At that moment, the doorbell rang. Finally, someone with some manners. I get up and open the door. It's Mr. No Name himself.
"Mr. Simmons, what can I do for you today?"
The Interpol agent looks momentarily stunned but recovers quickly. "Very impressive Mr. Picker, very impressive indeed. May I come in for a few moments?"
"Sure. Robert Simmons, this is Kelly Lane. Can I get you something to drink?"
"Coffee would be great."
We sat in the living room. Kelly went to put on some coffee. RS started right in, "Mr. Picker, as I've just said, what you've done is very impressive. But the truth is that you're playing out of your league. To be perfectly frank, I don't understand how you're still alive."
"It's just Picker, no mister. I'm flattered Bob, but that doesn't tell me what you're doing here. What interest does Interpol have in the murder of a local nobody?"
"Two things really. The first is to inform you that we are investigating a successful, international criminal organization. Well, not so much a criminal organization as a criminal enterprise."
I gave him a quick smile. "You mean LaVache?"
For the second time this morning Interpol's Special Agent Robert Simmons looked stunned. This time he did not recover so quickly. "Yes and no. You continue to surprise me Picker. I don't have any idea how you can be so well informed. But to answer your question, yes, we're on LaVache's trail. However, LaVache is not the big fish. Jean Pierre is someone's lieutenant; most likely he's the second in command."
"And the second thing?"
"We want to know how you're involved. Why are they coming after you?"
Kelly brought the coffee in and set it down. We all helped ourselves.
"Honestly Special Agent, I have no idea. You are in possession of all the facts that I have. Possibly the only thing that I can add is what the two FBI agents said when they broke in. They said that they wanted the painting. They did not specify what painting they were looking for."
I glanced over my shoulder at the wall of paintings. "I have one valuable painting that was left to me by my father."
SARS: "Which one?"
"The Van Gogh."
He stands up and moves closer to the paintings. "I know that one. I've seen it in a museum."
"The one in the museum is a copy. The one that you're looking at is the real McCoy. And before you ask, Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum expressed absolutely no interest in it."
Bob chuckled. "Is that what you named those two guys in your head?"
"Yeah, that's before I had names for them."
He looks over at the mantle and says, "Nice Glock."
My response, "Not mine. Picked it up this morning from a couple of guys that stopped in. The serial number hasn't been disturbed, so it's probably registered legally. Take it with you; see what you can find out."
"Thanks, I will. One last thing before I go. Outing those two on the web didn't exactly make you any friends."
"I didn't do it to make friends."
I asked him how long he was going to be in town. When he said a few days, I walked over to my desk and retrieved two more tickets to the next Phillies game. I handed them to him and said, "Maybe you can catch a game while you're here."
This seemed to take him aback just a little bit. He paused for a moment as though he was considering something. Finally he handed me his card with his private cell written on the back and said, "If you need any help, call me."
January 1976 Philadelphia
"It's a boy."
The doctor had just come from the delivery room. Simon had been pacing the waiting room. In some aspects, he was not a patient man and this was driving him insane. Uncle Moe, on the other hand, sat patiently reading an outdated magazine.
"When can I see her doctor?"
Moses Aronson had arrived in the States after the New Year. Simon had been traveling between the U.S. and Europe and had asked his uncle to keep a helpful eye on Emily and the baby. The simple truth was that he was not sure where he would settle. That decision was being put off for as long as possible.
The doctor appeared weary. It was the end of a long shift. "In a few minutes, after we get them cleaned up. The nurse will let you know."
Simon was in a mild state of euphoria. Intuitively understanding that all of life was in constant flux; his natural instinct was to tap down his excitement. The Van Gogh arrived in the mail at the end of September the previous year. He marveled; the near perfect crime. No breaking and entry; no guns or force; no alarm systems to bypass. Best of all, no knowledge that a crime had been committed.
In the end, all of this was no consolation. The tricky bit, phase two, was under way. And he still had to deal with Engelond.
"You may go in now." Somehow, even after long hours, nurses always managed to look happy after the delivery of a child.
The successful theft of one of the world's great masterpieces dimmed in comparison to meeting Emily. Simon was in love. And now, a beautiful baby boy.
He leaned over, kissed Emily and whispered in her ear. He turned around, took his son and held him. Simon was delirious. He could not believe how happy he was.
"Well, lassie, what will you be namin’ the wee one?"
Emily recalled when she first met Moses. She gave him a big hug. "Uncle Moe, I've heard so much about you. This is such a pleasure."
"No, gearrchaile, I believe that the pleasure is mine."
She leaned in to him and stood on her tip toes. "Is that Borneo story really true?"
"Every word, dear one, every blessed word."
Moses was standing at the foot of the bed. She couldn't decide if he reminded her of a big, soft teddy bear or Santa Claus. "Haven't decided yet Uncle Moe. If you have any suggestions, I'd be happy to hear them."
Emily turned to Simon. "Where are you going now?"
"Nowhere. I'm planting my ass in that chair until you and No Name are free to go."
Kato stops a bad guy
Kelly: "What do you make of that?"
"Fishing expedition. Not a bad guy, sort of liked him."
"What's next, genius?"
"Back to the beginning. Let's go to dinner."
Two opposing thoughts occupy my mind. One is that the sooner that #37 is publicly sold, the sooner this nightmare will end. There will be no reason to further involve me once the painting is out of my hands. Unfortunately, it's not as simple as placing it at auction. A few crucial steps have to be unrolled before that can happen.
The other thought, perhaps less productive but at least as powerful in my mind, is to find out who is responsible for Doo Wop’s demise. I'm not talking about Tommy Gunn. He may be one of the people that pulled the trigger, but in the end I wanted the actual person that was responsible.
We hop in the shower and maybe mess around a little bit. After getting dressed, while waiting for Kelly to get ready, I set up the laptop. Type droneme. com into the search bar and set up a temporary wall. I leave a brief message that has meaning for only one other person: Commence Phase One.
We head out the front.
"Kato, back seat." The beast jumps up, bounds through the doorway and leaps into the Morgan. I see the Rolls in the driveway near the main house. Nathan must be back from his trip. Have to talk to him later.
We take the Schuylkill Expressway to South Philly.
While driving, Kelly looks over and says, "So, your father gave you the Van Gogh."
"Yep."
"It's gotta be worth, what, like forty million."
The most recent auction for a Van Gogh is from 1987. It tripled the previous high record price that was established only two years prior. The reason that this sale is so important is that it set a record for a modern painting, in this instance one from 1888. Previous to this sale, record prices had always been held by 'old master paintings'.