Secret Combinations (33 page)

The tiny apartment consisted of a living room, kitchen, bathroom and bedroom. Legrand glanced through the kitchen cupboards. Most of the shelves were bare, with only a few condiments and scattered jars. The bathroom was equally Spartan, with a roll of toilet paper on the loo and a bar of hotel soap in the sink. There was no sign of a painting.

Kenyon entered the bedroom. A double bed occupied one wall; it had been slept in, but not made. A large bureau stood against another wall, closed. A gabled window looked north.

The agent walked over to the window and looked out. He was startled to see that the window overlooked the park that fronted Lydia's street. He could plainly see the front of her home.

A pair of powerful binoculars sat on a table beside the bed. Kenyon adjusted the lens for his eyes and peered out. The door of Lydia's home appeared so close it seemed he was standing on the front porch. He angled the sightlines higher and could see right into Lydia's bedroom.

Kenyon continued to scan the street. He suspected that the police would have set up a surveillance post in case he returned. The agent's practiced eye soon picked up the crew: an electrical contractor's truck was parked about one hundred feet up the road. Two men in coveralls were standing on the far side of the van, conferring. Kenyon glanced at his watch; it was eleven. Probably shift change, he thought. Curious to see if there was any other surveillance watching his house, the agent opened the window and leaned out.

The view down the street was blocked by a small saucer. At first, Kenyon thought it was a
TV
satellite dish, but he took a closer look and realized that it was the same type of dish used by the
FBI
when they mounted surveillance. A black electrical cord led out the back of the dish and into the room. Kenyon followed the line into the back of the large bureau. The agent opened the bureau. It was empty except for a large aluminum briefcase on the floor. Kenyon leaned forward and snapped the clasps on the case. Inside, couched in soft foam, were a sophisticated digital receiver, recorder, and cell phone.

“Raymond, get in here,” said Kenyon.

Legrand entered and scanned the equipment. “It would appear deWolfe has a tap on someone's line.” Legrand pressed rewind on the recorder and let it spin for several seconds, then stopped it and pressed play.

“Marge,” Kenyon heard his own voice over the speaker. “It's Jack calling. Ricci didn't commit suicide; he was murdered. The cops think I did it, but I saw Legrand there that night. I think he was out to revenge a blackmail plot. I need to know how to handle this. Call me as soon as you can.”

Kenyon sat down on the edge of the bed, stunned.

Legrand rewound some more tape, and the men heard Kenyon talking about his findings at
TEQ
. He rewound further and there was Kenyon's lament about Ricci's death.

“God, I yapped about the whole case!” said Kenyon. “No wonder deWolfe knew so much. The bastard's been stringing me along like a fool.”

Legrand picked up the cell phone and turned it on. He activated the previous call's function and a number appeared on the screen. The investigator handed it to Kenyon. “Is that your number?”

Kenyon shook his head. “No, I don't know whose it is. Only one way to find out, though.” He pressed the send button.

The phone rang for a moment, then was answered. “Hello?” said a woman's voice. “Hadrian?”

Neither man said anything. There was no need. It was Ilsa.

Kenyon disconnected the phone, and the two men left.

Kenyon and Legrand sat on
a park bench on the south shore of the Thames. A flock of pigeons mooched for crumbs at their feet. Legrand was staring out over the river.

“You okay?” asked Kenyon.

Legrand shrugged. He continued to stare silently into the flowing river.

The agent was glad that Legrand was quiet; he needed time to think. Ever since they had left the apartment, his mind had been racing to make sense of what was happening.

Obviously, deWolfe had used him to try and find the fake
Techno 69
. He had snuck in under the guise of Lydia's friendship and planted a bug, then strung him along. There was no doubt now in the agent's mind that deWolfe had murdered Ricci. But why? What made the forgery valuable enough to kill over?

It had to have something to do with the Cyberworm investigation. Deaver and Arundel had been willing to make a deal with Kenyon to turn over the painting. They already suspected he had the virus. Somehow it must have something to do with the encryption code.

Kenyon turned to Legrand. “You ever hear of a painting called
Techno 69
?”

Legrand stared at Kenyon for a moment, obviously caught up in his own thoughts. “Yes,” he finally replied. “It is a Maggote.”

“How do you know about it?”

“Ilsa bought it for the
TEQ
Corporation and hung it in the boardroom. I hated it. Little blobs of paint on bits of transistors. That is not art, it is garbage.”

Kenyon ignored the art criticism. “So, you worked at
TEQ
?”

“Yes. I consulted with Dr. MacQuaig over security.”

“Then you know about Cyberworm,” said Kenyon.

“Only in the vaguest terms. It is some sort of software, no?”

“Yeah, a real bad-ass virus. It was developed by Nebula Labs in San Francisco.”

“Ah!” said Legrand, suddenly animated. “An American scientist showed up several months ago from Nebula. A very suspicious fellow. Dr. MacQuaig said he was trying to get the encryption code. He sent him on his way.”

“What happened to the painting?” asked Kenyon.

Legrand thought for a moment. “Ilsa donated it to charity. Dr. MacQuaig told me Lydia came and picked it up two days before the auction.”

So, Lydia had the painting for two days, more than enough to make the switch and conceal it, thought Kenyon. But it wasn't in her house; it wasn't in her gallery. Legrand didn't have it. Garbajian didn't have it. Where did she hide it?

Perhaps she had said something to Legrand. “When was the last time you talked to Lydia?” asked Kenyon.

The
PI
stood up and walked to the ledge overlooking the river. “On the night of the auction,” he finally replied.

“I'm surprised you were invited.”

Legrand turned and smiled ruefully at Kenyon. “Ilsa likes to keep up appearances. I was there as co-host.”

“That must have been pretty uncomfortable,” said Kenyon.

Legrand shrugged. “She was not there for much of the night, fortunately.”

Kenyon was suddenly interested. “Why not?”

“Gladys, the maid, came down from the upstairs midway through the auction. It seems Sir Rupert had a setback, and was calling for her. I didn't see her again that evening.”

“Tell me about the auction,” said Kenyon.

“It was a large affair, with several hundred people” said Legrand. “Ilsa has been holding them for about ten years. We used to stage them in the main drawing room, but they had become so popular that we had to set up a reception tent on the lawn.”

Kenyon thought back to the auction video. Lydia dressed in her long, red silk evening gown and string of pearls. “What was Lydia doing?”

“It would be easier to tell you what she was
not
doing,” said Legrand. “Between greeting guests, attending the kitchen, and overseeing the preparations, she barely had a moment of rest.”

“Did you speak to her before the auction?”

“I tried, but she only had her girl there, Zoë, and there was much to attend to. It wasn't until after the auction that we had a moment alone.”

Kenyon thought for a moment. “What kind of a mood was she in?”

Legrand turned away from the river and came back to the bench. He sat down and faced Kenyon. “She was very agitated.”

“Did you ask what was bugging her?”

Legrand nodded. “She brought out a letter from her purse.”

“Who was it for?”

“It was addressed to you,” said Legrand. “She said it revealed everything.”

Kenyon wondered if Lydia had left a clue to the whereabouts of the fake painting. “Did you read it?”

“No,” replied Legrand. “I did not want to read it. And I did not want her to send it.”

“Why not?”

Legrand looked Kenyon in the eye. “I was afraid you would hate her, and that she would be crushed. I wanted her to leave well enough alone. When I told her that, she became very angry at me, and left.” The
PI
turned and stared out over the river. “That is the last I ever saw of her alive.”

Kenyon thought about what Bernie the gardener had told him; Lydia had stormed out of the house, smashed the rear of her car, then roared off down the road. To her doom.

“What became of the letter?” Kenyon finally asked.

“I called a friend in the coroner's office,” said Legrand. “They did not recover the letter. I thought it might still be in her car.”

Kenyon had a sudden flash. “So,
you
had it released from police custody, and searched it at the dealership,” said Kenyon. “Did you find the letter?”

“No.”

Another dead end, thought Kenyon. Lydia
had
to have left some sort of clue. “Did she ever say anything to you about the
Techno 69
painting?”

“No.” Legrand held a finger up, as though remembering. “But, she did say one thing that puzzled me.”

“What's that?”

“She said, ‘If Jack should ever ask, tell him to look for the secret behind my smile.'”

Kenyon stood up from the bench and headed for the Rover. “Let's go,” he called over his shoulder.

“Where are we going?” asked the
PI
.

“To check out a smile.”

Legrand, bewildered, followed Kenyon.

They crossed the Thames and meandered their way north through side streets until they came to a quiet lane lined with tall, Georgian mansions. Kenyon directed Legrand to park at the side of the street under the shade of a plane tree.

“Who lives here?” asked Legrand.

“A mutual friend,” replied Kenyon. “Come on, I want you to meet her.”

The two men got out of the car and approached the building. Kenyon glanced up; the balcony doors to Tanya O'Neill's apartment were open. She was home. He pushed the buzzer at the front door. “Tanya, it's Jack,” he said.

Kenyon glanced at Legrand. The older man's eyes had gone wide, and he looked a little pale. “You all right?” asked the agent.

Legrand nodded yes. The door lock clicked, and the two men advanced.

O'Neill was waiting for them at the top of the stairs. She wore a pair of cream-colored Capri pants and a sapphire blouse; Kenyon couldn't help but admire her beauty.

“What is
he
doing here?” she asked, when she saw Legrand.

“I asked him to come,” said Kenyon. “We have something important to talk about. Together.”

O'Neill looked skeptical, but she motioned the two men to enter her flat.

They all walked into the living room. Kenyon advanced to the painting of Lydia that hung over the mantelpiece; the burgundy frame was identical to the scraps of wood he had found in the garbage can in Lydia's studio.

O'Neill was studiously avoiding Legrand, turning her back to him. “Why are you here?” she asked Kenyon.

The agent pointed to the portrait of Lydia. “Why did you paint this?”

O'Neill turned to Legrand. “It was my present to her, to show my love.”

Legrand remained silent.

Kenyon continued. “When we first met, you commented on how much alike Lydia and I looked. Do you remember?”

“Yes,” said O'Neill. “I recall.”

Legrand finally spoke. “There is a reason for that. Jack is Lydia's son.”

At first, O'Neill stared speechlessly at Kenyon, then turned back to Legrand. “How do
you
know?”

Legrand squared his shoulders. “Because I am his father.”

O'Neill sat down on the couch, clearly in a state of shock. Legrand went into the kitchen and fetched a glass of water.

Kenyon stared at O'Neill's pale face, wondering what might be going through her mind. He felt sorry for her, but he needed to continue.

When Legrand returned from the kitchen, Kenyon turned his attention to the private investigator. “What you don't know, Raymond, is that Lydia had another lover.”

“Who was the scoundrel?” he demanded.

“Tanya,” replied Kenyon.

Legrand also dropped to the couch, his knees suddenly giving way.

Kenyon, standing beside the portrait of Lydia, could see both of the people she loved looked miserable. He turned to O'Neill. “Tanya, I'm sorry I had to say that, but keeping it secret only allowed you to be blackmailed.”

The agent turned to Legrand. “Raymond, I'm sorry I had to tell you, but the only reason Lydia paid the blackmail was because she thought she was protecting you. And that mistake may have cost her life.”

“What do you mean?” asked O'Neill.

“Because it prevented her from going to the police when she discovered what she thought was a forgery ring,” said Kenyon. “She decided, instead, to try and hide the evidence.”

Jack turned and lifted the portrait of Lydia down from the mantelpiece. He flipped it over and pried out several of the pins holding the back-board to the frame. The backboard finally came loose, exposing a second, slightly smaller painting concealed within.

Kenyon lifted it out. It was a perfect copy of Maggote's
Techno 69
.

A bank of fluorescent light
bathed the electronics lab in the basement of R.L. Investigations in a cold, bright light.

Kenyon and Legrand stood to one side of a long, Formica lab table, watching as a man with receding blond hair and thick eyeglasses stood hunched over the fake
Techno 69
. “Ingenious,” he muttered, as he examined the painting with a large, square magnifying glass.