A long pause. He knew what Stanton was thinking: Yes, he'd made that commitment, but ten thousand was a lot of money. was there any way he could wriggle out of this? was Janek off his rocker?
"You're sure the painting's worth it?"
"No. But that's what it's going to cost."
"Maybe you should have it professionally appraised?"
"Screw that. I need it now."
Another pause. "You're really calling in my marker?"
"I guess you could say that, Stanton, yeah." "I didn't expect this. Not so soon."
"Neither did 1. Believe me, if I had the money, I'd buy the damn thing myself."
"Well, all right. How soon do you need it?"
"Yesterday."
"I'll FedEx you a check. You'll get it tomorrow morning."
"No check," Janek said. "The seller's nervous. The only way I can close the deal is put cash down on the table.
"I can wire you the money, I suppose. to a local bank out there."
He could hear the exasperation in Stanton's voice. "Jesus, Frank! I just hope you know what you're doing! "
"Yeah. Well, I'm just doing the best I can," Janek replied.
The following morning at eleven they were back at the Malkiewicz residence with ten banded packs of fresh hundred-dollar bills and a rented van big enough to transport the painting.
Mrs. MaMewicz met them at the door. She looked at Janek nervously. "I didn't expect you back so soon."
"I've got the money. We're here to take the picture."
He knew the way to do it was to move as quickly as possible, ignore any hesitancy on her part, count out the cash bill by bill while Aaron wrestled the portrait out the door. That way, if she happened to have second thoughts, it would be too late; the transaction would be complete.
It worked out. Mrs. Malkiewicz didn't say a word, although Janek couldn't help noticing her despair. He knew she'd get over it. Ten grand was enough to fix up her house. And she still had a thick stack of Aretzsky paintings rotting in her cellar.
That afternoon they found a carpenter who agreed to crate up the picture in time for the first flight the following morning to New York. Janek and Aaron would escort it back, the fruit of their investigation.
After the plane took off, Janek stared out his window at the sprawling city below. The sky was gray, broken by a few plumes of industrial smoke. Cleveland looked huge and flat, blocks of bleak gray buildings, a grid of ironcolored streets. The Cuyahoga River, famous for once having caught on fire, was crusted with snow, and Lake Erie seemed a vast white frozen waste. It was a strange and fascinating place, he thought, this city Aaron had described as a Rust Belt town of broken dreams. Here for many years iron and coal had been forged into steel, and here, too, the pathology of Wallflower had been forged.
The
Portrait The crucial move, Janek knew, would be the delivery of the portrait.
Bungle that and he could botch his entire case.
He and Aaron war-gamed the problem. Since they couldn't break into her house and switch the new painting with the old (their preferred solution), they'd have to take their chances on a straight delivery. The trick, they agreed, would be to get Beverly to accept it.
"How about two guys in deliveryman uniforms. 'Parcel, Ms. Archer.
Just sign here, please, ma'am."' "Yeah," said Aaron, "then they bring in this enormous box. 'Hey,' she yells, 'I never ordered this. Get this stinking thing out of here.' See, Frank, it's not like you want to send her a valentine that all we got to do is slip it under her door. That picture's fucking humongous."
"So there's only one solution," Janek said. "Deliver it ourselves."
"What if she won't take it?"
"We'll leave it on the stoop."
"So she ignores it. Or has it hauled away. There's no guarantee she'll look at it, even if she does take it inside."
"You're right," Janek said. "There's no guarantees about any of it.
But if we deliver it to her in the proper context, our odds will improve. By a lot."
He called Monika, filled her in on his trip to Cleveland, outlined his plan, then asked her what she thought. "Strange, a bit morbid, certainly daring," she said. She sounded less excited than he'd expected. "You say you want to shock this woman into a confession. But there's also a chance you'll shock her into a psychotic state. Have you considered that?" "It's occurred to me," he said. "Frankly, the idea doesn't break me up. She goes to prison or she goes to the funny farm. I win either way. A third possibility is that she laughs the whole thing off. That's the one I'd just as soon not think about."
"Sounds to me like you're out for blood, Frank."
Why was she reproaching him? "Wasn't blood what she was out for?"
He imagined Monika shaking her head. "This is difficult for me. My profession is to heal, not to wound."
Suddenly he was irritated. "You say I sound like I'm out for blood-I'm not sure what that means. I'm certainly not about to pick up an ice pick and stick it in her ear. But if you mean tearing the mask off her face, then I guess you're right."
"Oh, Frank… I'm just not sure I can help you with this anymore." But it wasn't her help he wanted now; it was her approval. And that, it seemed, she was not about to give. He didn't understand. She had told him to look to the past, that he would find the secret there. What secret, he wondered, did she expect he would find-the cure to Beverly Archer's disease?
"Look," he said, "she's a vicious, manipulative, dangerous murderess. My job is to put her away."
"Of course," she said sadly. "Of course…"
He felt awful when he put down the phone. Would Monika now hold this against him? She said she understood, but did she? He was a detective, not a therapist. Now he had to do his job.
After much discussion and many rehearsals, he and Aaron agreed that since there was no way of knowing how Beverly would react, their best approach would be the simplest and most direct. No big dramatic production at the door. Just walk up the front steps picture in hand, ring the bell, offer to place it in the hall for her, then let the chips fall where they may.
Figuring she'd be tired and thus more vulnerable at the end of the day, they parked their van across from her house a little after 6:00 P.m.
There they waited until 6:45, when her last patient left. they had uncrated the picture earlier; it was now covered only with a sheet. they pulled it out of the van, picked it up, and together carried it across the street.
Aaron pushed the buzzer. It was a while before Beverly answered on the intercom.
"Who's there?" "Janek."
A short pause. "Go away. I'm not in the mood today. "
"I brought you something." He spoke cheerfully. "Something from Cleveland." He tried to entice her with his tone.
"Oh, really Her voice was lethargic. She certainly didn't sound upset.
"Open the door and I'll show you," he said. He paused again; he was getting into the rhythm of the thing. "You won't be sorry, Bev."
Aaron gave him a thumbs-up as they heard the lock mechanism being turned. Then the door opened and Beverly stood in the archway, hands planted on her hips. 'She looked a perfect little butterball as she stared at them and then at the sheet-covered picture in between.
"Is that great big thing for tiny little me?" She spoke with a sarcastic lilt.
Janek nodded. "Want us to bring it inside?"
"I don't know that I'm going to accept it. Remember the old saying: 'Beware Greeks bearing gifts."' "What're you afraid of? Think it's a Trojan Horse?" She stared at the picture curiously. "What is it anyway?" "A painting."
"What kind of painting?"
"Aretzsky's second portrait of your mother," Janek said.
She tut-tutted him. "Oh, Janek, you're so tiresome. I know all about that second portrait."