Olde World Antiques
919 Pine Street
Philadelphia, PA
Price took the box up to his office. It was now seven in the morning. No one would be in until about nine o'clock. He put on a pot of coffee; shaved with an electric razor and put on a clean white shirt. The box with the hundred million dollar painting would not leave his sight until the last possible minute.
He picked up the phone and got an outside line. "Sophia darling, I'm sorry. I worked late at the office and passed out in my chair. Perhaps you could come into town and join me for lunch?"
Price buzzed his secretary at nine-ten. She stepped into his office."Sherry, please post this box immediately."
"Insurance?"
"A thousand dollars for art supplies." Just enough that the post office would handle it with care. Not enough to cause suspicion.
Sherry closed the door behind her. Price leaned back in his chair and let out a huge breath.
"My God, what have I done?"
Special agent man
I took a sip of my coffee.
I empty my pockets and push the items across the formica table top to TJ. "There are pictures of the bad guys on the cell. Send them to Connor along with the numbers stored in the phone."
Pushing the Chevy hard had brought me out to Route 30 in Lancaster County. At the first red light I pulled out Frenchie's phone and called TJ. They had already found Kelly and stopped at a twenty-four hour diner in Wayne.
TJ: "Use the anonymous site?"
"Screw that, we don't have time. Encrypt everything and upload it to Amazon S3. Call Connor on the phone. He has what he needs to access everything. Tell him that this is urgent."
TJ and Jaw-long were on their way to Tai-Chi when Moe popped up. They were racing down Lancaster Avenue when Kelly called him after her escape. Knowing how I enjoy eating after a crisis, they stopped at Minella's to wait until I turned up.
"Pick, who were those guys?" Kelly asks.
"No idea. Can't keep track of the players because I don't have a score card. Nothing makes sense. The only thing that I know for certain is that Doo Wop was killed. Somehow, someone found out about the existence of #37. After that I'm completely lost. How did they know to come after me? Why are these different types of guys coming after us? The Gunn brothers are nothing but South Philly low life. Then two rogue FBI agents. Now professional thugs. There are only two conclusions that I can reach. The first is that whoever is behind this is not well organized. He does not have an organization in place. The other conclusion is that he is both well funded and even connected. Other than that, I'm lost."
"What now, boss?" Jaw spoke. Jeez, who would of thought? Boss?
"Simple. We back track. Find out who leaked the existence of 'Millie' and work from there. And, if we're lucky, Connor may have something for us by the end of the day."
Kelly: "What about right now?"
"Finish breakfast."
"And after that?" asks TJ.
"Drop Kelly and me off at home. I don't want to drive these vehicles, just leave them here."
Jaw: "Boss, what about the dead body? And the prints on the car and van?" Unbelievable. Aren't we talkative today?
"Don't worry about them. If I'm not mistaken, no body will ever be found. The car and van won't be reported missing, for that matter. Just leave them."
Thirty minutes later Kelly and I walked into my house. Kato jumped up, placed his paws on my chest and gave me a kiss.
"Nice to see you, too, but you know better than that." For the rest of the day that poor dog didn't leave my side.
It was still early in the day. I walked over to the mantle, placed the Glock there, opened the humidor and grabbed a cigar. Stuck it between my teeth and chewed on it. I dropped onto the sofa and felt the energy drain right out of me. Kelly plopped down next to me.
"Well?" she said.
"Let me guess. You want to hear about my brother."
"Sure. We have time."
"Well, there's not too much to tell at this point. We left the solicitor’s office and walked back to The Ritz. Went into their bar and drank some twenty-five year old scotch and fired up two more Cubans." Talking about cigars, I decided to light mine. "In one pocket I had a folded copy of my father's will. In another pocket was the DVD that I supposed my father had made. My pants pocket held the keys to who knows what. At this point in time, the only thing that seemed important to me was to get to know the brother that I didn't know I had."
Kelly pulled her legs up under her, turned sideways to look at me and placed her arm on the back of the sofa. "What can you tell me about him?"
"I'm not exactly sure how to categorize what Connor does for a living. Hell, that's not true. He's a con man. But not just any con man. From what I understand, he only goes after the wealthy. After a successful 'job', a portion of the proceeds goes into an account in order to draw salaries, pay overhead and fund future endeavors. Just like any business enterprise. The rest is distributed to those that are less fortunate. Poor people.
"Connor's father was an extremely successful international con man who bordered on sociopathy. His mother is a great beauty devoted to humane causes. As a result, Connor's shrink says that he suffers from a skewed moral perspective. In lay terms, he has a Robin Hood Complex."
She looked puzzled. "He sees a shrink? What the hell for?"
"Hell if I know. To me he seems pretty together, but what do I know. Everybody has their 'stuff' and I guess he goes to a shrink to deal with his."
Just then the phone rang.
"Picker, old boy, it's me!" Connor.
"Nice to hear your voice, bro. How the hell are you? What have you got for me?"
"Great, never better. But you, quite the pickle, eh? Fill me in."
I spent the next half hour telling Connor the entire story. "Well, well, well. Then perhaps what I have will be useful. Mr. No Name turns out to work for Interpol."
This is what he told me: Robert Simmons, forty-two years old, originally a Brooklyn kid turned New York City Policeman. Recruited by the Federal Bureau of Investigation, followed by a short stint at the National Security Agency. Two years ago he went to work for International Criminal Police Organization, better known as Interpol.
Connor continued, “At the present, his group is charged with tracking down a really big fish. I couldn't get details on the exact target of the investigation. I did, however, learn the identity of your Frenchman. LaVache. Jean Pierre LaVache. Very cool dude, as you Yanks would say." Connor likes Americanisms. "Very cool, but very, very bad. Apparently, he directs a great deal of criminal activity, but from a distance. He, himself, never gets his hands dirty. LaVache has no criminal record. Not even a parking ticket. As you have often said, his fingers are not in the pie."
"Well, brother, they are this time. Anything else?"
"Not yet, I'm working on the other photos and tracking those phone numbers. Let you know as soon as I know something."
"Thanks, greatly appreciated."
"One last thing. You want some help? I'd be glad to hop the pond, lend a hand."
"No, I'm good. Thanks for the offer. Send my love to your mother. Talk soon."
Connor hung up and I turned to Kelly. She shrugged her shoulders. "How does Connor get all of this information?"
"As benign as it is, he has a criminal organization all his own. When I say organization, I mean it’s more like a group of talented people that cooperate with one another from time to time. For this stuff, he does business with a German hacker. World class, one of the best. Back doors into government and large business data bases. I only know him by his first name, Eckhart. I met him once, briefly."