Stealing the Countess (2 page)

“The only time anyone calls a lawyer is when they're in trouble.”

“There's trouble and then there's trouble.”

“May I please speak to Genevieve?”

“She's meeting with a client.”

“Is the client in trouble?”

“No one's accused him of murder like the last time you called, if that's what you mean.”

“That was a simple misunderstanding.”

“I'll have G. K. return your call as soon as she's done—wait. I think the meeting's breaking up. Let me put you on hold for a sec.”

It was closer to three minutes. I was unlocking my car when G. K. Bonalay came on the line.

“McKenzie, how are you?” she said.

“Very well, thank you. How 'bout yourself?”

“Overworked and underpaid.”

“You should complain to the boss.”

“That tyrannical bitch? There's no talking to her.”

“She seemed so reasonable the first time we met.”

“I take it from all this breezy chitchat that you really aren't in trouble for a change.”

“No, and I would like to keep it that way.”

“That's so responsible of you, I don't know what to say.”

“Oh, for God's sake.”

“What is it this time?”

I explained in detail, leaving nothing out. It was one of the reasons G. K. and I got along so well. We've trusted each other implicitly ever since I helped prove one of her clients was innocent of murder. She once told me I would be amazed at how often clients lie to their attorneys and how often attorneys lie to their clients. That's why she started her own law firm a few years back, to cut down on the lies.

“Don't do it,” G. K. said.

“That's your informed legal advice?”

“What you're planning is against the law. Listen, McKenzie, from what you're telling me, even though Duclos doesn't actually own the violin, he's entitled to possession, so he's cool. You, the middleman, though—it's a felony to knowingly purchase stolen property, to be in possession of stolen property. We're talking about a year and a day in prison. You would lose your license to work as a private investigator, too, if you actually had a license.”

“If I was convicted, being an ex-cop and all, wouldn't it be more likely that I would just receive a fine?”

“It's still a felony conviction. Writing a damn check isn't going to make it go away. Another thing—the prosecutor—he's going to ask who sold you the stolen property. Are you going to tell him?”

“Probably not.”

“Then they'll not only nail you for possession, they might tack on a charge of aiding an offender after the fact; they'll claim in court that you're just as guilty as if you were involved in the actual theft. They'll be right, too.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You're not listening.”

“I am, I am listening.”

“But you're going to do it anyway, aren't you?”

“I haven't decided yet. Right now, I'm thinking no.”

“Sure you are.”

*   *   *

You're probably wondering what a lifelong St. Paul boy like me is doing living in a high-rise condominium in downtown Minneapolis. My answer is simple and probably not all that original—there's this girl. Woman, actually. Her name is Nina Truhler. She has short black hair, the loveliest pale blue eyes I've ever seen, and a figure that she fights for in gymnasiums and fitness centers at least four times a week. Plus, she owns a jazz joint called Rickie's where I'm allowed to drink expensive alcohol and listen to tunes for free.

I found her sitting on a stool at the island in the kitchen area absentmindedly popping green grapes into her mouth while she read the latest Regency romance novel by Julie Klassen.

“Hey,” she said without looking at me.

“Hey,” I answered.

“There's mail. Someone sent you an invitation to something.”

I found the envelope on the desk in the library area near the door. The way the condo is laid out, we don't have rooms so much as areas—dining area, TV area, a music area where Nina's Steinway stands. The entire north wall is made of tinted floor-to-ceiling glass with a dramatic view of the Mississippi River. If that weren't enough, there is a sliding glass door built into the wall that leads to a balcony. The south wall features floor-to-ceiling bookcases that turn at the east wall and follow it to a large brick fireplace. To the left of the fireplace is a door that leads to a small guest bedroom with its own full bath. Against the west wall and elevated three steps above the living area is the kitchen area. Beyond that is a master bedroom that also features floor-to-ceiling windows, a huge walk-in closet, a bathroom with double sinks, a glass-enclosed shower, and a storage area with enough room to park a car. Be it ever so humble …

I carried the envelope across the condo and mounted the kitchen-area steps. Nina set down her book, wiped her fingers on her jeans, and kissed me.

“What did the Maestro want?” she asked.

“What maestro?”

The question came from the entrance to the guest room; or rather, I should say, from the room commandeered by Nina's daughter, who was taking the summer off from Tulane University.

“Paul Duclos,” I said.

“Paul Duclos? You know Paul Duclos? The violin master? That is so cool.”

By then Erica was standing at the island. She was two inches taller than Nina. Beyond that, they looked remarkably similar. I once compared photographs of Nina and Erica when they were both nineteen. Clothes, hairstyle, and Nina's remarkable eyes were the only way to tell them apart. Scary. Which isn't to say they resembled twins, or even sisters, today. More like a beautiful young lady standing next to her equally beautiful mother.

“How do you know Paul Duclos?” Erica asked.

“A mutual friend wants me to do a favor for him.”

“Then you must. You must.”

“How do you know this man?” Nina asked.

“Mother,” Erica said. She added an eye-roll and a deep sigh. “He's only one of the greatest violinists in the whole world, that's all.”

“You listen to classical music?” I asked. “Since when?”

“McKenzie.” She gave me an eye-roll and deep sigh, too, but I figured that was just to be polite. “There's more to life than jazz.”

“I listen to all kinds of music.”

“Like what?”

“Like, ahh … opera.”

“Oh, yeah? Name a female opera singer.”

“Maria Callas.”

“Everyone knows Maria Callas. Name three more.”

“Dawn Upshaw, Cecilia Bartoli, Kathleen Battle, Renée Fleming, and Audra McDonald.”

“I said three.”

Nina snickered around a grape while I opened the envelope. She was correct; it was the size and shape of an invitation to a wedding or a charity event, and it contained a folded white card. Only the cover was blank. I opened it and read what was inside.

“What favor are you going to do for the Maestro?” Erica asked.

“I'm not sure I'm going to do it yet.”

“What?”

“He wants me to retrieve his stolen Stradivarius.”

“Someone swiped the Countess Borromeo?”

“How do you know these things?”

“That's horrible. For a musician like Paul Duclos, that's like losing his, his…”

“Lover?”

The heads of both women came up; their eyes snapped on me.

“Just something that popped into my head while I was chatting with him,” I said.

“Are you going to do it?” Erica asked. “Help him, I mean?”

“Like I said, I haven't decided. Although…”

I handed the card to Nina. She read it silently and then aloud. “If you're wise, you will not join the hunt for the stolen Stradivarius. Consider this your only warning.”

“Wait,” Erica said. “What?”

“It gets better.”

I handed the envelope to Nina. There was a yellow strip with my current address covering the address that was originally written there with the words
FORWARD TO
stamped across the top.

“It was mailed to your house on Hoyt Avenue in St. Paul,” Nina said. “Whoever sent it didn't know we moved here in January.”

“The postmark,” I said.

“Bayfield, Wisconsin.”

“The Stradivarius was stolen four days ago.” I held up four fingers in case there was any confusion. “In Bayfield. This was mailed on Saturday and delivered on Monday.”

“That doesn't make sense,” Erica said. “How could the thieves know you were going after the violin three days before Duclos asked you to?”

“What makes you think the card was sent by the thieves?”

“Someone doesn't want you to chase the Countess.”

“On the contrary, sweetie. Whoever sent it knows this is exactly the kind of thing that would convince me to do it.”

“It's not a warning,” Nina said. She popped another grape into her mouth. “Like I said, it's an invitation.”

 

TWO

I found Vincent Donatucci kneeling on a foam cushion at the edge of his garden, a three-prong tiller in his hand. There was a small plastic bucket next to him. There were a few weeds inside, but not many.

“I never thought of you as a gardener,” I said.

He responded as if he knew I was standing behind him all the time, didn't even turn his head.

“A man needs to keep busy,” Donatucci said. “Here.”

He offered his arm. I moved quickly to his side and helped him to his feet. I was prepared to assist him to a couple of lawn chairs overlooking the garden, but he shoved my arm away.

“I can walk,” he said.

Still, I was surprised by how ancient he seemed. I knew he was old when I first met him. That was nearly eight years ago. He had asked many questions, and even though he didn't like my answers, he eventually handed over a check for $3,128,584.50—my compensation for capturing an astonishingly enterprising embezzler and returning the money he stole to the insurance company.

I saw him again when he recruited me to help recover the Jade Lily, an artifact stolen from a Minneapolis art museum. Both times I thought that he was far too old for the job—the way he grunted and sighed as he moved, his face so deeply wrinkled that I wondered how he shaved. Now he looked as if he had given up shaving altogether.

He shuffled to a lawn chair and sat as if he were afraid of breaking something.

“I take it you've spoken to Paul Duclos,” he said. “Else why would you be here?”

“How do you know him?”

“Through Midwest. I'm the one who insisted he put a GPS chip in his violin case. I wanted to attach one to the inside of the violin, but he refused. Something about acoustics. Also gave him some rules about carrying the damn thing that he apparently ignored. So?”

Donatucci looked up at me from the chair and smiled. Both his eyes and voice were clear. I sat in the chair next to him.

“So?” he repeated. “What do you think?”

“About what?”

“Don't make me work for it, McKenzie. It's too damn hot. Besides, you wouldn't be here if you weren't interested.”

“I'm told you're not with Midwest anymore.”

“Mandatory retirement. Sonsuvbitches look at a man's age, how much time he spends in the restroom, and completely ignore the quality of his mind, the clarity of his thinking. I was the smartest person in the room. Management didn't care. All they do is crunch numbers.”

“You say that as if it comes as a surprise. It was an insurance company, for God's sake. What did you expect?”

“I expected better, especially considering the amount of money I've saved them over the years. Tens of millions. I'm gonna save 'em some more, too. Or I should say, you are.”

“I am? Why?”

“Cuz it's the right thing to do.”

“C'mon.”

“What they're doing—I've never wanted to negotiate with criminals. I wanted to see them go to jail. Every mother's son. Believe me.”

“Oh, I believe you.”

“How much time did Teachwell do for embezzling all that cash?”

“Many years.”

“Arrest them all, I say. But first—do you think it's some kind of moral victory to refuse to negotiate with criminals? ‘Look at us. Aren't we virtuous?' That's what Midwest was saying when they made the announcement that they wouldn't pay a reward for the Stradivarius unless there was a conviction. Think that'll deter the thieves? Think they'll throw their hands in the air and admit defeat? Give back the violin and go straight? Puhleez.

“The Stradivarius should come first. That's what matters. Dammit, McKenzie, it's irreplaceable. Priceless. You want to see it burned in someone's fireplace? Dammit. They don't even seem to care if they get it back, happy to write a four-million-dollar check to the Peyroux Foundation to cover their loss. In my day that was the last thing we wanted to do. Instead, we did whatever was necessary to recover what was stolen. Sometimes that meant making deals with crooks. I told them, too. Called Midwest when they went public with their refusal to negotiate. Spoke to my replacement. They wouldn't listen. I'm just an old man. Why listen to me? You, though…”

“What about me?”

“Millionaire ex-cop philanthropist tryin' to make the world a better place. Isn't that what you do with your time these days? Isn't that why you helped me go after the Jade Lily? You're a do-gooder, McKenzie. Here's your chance to do some more.”

“Do what exactly?”

“Duclos didn't say? He's desperate to get the violin back. He thinks of it as a living thing.”

“I got that impression.”

“He's willing to pay. He's going to match the reward Midwest Farmers is offering, $250,000. Only with him, it'll be no questions asked. All he needs is a go-between. Someone to take the money up to Bayfield, let it be known that he's willing to deal, wait for the thieves to come forward.”