Stealing the Countess (28 page)

A third man about Heavenly's age was sitting alone at a table in the center of the room, his chair situated so that he had an unobstructed view of both the front and back doors. He lifted his eyes from his tablet and stared at Heavenly, too. There was a folded
Star Tribune
on the table within easy reach. I knew the newspaper was hiding a gun; it had been the last time I was there, too. The young man's hand didn't go anywhere near it. I took that as a good sign.

“I'll be a sonuvabitch.”

I followed the voice to another old-fashioned wooden booth with high backs that you can't see over. A man was sitting there, his hands folded on top of the table like a schoolboy waiting for lessons to begin, two cell phones and a laptop arrayed in front of him. He was dressed in a red polo shirt, jeans, and black cowboy boots and looked very much as if he had just dropped in for a cold one, although there wasn't a beverage of any kind on the table.

“You called, said you were on your way,” he told me. “But McKenzie, I didn't think you had the balls to actually show up.”

I drifted toward the booth. The young man had stopped studying Heavenly and was now watching every movement I made. Still, he kept both hands on the tablet.

“Don't tell me you're still holding a grudge after all this time,” I said.

“Why would I hold a grudge? Just because you gave me up to the cops…”

“All I did was present you with the opportunity to return some stolen property to its rightful owners. You didn't spend five minutes in jail.”

“That's because I made a couple of deals.”

“Isn't that your life? Making deals?”

“It's not the cops or the deals, McKenzie. It's the goddamn IRS I object to.”

“I had nothing to do with that.”

“I had to pay a fine, McKenzie. Three hundred and forty-eight fucking dollars.”

“Is that all? I'll write you a check.”

“It's not the money. It's the principle of the thing. That and now I'm on their radar. You don't think the IRS has been studying my returns with a goddamned magnifying glass?”

“Excuse me.” Heavenly positioned herself so that I was between her and the young man sitting at the table. Her right hand was inside her sling. “I apologize for interrupting. Are you El Cid?”

Cid smiled as if it were the first time he had heard the name. He slid out of the booth and offered his hand. Heavenly removed her own hand from the sling and shook it.

“Heavenly Petryk?” Cid asked.

“Yes.”

“I am most happy to make your acquaintance at last.”

“Me, too.”

“Please.” He gestured at the bench. “Sit.”

They both slid into the booth, stopping when they were comfortably facing each other. Cid hadn't asked me to sit, but since he didn't say I couldn't, I squeezed in next to Heavenly. A bartender appeared. He looked at the kid, though, and not at us. The kid shook his head, and the bartender retreated.

“This is a great pleasure for me,” Cid said. “I have been watching your career with some interest.”

“I am pleased to hear that,” Heavenly said. “At the same time, I was hoping I had been conducting my business in such a way that no one could follow my career.”

“Still, we do hear names and the exploits that accompany them, don't we?”

“Of course, everyone knows the name El Cid—the Lord.”

“A nickname I picked up. Please…” He extended his hand again. “I am David Wicker. Call me Dave.”

“Heavenly.” She shook Cid's hand. “My given name. I have no idea what my parents were thinking.”

“Probably they were thinking you would grow up to be just as lovely as you are.”

Vanity of vanities, saith the preacher; vanity of vanities; all is vanity,
my inner voice quoted. Only I knew better.

“El Cid” was an affectation that Wicker gave himself, pilfering it from Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar, the Spanish knight and mercenary credited with driving the Moors out of Spain in the eleventh century. To survive, much less flourish, in his line of work, a fence must be able to negotiate with the most dangerous thieves as well as the least scrupulous customers. The fear of betrayal, of being ripped off, of being arrested, was always present, so it was important to demonstrate a certain amount of fearlessness. “El Cid”—as well as the barely concealed muscle pretending to examine his tablet while watching us—was meant to make his associates believe that no one had better mess with Dave Wicker.

As for “Heavenly,” I was beginning to wonder if the name was something the lady had given herself, not unlike Holly Golightly in
Breakfast at Tiffany's.

“My Lord,” I said, “I could use some help.”

“McKenzie, I wouldn't give you the time of day.”

“It involves a Stradivarius violin worth four million.”

“Probably six million, maybe more if it were sold at public auction. And my answer is, go fuck yourself. I apologize for my language.”

Heavenly gave him one of her patented smiles.

“He does bring out the worst in people,” she said.

“Tell me about your shoulder.”

“I was shot three days ago.”

“While searching for the Countess Borromeo?”

“Yes.”

Cid glared at me as if I were the one who pulled the trigger.

“McKenzie saved my life,” Heavenly added. It wasn't entirely true, but I appreciated the gesture.

Cid's demeanor softened somewhat; Heavenly had that effect on people. Still, he was a businessman.

“What's in it for me?” he asked.

Heavenly slipped a bundle of fifty-dollar bills out of her sling and set it on the table. El Cid stared at it for a good ten-count before looking her in the eye.

“Is this your money or McKenzie's?”

“Mine.”

“Keep it.”

“My Lord—”

“Dave. Please. Call me Dave.”

“Thank you, Dave.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Who would—” I said.

Cid cut me off.

“I was talking to her,” he said.

“We know the Countess was stolen on commission,” Heavenly said. “The thief was hired to acquire the item and hand it over to a facilitator, like yourself.”

Cid bowed his head. I think he preferred “facilitator” to “fence.”

“Possibly the facilitator had a buyer lined up,” Heavenly said. “Possibly he intended to place the Countess in a vault for a few years and then find a buyer. Possibly he meant to hide it until the statute of limitations expires, pretend to discover it at a garage sale, and sell it at auction. Possibly he meant to sell it back to the insurance company and now is stuck with it.”

“Possibly,” Cid said.

“Who? Who would have the resources for a gag like that?”

“Besides me?”

“I am willing to pay $250,000 for the violin's safe return, no questions asked,” I said. “I can get the money in thirty minutes.”

“Shut up, McKenzie.”

“Yes, McKenzie,” Heavenly said. “Adults are talking here.”

Cid grinned broadly. Apparently, it pleased him no end that Heavenly was taking his side against the man who ratted him out to the cops two years ago.

“There are only a few people I can think of,” Cid said. “The Martin brothers in L.A.—Bryan and Brandon; 'course they're both a couple of perverts. There's Kevin Stein in New York, Lawrence Sahulka in Toronto, Doc Young in Philly, Missy Comapt in Atlanta—”

“Tell me about Doc Young,” I said.

“His real name is Tim Young. Everyone calls him Doc. He's not good-natured like me, McKenzie. Fuck with him, he'll blow your brains out.”

“How do I get ahold of him?”

“You go to Philadelphia and arrange a face-to-face,” Heavenly said. “He doesn't talk on the phone.”

“Not since Edward Snowden did his thing,” Cid said.

“Do you know him?” I asked.

“Let's say I know of him,” Heavenly said.

“Does he know you?”

“In this business you keep track of talent,” Cid said. “If I know Heavenly, Doc knows her. Hell, he might even have heard of you.”

*   *   *

“Why Philadelphia?” Heavenly asked.

We were back in my Mustang and maneuvering through the Minneapolis traffic toward my condo. It occurred to me that I lived less than three miles from El Cid's place of business. I found the information very disconcerting.

“We need to start somewhere,” I said.

“Yes, but why there?”

“The prefix of the phone number inputted into the cells that the Voice sent to you and Ruland—215 is Philadelphia.”

“I should have checked that myself, careless. Are you sure you only scored thirty-one on your ACT?”

“Now you sound like Maryanne Altavilla.”

“'Course, that doesn't mean the Voice is from Philadelphia. Only that the burner phones were purchased and activated in the area.”

“Something the old man used to say—
The race isn't always to the swift nor the battle to the strong, but that's the way to bet.
”

“Something my old man used to say—
Fuck you if you can't take a joke.
”

“Sounds like a helluva guy.”

“I could tell you stories,” Heavenly said.

“Anytime you're ready.”

“Have you ever been there—to Philadelphia?”

“No.”

“I have. I know people.”

“What people?”

“The kind of people who do business with people like Doc Young. Believe me, your usual charming ways aren't going to impress them at all.”

“Have you ever worked with Doc?”

“No—and I have no desire to, either. He's not a nice man.”

“What we'll do—”

“I'll handle it.”

“You will?”

“Like I said, I've been there before. I'll get us in, set us up, arrange to meet Doc, then get us out again, preferably in one piece.”

“You can do all that?”

“Trust me.”

“Okay, I will.”

“All I ask is that you don't get me shot again.”

“I'll do my best.”

“Please.”

*   *   *

Paul Duclos couldn't sit still—or stand still, either, for that matter. He had requested a progress report and I agreed to meet him at his home on Sunday. We moved to his luxurious kitchen because that's where the coffee was; Renée Peyroux insisted on joining us. Once there, he started pacing back and forth while his wife and I sat at the table and watched.

“You still don't know where she is,” Duclos said. “No one claimed the reward, no one came forward … Donatucci said someone would. He said, offer a reward, he said … I thought it would be done by now; thought I'd have her back by now … It's like a bad traffic accident that doesn't end, that keeps going on and on in slow motion, until … Is she gone, McKenzie? Gone forever?”

“Paul, please sit down,” Peyroux said.

He ignored her and kept pacing except for those moments when he halted long enough to drink his coffee. He refilled his mug three times while I was sitting there. Instead of taking it black as he had before, he now half-filled the mug with sugar. The man's condition had deteriorated some since last we spoke—his skin was pale, his eyes bloodshot, and his hands shook. He reminded me now of a junkie going through withdrawal. I attempted to give him something to hold on to.

“I'm going to Philadelphia tomorrow,” I said. “Have you ever been there?”

“Many times. Kimmel Center. The Countess and I once played a charity thing on the Rocky Steps at the Philadelphia Museum of Art.”

“There's a man there—I think he arranged to have the Countess stolen.”

“Why doesn't he sell her back, then?” Duclos asked. “Is it the money? Does he want more money?” He turned on his wife. “This is your fault. Because you refused to pay a ransom. How could you do that? How?”

“Please,” she said.

“I don't think he actually has the violin,” I said. “The man in Philadelphia. I think something happened before he could take possession. I'm hoping he'll tell me what before someone else gets shot.”

“People are being shot?” Peyroux asked.

“One dead, one wounded.”

“Oh, no.”

“I don't care,” Duclos said. “I don't care if a hundred people get killed. No, no, no, listen to me. I don't mean that. I don't mean … Please, McKenzie. What am I going to do?”

Peyroux called his name; asked him to sit with her yet again. Duclos wouldn't even meet her eyes.

“I need her, McKenzie,” he said. “Don't you understand? McKenzie…” He set down the coffee mug and showed me his trembling hands. “I can't play. Not a note. I don't know how. Without the Countess I'm nothing.”

“Yes, you are,” Peyroux said. “I was in Duluth, remember? Friday night at Symphony Hall. First row center. You were brilliant.”

“It's a lie.”

Peyroux turned in her chair to face me.

“When I heard about the theft, I drove up there,” she said. “I brought Paul's old violin, the Jacob Stainer that he used before the foundation lent him the Countess Borromeo. He never played better.”

“It doesn't have the same sound,” Duclos said.

“It was beautiful.”

“What do you know? You know nothing about music. You know nothing about musicians.”

“I know you.”

“Stop it. Stop it, stop it, stop it.”

“Paul—”

“Do you know what this is about? McKenzie, do you? As long I was the Maestro, I came first. I was the world-famous violinist who married the pretty rich girl. Now she's in charge. The rich girl married to the failed musician. She likes it that way. Don't you? Don't you, sweetheart?”

“How many times do I have to say it—I didn't marry you because you could play the goddamned violin. I don't love you because you play the violin.”