The Stolen Chalicel (22 page)

The sheriff climbed down off his horse and strode toward the ramshackle building. He couldn’t see through the dust-streaked windows.

He tried the latch on the door and found it locked, so he took out his folding knife and jimmied the rusting keyhole. When he pushed the door open, the hinges creaked heavily. It took a few seconds for his eyes to become accustomed to the light.

Then he saw her. In the middle of the dirt floor—a life-size rag doll with soiled clothes and dull eyes in a sightless stare, looking at the ceiling.

“Jiminy Cricket,”
he said to himself softly.

This was the lady they had been looking for, all right. There was no question. He could see that the boots next to her were top-of-the-line Lucchese, sold by the most expensive shop in town. And the fringed suede coat was too fashionable to be worn by anyone local. Her hands and her feet had been bound with leather restraints. She was quite dead. Coiled next to her was one of the biggest rattlers he had ever seen. His hand strayed to his gun as he stared at it.

“Curt, you better get over here! I think we found her,” he called out. “And bring your Colt. We’re gonna need it.”

Long Island City

C
ARTER
W
ALLACE PARKED
his Prius next to the exterior of Fantastic Fetes catering company. The old warehouse looked derelict; the brick was worn, and there was no commercial sign on the dented steel door. Carter knew this was the right place because of the yellow crime-scene tape cordoning off the sidewalk.

He ducked under the tape and entered the building. The first room was a large kitchen equipped with stainless-steel counters, enormous Vulcan stoves, and half a dozen floor-to-ceiling refrigerators. The gleaming surfaces were spotless, but the scent of vanilla cake still hung in the air.

Sounds were coming from the back of the building, so he followed the noise and found a door ajar. Attached to the industrial kitchens were huge warehouses with garage doors that opened out into a parking lot. Sunlight flooded in. More than thirty shipping containers were stacked floor to ceiling.

“Sir, you can’t come in here,” an officer said, turning when he heard Carter’s footsteps.

“I’m from the Brooklyn Museum,” he said. “I’m supposed to meet Detective Polistrino here.”

“Can I see some identification?”

“Sure.”

Carter pulled his museum badge from his pocket and put the lanyard around his neck.

“OK, you can take a look around.”

The shipping containers were all different colors. Carter instantly knew exactly where each box was from. Every museum had its own special crates with a distinctive color, so they could be identified in the airport cargo bays. The Met used bright blue, the Museum of Modern Art a paler blue, the Frick Collection black, and the Guggenheim yellow.

Some crates were taped shut, and others were open and partially unpacked. Carter walked over to the Met’s containers. They had been crammed willy-nilly with a variety of objects: paintings, statuary, sculpture, stone and metal artifacts. As he looked at the jumble, he couldn’t help but feel a flash of professional irritation. Whoever packed this had no idea what they were doing. These were not museum shipments at all. The thieves had used colored crates to mask their illegal activities.

Clearly, amateurs had packed this art. The warehouse floor was strewn with material known as excelsior, a type of straw made from the shavings of aspen trees. Art shipping companies had stopped using wood straw decades ago because it left traces of resin on anything it touched. Even the Chinese had moved away from it.

A few of the crates were jammed with Styrofoam peanuts. That was another tip-off. No museums
ever
used peanuts—they held a static charge and small pieces always broke off and stuck to the artifacts.

A real museum packing case would utilize the crate-within-a-crate system—custom-cut, four-inch-thick polyurethane Ester foam. It was PH-neutral, nonstatic, and shock-absorbent.

At the far end of the warehouse, a drop cloth was arrayed with several dozen Egyptian artifacts. Five policemen were standing around discussing what they had found.

“OK, Dr. Wallace,” said the senior officer, reading the name on Carter’s badge. “Take a look at these trinkets and tell me if they’re from the Met.”

Carter pulled on a pair of HyFlex gloves, bent down, and picked up an alabaster canopic jar.

“Try to avoid touching anything with your bare hands,” he cautioned the officers. “Your fingers leave oil and acid residue.”

“We got gloves,” the senior officer said, showing him cotton gloves with rubber gripping dots on the fingers.

“No, don’t use those!”
Carter admonished. “The rubber comes off and leaves invisible marks.”

“Really?” the cop asked, looking at the offending items.

“About twenty years ago, those gloves were popular because they were thought to have a better grip,” Carter explained. “But now half the masterpieces in the world have traces of polka dots all over their frames.”

“We didn’t know.”

“I’ll have the museum send over some other gloves,” Carter told him.

“OK, professor. Anything you say.” The officer tossed his gloves into the trash.

As Carter began examining the objects, a heavyset policeman approached. “So whad’ya think? Museum gift shop crap or the real deal?”

“These seem to be genuine,” Carter said without glancing up. “I would need further tests to be a hundred percent sure, but these artifacts certainly don’t appear to be copies.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about paintings, would you?” another officer asked, pointing to a huge canvas lying on the tarp.

Carter looked over at the painting—a glorious array of yellow and orange fruit on a yellow tablecloth. The combination was stunning.

“What do you think of that thing?” the officer asked derisively.

“I’m no expert on paintings,” admitted Carter, standing up and walking over to examine the still life.

“Well,
I
am,” came a voice from behind him. Carter turned and saw the director of European paintings from the Met. He was a puny, nondescript little man who always wore a bright red bow tie when he appeared on cable TV shows.

“
That,
” the man said, dramatically pointing at the painting, “is a Cézanne belonging to Ted VerPlanck. I would know it anywhere.”

Brooklyn Museum

C
ARTER
W
ALLACE WALKED
through the modern glass entrance to the lobby of the Brooklyn Museum and made his way past the bustle of schoolchildren and teachers. A white marble sculpture of the archangel Michael battling a snarling demon was drawing the attention of the children; the little boys were making faces at Satan and squealing with laughter.

Carter smiled as he headed toward the bank of elevators. Wouldn’t it be great if life were that simple? Just make ugly faces and evil would go away.

On the second floor, the executive offices were silent. This new wing was all soaring architecture and glass walls—a far cry from his little cave in the basement of the original building. He was so lowly he didn’t even rate a window.

Carter walked down a corridor and knocked on an open door. Dr. Edward Bezel, a round little gnome if there ever was one, was hunched over his desk. The director of Egyptian, classical, and ancient Near Eastern art always had a bemused smile on his face.

“Hello, Carter.” Bezel stared at him through oversized glasses. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you. What’s all this about a warehouse of stolen antiquities?”

“I was called in to take a look at it because Holly is in London.”

“Any sign of our mummy?”

“I’m afraid not,” Carter said. “I was there until two in the morning, helping inventory everything. But no Artemidorus.”

“A shame, really it is,” Bezel said, losing his smile for a full minute.

“How long will Holly be gone?” Carter asked.

“She won’t be back for another week,” Dr. Bezel confirmed. “She had to go break the bad news to the Brits.”

“I just don’t understand why. After all, Holly’s in the conservation department. Why didn’t one of the curators go to London?”

“Holly is the person who arranged for the loan in the first place. But if you ask me, the press did a number on her,” the director hissed in a sibilant whisper. “Have you seen the papers?”

“No, I haven’t. I’ve been busy.”

“Don’t bother. They’re practically blaming her for the theft.”

Carter felt his face grow flush with anger. How
dare
they make Holly the public scapegoat? He wanted to throttle someone.

“Is there any way I can get in touch with her?” Carter asked.

“Oh, sure,” Bezel said, smiling again.

Carter couldn’t tell if Bezel was amused that he was asking for Holly’s private phone number or if he was just being his jolly self.

Bezel clicked through a few screens on his computer and came up with the number. He jotted it down on a fluorescent pink Post-it.

“I am sure she won’t mind you calling,” he said, extending the sticky notepaper toward Carter on his index finger. Then he winked.

London

V
ER
P
LANCK PACED AROUND
the suite at the Ritz. Still no word about Tipper. Waiting like this was agony. With London five hours ahead of the United States, it was not likely he’d get a call from the States tonight.

He walked over to the tea cart and poured out some Earl Grey. It had gone cold, and all the sandwiches and pastries looked stale. He needed to eat something substantial.

But first he had to apologize to Holly. It had been rude to leave Jim Gardiner’s office this morning and not offer any explanation. Holly had been so kind to come to London a day early, and now he had walked out on her. At the very least he owed Holly a dinner.

VerPlanck picked up the hotel phone and asked the operator to connect him to Dr. Hollis Graham. She was staying at the Ritz also, at his insistence. Holly answered on the third ring, her voice surprisingly sultry.

“I am sorry to disturb you,” Ted began, “but I was wondering if I could persuade you to join me for an early supper?”

He could hear the moment of hesitation, but then came the smooth response. “Oh . . . yes. That would be lovely.”

“I know a little restaurant nearby on Jermyn Street.”

“Sounds good. When shall I meet you?”

“How about in the lobby at, say, six-thirty? Would that suit you? Or do you need more time?”

“That’s perfect, I’ll see you downstairs,” she agreed, and rang off.

Ted VerPlanck put down the phone and smiled to himself. What on earth was he thinking? His life was in chaos. His most precious piece of art had been stolen. His wife was missing. And yet he distinctly felt his spirits rise at the thought of dining à deux with Dr. Holly Graham.

Holly found Wiltons to be exactly the kind of restaurant that would appeal to Ted VerPlanck—the epitome of Edwardian elegance, with white linen tablecloths, polished mahogany woodwork, and charming paintings of English landscapes. VerPlanck explained the restaurant had been famous for catering to an aristocratic clientele since 1742. There was a lovely main dining room, but VerPlanck had requested they be seated in one of the booths separated by etched glass so no one could hear what they were saying.

The restaurant specialized in fish—the raw-oyster bar was famous. But Wiltons was also known for classic English fare: game and meat dishes and traditional puddings. After Holly and VerPlanck ordered, the waiter came to place her fish fork and spoon. They’d be having
all
the courses.

Holly leaned forward to smell the single old English rose in a silver bud vase.

“Beautiful scent,” she said. “I love the color.”

“Pink,” he answered, as if it were the answer to a game show question.

He had changed out of business attire and looked very natty in an English blue blazer and dark gray slacks. His smoke-blue pocket square matched his eyes.

The waiter served the soup course. Holly started in on a thick split pea as Ted spooned up the restaurant’s celebrated beef consommé. VerPlanck had also suggested a fish course. Holly enjoyed the Scottish salmon, savoring the buttery texture as she watched Ted pick at his potted shrimp and toast points.

Throughout the meal, VerPlanck seemed preoccupied. Conversation lagged. Holly decided to keep her remarks to a minimum. The
poor man. First the stolen cup. Now, with his wife missing, no wonder he looked so distracted.

Of course, it would be rude to question him. But she did wonder how a man could sit in a London restaurant enjoying his dinner while his wife was missing.

The waiter rolled the serving trolley up to the table for the main course. A lift of the silver dome revealed that Holly’s lamb cutlets had been cooked to perfection—charred black on the outside, pink in the middle. At the sight of his Yorkshire grouse, VerPlanck finally brightened up.

“What will you be doing at the British Museum?” Ted asked, his tongue loosened by a second glass of claret.