddaughter. The eight paintings that were in the museum, including the four you’ve already copied, belong to her.”

“Are you finishing a fifth one, Mr. Turkle? If you are, it’s too bad because you won’t get paid for it. The real one is back in my possession so there won’t be any chance to switch it.”

Simon said, “Actually, I’m surprised you’re still here in residence since the paintings have flown the coop. They’re hoping they’ll get them back? No chance.

“To be honest, Abe, the real reason we’re here is that we want to know who commissioned you. Not the collector, but the local people who are paying you and keeping you here.”

“Yes,” Lily said. “Please, Mr. Turkle, tell us who set this up.”

Abe Turkle gave a big sigh. He looked at Lily and his fierce expression softened, just a bit. “Little gal, why don’t you marry me and then I could look at those paintings for the rest of my life. I swear I’d never forge anything again.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m still married to Tennyson Frasier.”

“Not for long. I heard all about how you just walked out on him.”

“That’s right. But even so, the paintings belong in a museum, Mr. Turkle, not in a private collection somewhere, locked away, to be enjoyed by only one person.”

“They’re the ones with all the money. They call the shots.”

Simon said, “Abe, she’s divorcing Tennyson. She wants to fry that bastard’s butt, not yours. You’d do yourself a favor if you helped us.”

Abe said slowly, one eyebrow arched up a good inch, “You’ve got to be joking, boyo.”

Lily stepped forward and laid her hand on Abe Turkle’s massive shoulder. “We’re not joking. You could be in danger. Listen, Tennyson tried to kill me, and I wondered, Why now? Do you know? Did something happen to make him realize that I was a threat to him, before you’d finished copying all the paintings? Please, Mr. Turkle, tell us who hired you to copy my paintings. We’ll help you stay safe.”

“That really so? Your old man tried to kill you? I’m sorry about that, but I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. Both of you need to just get out of here now.”

He was standing with his legs spread, his big arms crossed over his chest. “I’m sorry you were almost killed, but it doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

“We know,” Simon said, “that this cottage is owned by the Frasiers. You’re staying here. It isn’t a stretch to figure it out.”

“I don’t have anything to say about that. Maybe when this is over, the little gal will share some lunch with me, I’ll marinate up some snails, then broil them. That’s the best, you know.”

Lily shook her head, then walked to the easel. Abe didn’t get in her way, didn’t try to block her. She stopped and sucked in her breath. On the easel was a magnificent painting nearly finished—it was Diego Velázquez’s
Toilet of Venus,
oil on canvas.

“It’s incredible. Please, Mr. Turkle, don’t let some collector take the original. Please.”

Abe shrugged. “I’m just painting that for the fun of it. I’m in between jobs right now. No, you don’t want to say that it’s because you took all the Sarah Elliott paintings away from the museum. Nah, don’t say that. There’s nothing going on here so I’m just having me some fun.”

Simon came around and looked at the nearly completed painting. “The original is in the National Gallery in London. I hope your compatriots elect to leave it there, Abe.”

“Like I said, this is just for fun. A guy’s got to keep practicing, you know what I mean? Look, I painted this from a series of photos. If I were in it for bucks, I wouldn’t have let her see it. I’d be in London, too.”

Lily couldn’t give up, not yet. “Won’t you just tell us the truth, Mr. Turkle? Tennyson Frasier married me only to get his hands on the paintings. Then he tried to kill me. Did he tell you that, Mr. Turkle? It’s possible that he murdered my child as well, I don’t know for sure. Please, we won’t involve you. Just tell us.”

Abe Turkle looked back and forth between the two of them. He slowly shook his head.

“I wish you hadn’t found me, Russo,” Abe Turkle said, shaking his big head. “I really wish you hadn’t.” He turned then and walked out the cottage door.

“Wait!” Lily started after him.

Simon grabbed her sleeve and pulled her back. “Let him go, Lily.”

They watched from the doorway as the big, black Kawasaki scattered rocks and dirt as it picked up speed. Then he was gone.

“We screwed up,” Simon said.

“I wish he’d stayed and fought me,” Lily said.

Simon looked down at her, remembering the image of her in a fighting position, with that painting in her right hand. He grinned. He lightly touched his hand to her hair. “You’re all blond and blue-eyed, you’re skinny as a post, your pants are hanging off your butt, and knowing you for just a short time, I know you’ve got more guts than brains. I swear to you, when I tell Savich how his little sister was ready to take on Abe Turkle, he’ll . . . No, better not tell him how I nearly got you into a fight. Well, shit.”

Lily punched him in the gut. “You jerk. I didn’t see you trying to do anything.”

Simon grunted, rubbed his palm over his belly, and grinned down at her. “I hope you didn’t pull anything loose when you hit me. Not in me, in you.”

“I might have, no thanks to you.”

She didn’t speak to him until they were back in the car and headed down to Hemlock Bay.

“We’re going to see Tennyson?”

“Nope, we’ve got other fish to fry.”

Washington, D.C.

The Hoover Building

Fifth Floor, The Criminal

Apprehension Unit

It was one o’clock in the afternoon. Empty sandwich wrappers were strewn on the conference table, leaving the vague smell of tuna fish with an overlay of roast beef, and at least a dozen soda cans stood empty. They’d just finished their daily update meeting. Savich’s second in charge, Ollie Hamish, said to the assembled agents around the CAU conference table, “I’m going to be going to Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, in the morning. Our research says that he not only took the real Wilbur’s name, he’s spent a lot of time in Wright’s hometown. Chances are, though, that he’s not going to Dayton, since everyone’s looking for him there, but to Kitty Hawk. I’ve gotten all the data over to Behavioral Sciences, to Jane Bitt. We’ll see what she’s got to add, but that’s it, so far.

“I’m going to our office down there, fill them all in, and get things set up for when he turns up.”

Savich nodded. “Sounds good, Ollie. No more supposed sightings of the guru in Texas?”

“Oh, yeah,” Ollie said, “but we’re letting the agents there deal with them. Our people here believe guru Wilbur is already heading across country, due east to North Carolina. Our offices across the South are all alerted. Maybe we can get him before he hits Kitty Hawk. It might be that Kitty Hawk will be his last stand. We don’t want him to bring real havoc when he gets there. We’ll see if Jane Bitt agrees.”

Sherlock said, “Have we got photos?”

“The only photo we’ve got is old and fuzzy, unfortunately. We’re looking at getting more.”

Special Agent Dane Carver, newly assigned to the unit, said, “Why don’t you give me the photo, Ollie, and let me work on it. Maybe we can clean it up in the lab.”

“You got it.”

Savich looked around the conference table. “Everyone on track now?”

There were grunts, nods, and groans.

Millie, the CAU secretary, said, “What about Tammy, Dillon? Any sightings? Any word at all yet?”

“Not a thing as yet. It’s only been a day since I spoke to Marilyn Warluski at Quantico. Our people are staying with Tony, Marilyn’s boyfriend, in Bar Harbor. His phone’s covered. If Tammy calls, we’ll hear it all. He’s cooperating.” Savich paused a moment, then shrugged. “It’s frustrating. She’s not in good shape, yet no one’s seen her. Chances are very good that she did indeed murder a pharmacist in Souterville, New Jersey. The other pharmacist checked and said someone had rifled through the supplies. Vicodin, a medication to control moderate pain, and Keflex, an oral antibiotic, a good three or four days’ supply, were missing. Evidently she killed the guy because he refused to give her anything.

“As you know, we alerted police on all islands to Tammy’s possible presence. Now they also know to keep a close eye on doctors and pharmacies, and why.”

Ollie said, sitting forward, his hands clasped, “Look, Savich, she threatened you. I read you the note. She means it. We’ve all been talking about it, and we think you should have some protection. We think Jimmy Maitland should assign you some guards.”

Savich thought about it a minute, then looked down the table to Sherlock. He realized that she was thinking about Tammy finding out where they lived and coming to the house. She was thinking about Sean. He said to Ollie, “I think that’s a great idea. I’ll speak to Mr. Maitland this afternoon. Thanks, Ollie, I really hadn’t thought it through.”

He called a halt, scheduled a meeting with his boss, Jimmy Maitland, within the hour, and kissed Sherlock behind a door. Then he went to his office and punched in Simon’s cell phone.

Simon answered on the third ring. “Yo.”

“Savich here. Is Lily all right? What’s going on?”

“Yes, she’s fine.” Simon then told him about their meeting with Abe Turkle, omitting Lily’s challenge to beat the crap out of Abe. Then he told him about their much shorter meeting in Hemlock Bay with Daddy Frasier. “That old guy’s really something, Savich. The guy hates Lily, you can see it in his eyes, colder than a snake’s, and in his body language. I think he would have threatened her if I hadn’t been there.”

Savich wanted details, and so Simon told him exactly what had happened.

They’d gone to Elcott Frasier’s office because they wanted to get in the old man’s face, scare the bejesus out of him, let him know that everyone was on to him. Since he was the president and big cheese of the Hemlock National Bank, he had the shiny corner office on the second floor, all windows, a panoramic view of both the ocean and the town. Simon had wondered if Frasier would see them. His administrative assistant, Ms. Loralee Carmichael, at least twenty-one years old, and so beautiful it made your teeth ache to look at her, left them to kick up their heels for only twelve minutes, acceptable, Simon decided, since they’d caught the old man off guard and he’d probably want to get himself and his stories together. But Simon was worried about Lily. He’d have given anything to put her on a plane back to Washington, D.C., where she’d be safe. She looked nearly flattened, her face pale and set. If there’d been a bed nearby, he’d have tied her down in it. She moved slowly, but she had that lockjaw determined look, and so he kept his mouth shut.

Elcott Frasier welcomed them into his office, patted Lily’s shoulder, his hand a bit on the heavy side, and said, “Lily, dear. May I say that you don’t look well.”

“Mr. Frasier.” She immediately moved away from him. “Since you’ve already said it, I don’t suppose there’s anything I can do about it.” She gave him a smile as cold as his own. “This is Mr. Russo. He’s a dealer of art. He’s the one who verified that four of my Sarah Elliott paintings are forgeries.”

Elcott Frasier nodded to Simon and motioned to them to be seated. “Well, this comes as quite a surprise. You say you’re an art dealer, Mr. Russo. I don’t know many art dealers who can spot forgeries. Are you quite sure about this?”

“I’m not exactly an art dealer, Mr. Frasier, as in running a gallery. I’m more a dealer/broker. I bring buyers and sellers together. Occasionally I track down forgeries and return them to their rightful owners. Since I own a Sarah Elliott and know her work intimately, I was able to spot the fakes among the eight paintings that Lily owns, particularly since I knew which four had been forged.”

Simon paused a moment, wondering how much to tell Frasier and if it would frighten the man. He’d known, of course, about the forgeries, didn’t even try to act shocked. Why not push it all the way, since he had a pretty good idea of how it had gone down? It would have to make him act. He hadn’t told Lily this and hoped she wouldn’t act surprised. He smiled toward her, then added, “I originally thought that you initiated the whole deal. But then I got to thinking that you’re really a very small man, with no contacts at all. There’s a collector, a Swede named Olaf Jorgenson, who isn’t a small man. He’s very powerful, actually. When he wants something, he goes after it, no obstacle too great. I believe that it was Jorgenson who instigated the whole thing. It went this way: Olaf wanted the Sarah Elliott paintings when they were in the Chicago Institute, but he couldn’t pull it off and had to wait. He knew exactly when Lily Savich left Chicago to move to Hemlock Bay, California. He put out feelers and found you very quickly, and your son, Tennyson, who was the right age. Then you all cut a deal. Actually, I heard Olaf had only three of the paintings. I don’t know where the fourth one is as of yet. Hopefully, he has it as well. It makes everything cleaner, easier.” Simon snapped his fingers right in Frasier’s face. “We’ll get them back fast as that. So, Mr. Frasier, did I get it all right?”

Elcott Frasier didn’t bat an eye. He looked faintly bored. Lily, though, who knew him well, saw the slight tic in his left eye, there only when he was stressed out or angry. He could be either or both at this moment in time. She was surprised initially at what Simon had said but realized that it had probably happened just as Simon had said. She said, “Jorgenson is indeed powerful, Elcott. He isn’t a small man at all, not like you.”

Simon thought their father-in-law would belt her. He was ready for it, but Frasier managed to hold himself in. He said, dismissively and as smoothly as a politician accepting a bribe for a pardon, “That’s quite a scenario, Mr. Russo. I’m sorry to hear four of the paintings were forged. No matter what you say, it must have happened while they were at the Chicago Institute. All this elaborate plot by this fellow Olaf Jorgenson sounds like a bad movie. However, none of this has anything to do with me or my family. I really don’t know why you came here to accuse me of it.”