Ellie called the gallery in France where Stratton claimed he had bought it. The owner could barely remember the piece. He said he thought it came out of an estate. An elderly woman in Provence.
It can’t be the painting; Gaume is as ordinary as they come.
Was there something in it? A message? Why did Stratton want it so badly? What could be worth killing six people for?
Her head began to ache.
She pushed away the large books on nineteenth-century painters. The answer wasn’t there. It was somewhere else.
What was it about this worthless Gaume?
What is it, Ellie?
Then it struck her, not with a wallop but like a little bird lightly scratching away at her brain.
Liz Stratton had told her as Stratton’s men took her away. That resignation in her face, as if they would never see her again. You’re the art expert. Why do you think he calls himself Gachet?
Of course. The key was in the name.
Dr. Gachet.
Ellie pushed back from her desk. There had always been rumors, apocryphal, of course. Nothing had ever turned up. Nothing in van Gogh’s estate. Or when his brother went to sell his work. Or the artist’s patrons, Tanguy or Bonger.
One of the art books on her desk had van Gogh’s portrait of the doctor on the cover. Ellie pulled it in front of her and stared at the country doctor – those melancholy blue eyes. Something like this, she was thinking, would be worth killing for.
Suddenly Ellie realized she was talking to the wrong people, looking in the wrong books. She stared at van Gogh’s famous portrait. She’d been poring over the wrong painter’s life.
Chapter 96
“YOU READY?” Ellie made sure, handing me the phone.
I nodded, taking it as though someone were handing me a gun that I was going to use to kill somebody. My mouth was as dry as sand, but that didn’t matter. I’d been dreaming of doing this since I first got that call from Dee and an hour later found Tess and my buddies dead.
I sank into one of Sollie’s chairs out on the deck. “Yeah, I’m ready…”
I knew Stratton would speak to me. I figured his heart would be pounding as soon as he heard who it was. He was sure I had his painting. He had killed for it, and this was clearly a man who operated on the assumption that his instincts were right. I punched in the number. The phone started to ring. I leaned back and took a deep breath. A Latino housekeeper answered.
“Dennis Stratton, please?”
I told her my name, and she went to find him. I told myself that it was all going to end soon. I’d made promises. To Dave. To Mickey and Bobby and Barney and Dee.
“So, it’s the famous Ned Kelly,” Stratton said when he finally came on the line. “We get a chance to speak. What can I do for you?”
I’d never talked to him directly. I didn’t want to give him a second of phony bullshit. “I have it, Stratton,” was all I said.
“You have what, Mr. Kelly?”
“I have what you’re looking for, Stratton. You were right all along. I have the Gaume.”
There was a pause. He was evaluating just how to react. Whether I was telling the truth, or screwing with him. Setting him up.
“Where are you, Mr. Kelly?” Stratton asked.
“Where am I?” I paused. This wasn’t what I expected.
“I’m asking where you’re calling from, Mr. Kelly? That too difficult for you?”
“I’m close enough,” I replied. “All that matters is, I have your painting.”
“Close enough, eh? Why don’t we put that to the test? You know Chuck and Harold’s?”
“Of course,” I replied, looking nervously at Ellie. It wasn’t supposed to go like this. Chuck & Harold’s was a bustling, people-watching watering hole in Palm Beach.
“There’s a pay phone. Near the men’s room. I’ll be calling it in, let’s say, four minutes from now. And I mean exactly, Mr. Kelly. Are you that ‘close enough’? Make sure you’re there to pick it up when it rings. Just you and me.”
“I don’t know if I can make it,” I said, glancing at my watch.
“Then I would scoot, Mr. Kelly. That’s three minutes and fifty seconds from now, and counting. I wouldn’t miss my call if you ever want to discuss this matter again.”
I hung up the phone. I looked at Ellie for a split second.
“Go,” she said.
I ran through the house and into the front courtyard. I hopped into Ellie’s work car. She and the two FBI agents ran behind, climbing into another car. I shoved it into gear and took off through the gate, screeching in a wide arc onto County. I sped the six or seven blocks down to Poinciana as quickly as I could. I took the corner at about forty and screeched to a stop right in front of the place.
I glanced at my watch. Four minutes on the nose. I knew the way to the men’s room. I used to hang out at the bar.
Just as I got there, the phone started ringing.
“Stratton!” I answered.
“I see you are resourceful,” he said, as though he were enjoying the hell out of this. “So, Mr. Kelly, just you and me. No reason to have other people listening on the line. You were saying something about a painting by Henri Gaume. Tell me, what do you have in mind?”
Chapter 97
“I WAS THINKING of handing it over to the police,” I said. “I’m sure they’d be interested in a look.” There was silence on the other end. “Or we could strike a deal.”
“I’m afraid I don’t deal with suspected murderers, Mr. Kelly.”
“That gives us something in common already, Stratton. Usually, neither do I.”
“Nice,” Stratton chuckled. “Why the sudden change of heart?”
“I don’t know. Just sentimental, I guess. I heard somewhere it was your wife’s favorite.”
This time Stratton didn’t make a sound. “I am looking for a piece by Henri Gaume. How do I know that what you claim to have is even the right one?”
“Oh, it’s the one. A washerwoman staring into a mirror over a sink. Wearing a simple white apron.” I knew anyone could have gotten ahold of the police report. That description wasn’t exactly proof. “It was in your bedroom hallway the night you had my friends killed.”
“The night they robbed me, Mr. Kelly. Describe the frame.”
“It’s gold,” I said. “Old. With filigree trim.”
“Turn it over. Is there anything written on the back?”
“I don’t have it in front of me,” I said. “Remember, I’m at Chuck and Harold’s?”
“Now that wasn’t very smart, Mr. Kelly,” Stratton said, “for the kind of discussion you have in mind.”
“There’s writing on it,” I said. I knew I was about to reveal something good. “To Liz. Love forever, Dennis. Very touching, Stratton. What a crock.”
“I wasn’t asking for your commentary, Mr. Kelly.”
“Why not? It comes with the piece. Same price.”
“Not a very savvy strategy, Mr. Kelly. To piss off the person you’re trying to sell to. Just to hear you out, what sort of price is it that you have in mind?”
“We’re talking five million dollars.”
“Five million dollars? That piece wouldn’t sell for more than thirty thousand to Gaume’s own mother.”
“Five million dollars, Mr. Stratton. Or else I drop it off with the police. If I remember right, that was the sum you and Mickey had originally agreed to?”