“Wait, let me guess.” Max held up his hand. “You brought your son here today for that very reason. Because Adam and David were close, and David was acting so irrationally.”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
Max grinned and held out his palm. Sarah frowned and handed him back the ten-dollar bill.
“Do you two think you’re funny?” Philip snapped.
“We’re not called the FBI Desi and Lucy for nothing, are we, Sarah?”
“Mostly we’re called that because I’m a redhead, Max, not because we’re funny.”
Max frowned. “Seriously, Sarah? But I’ve been working on a modern rendition of ‘Babalu.’”
There was a knock on the door. The meaty prison executive and Semsey stepped into the room. The executive said, “David Burroughs had only one visitor during his entire incarceration. His sister-in-law. Her name is Rachel Anderson. She was here yesterday and the day before.”
“Wait, Burroughs’s only visitor came yesterday and the day before?” Max put his hand to his chest. “Gasp. Oh. Gasp. Another coincidence, Sarah.”
“The world is full of them, Max.”
“It’s full of something, Sarah. What say you, Warden?”
This time, Philip Mackenzie stayed quiet.
Max turned back to the meaty guy. “Do you know where the sister-in-law is staying?”
“Probably the Briggs Motor Lodge. The majority of our visitors stay there.”
Max looked toward Semsey. Semsey said, “I’m on it.”
Meaty Exec added, “She might also have stayed at the Hyatt by the factory outlets.”
“Whoa.”
Max’s head spun around like someone had pulled it on a string. He did his jitterbug step back to the map. The room fell silent. Max studied the route. Then he jumped back to the computer monitor.
“Bingo, Sarah.”
“What, Max?”
“Semsey?”
The detective stepped forward. “I’m right here.”
“You said Burroughs was on the phone call right before they entered the tunnel, right?”
“Yes.”
“And Burroughs initiated that call?”
“Yes. He asked for five minutes and called me back.”
“What time was that? Exactly? Check your phone.”
“Eight fifty.”
“So the car would have been...” Max found it. “Here. On Green Street. Which would have been right before they hit the mall’s underground parking lot.” He turned to Philip Mackenzie. “Why did you drive through that underground garage, Warden?”
Philip glared at him. “Because the inmate told me to. At gunpoint.”
Max leapt back toward the map. He pointed at the Lamy Outlet Center and traced over the nearby vicinity. “Sarah, you see what I’m seeing?”
“The train station, Max.”
Max nodded. “Semsey?”
“What?”
“Stop the trains. And if any pulled out after eight fifty, I want them boarded. Let’s get every cop we can over to that mall.”
“Roger that.”
Chapter 15
At the Payne Museum of Art in Newport, Rhode Island, Gertrude Payne, the eighty-two-year-old matriarch of the New England branch of the Payne family fortune, watched her grandson Hayden take to the podium. Hayden was thirty-seven years old and while most expected him to have a genteel or patrician bearing, he looked more like his great-great-great-grandfather Randall Payne, the gritty man who founded Payne Kentucky Bourbon in 1868, thus creating the Payne family dynasty.
“On behalf of my family,” Hayden began, “especially my grandmother Pixie...”
Gertrude was Pixie. That was the nickname given to her by her own father, though no one really understood why. Hayden turned and smiled at her. She smiled back.
Hayden continued: “...we are thrilled to see so many of you at our annual fundraising luncheon. All proceeds from today’s event will go into the ‘Paint with Payne’ art development charity, which will continue to provide classes and materials for underserved youth in the Providence area. Thank you so much for your generosity.”
The polite applause echoed in the marble ballroom of Payne House on Ochre Point Avenue. The mansion had been built in 1892 and overlooked the Atlantic Ocean. In 1968, not long after Gertrude had married into the family, she had spearheaded the idea of creating an art museum and selling the home to the preservation society. Payne House was indeed beautiful and majestic, but it was also drafty and cold in both the literal and figurative sense. Most believe that these mansions are donated so that others may enjoy them. That only happens when it is financially beneficial for the family. Most of the famous tourist mansions, like the Breakers or the Marble House or, as here, the Payne House, are purchased by preservation societies at a profit for the wealthy owners.
There is, Pixie knew, always an angle when you’re rich.
“I know that this year holds extra excitement,” Hayden continued, “and as promised, after we finish this delicious lunch provided by our local caterer, the divine Hans Laaspere...”
A smattering of applause.
“...we will provide you, our prime benefactors, a private tour of the museum and, of course, the highlight, the reason most of you are here today, a special premiere viewing of an infamous painting not seen in public for over two decades, Johannes Vermeer’s The Girl at the Piano.”
Cue the oohs and aahs.
The Vermeer in question had been stolen nearly a quarter century ago from Gertrude’s cousins on the Lockwood side of the family and had only recently been discovered at a bizarre murder scene on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. The painting, which measured only a foot and a half high, had already been an invaluable masterpiece, but then when you add notoriety into the mix — art heist, murder, domestic terrorism — The Girl at the Piano was considered one of the most valuable works of art in the entire world. Now that it had finally been recovered, Gertrude’s cousin Win felt that the painting should not languish in a dingy parlor at Lockwood Manor but rather travel the world and be enjoyed by thousands if not millions. The stolen Vermeer was about to start making the rounds of museums around the world with its opening one-month exhibition right here in Newport, Rhode Island.
Getting the Vermeer first had been an immense coup. The tickets for today’s luncheon had started at fifty thousand dollars per person. Not that the money mattered. Not truly. The Payne family was worth billions, but philanthropy amongst the well-to-do had always been about social climbing, with perhaps a smidgeon of guilt thrown into the mix. It was an excuse to socialize and throw a party, because to be this obscenely wealthy and simply have a party would be too gauche, too tasteless, too showy — ergo you attached a charity as cover, if you will. It was all pish, Gertrude knew. The wealthy in the room could have just written a check to support the Payne charities for underserved youth. None would ever miss the money. Not only doesn’t anyone “give until it hurts” — they don’t even give until they feel it in the slightest. Gertrude understood that no one voluntarily shrinks or lessens their lot. Oh, sure, we may all claim to want better for those less fortunate than ourselves — we may even mean it — but we all want that without any kind of sacrifice on our part. This, Gertrude had surmised years ago, was why the rich could seem so awful.
Hayden continued: “The Payne Foundation’s programs for the underserved have helped tens of thousands of needy children since our patron saint Bennett Payne created the family’s first orphanage for boys in 1938.”
He gestured toward the large oil portrait of Bennett Payne.
Ah, the wonderful, revered Uncle Bennett, Gertrude thought. Few knew that Uncle Bennett had been a pedophile in the days before such a word seemed to exist. “Generous” Bennett chose to work with poor youth for one simple reason — it gave him unfettered access to them. Uncle Bennett kept his predilections a secret, of course, but like most human beings, he also justified his actions. He convinced himself that in sum, he was doing good. These children, especially the extremely poor, would have died without the Paynes’ intervention. Bennett fed them, clothed them, educated them — and wasn’t sex an act that pleased both participants? What was the crime here? Uncle Bennett traveled the world, often with like-minded missionaries, so he could have sex — now, they correctly called it rape, didn’t they? — with a wide variety of children.