Stealing the Countess Read online

  “I’d like to get home sometime tonight. I have a girlfriend.”

  “Don’t we all? Mine’s in Milwaukee. I haven’t seen her in seven days. All right, you have a deal. Talk to me.”

  I spoke for over a half hour, leaving nothing out—except the number on Heavenly’s cell phone and the $50,000 hidden in her carry-on bag, which, apparently, were about the only things that Special Agent Beatty didn’t already know. Hell, he even knew our room numbers at the hotel. Which might have explained why he didn’t take notes. Either that or the conversation was being recorded without my knowledge.

  “For the record,” I said, “Ruland didn’t steal the Countess.”

  “You know this—how?”

  “He told me. He said he had planned to tag Duclos with a Taser at Duclos’s hotel here in Duluth, grab the violin, and make a run for it, but someone else stole the violin before he could make his move.”

  “You think he was telling the truth?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you offer him the money?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But he didn’t take it.”

  “No, sir.”

  “What would you have done if he had?”

  “Why, I would have called the FBI and had him arrested. After all, it’s a felony to knowingly purchase stolen property.”

  “I believe you. Know why? Because you have a history of being an upstanding, law-abiding citizen going all the way back to the day you retired from the St. Paul Police Department.”

  I shouldn’t have been surprised that he knew all about me, yet I was.

  “Your agent in Bayfield,” I said. “The one with a penchant for sports coats; he isn’t very good at one-on-one surveillance. I spotted him right away.”

  “No you didn’t. My people know how to blend, and none of them were wearing sports coats. C’mon, we’re a little more clever than that.”

  “Yet none of you could identify the suspect who shot Heavenly, any more than they could ID the person or persons unknown who killed Trevor Ruland.”

  “I’m very unhappy about that. You and Petryk should leave before I become even more unhappy.”

  FIFTEEN

  The desk clerk was surprised when Heavenly and I checked out of the hotel without actually using our rooms. By seven thirty we were packed, in my Mustang, and driving toward the Cities, with both of us hungry yet neither of us wanting to stay in Duluth to eat. I gave it a good half hour before I started in on her.

  “The time has come to talk of many things…”

  “Would you stop saying that,” Heavenly said. “Every time you say that someone gets shot.”

  “Nonetheless.”

  “I don’t know what you want me to tell you.”

  “Start with the $50,000 hidden in your carry-on case. If you don’t like that, how ’bout the 215 number on the cheap flip phone you carry that’s oh so similar to the one that Trevor Ruland said he used.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh,” I repeated.

  “I have a logical explanation for both.”

  “Please, I’d like to hear it.”

  Heavenly stared out the window for a few beats.

  “Oh, hell, McKenzie,” she said. “I’m the go-between. Don’t give me that look, Mr. ‘I’m willing to pay $250,000 for the violin’s safe return, no questions asked’—you should talk.”

  “Unlike you, I’m on the side of the angels.”

  “If you’re going to be condescending…”

  “Tell me about it, Heavenly, and just this once, be honest.”

  “Be honest—the truth is my story isn’t substantially different from Ruland’s. I had just finished a job in Chicago. I received a flip phone in the mail; made the call. A voice asked if I would be interested in transporting an item from Point A to Point B for $50,000. I told him no drugs, no people; nothing that goes boom, and unlike the guy in the movies, I had every intention of looking inside the bag. He had no issue with that. So I said sure. The next day I was sent $55,000 in cash. Fifty for the thief, which turned out to be Ruland, and five for my expenses.”

  “You’ve done this sort of thing before.”

  “Once or twice. You pretty much know the rest. I was sent to Duluth with instructions to wait day and night by the phone from Wednesday morning on. When the time came, the Voice—what I called the man on the cell phone—he said he would tell me where to meet the thief. Once I had the package in hand, I would call him back and he would tell me where to take it. I would be paid the fifty grand once I passed it on. Simple. Except I never received a call. When I heard about the Countess and figured out what was going on, I contacted the Voice and offered to return the $50,000; I was going to keep the $5,000 for my time. He was not pleased.”

  “I wouldn’t think so.”

  “He accused me of keeping the violin for myself, but seriously, what was I going to do with it? Sell it at a flea market in Iowa?”

  “You do have a reputation.”

  “Yes, I do—a reputation for delivering the goods on schedule for the agreed-upon price. I won’t stiff a client once I make a deal. It’s bad for business. It’s bad for a girl’s health. Seriously, McKenzie. You know me. I have never made any claims to virtue. I could very well have talked myself into stealing the Countess Borromeo and selling it to you for the $250,000, except A, I didn’t know the Countess was in play, and B, I didn’t know that you were coming. In fact, the only thing I knew for sure about the package was its approximate size and weight and that I shouldn’t drop it. If Ruland had delivered it as planned, I would have transported it—as planned.”

  “The Voice didn’t believe you.”

  “Yes, he did. He just didn’t want to take ‘Sorry, Charlie,’ for an answer. Instead, he was adamant that I keep the $50,000 as down payment on finding the violin. He said that once I had it, we would proceed with our original agreement, with a little something extra for my trouble. He left no room for negotiation.”

  “You went to Bayfield…”

  “After first taking on Caroline’s persona so I could hide while I worked—just in case. But then something unexpected happened. Midwest Farmers and the Peyroux Foundation announced at a press conference in Bayfield that they wouldn’t negotiate for the return of the violin, that they were offering only a $250,000 reward payable upon the conviction of the thieves. I called the Voice again and told him that the Countess was no longer worth the trouble. He was as surprised by what the insurance company had done as I was; very angry, too. Again I offered to return the money. He said he’d get back to me. Then you showed up, the good guy riding to the rescue, which of course, ostensibly made me the bad guy. No way you were working for the Voice, I told myself. It had to be the insurance company.”

  “Actually, I’m working for Paul Duclos.”

  “I know that now. I informed the Voice about that, too. He said to stay close to you—just in case.”

  “Let me guess—if I actually did lay my hands on the violin, you were supposed to take it from me.”

  “I wouldn’t have killed you for it; I wouldn’t have harmed a hair on your head. I wouldn’t have slept with you, either, not that you would have let me. Other than that, I was open to suggestions. I hope you’re not angry.”

  “No, I figured that was your plan.”

  “What are we going to do, McKenzie?”

  “We? We’re partners now?”

  “The situation has changed, hasn’t it?”

  “In what way?”

  “People are getting shot.”

  “Do you think the Voice is responsible?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Someone shot you, then searched your room. Who knew you were in Bayfield? Who knew you had fifty grand? Who knew that Ruland was involved if not the Voice?”

  “It doesn’t make any sense. I told him I’d return the money on at least two occasions. And why shoot Ruland? Tidying up loose ends? What loose ends? We couldn’t identify the Voice even if we wanted to, and
ID him to whom? For what? You could argue that technically, no crime had been committed, at least not by us.”

  “You’re assuming he’s a professional. Could be he’s a rank amateur like so many of the others we’ve dealt with up till now.”

  “If he was an amateur, he wouldn’t have known me.”

  “There’s something to that. The only alternative I can come up with—maybe he was trying to keep you two from looking for the Countess. With only $250,000 on the table…”

  “Ruland wasn’t looking for the violin.”

  “The shooter might have thought differently when he saw us talking to him.”

  “And I wanted to give it up a week ago. You know who’s looking for the Countess? You are.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Which leaves us where, exactly?”

  “I want to talk to the Voice.”

  “Lucky you. I have his phone number.”

  “No, I mean—”

  “You want to look him in the eye.”

  “Something like that.”

  “How are you going to find him?”

  “Turns out I know a guy.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “The question is—can I trust you?”

  “McKenzie—of course you can.”

  * * *

  Nina greeted us at the door. Heavenly was even more surprised than I was when she hugged her, being careful not to jostle her injured arm.

  “Look at you, all beat up,” Nina said.

  “It’s not as bad as it appears,” Heavenly said.

  “I’m sure it’s much worse. Have you eaten?”

  “We stopped for a bite on the way.”

  “Here, let me take that.”

  Nina took hold of Heavenly’s nylon carry-on and escorted the woman deeper into the condo. I was burdened with the two heavy suitcases and my satchel, yet neither of them seemed to notice until I set the bags down, and only because the noise interrupted their conversation.

  “Take Heavenly’s suitcases into the guest room,” Nina said.

  I did. Afterward, I took my satchel into the master bedroom. When I returned, the two women were embracing. Heavenly’s eyes were filled with tears, and I swear I thought Nina might have been crying, too.

  What the hell happened? my inner voice said. You were gone for two minutes.

  Yet I never asked out loud, and no one ever volunteered an answer.

  Heavenly wiped her tears away with the back of her hand and spun in a small circle.

  “You have a beautiful home,” she said.

  “Thank you,” Nina said.

  “The view is spectacular. The river. All those books.” She stepped closer to the shelves. “Tell me the truth. How many of these are McKenzie’s?”

  “All the ones with pictures,” Nina said.

  “I don’t mind you two making fun of me,” I said, “but can’t you at least wait until my back is turned?”

  I went to the kitchen area where we kept our booze.

  “Can I offer you anything?”

  I was speaking to both of them, but it was Heavenly who answered.

  “What are you drinking?” she asked.

  “Bourbon.”

  “Uh-oh,” Nina said. “You didn’t find the Countess, did you?”

  “No,” Heavenly said.

  “McKenzie is a craft beer man. When he drinks the hard stuff, that usually means he’s perplexed.”

  “So he drinks a lot of bourbon, then?”

  “Why is it when girls get together, they always pick on the guys?” I asked. “We never pick on you.”

  Their response was loud and vigorous. Examples of just how wrong I was were offered by both women. I apologized. More examples were given, ranging from income inequality to sexual abuse, many of them personal. I apologized some more. By the time calm was restored I came to realize that Nina and Heavenly were much more similar than they were different. I think they would have liked to be friends, except something kept them at a distance. My ego was big enough that I wondered if it was me.

  “What happens next?” Nina asked. We were sitting at the island in the kitchen area, Nina at my side and Heavenly across from me. Heavenly and I were drinking Knob Creek; Nina was sipping hot chocolate with a smile—the smile provided by a shot of peppermint schnapps. “Neither of you are going to give up on the violin, so…”

  “Problem is, someone else wants it,” Heavenly said. “Someone wants it very badly.”

  “Badly enough to shoot people?”

  “If he’s a professional, we might be able to get a line on him,” I said.

  “How?”

  “We’re going to meet a guy tomorrow, see if he can help us out.”

  “Who?”

  “David Wicker.”

  Heavenly’s eyes grew wide.

  “El Cid?” she said.

  “That’s him.”

  Heavenly took a long pull of her bourbon before looking at Nina.

  “I thought I hung out with a bad crowd,” she said.

  * * *

  The bar was located in the Phillips neighborhood in the center of Minneapolis. I knew it was a bar because I had been there before, although I wondered who else knew. There was no name above the door, no neon lights flashing the logos of pasteurized beers from St. Louis or Milwaukee, no sign saying it was open. Only a black-and-white notification taped to the window that read NO FIREARMS ARE ALLOWED ON THESE PREMISES, which was the owner’s way of warning if you’re carrying a gun, they just might shoot you as you walk through the door.

  Heavenly followed me inside. It was dark; the lights were low, and a thick curtain had been drawn across the one and only window. Frank Sinatra was singing “Summer Wind” from invisible speakers, the volume turned down. Two older men, nursing bottled beer in a wooden booth near the door, looked up when we entered and kept looking, but I suspected that was just their way of thanking Heavenly for the thin, tight blue dress that she wore, the hem about two inches above her knees.

  A third man about Heavenly’s age was sitting alone at a table in the center of the room, his chair situated so that he had an unobstructed view of both the front and back doors. He lifted his eyes from his tablet and stared at Heavenly, too. There was a folded Star Tribune on the table within easy reach. I knew the newspaper was hiding a gun; it had been the last time I was there, too. The young man’s hand didn’t go anywhere near it. I took that as a good sign.

  “I’ll be a sonuvabitch.”

  I followed the voice to another old-fashioned wooden booth with high backs that you can’t see over. A man was sitting there, his hands folded on top of the table like a schoolboy waiting for lessons to begin, two cell phones and a laptop arrayed in front of him. He was dressed in a red polo shirt, jeans, and black cowboy boots and looked very much as if he had just dropped in for a cold one, although there wasn’t a beverage of any kind on the table.

  “You called, said you were on your way,” he told me. “But McKenzie, I didn’t think you had the balls to actually show up.”

  I drifted toward the booth. The young man had stopped studying Heavenly and was now watching every movement I made. Still, he kept both hands on the tablet.

  “Don’t tell me you’re still holding a grudge after all this time,” I said.

  “Why would I hold a grudge? Just because you gave me up to the cops…”

  “All I did was present you with the opportunity to return some stolen property to its rightful owners. You didn’t spend five minutes in jail.”

  “That’s because I made a couple of deals.”

  “Isn’t that your life? Making deals?”

  “It’s not the cops or the deals, McKenzie. It’s the goddamn IRS I object to.”

  “I had nothing to do with that.”

  “I had to pay a fine, McKenzie. Three hundred and forty-eight fucking dollars.”

  “Is that all? I’ll write you a check.”

  “It’s not the money. It’s the principle of the thing. Tha
t and now I’m on their radar. You don’t think the IRS has been studying my returns with a goddamned magnifying glass?”

  “Excuse me.” Heavenly positioned herself so that I was between her and the young man sitting at the table. Her right hand was inside her sling. “I apologize for interrupting. Are you El Cid?”

  Cid smiled as if it were the first time he had heard the name. He slid out of the booth and offered his hand. Heavenly removed her own hand from the sling and shook it.

  “Heavenly Petryk?” Cid asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I am most happy to make your acquaintance at last.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Please.” He gestured at the bench. “Sit.”

  They both slid into the booth, stopping when they were comfortably facing each other. Cid hadn’t asked me to sit, but since he didn’t say I couldn’t, I squeezed in next to Heavenly. A bartender appeared. He looked at the kid, though, and not at us. The kid shook his head, and the bartender retreated.

  “This is a great pleasure for me,” Cid said. “I have been watching your career with some interest.”

  “I am pleased to hear that,” Heavenly said. “At the same time, I was hoping I had been conducting my business in such a way that no one could follow my career.”

  “Still, we do hear names and the exploits that accompany them, don’t we?”

  “Of course, everyone knows the name El Cid—the Lord.”

  “A nickname I picked up. Please…” He extended his hand again. “I am David Wicker. Call me Dave.”

  “Heavenly.” She shook Cid’s hand. “My given name. I have no idea what my parents were thinking.”

  “Probably they were thinking you would grow up to be just as lovely as you are.”

  Vanity of vanities, saith the preacher; vanity of vanities; all is vanity, my inner voice quoted. Only I knew better.

  “El Cid” was an affectation that Wicker gave himself, pilfering it from Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar, the Spanish knight and mercenary credited with driving the Moors out of Spain in the eleventh century. To survive, much less flourish, in his line of work, a fence must be able to negotiate with the most dangerous thieves as well as the least scrupulous customers. The fear of betrayal, of being ripped off, of being arrested, was always present, so it was important to demonstrate a certain amount of fearlessness. “El Cid”—as well as the barely concealed muscle pretending to examine his tablet while watching us—was meant to make his associates believe that no one had better mess with Dave Wicker.