Crooked (17 page)

Maureen stumbled over to where Nicholas lay on the ground, and they watched Drummond, Joey, Silvi, and Sam claw, punch, and grapple their way onto the plane.

“It’s like
The Three Stooges.
” Nicholas coughed, trying to get his breath back. “OK, the four stooges.”

Maureen dropped to her knees next to him. “Like a WWF tag team match, but no folding chairs.”

Like an overwound toy with a bent wheel, the plane lurched away into the river, legs, arms, and feet wiggling from the doorway. With all the weight on one side, the plane was listing, and the
Devil
Dog
—tied loosely to one of the gunnels—seesawed behind like a pull toy duckie. Red tail and wing lights blinked against the night, the shouts and curses of the brawl echoing across the channel.

“There goes twenty-three million in gold.” Maureen sucked on a loose tooth and spat some blood.

“Yeah, well, mission accomplished just the same. We got Barney. But there they go.”

The plane stormed down the Harlem River, lifting off just as it passed under the footbridge and veering sharply away from a passing tugboat. Silhouetted against the glittering city beyond, water fell from the pontoons like sparks. The tug’s searchlight caught a flash of Silvi holding on to a pontoon strut, her fur coat flapping in the wind.

The plane’s landing lights passed over the
Devil Dog
in the middle of the Harlem River. Drummond could be seen standing on the bow, tall and stoic as any British officer of the fleet; he didn’t even shake a fist as the plane flew over. His parka hood denied anyone the satisfaction of his expression as the boat gently sank beneath him. It was a performance that would have done Admiral Nelson proud. Except that this was not a display of man’s heroism in the face of defeat, but of avarice’s profound pique in the face of meddling rogues. The swirling icy waters gradually bubbled up Drummond’s body and over his head.

Nicholas broke into laughter, clapping his hands. He shouted: “I guess it’s your turn to go down with the ship, Smith!”

“I don’t think he heard you,” Maureen gasped, still out of breath from her struggle. “Why is the boat sinking?”

“That wasn’t for him.” Nicholas smiled bitterly. “That was for me.”

“But I don’t get it—why’s the boat sinking?”

Nicholas shrugged. “I guess maybe the shotgun blast blew a hole in the bottom of the boat.”

Barney strolled from the nearby bushes, fingering the bump on his forehead. Maureen and Nicholas watched as he ambled over to them, blue eyes of innocence connecting with their gaze of distrust.

“Guess they got away.” Barney flashed his secret smile. “What are you doing here, Nicholas?”

“Barney, you scare me.” Nicholas took a deep breath. “Next time you get in some kind of jam, have Nicasia call someone else.”

“Nicasia? She had you come look for me?”

Maureen sighed. “She thought you were…”

“No, don’t ruin my surprise, Maureen.”

She turned less sanguine. “Hey, would somebody mind telling me what the hell just happened here?”

“Why would she send you to look for me?” Barney rubbed his chin, confused.

“Oh no, you first. Fill us in, boy genius. I know you’re just dying to tell us what was going on around here.”

Barney stirred the snow-crusted ground with his foot for a second, hands deep in his pockets. He pursed his lips and tilted his head toward the water’s edge. “C’mon.”

Maureen and Nicholas shambled after him to where the gangplank floated at the river’s edge. Barney knelt next to a gnarled tree where the boat had been tied. A wire was attached to it at the waterline. Winding the wire around and around his hand, he finally reached its terminus, which was attached to a large rubber plug. In the dim half-light cast by the bridge, he held the stopper out for inspection.

“I drilled a big hole in the bottom of the boat. When the boat pulled away, out came the cork, so the boat sank.”

“What?” Nicholas and Maureen said in unison.

Barney tossed the wire and stopper back into the river, wiping his hands on his jeans as he stood. His eyes scanned the river.

“I don’t think we have to worry about Drummond. Even if he could survive the icy water, the current would have carried him a ways downriver. Don’t think we’ll see any more of him tonight, anyway. And if he survives, he’ll be after the plane, where the gold is.”

Nicholas and Maureen exchanged a curious glance.

“Is that what you were vacuuming from the ground?” Nicholas peered closely at Barney.

“Uh huh.” Barney fingered the lump on his forehead again. “From a boat that was buried here, by accident, a long time ago. Gold in pellet form. Just sucked it out.” He made a popping sound with his lips. “Put them in barrels, loaded them onto the boat.”

Maureen swept a hand back toward the van.

“What about those barrels?”

“Hmm.” Barney cocked his head at the ground, scratching the back of his neck as though he’d missed a tough shot in eight ball. “You see, there were two sets of barrels, one with gold, one with gravel and water. Things didn’t quite work out the way I figured.”

“You tried to double-cross them, but they were watching, and those punk drillers figured you out too. They got the gold, you got the gravel, am I right?” Nicholas raised his eyebrows. And his voice. “And you let those crazy, double-crossing punks get away with twenty-three million in gold?”

Barney dug his hands deep in his front pockets. “Well…”

Nicholas didn’t think he’d have the gall to finish the thought. But he did.

“…it’s only money.”

“Guess what, Barney?” Nicholas wasn’t going to let him have the last line, oh no. “Drummond told Nicasia that you’re dead.”

Barney jumped like he’d been stung by a bee.

Nicholas smiled—as he suspected, Barney had no idea.
Just let him scheme his way out of this one, smug bastard
.

“That’s why we’re here. She hired us to find you. Or your body. So the fun’s not over yet, buddy-boy.” Nicholas slapped him on the shoulder, a little harder than was necessary. “Not only do you have to explain to Her Highness Nicasia that you deceived her, but you and I have a little unfinished business. I owed one to Nicasia, so I found you.”

Nicholas started back to the car, Maureen in tow.

“
You
found him?” She laughed caustically.

Barney was left standing dumbstruck at the water’s edge.

“Now
you
owe
me
one, Barney.” Nicholas turned, still walking, the beams of the van’s headlights making his shadow long, sinister, and black on the snow. “I’ve got a little job for you, first thing tomorrow. We’ll pick you up at seven thirty
AM
in the parking lot by the stadium here.”

Maureen put a hand on Nicholas’s arm, bringing him to a stop, their breath making frosty plumes in the frigid air.

“Barney going to be OK?” she whispered.

Barney stood where they left him, staring at the ground.

“What do I care? He got himself into this mess, he can get himself out of it.”

“And Drummond. You can’t mean to tell me he was your mentor?”

“If it weren’t for him I might still be in the Peace Corps.”

“You? In the Peace Corps?” Maureen snorted. “Surprised you didn’t start a war somewhere.”

“Hey, that wasn’t entirely my fault.”

Barney waited until he saw their headlights swing around the lot before he pulled a handheld marine radio from one jacket pocket and a signal strobe from the other. The strobe was about the size of a coffee cup. He set it on the ground and turned it on. The strobe flashed a blue circle of light around him.

He jabbed a few buttons on the radio.

“Come in, Charlie X-ray, over.”

The radio crackled with static, then blared:

“Charlie Zebra, we read you loud and clear.”

“Rendezvous at…” Barney checked his watch. 12:47
AM
. He certainly needed to have the deal all done by the time Nicholas returned. No time to call Nicasia. She was asleep, anyway. That he would have to deal with by the light of day. “Four thirty
AM
rendezvous. Do you copy, Charlie X-ray? Over.”

“Roger that, over.”

Barney pulled a handheld Web device from his pocket and switched it on.

“There will be a blue beacon on the bank of the Harlem River where you can come ashore. I’ll tell you exactly where by four
AM
, over.”

“Roger, Charlie Zebra, will await your transmission at four, over.”

Barney looked at the screen of his Web device, touched a few buttons, and brought up his overseas bank accounts. Still listed as “AWAITING TRANSFER.”

“Are you ready to transfer the funds as arranged?” Not only would he see when the money popped into the account, but he would receive an e-mail confirming it.

“Roger, Charlie X-ray, over.” The voice was flat.

“Remember. The merchandise will be wired with explosive charges.” Well, at least they would think it was. “If the transfer doesn’t go through, I blow it all up. No double cross. Over.”

“Roger and out.”

C h a p t e r                           2 5

 
P
orkpie tipped his hat as Karen closed the front door to the uptown exhibition space, which was alight with midmorning sun.

Still wearing her satin bathrobe, BB admired the von Clarke where it leaned against the wall. “Dreadful frame.”

“Bea, you’re absolutely brilliant,” Karen said, tightening her robe. “That’s the same man that brought the Moolman, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.” BB played with a smile as she looked over the back of the canvass. “Yes, the same clever fellow. He helps certain people unload paintings discreetly. That way nobody knows they’re going bankrupt. Anyway, Moolmans I know.” BB waved a hand at the canvass. She didn’t mention that she’d also had the clever little man murder that swine Nicholas. “Von Clarkes are your department. Authentic?”

Karen lifted the painting and examined the back.

“See here? Herbert often jotted things down on the back of canvasses, like phone numbers, grocery lists. Mm hmm. Flemish linen canvass.” Then she flipped it around and looked at the front.

“Oils applied with the mixture of brush and palette knife strokes. Classic. This is
Day After Day
.” Karen shook her head in wonderment at what might seem to the untrained eye a study of purplish bruises on granite. “This will certainly put you in the black. Should I call Mr. Axelrod?”

BB glanced at her watch. “When I got the buzz on the von Clarke last night, I put in a call to the studio just as soon as Axelrod was off the air. Said he’d be home this morning. Call a limo. I’ll drive the jazz up now.”

Twenty minutes later, BB stepped over the
New York Times
on her doorstep. Taking it along for the ride was only a passing thought. Even if she had, the item on B4 may not have caught her attention. The headline read “Robbery at Strunk Gallery.”

As a network anchorman and host of
Probe,
Peter Axelrod was perhaps one of the most recognized men in America. However, none of his public would have recognized him first thing in the morning. That chiseled hair became a Dippity-do fright wig, and a few martinis put blood in his eye. Caps on his teeth glowed slightly blue by his bathroom’s fluorescent light, and capillaries in his nose traced out a subminiature road map. He preferred seeing himself on TV, which was the way he wanted everybody else to see him. Before BB’s arrival, he spent some time powdering his nose and touching things up.

Decked out from head to toe in purple Patagonia, he went spryly to the first floor and opened the refrigerator. Removing the bottom crisper trays, he exposed a safe. A clever place for a safe, he thought, and it was his idea, after all.

Moments later, he left the kitchen with one hundred thousand dollars in a sealed plastic food container. Then, as he wrote out a check for four hundred thousand dollars, the bell sounded. He no longer kept a wife or full-time staff. He answered the bell and buzzed BB through the gate. The limo pulled up to the front door.

“Good morning, Peter. I’ve got that wonderful painting for you.” BB stepped from the limo, and the drive went to the trunk to get the crate.

“I’m excited.” Peter spread his arms affably, then stooped to pick up the paper. “Bring it in and let’s have a look.”

Minutes later in his cavernous off-white living room, Peter Axelrod stood nodding at the painting. BB stood next to him, arms folded. The art was on the floor, leaning against one of the coffee tables.

“Terrific. Absolutely terrific. I’m beginning to feel like a real collector, here. I think”—he turned and pointed—“it’ll go right over that couch. It’ll get reflected light from the skylight and…”

The buzzer sounded.

Peter puzzled a moment.

“I called the framer. But she wasn’t going to come until noon. Hmm.”

The buzzer sounded again, and he answered it. Then he turned back to his guest.

“BB, do you know anyone named Nicholas Pahlinic?”

Barney fought the urge to retreat as he saw BB come toward him down the drive. She looked ready to give him a coco-knobby, or a bashie, of which he’d had quite enough. But he didn’t break character as she intercepted him.

“I told you over the intercom to wait at the end of the drive!”

He cocked an eyebrow at her, but sent his gaze up toward where a confused Peter Axelrod stood in the doorway to his home.

“I don’t take orders from you, toots.” Barney sneered, adjusting the angle of his Greek fisherman’s cap. “Where’s my painting? Does he have my painting?” Barney waved a hand shod in black leather and breezed past her.

BB caught him by the arm.

“Who are you? What is it you want?” BB growled. “You’re going to ruin this deal!”

“Doesn’t matter who I am. Deal’s already on the fritz, honey. Read this.” Barney handed her a clipping, which read:

ROBBERY AT STRUNK GALLERY, February 27—The East Side gallery of Osman “Ozzy” Strunk was robbed last evening by a man described as a Chinese gentleman in a porkpie hat, carrying a carpetbag and brandishing a sawed-off pool cue. The owner of the gallery, Osman Strunk, who lives on the premises, was abducted when he returned to the gallery around nine
PM
. Mr. Strunk was forced to deactivate his alarms before being locked in a closet. An hour later he managed to force his way out of the closet and call the police. It was when the police arrived that the painting
Day
After Day
by Herbert von Clarke was found missing.

“I…I don’t understand.” BB crumpled the clipping, a glassy look in her eye.

“Here’s the deal. One: you’ve got to get…”

“BB, why don’t we all go inside?” Peter called from the doorway, clearly becoming perturbed. “Bring your friend and…”

“I’m so sorry, Peter, really. Go inside, sorry for the interruption. I’ll be right in.” BB smiled mechanically in his direction, and Peter withdrew.

Barney continued.

“One: get the Moolman back. We know C. S. Rautford has it. It could get very embarrassing. If you need to, explain that it’s stolen and that you can fix it for him.”

“Are you mad? Rautford will never deal with me again! And I still don’t understand about—”

“Two: go ahead and sell the von Clarke to Axelrod. But the proceeds all go to Osman Strunk.”

“Wait a minute. I…I’ve been set up by you and Osman Strunk! That robbery was a charade—for the insurance, and you and Nicholas…”

“Very good. Yes, we know about how your Chinese goon took out Dr. Bagby, and we know he killed Nicholas. I’m offering you a way out of this without complete ruin.”

“You can’t substantiate…”

“Then again, maybe we can. Does Karen know about your fun and games, or maybe she just suspects? We can definitely tie you to the Chinese guy and the two paintings through her, which’ll be enough to destroy your reputation at the very least. Ozzy’s willing to go all the way and stick to the Chinese guy story if he has to. He’s got nothing to lose. He’s been looking to sell the von Clarke anyway.”

“But what about this item in the paper? When Axelrod sees it…”

“Tell him that I came here from Strunk to explain that it was a mistake. Osman will be his flaky best and tell the cops that he forgot he sold it to you. Just as soon as he gets the money. How much?”

BB didn’t miss a beat.

“Four hundred grand,” she hissed through gritted teeth. It looked like her jaw muscles might just jump out of her face. “I’ll have Peter make the check out to Strunk.”

Barney almost felt sorry for BB. Almost.

But as he walked back down the driveway, he fingered the bruise on his forehead, and figured she was probably just the type to give someone a coco-knobby.

He climbed into the Caprice, where Maureen, Nicholas, and H sat waiting.

“How’d it go?” Maureen asked, pulling the sedan away from the curb.

“She took the deal.”

“I’ll bet she was none too happy about it.” H winced. “Nicholas, you had to come along and mess up my sweet courier arrangement. BB must know I got something to do with this.”

“Sweet? She couldn’t even pay you,” Nicholas barked. “I saved your ass, pal. You were mixed up with stolen art. I got you out of it. Believe it or not, you have a reputation to protect.”

H laughed bitterly. “What I didn’t know sure wasn’t hurtin’ me.”

Barney cleared his throat. “Maureen, can I borrow your phone?”

She handed it back to Barney, steering the sedan onto Route 9.

“Uh oh.” Nicholas smiled. “You’re not calling who I think you’re calling, are you? This should be good.”

Barney didn’t answer, he just dialed. “Nicasia Grieg, please.” There was a pause.

“Grieg here.”

“I’ll make it up to you, sugar lips, I swear.”

There was a pause, a withering sigh, and a sniff.

“I didn’t know they were going to tell you I was dead,” he added quickly. “I was thinking about you the whole time, but I couldn’t call. Once I realized they planned to kill me, I couldn’t let them involve you. I didn’t want them to maybe come after you.”

“Barney, you ever do something like this again and
I’ll
kill you,” Nicasia quavered.

“All I want to do is come home. To you.”

There was a pause, and for a second, Barney thought she’d hung up.

“When?”

“Two hours too soon?”

“Not soon enough.” She hung up.

“Sugar lips?” Nicholas knit his brow.

“Men never say sweet things like that to me.” Maureen batted her lashes at Nicholas. “Or maybe they would if they had a mind to take on a partner.”

“Maureen, I told you, I don’t have enough work for—”

“You smug bastard.” Maureen chuckled, freckles aflame. “You may not have enough work for two people. But what makes you think I don’t?”

“Well…” Nicholas faltered, waving a dismissive hand.

“Now you’re in for it.” H nodded. “Hey, Maureen, you need some help on something? I’ve suddenly found I can spare some of my time, thanks to Nicholas.”

“Oh, yeah, you two…” Nicholas snorted.

“Olbeter, let’s lunch.” Maureen locked eyes with H through the rearview mirror.

“Yeah.” H folded his arms. “Just you and me, two highly skilled investigators. What you got, lady?”

“It so happens,” Maureen began, “that Newcastle Warranty contacted me the other day. They paid me to tell them what I was investigating, and to keep them informed of what I found out about Drummond. Now I think they want me to find out what happened to him, and if he’s not dead, track him after he retires. I think they suspect he’s skimmed and stashed some of their money.”

“Oh, I see!” Nicholas slapped his knee, feigning indignance. “And here I thought you were working for me.”

Maureen didn’t favor him with a glance. Just a smirk at the road ahead.

“Oh, man. Way to go, lady.” H laughed, patting her on the shoulder. “They give you a retainer?”

Maureen nodded. She kind of liked being called “lady,” and her smirk dissolved into a smile. Her phone rang, and she flipped it open.

“Hey, Brady.” Her smile only got bigger.

Nicholas scowled. “Not Moondoggie again?”