No Art Director.
Canvases were everywhere. Most had been finished. Whoever had done the paintings was talented.
‘Secure!’ I heard. Then a shout – ‘In here!’
Mahoney and I raced down a long hallway. Two of his men were already inside what looked to be the master bedroom. There were more painted canvases, lots of them, fifty or more.
A nude body lay sprawled across the wooden floor. The look on the face was grotesque, tortured. The dead man’s hands were tightly wrapped around his own throat – as if he were strangling himself.
It was the man Audrey Meek had drawn for us. He was dead, and his death had been horrible. Most likely poison of some kind.
Papers lay scattered on the bed. Alongside them, a fountain pen.
I bent and began to read one of several notes:
To whomever–
As you know by now, I am the one who held Audrey Meek captive. All I can say is that it is something I had to do. I believe I had no choice; no free will in the matter. I loved her since the first time I saw her at one of my exhibitions in Philadelphia. We talked that night, but of course she didn’t remember me. No one ever does (until now anyway). What is the rationale behind an obsession? I have no idea, not a clue, even though I obsessed on Audrey for over seven years of my life. I had all the money I would ever need, and yet it meant nothing to me. Not until I got the opportunity to take what I really wanted, what I needed. How could I resist – no matter the price? A half-million dollars seemed like nothing to be with Audrey, even for these few days. Then a strange thing. Maybe a miracle. Once we spent time together, I found that I loved Audrey too much to keep her like this. I never harmed her. Not in my own mind anyway. If I hurt you, Audrey, I’m sorry. I loved you very much, this much.
One sentence kept repeating inside my heard after I finished reading. Not until I got the opportunity to take what I really wanted, what I needed. How had that happened? Who was out there – fulfilling the fantasies of these madmen?
Who was behind this? It sure wasn’t the Art Director.
Part Three
Wolf Tracks
Chapter Fifty-Three
I didn’t get back to Washington until almost ten the following night, and I knew I was in trouble with Jannie, probably with everybody in the house except little Alex and the cat. I’d promised we would go to the pool at the Y and now it was too late to go anywhere except to sleep.
Nana was sitting over a cup of tea in the kitchen when I came in. She didn’t even look up. I bypassed a lecture and headed upstairs in the hopes that Jannie might still be awake.
She was. My best little girl was sitting on her bed surrounded by several magazines, including American Girl. Her old favorite bear, Theo, was propped in her lap. Jannie had gone to sleep with Theo since she was less than a year old, when her mother was still alive.
In one corner of the room Rosie the cat was curled up on a pile of Jannie’s laundry. One of Nana’s jobs for her and Damon was that they start doing their own laundry.
I had a thought about Maria now. My wife was kind and courageous, a special woman who’d been shot in a mysterious drive-by incident in Southeast that I’d never been able to solve. I never closed the file. Maybe something would turn up. It’s been known to happen. I still missed her almost every day. Sometimes I even say a little prayer. I hope you forgive me, Maria. I’m doing the best I can. It just doesn’t seem good enough sometimes, good enough to me anyway. We love you dearly.
Jannie must have sensed I was there, watching her, talking to her mother. ‘I thought it was you,’ she said.
‘Why is that?’ I asked.
She shrugged. ‘I just did. My sixth sense is working pretty good lately.’
‘Were you waiting up for me?’ I asked as I slipped into her room. It had been our one guest bedroom, but last year we had converted it to Jannie’s. I had built the shelving for the clay menagerie from her ‘Sojourner Truth period’: the stegosaurus, a whale, black squirrel, a panhandler, a witch tied to a stake, as well as dozens of her favorite books.
‘I wasn’t waiting up, no. I didn’t expect you home at all.’
I sat down on the edge of the bed. Framed over it was a copy of a Magritte painting of a pipe with the caption: This is not a pipe. ‘You’re going to torture me some, huh?’ I said.
‘Of course. Goes without saying. I looked forward to some pool-time all day.’
‘Fair enough.’ I put my hand on top of hers. ‘I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, Jannie.’
‘I know. You don’t have to say that, actually. You don’t have to be sorry. Really you don’t. I understand what you do is important. I get it. Even Damon does.’
I squeezed my girl’s hands in mine. She was so much like Maria. ‘Thank you, sweetie. I needed that tonight.’
‘I know,’ she whispered. ‘I could tell.’
Chapter Fifty-Four
The Wolf was in Washington, D.C. on a business trip that night. He had a late dinner at the Ruth Chris Steak House on Connecticut Avenue near Dupont Circle.
Joining him was Franco Grimaldi, a stocky, thirty-eight-year-old Italian capo from New York. They talked about a promising scheme to build Tahoe into a gambling mecca that would rival Vegas and Atlantic City; they also talked about pro hockey, the latest Vin Diesel movie, and a plan the Wolf had to make a billion dollars on a single job. Then the Wolf said he had to leave. He had another meeting in Washington. Business rather than pleasure.
‘You seeing the President?’ Grimaldi asked.
The Russian laughed. ‘No. He can’t get anything done. He’s all stronzate. Why should I see him? He should see me about Bin Laden and the terrorists. I get things done.’
‘Tell me something,’ Grimaldi asked, before the Wolf left. ‘The story about Palumbo out in the max-security prison in Colorado. You did that?’
The Wolf shook his head. ‘A complete fairy tale. I am a businessman, not a low-life, not some butcher. Don’t believe everything you hear about me.’
The Mafia head watched the unpredictable Russian leave the steakhouse, and he was almost certain the man had killed Palumbo, and also that the President ought to contact the Wolf about Al Qaeda.
Around midnight, the Wolf got out of a black Dodge Viper in Potomac Park. He could see the outline of an SUV across Ohio Drive. The roof light blinked on and a single passenger got out. Come to me, pigeon, he whispered.
The man who approached him in Potomac Park was FBI and worked in the Hoover Building. His carriage was stiff and herky-jerky like that of so many government functionaries. There was no confident G-man swagger. The Wolf had been warned that he couldn’t buy a useful agent, and then he couldn’t trust the information if he did. But he hadn’t believed that. Money always bought things, and it always bought people – especially if they had been passed over for promotions and raises; this was as true in America as it had been in Russia. If anything, it was more true here where cynicism and bitterness were becoming the national pastimes.
‘So is anybody talking about me up on the fifth floor of the Hoover?’ he asked.