Murder at the National Gallery (39 page)

“I can’t believe they would cancel the entire exhibition,” Whitney said to Bishop, pouring each of them brandy. “Do you really think they will?”

“A damn good possibility.” Bishop sipped. “Good brandy, Court. To get back to your question. Yes, I think they’re serious about it. It would be a justifiable way to embarrass us.”

“The United States of America?”

“And this institution. The Italians have always considered their museums superior to ours. Now they can make that point worldwide.”

“What a mess. Do you know what, Paul?”

“What?”

“If I were able to confront Luther after knowing the turmoil he’s caused, I would be happy to personally wring his neck.”

Bishop laughed. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you, Court. I told you the man had gone off the deep end.”

“I don’t need to be reminded of that.”

“Anything else I can do for you tonight?”

“Yes. Deliver the original
Grottesca
to me.”

“I wish I could,” Bishop said, standing and going to the door. “If the Italians do insist upon pulling all the Caravaggios,
we can play tough, too. Galleria Doria-Pamphili is asking us to loan them our two Titians,
Ranuccio Farnese
and
Venus with a Mirror
.”

“Right. We can play their game if we have to. Will you be going to Mason’s funeral?”

“I suppose I’ll have to. We all do.”

“Frankly, I’ll have trouble demonstrating sadness at his passing.”

“So will I. But there is protocol to consider. Goodnight, Court. Have a pleasant evening, if that’s possible.”

Prompting people in high office to meet on his behalf would be nothing new for Caravaggio, had he been alive.

He’d been arrested fourteen times in less than six years while living in Rome but never spent more than a night in jail, thanks to highly placed friends, including Cardinal del Monte, and the French ambassador to Italy, who intervened on his behalf. Even papal authority was called upon to bail him out after he’d savagely attacked a friend. In another incident, Caravaggio lost money in a tennis match and attacked the victor with his racket. They dueled later that day, and Caravaggio ran the young man through with his sword, then fled Rome to the protective fiefdom of Don Marzio Colonna.

His rap sheet was as long as his list of paintings.

Caravaggio had captured the attention of two other prominent Washingtonians, Mackensie Smith and his handsome wife, Annabel Reed-Smith.

Annabel walked through the door just as Mac finished reading a newspaper account of Luther Mason’s untimely death.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Annabel said, tossing her coat on a chair, kicking off her shoes, and heading for the kitchen.

Mac followed. “What came out of the meeting?” he asked.

“The Italian government is threatening to cancel the Caravaggio exhibition.”

“Really? Could start World War III.”

Annabel poured a glass of grapefruit juice, took a long sustained swig of it, leaned against the sink, and directed a stream of air at a lock of hair that had fallen over her forehead. “You know what’s so unfortunate about this, Mac?”

“Tell me.”

“That in all that’s going on, Luther Mason being murdered seems almost irrelevant. He’s been dead less than twenty-four hours, and the only thing everyone is talking about is Caravaggio.”

“He does seem to have a certain presence,” Mac said. “You’re convinced Luther’s death wasn’t an accident?”

“Yup. And I think it had to do with
Grottesca
and Caravaggio.”

“I’m sure your instincts are right.” Mac picked up a raw carrot and took a crunchy bite. “Men have killed for less,” he said. “A lot less.”

Scott Pims left a building on K Street, NW, carrying a small shopping bag. He went directly home, changed into a tentlike pair of shorts and a size 52 T-shirt, opened a small tin of Sevruga caviar
malossol
, which he spread on thin water biscuits and garnished with finely chopped onion, poured a glass of vodka from a bottle encased in ice in an old milk carton in his freezer, settled at his desk, and opened the shopping bag. He stared at the sales slip from the CounterSpy Shop. “Bloody fortune,” he mumbled, tossing the slip to the floor and removing his purchase, an “Electronic Handkerchief” that looked like a small tape recorder with a phone attached.

He read the directions. Simple to use. Replace an existing phone with the device, dial in the degree of change you want for your voice, and call any number. He experimented until settling upon a change in timbre and tone that pleased him. The booklet said no matter how drastic the change in voice, his words would be free of distortion.

He consulted his phone directory, dialed a ten-digit number, and checked his watch.

“Hello?”

“Mr. del Brasco please.”

“Who’s calling?”

“A very important person. It is in reference to a certain art purchase he recently made.”

“What’s your name?”

“Tell Mr. del Brasco to come to the phone. He will consider what I have to say extremely important. E-x-t-r-e-m-e-l-y important!”

He hummed “Whistle While You Wait” until del Brasco’s flat, gruff voice came on the line. “Who is this?” he asked.

“The name is not important, sir; the message is. You have purchased what you assume is an original Caravaggio,
Grottesca
to be precise. You have been duped, sir.”

“Duped?”

“
Duped
. Fooled. Conned. You have purchased a cleverly executed copy.”

“What the hell you talking about?”

“Good evening, sir.”

He’d had better caviar, but any caviar was better than peanut butter. He refilled his glass with the throat-numbing vodka and turned on his computer. This chapter was going well. His book was becoming more interesting every day. And more salable. There was some danger he would become rich.

If only his friend Luther didn’t have to die.

But how could he have anticipated that? He couldn’t anticipate everything.

He started writing:
The unforeseen and totally shocking death of one of my dearest friends, Luther Mason, left me shaken. It was as though Caravaggio’s own hand had injected itself into the picture, striking down this gentle, sweet man who’d finally dared to flaunt convention in the interest of finding his own personal freedom
.

He sat back and sighed. “I am truly sorry, Luther,” he said aloud. “Truly sorry.”

His fingers flew over the keyboard.

“Annabel. It’s Carole.”

“Hi. Anything new on the exhibition?”

“The Italians are still threatening, but no action yet. I’ve been trying to fax you.”

“Machine should be on. I’ll check.” She returned a moment later. “Must have turned it off by mistake. What are you sending me?”

“Call me after you’ve read it.”

Annabel read Carole’s fax as it moved slowly through the machine:

“Carole, this is unbelievable. First Carlo Giliberti, then Luther Mason. And now this.”

“I know. At what point does the link with Caravaggio cease to be coincidence?”

“Does Steve Jordan know?”

“Would you call him?”

“Of course.”

As Annabel dialed the art-squad chief’s number, Jordan and his assistant, Gloria Watson, were in his office reading a Reuters dispatch from Rome they’d received a few minutes earlier:

“Make it four people,” Steve Jordan said to Watson, pointing to the AP dispatch about Peter Lafroing.

“Will there be five?” she asked.

“Sure, why not? I don’t believe in witches and curses, Gloria, but if somebody told me Caravaggio has cast a spell over everybody connected with
Grottesca
, he wouldn’t get a serious argument.”

He answered his phone. “Hello, Annabel.”

“Hello, Steve. Carole Aprile just faxed me an AP story about Peter Lafroing. He was another Caravaggio expert who—”

“I know.”

“Remarkable, isn’t it?” Annabel said. “Three people connected with Caravaggio—”

“Try four.”

“What?”

“The ex-priest, Father Giocondi. Found hung in front of his church in Ravello.”

Annabel’s gasp was loud.

“How about we get together today, talk this out? Maybe you know more than you remember. Hold on.” He cupped his hand over the mouthpiece and asked Gloria Watson, who was heading for the door, “Where are you going?”

“To buy a clove of garlic to wear around my neck, and a wooden stake.”

“Annabel?”

“I’m here, Steve.”

“Buy a couple of extra cloves,” he shouted at Gloria’s back. “What?” Annabel asked.

“Garlic.”

“Garlic?”

“I’ll explain when I see you.”

The Market Inn, located beneath the Southwest Freeway, was a Washington institution unto itself, a popular spot for locals seeking straight-ahead American food and round-the-clock jazz. Steve Jordan met Annabel at the door and led her to a booth in a secluded corner. Drinks ordered, she asked for his reaction to the murders of Peter Lafroing and Father Giocondi.

“Giocondi is simple enough. An Italian Mafia hit. Why? No details, except it’s reasonable to assume it’s connected with
Grottesca
.”

“Peter Lafroing?”

“A guy I went to school with heads up San Fran’s art squad. We’re pretty close. He told me just before I came to meet you that the Lafroing case looks like a professional hit, too.”

“The same people?”

“I don’t think so. But there’s that damn Caravaggio again, maybe linking them—and maybe not. Giliberti. Mason. Giocondi. Lafroing. What do you hear from Mrs. Aprile?”

“She’s shaken, of course. Besides seeing four people murdered, she’s pivotal in trying to dissuade the Italians from closing the Caravaggio exhibition. And maybe some of our air bases by now.”

“And?”

“So far just saber rattling. It’s good they’re nonnuclear. Where do you think
Grottesca
is?”

“Until he took his fall, I’d say it was with Luther Mason.
The question is whether he had it with him that night. If he did, and if somebody pushed him down those steps, that same person might have it. Unless he had already sold it, which is unlikely. Did Luther have any contact with Peter Lafroing after the exhibition opened?”

“Not that I know of,” Annabel replied.

“Lafroing was in Washington the night Mason died. We have his flight records. He flew in the day before, then back to San Francisco first thing next morning.”

“Any idea what he did while in Washington?”

“A few leads. Nothing the night of Mason’s death. The flight crew that worked his flight back to California is San Francisco based. My friend interviewed flight attendants who worked it. One remembers Lafroing carrying a package onboard the size of a painting. Kept it close to him all the way.”

“That’s interesting.”

“Yeah. But he didn’t have any painting with him when they found his body. Wallet missing, leading you to believe it was robbery. But the Caravaggio link is just too strong, robbery too simple—though as I’ve learned, sometimes the complex is really simple. I don’t know how this all comes together, Annabel, but I’ll bet it does.”

Just as Annabel started to speak, Jordan’s beeper went off. “Excuse me,” he said, heading for a phone. He returned a minute later. “Have to run. Or maybe you’d like to come with me.”

“Why?”

“Your friend, Carole Aprile, received a call at her office from some guy claiming to know where the original
Grottesca
is.”

“Oh.”

“Secret Service called my leader, the commish. They consider the call threatening.”

Annabel followed him to the door. “Based upon what’s already happened,” she said, “Secret Service made a good move.”

After a stringent check of credentials at the security gate, and phone calls to the inside, Annabel and Jordan were
escorted to Carole Aprile’s office in the West Wing. Darkness had begun to fall. Annabel had told Mac she was meeting Jordan but wanted to let him know where she was now. She used a phone in Carole’s outer office and got his machine, told him she was at the White House and would check in later.