Art and Murder (12 page)

“And you have piqued ours.” Roche sounded sincere.

“I would prefer to speak to you in person before making a decision,” Jack went on. “Considering what has transpired, I would want that to be on Canadian soil.”

“Can you give me a moment, please?” said Roche.

“Take all the time you need.”

Jack could hear Roche in a quiet conversation with someone. The only word he could make out was
Canada.
At last Roche came back on the line. “Jack, are you there?”

“Yes.”

“Unfortunately, it would not be wise for me to meet you in Canada.”

“Why not? I thought money was not a problem.”

“It's not the cost, it's me. I have recently been involved in some legal difficulties. I do not want to risk bringing you unwanted attention. It is for your own protection that I think I should decline.”

“I am thankful for your concern. I don't know what legal difficulties you're facing, but that's normally something I would be able to assist with.”

“We have taken care of the problem, but there could be some aftermath. Nothing of real concern. Simply more of a temporary nuisance.”

“It is too bad we hadn't met before last night. My service tends to preclude legal difficulties.”

“Which is what we would like to discuss with you,” Roche said.

“Still, considering that you tried to murder me a few hours ago, do you really expect me to come to your backyard?”

“No, uh —”

Another voice came on the phone. “I will come to Canada and meet you.”

The man had a German accent and spoke with confidence. Jack made a conscious effort to keep the excitement out of his voice. “Who the hell are you?” he asked, feigning annoyance.

“The person who will be paying you, should you decide to work for us.”

“And you are willing to come here to discuss it with me in person?”

“Leave your contact information with Anton. I will arrive early next week, if that is suitable.”

“That is suitable. So who am I talking —”

The line went dead. Jack stared at the phone in his hand.
I want nothing better than to welcome you to Canada. We have many beautiful parks, well equipped with washrooms….

Ten minutes after he and Jack disconnected, Detective Otto Reichartinger received a message through his wireless earpiece, which was part of a cellphone-conferencing system set up for officers who were on surveillance.

“We traced the call to the Dormero Hotel.”

“Room?” Otto asked.

“Don't know. They hung up before we could find out”

Guess it doesn't matter,
Otto thought
. They've probably left.
He cursed and screeched out into the traffic. The Dormero Hotel was only a couple of minutes away from where he was, but situated the farthest away from his closest team member. His instructions to lose the subjects, rather than risk them spotting the surveillance, was prevalent on his mind. Unlike movies and television, one-car surveillances did not remain unnoticed for long.

He was half a block from the hotel when he saw three men approaching a parked car. One man whom he recognized as Roche was getting into the back seat. A large, husky man with short blond hair was getting into the driver's seat, but it was the third man who attracted Otto's close attention as he drove past. This man had a swarthy complexion and collar-length black hair. He was also wearing a heavy gold chain, and a reflection from the streetlight indicated rings on the fingers of his right hand. It was too dark for Otto to see if his hands were hairy. Given the man's complexion, they might be.

“I've got the number-two target getting into the back seat of a red Porsche Panamera,” Otto said into his cellphone. He glanced in his rear-view mirror and saw the car pull out and head in the opposite direction. “Two men are with him. The front-seat passenger may be our number-one target. They're eastbound on Europa-Allee.”

“Ten minutes away,” radioed Ulrich, Otto's closest team member. “Plate?”

“Don't have it,” Otto muttered, “but the car looks new.” He described the suspects, including that the number-one target wore several rings.

“On his fingers?” another team member asked.

“What do you think I mean? A Prince Albert?”

“Thought I should confirm,” came the haughty reply.

“Hey, Otto,” Ulrich asked, “you got a Prince Albert?”

“If I ever get drunk enough to put a ring in my dick, I want you to shoot me,” Otto replied as he swung his car around and hit the gas to catch up to the Porsche. When he did, he tried to maintain three cars between him and his target.

Five minutes later, with his team still a few minutes away, the Porsche slowed down in the red-light district, then turned into a narrow passageway that led to one of the more popular brothels, called Eroscenter
.
The problem was, Otto knew, the small parking area behind led to numerous other brothels and exits. It was also not the type of area where you would leave a new Porsche unattended, especially at midnight.

“They pulled in behind Eroscenter 47 Elbe,” he reported.

Ulrich chuckled. “Don't you have a membership at that place?”

“What's your ETA, funny man?” Otto asked.

“About four minutes.”

“I'm going in on foot,” Otto said, fearing that to drive in immediately behind the Porsche would alert them to the fact that they were being followed.

One thing was in Otto's favour. Parking stalls around the brothels did not remain occupied long and he quickly found a place to park. Moments later he ignored the friendly hello from a hooker on a balcony overlooking the passageway and hustled through.

It didn't take him long to find the Porsche, which was parked and empty. Six men were talking in a cluster a short distance away, and he was able to make out Roche as being one of them.
So far, so good.

He decided to use the opportunity to get the licence plate from the Porsche, but as he neared, someone grabbed him by the shoulder. “What are you doing?” said a man with a deep, gravelly voice.

They were in the shadows, but Otto could see that the man had a broad chest and thick-muscled arms. He also had a broad nose and a short, black beard. It was the nose that caught Otto's attention and caused his pulse to quicken.
I know this face.

“I said —”

“Lookin' for a place to puke,” Otto slurred.

“Puke near this car and I'll wipe your face in it.” The man shoved Otto backward. “If you so much as touch it, I'll break both your fucking arms. Get lost!”

Otto swayed on his feet as he caught a glimpse of the man's left hand. Half of the index finger was missing.
It's him!

Not the Ringmaster, but a thug known as Nine-finger Joe, currently the subject of one of the most intensive man-hunts Germany had ever seen. Nine-finger Joe had escaped prison a month earlier after being sentenced to sixteen years for the violent hijacking of a truck full of liquor.

“Okay, okay. Sorry,” Otto mumbled. He managed to catch a glimpse of the plate before staggering back out the passageway to the street. He had intended to return to his own car, but the sound of men's voices following him out the passageway changed his mind.

He elected, instead, to stand on the sidewalk and engage the hooker on the balcony in idle chatter as he watched. The six men he'd seen in a cluster moments before talked briefly with Nine-finger Joe at the end of the passageway, then made their way toward him.
What's the matter, Joe? Afraid to come out in the light?

As the six men neared, Otto caught a glimpse of Roche and the driver of the Porsche. They and two others had their backs to him as they proceeded to an outdoor café beside the brothel. The remaining two men left the group and were headed his way.

“I've never been to Canada, have you?” he heard one man say to the other as they passed.

Both were about thirty and had the hardened look of street criminals. Neither paid any attention to him as they continued on.

“So, you telling me you don't have twenty euros?” the hooker yelled down to him.

Otto waved his hand dismissively at the prostitute as Ulrich drove past. While Ulrich searched for a place to park, Otto returned to his own car and used his phone. “Targets are sitting out front of Café Elbe beside the Eroscenter,” he reported.

His team responded and he was pleased to hear they were all nearby. “Have some more information for you,” he added. “I just saw Nine-finger Joe in the back. He's somehow connected to these guys.”

“Are you serious?” Ulrich asked. “Rumour was that he fled to Thailand.”

“I'm very serious.”

“Nine-finger Joe?” another member of the surveillance team exclaimed. “Are you sure? His real name is Manfred —”

“Yes, it's him,” Otto stated. “He's grown a beard now, but there's no doubt. He's working for whoever it is we're following.”

“There's eight of us. We can go in and arrest him!” This from Ulrich.

“No, we're not doing that,” Otto said.

“You're right,” Ulrich agreed. “Want me to call the Special Response Unit?”

“No! We're not to do anything that could alert the targets.”

“But —”

“Nine-finger Joe's day will come, just not today.”

“Hope whatever Canada is working on is worth letting him go.” There was disappointment in Ulrich's voice.

“A policeman was murdered in Paris today,” Otto told him. “Catching that person is worth a hundred guys like Nine-finger Joe.”

“You're right, sorry.”

“In the meantime, let's all make certain we don't do something that will get another policeman murdered in Canada. Everyone clear on that?”

After a round of affirmative replies came through his earpiece, Otto checked the license plate on the Porche. It was registered to a Wolfgang Menges with a local apartment address.

He used his binoculars to look at the four men in the café. The two men with Roche and Wolfgang looked like thugs, but neither was the man with the swarthy complexion.

You son of a bitch! Where did you go? Are you with Nine-finger Joe?
Otto radioed his team to alert them that the unidentified man was missing. Moments later the two thugs left the café and disappeared back down the passageway.

To avoid jeopardizing the surveillance, Otto opted not to have anyone follow them, and the team remained to watch Roche and Wolfgang. Thirty minutes later Wolfgang drove Roche to the Sheraton Frankfurt Airport Hotel, where Roche doubtless booked a room. Wolfgang returned to his own apartment.

Otto checked his watch.
Quarter to two. Must be quarter to five in the afternoon in Canada. Who is the undercover cop there who asked for me, and what does he want done?

He had been given a contact number for a Staff-Sergeant Wood, the cop's boss in Canada. As he opened his notebook, his phone vibrated. He looked at the 604 prefix on the call display, which matched the prefix of the number in his notebook.
What? Are you reading my mind?

Again, Jack ripped the tape off Anton, who winced. His skin was more sensitive than ever. “Get to your feet,” Jack ordered.

Anton complied, glancing nervously at Jack, Laura, Sammy, and Benny while massaging his wrists.

“What had you planned on doing with Dempsey's car?” asked Jack gruffly.

“We were going to leave it at the Vancouver Airport to throw the cops off.”

Jack shook his head. “Security cameras are all around the airport — you don't need that headache. We're only minutes from the Fort Langley Airport, which is small and alongside the Fraser River. My guys will leave it near there. The cops won't know if he left on a small plane or went into the river. Either way, it's better than your idea.”

“Hadn't thought of that,” Anton said. “I don't know the area all that well.”

Jack gave the keys for the car I-HIT had lent him to Benny and told him to follow Sammy in Dempsey's car and leave it where he said. He then turned to Anton again. “You're coming with me.”

“Where are you taking me?” Anton's voice was shrill.

“I'm going to drop you off about two minutes away, then you can walk back and free your two buddies. I will also give you my number. I want to know when to schedule a meeting with whoever's coming to see me. I travel a lot, so let me know as soon as you find out. Give me a number for you, as well, in the event I need to contact you.”

* * *

It was four in the afternoon when Jack and Laura arrived at their office. They immediately went to see Rose.

“Good news,” Rose said as they took a seat. “The painting you found has been confirmed as the original that was stolen from the home in Burnaby. It is now stored in the vault at the Burnaby Detachment.”

“Bet the owner will be glad to get it back,” Laura said.

“The original investigator is away on holiday, but they brought us the file. It's on your desk if you want to look at it.”

“Did you read it?” asked Jack.

“Yes,” Rose replied. “Apparently, it was a real break-in. The painting wasn't insured, so that rules out an insurance scam.”

“Not insured?” Jack was surprised.

“The owner is in his eighties. He only discovered it in his attic recently.”

Jack nodded. “I'll look at the file later. In the meantime, I've got a phone number for Anton. I would like someone to apply for an emergency wiretap on it.”

“What about Bojan and Klaus?” asked Rose. “Don't you have their numbers?”

“I do, but legislation requires they be notified later if we do electronic surveillance on them. Before Kerin's murder, the French police didn't know about Bojan and Klaus. In theory, only I do, so that would jeopardize the informant if they found out that wiretaps were applied for today. Later, if a wiretap shows Anton calling them, we could do it then.”

“Klaus and Bojan are low-level hoods,” Laura stated. “Roche doesn't deal with them, regardless.”

Rose nodded. “As far as Anton goes, I've spoken with Inspector Dyck, and he said Corporal Crane is at your disposal to get that going.”

“Wonder how she feels about that,” Jack said. “I don't think she was happy with the delivery I made for her.”

“She seemed okay when she called me earlier. She wants a written statement from the both of you describing everything that happened to use as grounds for the wiretap.”

“Good. What about Kerin's notes?”

“The French police are transcribing them and say we'll have a full transcript by tomorrow. Everything else I've been told about their investigation is in this file.” Rose gestured at a file on her desk. “If you wish to review it again, be my guest.”

“And Germany?” Jack picked up the file. “What's going on there? Did they ever find out where Roche was when he called me the last time?”

“Haven't heard.” Rose glanced at her watch. “It's one-forty in the morning there. Maybe they didn't come up with anything and shut it down.”

“I think Otto is professional enough that he would let us know,” Jack said. “Give me his number and I'll call him.”

“And your statement for Connie?”

“I'll call her right after talking with Otto and give her the statement before I go home.”

“You could probably wait and do your statement tomorrow morning,” Rose suggested.

Jack shook his head. “It's not like I'll be able to sleep tonight.”

* * *

“Yes, hello,” Otto answered in perfect English.

“Detective Otto Reichartinger,” Jack said, “this is Bart from the Outback Bar in Lamai, Koh Samui, Thailand, calling. You left without paying for your last bottle of Victoria Bitter.”

Otto grinned. “I apologize. Some Canadian I was drinking with said he would buy it for me after I paid for the previous round. You know how cheap they are. He must have skipped out without paying.”

“Must've,” Jack said.

“Who are you really?” asked Otto seriously.

“Jack Taggart. My partner, Laura Secord, and I are both undercover operatives with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. We were on assignment and met you at Bill Resort in Koh Samui a couple of years ago.”

“Ah, so it was you!” Otto laughed.

“We never told you who we really were, but spent a bit of time partying with you and some Norwegians.”

“Terje, Inger Siri, Eirik, and Trine,” said Otto. “They are good friends of mine. Oh, yes, I remember the two of you. So Laura wasn't really your girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Fine time to tell me.” Otto pretended to be angry. “You knew I was single.”

“She's married,” Jack said. “So am I.”

“Too bad!” Otto exclaimed.

“About her or me?”

Otto chuckled. “With you I don't care.”

After a bit more reminiscing, Jack explained everything that had happened since his informant had called him.

Otto then updated Jack on his surveillance of Roche Freulard, Wolfgang Menges, and the unidentified man with the swarthy complexion. “By his looks, I would say he's either a Spaniard or an Italian.” Otto paused. “I'm sorry I lost him.”

“It happens. Better than burning the surveillance. I'm really happy you found out as much as you did.”

“There is something else.” Otto told Jack about seeing Nine-finger Joe.

“Sounds like I put you into a nest of some very nasty people,” Jack replied. “Do you think the two bad guys who passed you on the sidewalk and mentioned never having been to Canada were planning on coming here?”

“I couldn't tell from the little I heard. They could have been talking about someone else, or perhaps the others who were at the café.”

“Would you recognize all these men if you were to see them again?”

“Yes.”

“I'll put in a request for you to come to Canada. Considering the kind of people we're dealing with, I'd like to have someone who knows their faces.”

“Not a problem. Roche and Wolfgang appear to have gone to bed within the last few minutes. Do you want us to stay on them?”

“Could you break off, then be back on them by seven o'clock your time?”

“Yes,” Otto said. “That should give me time for about four hours' sleep.”

“Seems to me that's about all you ever got in Thailand.” Jack stifled a yawn. “In the meantime, I'll put in that request.”

“I'll pack my snowshoes.”

“Good. Carry them on your back. That way you'll blend in with everyone else if we end up dodging in and out of the igloos.”

Otto smiled as he hung up.

* * *

Jack's next call was to Connie Crane. “Hey, CC, you pissed off at me?” he asked as soon as she answered.

“Not after hearing the circumstances.” She paused. “Only you would pull a stunt like that, though.”

“Thought you would appreciate me delivering a takeout order. Save you the legwork of leaving the office.”

“Very funny,” she said sarcastically. “So who's the murderer? Or dare I ask?”

“Anton Roche. I've got his number for you to get an emergency wiretap, but I don't want him put under physical surveillance or arrested until I say so.”

“Yeah, with you, I'm sure you don't want the bad guys being watched when you're dealing with them.”

“What are you implying?”

“That not all murder victims are delivered to our office in a van.”

“What the hell? I —”

“Never mind the bullshit,” said Connie gruffly. “Give me the number and then I want a written statement from you and Laura to corroborate my request for the authorization.”

* * *

It was eight-thirty at night when Jack and Laura finished writing their statements. They'd been working for nineteen hours straight, which wasn't unusual, but what with the stress they'd been under, both were exhausted.

Nevertheless, Laura wanted to peruse Jack's statement about what had happened at the acreage prior to her arrival.

As Jack waited, he skimmed through the investigational file from Burnaby regarding the stolen painting. The eighty-one-year-old victim, Mr. Herman Jaiger, lived alone in a small house. He was awakened at night by two men wearing ski masks and latex gloves. One man was exceptionally tall, spoke with a German accent, and may have had a tattoo on his neck.
Klaus,
Jack said to himself as he turned a page. The other man was described as being small and thin.
Probably Liam.
The thieves demanded to know the whereabouts of a painting.

Jack continued to read. One particular statement caught his attention: “During the home invasion, Mr. Jaiger was tied to a chair and questioned about the whereabouts of the painting. At first he denied having it, but when the larger of the two men burnt his eyelid with a lit cigarette, he quickly told them it was stored in his attic. The man continued to burn his face while the smaller man retrieved the painting.”

The file went on to say that Mr. Jaiger had inherited the home when his father passed away years before. Last year, Mr. Jaiger found the painting in the attic, along with an envelope stuck in the back of the frame with the name
Mr. Guri L. Sacher
and a Paris address. Inside the envelope was a document of authentication from the Goldman Art Verification Agency in Paris, dated in 1933
.

Herman Jaiger had the painting appraised in Vancouver and discovered it was worth millions. He told the investigator that his father was a German SS officer in the Second World War, and he believed his father had stolen the painting. Upon discovering it, he wanted to return it to its rightful owner and made some inquires. He learned that the Goldman Agency in Paris had disappeared during the war and that the home of Mr. Guri L. Sacher had been turned into a school.

Herman then contacted a museum in Paris. The curator told him that an art collector living in Paris had once lent the museum another painting by the same artist. They suggested he contact the collector to see if he could assist. The collector's name was Philippe Petit, so Herman wrote him a letter and sent a picture of the painting, but as yet, had not heard back.

The name sounded familiar to Jack and he flipped open the file Rose had made from what she had been told.
Philippe Petit was the art collector murdered in Paris and the catalyst that started Kerin's undercover investigation. Explains why he didn't reply.

Jack removed some photos from a manila envelope and looked at Herman Jaiger's face. A half-dozen burn marks were evident, including one that caused his eyelid to puff up, leaving only a slit for him to peer out of.

Jack scowled as he leaned back in his chair.
Perhaps Connie has a point. I really don't want anyone watching me the next time I meet up with Klaus.