Peccadillo - A Katla Novel (Amsterdam Assassin Series Book 2) (13 page)

Anouk studied the picks. “These are only available to locksmiths, right?”

“Those are high grade picks, but starter sets are commercially available. If you have the money, you can buy all the equipment you need.”

“But, even if I bought these tools, I wouldn’t know how to use them.”

“I can teach you in an hour, but proficiency takes practice. And you have to train regularly to keep up your skill.”

Anouk poured a generous amount of sugar in her cappuccino and stirred until the foam disappeared. “You always carry this equipment with you?”

“Sure,” Katla replied. “Why not?”

“You have that card, but wouldn’t it be illegal to carry burglary equipment?”

“Burglars carry glass cutters, metal wire, and suction cups. Lock-picks are not illegal to carry. It’s illegal to use them without authorisation, but Bram authorised me to open your door.”

“You’re prepared for everything, aren’t you?”

“Of course.” Katla stuck her tools away. “Does that surprise you?”

“Not really. You don’t strike me as someone who leaves a lot to chance.”

“Neither are you, judging by this wonderful spread.”

Anouk smiled and took some salad, while she watched her eat. Katla studied the sculpture in the garden, the metal beak dipping into the pond and rising, the huge bird slowly revolving with water dripping from the beak.

“I saw something similar to your sculpture in Boston, in a private Zen garden.”

“At Christopher Melling’s house? That’s one of mine, yes.”

“Melling. That’s it. Wow, that is impressive.”

Anouk smiled. “Thanks. I hope it’s still there.”

Katla turned around. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Melling died and his house was sold. I don’t know if the new owner is into Zen.”

Katla leant forward. “Melling died?”

“Yes, real tragic. Autoerotic asphyxiation gone awry.”

“Melling didn’t strike me as a kinky guy. But then, neither did that Australian singer.”

“From INXS?” Anouk took another sandwich. “I guess you never know. It’s a shame, Melling was so close to becoming the next Frank Gehry.”

“But you must be famous too, if you sold work abroad.”

“I sold about two pieces in America, one in Dubai, two in Europe, and eight in Asia.”

“Dubai?” Katla’s eyes widened. “You’re Nouk?”

“My agent advised me to shorten my name, so my brand would be more unique.”

“You made the Whirling Dervish.”

“Yes. I had to rebuild it three times, because the fine sand screwed up the works.”

“I love the Dervish. I watched it for over an hour.”

“Glad you liked it.” Anouk blushed. “What were you doing in Dubai?”

Katla held out her cup. “Do you have another coffee for me?”

“Sure.” Anouk poured her another cup from the percolator. “So why were you in Dubai?”

Katla looked at her sculpture in the garden. “The Dervish is more elaborate. This one is more like the one in Melling’s garden.”

“Melling bought a sculpture from my early collection. The Dervish had more input by the client.”

“You don’t sound happy about that.”

Anouk pursed her lips. “It was frustrating. I’m not a designer, I’m an artist.”

“Rich people expect things to be done their way.”

“I didn’t care for that. Clients can choose from what I’m making or have made, but I’m not allowing anyone input in my work anymore.”

Katla spooned some more salad on her plate. “So what are you working on now?”

“I can show you later.” Anouk looked at a drop of salad dressing in the corner of her mouth. A delicious ripple of pleasure and anticipation made her hands tremble and her mouth dry. “I’d love to hear what you think about it.”

Katla’s tongue snaked across her lips and removed the tantalising drop of salad dressing. “The pleasure is all mine.”

-o-

It was just a short distance to her studio, but Anouk savoured every step, sharing her umbrella with Katla as they strolled down the wet streets. Part of her wondered whether Katla was simply humouring her, strolling with linked arms down the street, dressed in her motorcycle leathers that protected her from the light drizzle anyway.
 

Katla squeezed her arm. “I still can’t get over the idea that you created the Dervish.”

Anouk wanted to skip like a schoolgirl around the puddles of rain. She received more than her share of compliments at galleries and exhibitions, but people often approached her as if her proximity would allow them to glean creativity. Katla’s admiration wasn’t fawning or self-serving, she truly enjoyed being in the company of a creative person.

Which was not at all what Anouk had expected.

Everything she’d heard about Bram’s mystery girlfriend made Katla seem cold and detached, with a dark aura of violence. Zeph had told Anouk about her apartment, about the gym with the punching bag, the martial arts equipment, the pictures of young Katla wielding crossbows and hunting deer in the forest. The casual attitude towards getting shot and reticence towards any intrusion of her privacy gave Katla an intimidating presence of fierce independence that made her difficult to impress.
 

And terribly attractive.

Although she was generally perceived to be a strong and independent artist, in her heart of hearts Anouk knew the difference between perception and truth. She craved validation too much to be truly independent, and her creativity was linked to the fickle emotional states that messed up her mind and governed her heart. Compared with the absolute control Katla radiated, her own strength was laughably inadequate. Being near her made her inadequacy all the more apparent, and part of Anouk, the mean and spiteful part, was envious of Katla’s easy confidence, the self-possessed equilibrium that bordered on arrogance.

Anouk halted before the double doors of the former shipyard and fished out her keys, then turned to Katla. “Could you open this padlock with your lockpicks?”

“You forgot your key?” Katla tilted her head. “Or do just want to see me at work?”

“The last.”

“Well, my tools are back at your house, and I don’t really feel like walking back for them.”

Anouk unlocked the padlock. “You’ll have to show me some other time.”

“Perhaps I will.”

Anouk opened the double doors. “The outer panels are hinged as well, so the whole front can be opened for large items.”

“I have a similar set-up at my garage.” Katla looked around. “This is your main workshop?”

“This machine shop is where I do most of my welding and where the sculptures are packaged. I assemble them on location, because the moving parts can get damaged in transport.”

“So you went to Dubai to put the Dervish together?”

“Of course. It was shipped in fifteen crates. I travel with the crates, so I can supervise the loading and unloading.” She opened her mobile machine shop, the dented metal covered with stickers. “This one travels all over the world, contains all the tools I need to assemble my sculptures.”

She took Katla up to her office and pointed at the white glass dome overhead.
 

“Watch this.” She picked up the remote and turned up the rheostat. The white glass became milky first, then turned fully transparent, rain splashing on the dome and running off to the side. “A gift from one of my Asian customers. The white reflects the heat in summer, but sometimes I need natural light.”

“It’s beautiful,” Katla said. “The transparent version would make me feel a bit exposed, but I can see the appeal.”

“There are not many people who can see inside,” Anouk said. “Unless they’re in a helicopter.”

Katla walked to the long shelf with the sculpture models.

“Transparency is only at full current.” Anouk turned down the rheostat. “I prefer the milky version.”

Katla halted before the tiny Dervish. Anouk flipped a switch and the ventilators behind the models started up, their velocity pre-programmed to create a swirling pattern of air that moved the models as if they were stirred by the wind.

“This office is part workspace, part showroom.” Anouk adjusted the ventilators so they moved in sequence from one model sculpture to the next. “I make the models first, then film them against a CGI background of the location so the buyer can see what the sculpture will look like before they pay full commission. Some request changes, that’s why there are three Dervish models.”

“I actually like this one best.” Katla pointed to the one on the left. “Less intricate, but the shape and the movement seem more in balance than the other versions.”

“The customer wanted a more convoluted design. I didn’t agree, but my manager convinced me to compromise.”

“Still, they’re all beautiful in their own way.” Katla gave her a soft smile. “You’re a great artist.”

The warmth in her eyes caused a flutter in Anouk’s belly. She felt her cheeks grow hot. To avoid staring at Katla like a lovelorn puppy, she turned away and rummaged through her papers. She felt the heat as Katla moved closer, halting right behind her.

“So, how did you meet Bram?”

Anouk turned, her eyes level with Katla’s mouth, the lips slightly parted to allow the tip of her tongue to slip out and moisten her full lips. Her mouth looked soft and inviting, not cruel like before. And so intoxicatingly near.
 

“In the street, when he caught a thief.”

Katla leant against her table, arms folded under her breasts, her head tilted.

Anouk shrugged. “I used to go by De Munt as often as I could, just to hear him play. He really plays well, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, he does.”

“Anyway, I was heading for De Munt and noticed a crowd gathered around Bram. Not the usual few stragglers, but a huge crowd. I couldn’t even see him. I could just hear his saxophone. And it was howling and screeching. So I elbowed my way through the crowd to the front and there he was. Standing with one foot on his closed flight case, screeching with his saxophone in the ears of a guy with his hand caught in the flight case.” She smiled at the memory. “Someone tried to steal from his flight case. Bram had kicked the case shut on his hand and stomped down, breaking the guy’s fingers. And to add insult to injury, he was blowing this deafening noise in the guy’s ear. And this whole crowd was gathering, laughing their asses off while the thief tried to extract his hand.” Anouk shook her head. “I saw the neon-yellow vests of the police approaching down the Kalverstraat, so I broke through the crowd and pushed Bram from his flight case. He stopped screeching his horn and I told him the police was coming to arrest him. I took his flight case and his elbow and fled with him down the Singel, hiding in a store while he told me what had happened. He was really pissed off that someone tried to take advantage of his blindness to steal from him.”

“If the thief’s hand was really mangled, that would be assault with grievous bodily harm.”

“Maybe his blindness would’ve been considered extenuating circumstances, but I just wanted to protect him.”

“The thief must’ve been mad as hell.”

“He was, but I looked him up, gave him money for the hospital bill and told him not to go near my boyfriend ever again.”

“And he accepted that?”

“I told him I could make his life miserable.”

“Could you?”

“I would have to pull some strings, but yes, I could.”

“Did you tell Bram?”

Anouk shook her head. “I didn’t want him to think I was mixing myself in his affairs. He’s fiercely independent.”

“And pretty able to defend himself.”

“Up to a point, sure. But I didn’t want someone walking around with a grudge against Bram.” Anouk shrugged. “Anyway, that’s how we met. I had to court him for another month before we finally slept together.”

“How long did your relationship last?”

“Almost two years. Until I screwed it up.” Her mouth twisted. “It’s true what they say, you don’t know how much you’ll miss something until it’s really gone. For three years, every time he smiled at me, I felt this soaring hope that he might forgive me and come back to me. I knew my hope was in vain when he met you. Did you know he was celibate for two years?”

“He called it ‘in-between relationships’.”

Anouk shook her head. “He pulled down the shutters and hung up a closed sign. Made him all the more attractive, though. I could see his groupies flirting like crazy, but he ignored all of them. And then you appeared.”

“How did you screw it up?”

“I really don’t feel like talking about Bram anymore, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind.” Katla grinned. “I had a weird dream about you.”

“A weird dream?”

“Well, dreaming about your boyfriend’s ex is always a bit weird, I suppose.” Katla shrugged. “You were running through the woods, naked except for your tattoos.”

“And you?”

“I was following you.” Katla grinned. “Like I said, weird.”

“What do you think it means?”

“Means?” Katla shook her head. “I’m not into dream interpretation.”

“Maybe your dream reveals some hidden desire?”

“Doubtful,” Katla said. “I’ve seen you naked. And I don’t really want to kill you.”

“Kill me?”

“I wasn’t just following you.” Katla mimicked propping a rifle against her shoulder, her grin turning wicked. “I was hunting you with my crossbow.”

-o-

Katla was glad for the dark visor on her helmet as she puttered past a black Lexus SUV parked rather obtrusively at Kadijksplein. Behind the wheel a young Chinese man smoked a cigarette. Instead of heading down Laagte Kadijk to her home, Katla took the Hoogte Kadijk against traffic and followed it all the way to the Texaco at the Sarphatistraat. Next to the Albert Heijn supermarket on the other side of the intersection stood another black Lexus SUV, equally obtrusive.

Too obtrusive for surveillance. Probably intended to intimidate. Let her know they knew where she lived, although they wouldn’t be able to pinpoint her apartment.
 

For now, at least.

She had to do something. And quick. First thing to do is to go in full covert mode.

Katla parked her scooter in the Entrepôtdok underground parking where she kept several covert vehicles. She covered the Vespa with an old tarp and uncovered her ultra-reliable but boring dark-grey Suzuki Burgman 400 scooter. The Burgman was probably the most popular motor scooter in the Netherlands and while her Vespa was sometimes viewed with admiration, the Burgman drew merely disdainful looks from both motorcyclists and vintage scooter riders.