Art and Murder (8 page)

After texting Roche's number to Rose, Jack left Laura to guard their captives and went to the house. It was a three-bedroom home with a den. The three bedrooms all contained men's clothes and he found a passport in each room. One was a Bulgarian passport made out to Bojan Buchvarov, one was a German passport made out to Klaus Eichel, and the last one was a French passport for Anton Freulard.

He photographed the passports and sent the information to Rose, asking her to run Klaus's and Bojan's names past the French police. After that he checked the den where the monitors were located for the CCTV cameras mounted around the property, along with an alarm system. It didn't surprise him that there wasn't a recorder hooked up to record the camera images. The bad guys didn't want to be identified, either.

A plan was forming in his head, but he knew that he and Laura couldn't do it on their own. He decided to phone someone he could trust and sat in the den to make the call.

Sammy Crofton was a trained undercover operative who worked in Drug Section. He sounded groggy when he answered — he must've been sleeping — but upon hearing that an undercover policeman had been murdered, he sounded alert.

Jack outlined exactly what he wanted, but said it would be better if Sammy could bring someone else with him.

“I have someone who'd be good,” Sammy said.

“Nobody can know about this,” Jack replied, “until I say otherwise.”

“What about my own boss?”

“Not even him. Make note that I am telling you Assistant Commissioner Isaac has approved this, but it is on a need-to-know basis only.”

The lie was to protect Sammy down the road, and he knew Sammy understood that.

“So who's your guy?” Jack said.

“Benny.”

“Benny?”

“Benny Saunders. He's an operator and a good friend of mine. A stocky little fucker with a real pockmarked face. Ugly as the day is long. Couldn't attract a hooker if he had a fist full of hundreds.”

“I've never worked with him,” Jack said.

“I trust him,” Sammy said

“That's good enough for me,” Jack replied.

“One quick question. I've got a goatee. You said you wanted us to wear suits and ties, so want me to take the whiskers off?”

“No, your goatee will enhance the appearance I want. One more thing, if you have time, grab a computer flash stick for me if you've got one handy, but if not, don't waste time getting one.”

“I'll bring one from home. Gotta hustle if I'm gonna grab the surveillance van before anyone shows up for work.”

“Try and be here by eight-thirty this morning.”

After talking with Sammy, Jack looked at the computer in front of him. It had been left on, so he moved the mouse and the screen opened to reveal a series of surveillance photographs taken of Clive Dempsey and people associated with him.

It was then Jack realized why Anton had gone back into the house when he and Clive had first arrived, then come back and shaken his head at Bojan.
He was checking to see if I was on file.

He opened the computer desk drawer and his question as to who had taken the surveillance photos was answered. He found an invoice from a private investigation firm in Vancouver called Big Joe Investigations.

It was seven-thirty when Jack headed back to the workshop and felt Anton's phone vibrate as he entered the building. The display number was different from the recall number he had used earlier.
Paranoia setting in, Roche?

Jack let the phone ring a few times as he walked to the back room, then answered. “Glad you can tell time,” he said.

“Yes, whoever you are, you asked me to call you for some reason,” said Roche.

Jack noted the change in Roche's voice, bordering on arrogance in a psychological bid to gain control. “For some reason?” replied Jack. “Are you suffering from Alzheimer's? I have two reasons laid out before me that you should be interested in, but soon there'll only be one.”

Jack ignored whatever response Roche made as he put the phone on the workbench and ripped the tape off Anton's and Bojan's faces, then said to Laura, “Stand back. I want to look into their eyes before deciding which one to shoot.”

Anton and Bojan lay on the floor begging as Jack pointed his gun, first at Bojan's face and then at Anton's.

Roche's voice yelled over the phone, “Wait! Wait!”

Jack ignored the plea as he fired a shot into the cement floor beside Anton's head. Fragments of lead and cement peppered the side of Anton's face and neck as he cried out in terror.

“Oops, I don't usually miss,” Jack grumbled. “Damn it, Anton, hold your head still, will you?”

Roche's voice could be heard screaming over the phone, “Please! Don't kill him! Don't kill him!”

Jack hesitated, then picked up the phone. “Why not?”

“He's my brother!” Roche cried.

Jack was silent for a moment, then said, “So … Anton is your brother, is he? What's
your
first name?”

“Roche. It's Roche,” he stammered, trying to calm his terror at the thought he may have been responsible for his brother's death.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Roche Freulard. Has your memory come back?”

“Yes … it's just … I don't know who I'm really talking to.”

“And if I'm reimbursed to my satisfaction, there is no need for you to know.”

Jack's words gave Roche a measure of relief.
Perhaps everything will work out. The Ringmaster will approve things, the pimp will be paid, and the problem will be resolved.
He glanced at his watch and winced when he thought of how he would explain what happened to the Ringmaster.

“Are you listening to me?” Jack asked.

“Yes, but … please, I need more time to prepare a, uh, compensation for you. Five or six hours is all I ask.”

Jack was pleased.
At least I don't have to come up with a reason to stall.
“Five or six hours,” he said, as if contemplating the request.

“Please,” Roche begged. “If I could simply have the time I ask for. Then I will be in a better position to offer you something substantial. You must realize that what you have found is valuable, except for the painting, of course, which is simply a copy.”

He's hoping I'll leave it behind.
Jack glanced at the kilos of cocaine and boxes of jewellery.
The coke is worth close to a million even if they sell it by the kilo, the jewellery looks like it would be a couple hundred thousand, so what's with the painting?

“I will do my utmost to make up for what happened, but I need time,” Roche went on.

Time
to shed the pimp image.
“Unfortunately, I haven't had time to examine the painting closely, but collecting art is a pastime of mine,” Jack said.

Roche gasped. “It is?”

“Yes, I travel extensively for the various corporations I contract out to, and am proud to say I have managed to gather a fairly impressive collection.” Jack waited for Roche to respond.
These guys have stolen paintings. Maybe I'll be put on their list of potential buyers.

“The corporations you work for?”

Jack ignored his question. “It is unfortunate if it is a copy, because quite frankly, as far as the rest of the stuff goes, I wouldn't even know who to sell it to. I was going to give the pound I was promised to the young woman who was abused. Although I barely know her, she does not strike me as the type to have the connections I would need to sell the rest.”

“Well, I'm sure that, uh, something could be worked out with me.”

“There is another problem. Your brother and his friend have created a mess. I don't trust them to properly clean it up. It would have a very adverse effect on my reputation if I were to become entangled with the law due to their incompetence. I need time to tidy up. Call me back in an hour, say, quarter to nine my time — I realize from your area code that you're nine hours ahead, yes?”

“You want me to call you back again?”

“Yes, but if I don't pick up … well, I think you know what will have happened.”

“Please, I am doing my best. Don't —”

Jack hung up and squatted beside Bojan, then tapped the side of his skull with the barrel of his pistol. “Tell me, if I take what I found and leave, what will you and Anton do with the body in the next room?”

“We'd look after it, of course.” Bojan's voice showed optimism that he might be left alive.

“How?”

“We'd dig a pit out back in the bush behind the building,” Anton said eagerly.

“Exactly what I thought you would do.” Jack stood up. “You guys really are stupid.” He glanced at Laura and muttered, “I hate talking to stupid people. It wastes my time.” He then looked at Anton and asked incredulously, “You would actually bury a body on property that you live on?”

“We only rent it,” Bojan said.

“Yes, tell that to the cops if it was discovered.” Jack punched out a number on his cell phone. “Tell me, Sammy's Janitorial Service, how far away are you?”

“Thirty minutes,” Sammy replied.

“Good. Call me when you're at the gate.”

Jack shook his head in disgust at Anton and Bojan, then blindfolded them again with duct tape and gestured for Laura to follow him to the front of the workshop to talk.

“You scared me,” said Laura. “For a second, I thought you really did shoot him.”

“Forget Anton, he deserves what I did. Let me fill you in.”

Jack told her what was happening, then sent her back to watch the captives while he texted Rose a priority message:

Check out painting asap. Line up a curator or art specialist to see if genuine. I will arrange delivery.

Jack then used his phone to take pictures of Clive Dempsey's body from all angles, as well as the rest of the shop, including the workbench with the scales and the bag of cocaine he'd dropped when he dove for cover after Anton shot Clive.

Next he took Clive's keys and placed the crate with the painting in the trunk of Clive's car. He then went back inside the workshop as Sammy called to say they were at the gate. He surveyed the room once more.
Okay. I'm not as good as Forensics, but I-HIT will have to live with it.

Jack gave Sammy the entry code, then dragged Anton and Bojan one at a time out to the main area and ripped the tape from their faces again. They watched as Jack slid the large door open and motioned for a green van to back inside.

Seconds later, Anton and Bojan exchanged puzzled looks when two men, both dressed in suits and ties, stepped out. One man stroked his goatee as he glanced at them, then looked at Dempsey's body. “Shouldn't take long,” he said gruffly.

The newcomers opened the rear doors of the van and put on coveralls, followed by latex gloves. Next, they unrolled a large sheet of plastic in the back of the van, before picking Dempsey's body up and tossing it inside.

Anton cringed when the man with the goatee gestured at him with his thumb and asked, “What about them two? Want us to dispose of them at the same time?”

“I'm expecting a call in that regard in a couple of minutes,” Jack replied.

The man with the goatee shrugged, then he and the other man took a jug of bleach and a mop and pail out of the van and proceeded to mop the floor where Dempsey had been lying.

Jack received his call three minutes later, but for Anton and Bojan, it seemed much longer.

“Is this phone okay?” asked Jack as soon as he answered. “I see you changed yours.”

Roche waited a beat, then said, “There are other phones there. There is a number on the back of the phones. Use the next one in sequence and I will call you back.”

“Glad I'm not dealing with an imbecile,” Jack said.

Several minutes passed, then the phone marked number four rang. Jack answered and said, “Would you like to talk to your brother so that you know he's okay?”

“Yes … please,” Roche agreed.

Jack knelt and held the phone for Anton, who spoke rapidly in French while his eyes darted from the van to Jack and then to Sammy and Benny. When he was finished talking, he looked at Jack. “He wants to talk to you.”

Jack took the phone and said, “You understand the problems you've caused me? I have had to employ a janitorial service to clean up the mess your brother made. I expect to be compensated for that, as well.”

“Who are you?” asked Roche in a voice barely above a whisper.

“What do you mean, who am I? I told you, my name is … Oh, wait a moment. You probably think I'm a pimp, don't you.”

“Well, uh … that's what I was told.”

“The young woman your men abused was hired by me a month ago when I arranged for her to meet an important executive. She convinced him to take her for dinner two days from now when he returns to Vancouver. This would have allowed me access to his briefcase in his hotel room, the contents of which are of interest to a corporate client. The executive would not appreciate being seen with a woman who looks like she's being beaten. I know that when he sees her, he'll find an excuse to cancel the date. If that happens, I could stand to lose a lot of money.”

“Corporate client?”

“I provide a consulting service to select companies to reduce risk and improve profit, but what I do is irrele­vant. I am simply saying that I am not a pimp. In fact, I detest pimps and I can't say as I favour the company of drug dealers, either, but one must make ends meet.” Jack paused, then said, “But I digress. Back to the matter at hand. How do you propose compensation?”

“Uh —”

“And don't tell me to take the dope. I don't want to enter that business.”

“I told you, I need more time to confer with someone. A few more hours.”

“I'm a reasonable man,” Jack said. “I do have business to take care of on another matter, so call me back at one o'clock my time. I should be free by then.”
Providing I-HIT doesn't arrest me.

“If you were to release Anton, I could arrange for him to pick up the money,” Roche suggested. “You would still have Bojan as, uh, collateral.”

“Releasing anyone to get the money is not necessary. When negotiations are agreed on, I will provide you with my bank account number in the Grand Caymans, along with the name of my consulting company for you to do a wire transfer.”

* * *

Roche heard the click as Jack hung up, but stared at his phone in a daze as a feeling of impending doom entered his brain. Moments later he clutched his boarding pass and nodded to the flight attendant as she directed him to his seat.