The Da Vinci Deception (24 page)

Deats gripped the detective's hand. “Elliot sends his regards.”

They entered the office exchanging the idle banter of two professionals. Tobias closed the door then sat on the edge of his desk. “Let me update you.” He opened a manila folder and leafed through the pages.

“On Friday Elliot telephoned and asked that we check on the whereabouts of Anthony Waters and Curtis Stiehl and develop a profile on Jonas Kalem. The best I could do was phone Kalem's office yesterday, but that didn't give me much. Kalem wasn't in and I spoke with his brother, who said that Anthony Waters had been mixed up in their organization but there had been a quarrel and Waters was booted out. The
brother claims to have no personal knowledge of Curtis Stiehl . . . said he'd look into the records and asked that I phone the next day.”

Tobias stepped behind his desk. “I decided against another phone call and paid them a visit. Quite a layout they've got. Entrance from one elevator bank, exit from another. Tight security. Considerable art on display, most of it good stuff, but I'm no judge of that. The brother wasn't there so I spoke with an Edna Braymore, Kalem's personal secretary, who's also the office manager. She was tight-lipped and nervous as hell. She claimed Waters hadn't been in the office for six months.” He sat on the edge of his desk. “Kalem's in Europe, and I find it unbelievable that she doesn't know where to reach him. She confirmed that Curtis Stiehl was an employee but that he wasn't to be disturbed. And when I asked when the brother would return, she said she didn't know.”

Deats played with his glasses. “Anthony Waters hasn't been seen for six months?”

“Yep. That's what they claim.”

“Strange. We know he was with Kalem less than two weeks ago. Even so, with the exception of Stiehl, no one is minding the store. A bit extraordinary, wouldn't you say?”

“We accumulated some good information today, however.” Tobias flipped open another folder. “Waters is one of your boys, so I put him aside, but I ran the other two names past the FBI's Identification Division. Kalem showed up in the New York files, and Stiehl had quite a write-up in the federal records as well as in New Jersey.”

Deats tossed his heavy jacket onto a chair. “Good show, Alex. Please go on.”

“Eight years ago Jonas Kalem was indicted on a charge of extortion. He overcharged several of his clients who saw to it that the charges were paid, then were paid off for their cooperation. It was a sophisticated kick-back scheme that involved several million dollars. An audit tripped him up and eventually he was caught in the conspiracy. When he was brought to trial, he agreed to make full restitution. A number of prominent companies were involved and they dropped the charges rather than face the bad publicity.”

“And Stiehl? What's his background?”

Alexander Tobias did not reply but walked to his office door and gave a signal. Into the room walked a man who appeared more distressed by the heat than Walter Deats. He carried his seersucker jacket like it was an old gunnysack and his tie dangled over a soiled, damp shirt. From his
unshined shoes to his scraggly hair he was a tonsorial disaster. But he wore a grin and his face was touched with mischievousness.

He held out a hand and said in a nasal voice touched with an unmistakable Bronx accent, “Hi, Superintendent. I'm Len Bascom, U.S. Treasury. Alex here told me you'd be here today and could I come meet you.”

They shook hands. Deats was slightly amused by this most unlikely representative from the august United States Treasury Department. But he was also confused and looked to Tobias for an explanation.

“Leonard goes back a long way with Curtis Stiehl. His story might interest you.”

“Stiehl's a convicted counterfeiter,” Bascom began, “served a fouryear stretch.” Bascom described the fraudulent New Jersey municipal securities scheme, Stiehl's apprehension and trial. “I was involved in counterfeiting at that time. Stiehl operated alone, never on a large scale. But he's a pro. Best we've ever seen.” He took a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet. “I've carried this for four years. I'm not turning it in until Stiehl goes with it.”

Deats ran his fingers over the note. His impression was that it was excellently produced. “What do you need to make a charge?”

“The usual. Passing his homemade bills, locate his presses, or get hold of the goddamned plates that I know were in his house when he was arrested.”

“Tell Superintendent Deats why you're so sure,” Tobias urged.

“During Stiehl's trial we went through his home with everything but a bulldozer and came up with nothing. Three years later his wife gets a divorce and sells the house. I don't learn about the sale for another couple of months, then I go back to see if it's occupied. The house is empty and I see everything's changed—doors moved, new windows, fresh paint. I check the local real-estate people and find it's up for sale again. I'm thinkin' we shook that house down—Christ, we didn't scratch the surface. They tore the bricks out of the fireplace, then built a new one. Somebody knew about the plates and wanted them more than we did.” A drop of perspiration formed on the end of his nose. “Jesus, it's hotter'n a whore's snatch in here.

“There have been two owners since Stiehl's wife sold it. The first was a man named Frank Pearson. He paid with a certified check. No mortgage. Two weeks later he sells it. Again, for cash. The deeds are filed all nice and tidy. Pearson sells to a pension trust account being administered
by the Barclay Bank in New York. The deed gets filed under the name J.R.K., Ltd., London, with the bank as agent.”

Deats looked up from his notebook. “A London company bought the property?”

“Damn right. The money came out of London but control was here in New York.” Bascom turned to Tobias. “Does he know?”

The chief shook his head.

“When the inquiry from Scotland Yard hit the computer, I got alerted that activity's being churned up on Stiehl. I traced it to Alex here. Then I learned you fellows were also interested in Jonas Kalem. Stiehl works for Kalem . . . has since he was released from prison.”

“We assumed that. They were together in London,” Deats said.

“Kalem has a branch operation in London, goes under the name Jonas R. Kalem, Ltd. There's the J.R.K., Ltd. connection.”

Deats continued writing in his notebook. “Kalem and Stiehl are a pair, that's confirmed. Who's Pearson?”

“That lead's dead. Probably a nobody to muddy the trail.”

“How does Anthony Waters fit in? He was with them in London.”

“I don't know this Waters guy,” Bascom answered. “Give me an identification on him.”

Deats replied, describing Waters as he had seen him in the library in the role of Gregory Hewlitt. He showed the police artist's drawing.

“I've had surveillance teams on Stiehl's apartment all summer. We went in once but didn't find anything more than some drawings and scribbling that one of my men says looks like Latin. I can't get a search warrant or tap his phone, so I'm taking a chance on breaking in. Then we see he's bringing home some heavy packages and what we think are metal-working tools and I say we got to get in there again. Fuck the warrant. I want to do it at night but he never goes out. Last night he does. A big street festival's going on and he has a young girl with him. I take my best lockpicker and we're in his apartment in forty seconds. But somebody has the same idea. I know it isn't Stiehl coming back and I don't think introductions are in order. I coldcock him before he has a chance to run. I photograph the machines and the guy. Here are the shots.”

Deats asked for a magnifying glass. Tobias obliged and Deats examined the photographs more closely. “He's not counterfeiting with this kind of machinery. Not money at any rate. But these photos, the ones of the guy you put to sleep. I'll wager it's Anthony Waters. Look here . . . across the back of his hand. Can you have this enlarged?”

“‘Sure thing. Have it tomorrow.”

Then silence, each waiting for the other to speak. Alex Tobias was the first: “Quite an interesting trio we're dealing with. An extortionist, a counterfeiter, and—”

“A murderer.” Deats completed the sentence.

Twenty-six blocks north a lone figure stood at a window in an upper floor of the Fifth Avenue Hotel. Tony had not heard Jonas's voice since he monitored the call to Stiehl on Friday. His calls to the Excelsior went unanswered, then on Sunday he was told to expect a call from Jonas on Tuesday. The day was drawing to a close when finally the call came through. An angry voice gave instructions. Tony read them back and was relieved when the conversation finally ended.

He looked down from his window to the famous avenue and the landmark arch at Washington Square in Greenwich Village. He had ventured onto the streets to a drugstore, then a liquor store for a fifth of gin. He was surprised the bottle was nearly empty. Tony Waters knew loneliness. It somehow suited him.

The phone rang and he jumped to answer it before it could ring a second time. It would be Edna Braymore. Only she knew where to reach him.

“Tony? It's Curtis. Are you alive?”

“Of course,” he snapped. “How did you know where to reach me?”

“I told Edna Braymore to give me the number. You're not the Prince of Wales, for Christ's sake.”

“She's under instructions not to give this number to—”

“Bug off, big shot. Have you heard from Jonas?”

“He wants both of us in Como. I'm going on Friday. Kalem will call with your instructions as soon as he's made the arrangements. You're not to see or talk with anyone. Is that clear?”

There was silence. “Is that clear?” Tony repeated.

“Yeah. It's clear.”

Stiehl hung up the phone.

A
lex Tobias assigned Detective Larry Culp to the stakeout at Fifty-fourth and Lexington Avenue. The black, unmarked police car became an oven: only wisps of air kicked up by passing traffic trickled through the open windows. Deats was persistent: “If Waters is still in the city, our only chance is finding him going in or coming out of that building.”

“If you recognize him,” Culp said skeptically.

“I will. Somehow I will.”

Culp was a new breed of police officer. He was perhaps thirty, a state university graduate, and dedicated to law enforcement. He had earned his lieutenant's bar in June. Tobias had been watching his progress for several years and had the angular, blue-eyed officer assigned to his staff within a week of graduation. Occasionally they closed the windows and turned on the air-conditioning. Then the engine overheated. The relief was momentary.

Deats wrote in his notebook:
Wednesday, 24 September. New York blazing hot and no time to be on the trail. Alex Tobias cooperating. Tell Elliot. Good chance Waters here. Officer assigned to me has arrest warrant. Identification is the key. Assume Waters has changed appearance. Will visit Kalem's offices but expect no better luck than Tobias met with.

A rear door opened and Len Bascom slid onto the backseat and handed a large envelope to Deats. “Here're the blowups. You won't need a goddamned magnifying glass.”

A single, medium-sized suitcase was on the bed. It was tan with stout leather flaps, two polished brass locks, and a long, thick handle. It was double-stitched throughout, and with the unmistakable scent of newly tanned leather. He had seen it at Loewes & Kroll, Ltd., one of
two indulgences he felt he deserved as he had shifted to the role of Keith Habershon. The second was in the bottom drawer of Jonas Kalem's desk. He finished packing, then phoned Edna Braymore.

“Are the flights confirmed?”