Stealing the Countess (32 page)

*   *   *

I took a lot less time in the bathroom than Heavenly had, but then I had two hands to work with and I didn't need to take time to clean and rebandage a gunshot wound. When I emerged, I found her sitting on the rocking chair, the flip phone in her hand. She was wearing her sling again. I mentioned it to her.

“I'm a glutton for punishment,” she said. “But not that much punishment.”

“Dr. Candy said it would take a few weeks.”

“I've been counting the days, trust me.” Heavenly held up the flip phone. “Marcus called. We're on for tonight.”

“Where?”

“What is your favorite spot in Philadelphia?”

“I haven't been here long enough to have a favorite spot.”

“Let me rephrase—what is your favorite spot in any decent-size city in America?”

I gave it a few moments thought. I like to travel, and when I travel …

“The ballpark,” I said.

“Citizens Bank Park, where the Phillies play, because…?”

Really, Petryk, you're quizzing me?

“Security,” I said. “Metal detectors and pat-downs at the door make it harder to smuggle a weapon inside. Plus there are guards and cameras and twenty thousand potential witnesses depending on how the Phillies are drawing this year. Whose idea was it?”

“Mine.”

“You really did get thirty-two on your ACT, didn't you?”

“Actually, I lied about that. I only scored a thirty.”

“Well, you'll always be a thirty-two in my book. How do you want to spend the rest of the day?”

“Would it bore you to visit the Philadelphia Museum of Art?”

“Not at all. Although, in retrospect, that might have been an even more secure location.”

“Except it closes at five
P.M.
on Tuesdays, and the doctor refused to meet until this evening.”

“I wonder why.”

“Yeah. It's not like he has a daytime job.”

*   *   *

Third row center in the left field seats, I was eating a sandwich with sauce that dripped over my fingers onto the wax paper on my lap.

“Eww,” Heavenly said. “What is that?”

“Called a Schmitter. Really good. Thinly sliced steak, cooked salami, fried onions, tomatoes, cheese. It's the sauce that makes it tasty, though—mayo, relish, ketchup, and Worchestershire.”

“God, you're brave.”

“I thought it was named after the Hall of Fame third baseman Mike Schmidt, the greatest Phillie of them all, but the woman at the food stand told me it was actually named after a beer that was brewed on Chestnut Hill, wherever that is.”

Heavenly glanced at her watch. She had been doing that every few minutes since we arrived at Citizens Bank Park. I told her to stop.

“One of the great things about baseball, it doesn't have a clock,” I said.

She kept looking anyway. It wasn't going to make the bottom of the third inning come any sooner, though, when we were scheduled to meet Dr. Tim Young. I wondered if his nickname had anything to do with Hall of Fame basketball player Dr. J—Julius Erving—the greatest 76er of them all. Heavenly picked the ballpark, yet it was Doc who selected the exact location, the condiment island in the open area behind section 141 and to the left of Harry the K's Broadcast Bar & Grille. I had already examined the ground, taking careful note of the restrooms, escalator, and food stands; it's where I found the Schmitter. I was particularly interested in the nearest exit—the left field gate behind the Schmitter, where a man in a hurry could dash, hiding himself in the huge, crowded parking lot beyond.

I finished the sandwich and licked the sauce off my fingers, disgusting Heavenly even more. I wiped my hands with a couple of napkins and deposited them and the remains of the meal beneath my seat. I lifted my beer out of the cup holder, took a long pull, leaned back in the seat, and sighed contentedly.

Heavenly looked at her watch.

“Would you relax,” I said.

“Did it ever occur to you that Doc Young might shoot us on sight?”

“The man's a professional. He's here to conduct business. He's not going to take the risk of killing us in front of twenty-five thousand baseball fans—I'm surprised the Phillies are drawing so well, being ten games back in the middle of July. Anyway, if he shoots us, it'll be after we leave the ballpark.”

“So we have that to look forward to.”

“You're awfully jumpy given what you do for a living.”

Heavenly adjusted her sling.

“I've been reviewing the situation,” she said.

“Isn't there a song…?”

“McKenzie…”

“You're just upset because you set off the alarm when we entered the ballpark.”

“Do you know how many places have metal detectors at the door? Every time I walk through one I'll need to explain myself.”

“The rent-a-cops supervising the detectors—they seemed happy to talk it over with you.”

“I see my future. It's already old.”

Heavenly made a production out of looking at her watch again, tugging at her sling, folding her good arm over it, and staring out at the field. It was the top of the second, two outs, with the Marlins trying to get something going. She smiled slightly when she caught me looking at my own watch out of the corner of my eye.

*   *   *

Bottom of the third inning, the Phillies coming to bat. The concession stands were as quiet as they were ever going to be—most fans were in their seats, many of them finishing up whatever food or beverages they had purchased before the game began. They wouldn't be queuing up to get more until after the Phillies recorded their third out. Given their offensive output lately, I figured that might come in a hurry.

Only one man was standing at the condiment island. I recognized him as we approached—Marcus Camby. He had a pleased expression on his face that quickly turned to concern when he saw Heavenly's sling.

“What happened?” he asked. “Are you all right?”

“I zigged when I should have zagged,” Heavenly said.

The explanation didn't seem to please him at all.

“The man who followed you last night.”

The way Camby spoke—it was a promise of retribution. Heavenly heard it, too. She rested her hand on his wrist.

“It happened before I came to Philadelphia,” she said. “I didn't wear the sling last night because I didn't want you to worry.”

She's the best,
my inner voice told me.
She lies even better than you do.

Camby flung a nod in my direction.

“Who's your friend?”

“Just that—a friend.”

A small, frail-looking old man approached the island; he was dressed as if he were playing golf. Two men who looked like bouncers at the kind of joint that uses velvet ropes to keep the unfashionably attired at bay stood on each side of him.

“Where's my $50,000, Petryk?” he asked. “Where's my violin? I should have one or the other from you.”

Heavenly's response was to study him for a few beats.

“Are you staring at me?” the man asked. “Why are you staring at me? Stop it. I said stop it. Marcus, she's staring at me.”

“Heavenly,” Marcus said. “You know better.”

She moved her gaze to me.

“It's not him,” she said. “He's not the Voice.”

“No. He's just a cog in the machine.”

“Machine?” the old man said. “Do you know who you're talking to?”

“Doc,” Camby said.

“That's right. I'm Tim Young. Cog in a machine? I could have you fucking killed where you stand.”

He spoke loudly enough that the home plate umpire could probably hear him, but being used to such language allowed the game to continue.

“Where's my goddamn money?” Doc wanted to know.

“Shhh, Doc.” Camby rested his hand on Young's arm the way Heavenly had rested hers on his. “We're here to talk.”

“Then somebody had better start talking pretty goddamn fast.”

“You've already told me everything I need to know,” I said.

Young pointed at me.

“Who is this asshole?” he asked. “Why is he staring at me?”

“Friend of Heavenly's,” Camby said.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah—McKenzie.”

There's no doubt now,
my inner voice said.

“You're being played, Doc,” I said.

“You fucking talk to me like that? You come to my town and talk like that?”

His fists were clenched, and he bounced up and down on the balls of his feet; his face was red with exertion. He looked to me as if he were having an aneurysm. There's dangerous and then there's nuts. I decided Doc Young was both. I wondered how he ever managed to secure a position of responsibility.

“Stealing the Countess Borromeo, I thought that you might have been the one who commissioned it, Doc,” I said. “I was hoping it was you. It wasn't, though. The question you just asked proves that it wasn't.”

“What do you know about it?”

“Heavenly had volunteered to return the $50,000 when she realized the Countess wasn't to be had. Instead, someone shot her and stole the money from her room. You would have known that if you were the Voice, what Heavenly calls him.”

“Wait,” Camby said. “He shot you?”

Heavenly nodded; the lie I told did not register on her face.

“Sonuvabitch,” Camby said.

At least he believed me, I thought. But Doc …

“Bullshit,” he said.

“Real shit,” I told him. “Trevor Ruland and Heavenly were hired over the phone. Ruland was supposed to acquire the Countess; Heavenly was supposed to pay him off and deliver it to … well, to you, apparently. You know all this, though. They didn't know who their employer was, but you—you don't like conducting business on the phone.”

“Fucking NSA, fucking FBI, ain't no privacy anymore.”

“Uh-huh. This Voice came to you personally with his offer. He was going to drop a four-million-dollar Stradivarius in your lap,
negotiate
with you to sell it back to the rightful owners for half of its insured value, and split the proceeds. I bet the two of you did the exact same thing sometime in the past.”

“You can't prove that.”

“All the Voice required to put the plan into motion was fifty large in seed money.”

“Fifty-five.”

“Only the plan went to hell when someone beat him to the violin and the insurance company announced that it wouldn't pay a ransom. It should have ended there. The Voice should have returned your money. Oh, well—better luck next time. Except he really wanted that violin. So he convinced some dumb schnook to pony up a $250,000 reward and convinced another dumb schnook to go after the real thieves. Problem was—what to do about you? You have a volatile personality, Doc, if you don't mind me saying so.”

“Fuck you.”

“If the Voice had recovered the Stradivarius and sold it back for a paltry quarter mil—without sharing—I bet you'd be offended. And he wasn't going to share. He killed Ruland and tried to kill Heavenly partly to keep them from kibitzing; he knew they both would have snatched the violin if they could. But mostly it was to convince you that it was someone else who ruined your day.”

“That's not the way I heard it.”

“The Voice suckered us both, Doc. I was supposed to find the violin and return it for the reward so you'd think I was the one who fucked you over and not him, and if that didn't work, guess what—he would have had you killed, too.”

Doc shook his head as if I had fumbled the punchline of a good joke.

“You believe this?” he asked.

Camby didn't answer. Doc gestured with his head at one of his thugs.

“Get 'im,” he said.

The thug left the island. The crowd cheered. I glanced at the scoreboard. The Phillies had scored two runs and had two on base with nobody out. Funny what you miss when you're not paying attention.

A moment later, the thug returned, Vincent Donatucci following closely behind. The old man moved easily. Apparently, he was in better shape than I had thought.

“Hello, Vince,” I said.

“You don't look surprised to see me,” Donatucci said.

“I knew you were here last night when you sent your punk to kill Heavenly—”

“He did what?” Camby asked.

“Let me guess—Paul Duclos told you I was coming to Philadelphia,” I said.

“The man's been calling me twice a day; wants his violin back,” Donatucci said.

“You disappoint me, Vince. But then, I always hate to see a good man go bad.”

“Vince? What happened to Mr. Donatucci?”

“You don't deserve a mister.”

“They owe me, McKenzie.”

“No, they don't.”

“Enough,” Doc said.

“What did he tell you?” Donatucci asked.

“Exactly what you said he'd tell me.”

“He knew the story because it's the truth,” I said.

“McKenzie, McKenzie, McKenzie—where's the violin?” Donatucci said. “And don't you dare tell me that you don't know.”

“If I did, I would have turned it in by now just like I promised.”

“Hell you woulda,” Doc said.

“Why not? What do I have to gain besides the $250,000?”

“We could hold out for more. Find a foreign buyer. Lots of possibilities. You tellin' me stories? I'll tell you a story. You stole the Countess from Vince—”

“Is that what he said?”

“You killed the asshole in Duluth after he did his part, then you and Petryk here, you went into business for yourselves. Together, you came to my town to see if I'd make the same deal with you that I made with Vince; half of whatever we get for the Strad. But McKenzie, I don't fuck over my friends.”

Wow.

“I suppose it would be useless to try and convince you otherwise,” I said.