Authors: William Bernhardt
50
R
enny squeezed Loving’s throat all the tighter. Loving could feel the life quite literally oozing out of him. He knew he didn’t have much time, knew that Renny wouldn’t break it off at the last possible moment. This was for keeps. If he was going to do something to save himself, it had to be now.
“I—I—erg—” Loving tried to speak, but the hand clamped around his windpipe made it difficult.
“Do you think I am such a fool?” Renny said. “You think once again that you will bait me into sparing you so I can hear whatever nonsense you have to say. You are wrong.”
Loving gritted his teeth and tried to force the words out, despite the odds. “Y—y—you better.”
Renny laughed. “Still you have the temerity to threaten me? It is to laugh. I could crush the life out of you with a flick of my wrist.”
“I—know—art—stolen—”
Renny pulled his hand away as if he’d been bitten by a scorpion. “You know what?”
“I know you’re an art thief,” Loving managed to spit out. He desperately wanted to massage his neck, but his hands were still strapped to his side. His throat was so sore it ached with every syllable. “That’s what this is all about, ain’t it? Art. All that stolen stuff in your sex den.”
Renny laughed, but the merriment was not nearly so hearty as before. “And am I to believe that a homunculus such as you knows anything about fine art?”
“I know it’s a good way to make money,” Loving rasped. “I know art theft causes more losses than any other form of crime other than drug smuggling. A two-billion-dollar-a-year business, last I heard. I figured you were into drugs, until I saw your private room at the club.”
“Drug smuggling is for criminals. I am a patron. This is not crime. It is more like a gentleman’s high-stakes poker game.”
“Don’t kid yourself. You just figured out an easier way to make a living. Drugs are policed and prosecuted with vigor. But art theft is practically ignored, at least by comparison. Security at most museums is pretty light. Even morons like you and your henchmen who couldn’t possibly run drugs might be able to run paintings.”
Renny slapped the back of his hand across Loving’s cheek. “You will not talk to me in such a manner. I am a connoisseur of art. I do what I do out of love, out of respect. I take art from those who do not deserve it, from those who cannot protect and preserve it. I give it a good home. I ensure that it will last for the ages. Safe.”
“Safe someplace no one can see it but you,” Loving snarled.
“Once again, you are the fool,” Renny said. “What do I care if the great unwashed are able to see a priceless Vermeer? Can they protect it? Would they know how to preserve it? Are they even able to appreciate it? I think not.”
“So that makes it okay for you to steal it from the rightful owners?”
“Don’t be infantile. I do not steal. I leave that to penny-ante players such as Victoria. I buy from those who do. I implicate myself in nothing. What do I know of the provenance of a particular piece of art? I assume the seller has come by it honestly, and if I am wrong…” He smiled and shrugged. “Well. Then I am wrong.”
“You’re a crook.”
“Can you prove it? Can you trace any of the art that you saw? I think not. The statute of limitations on art theft is usually less than ten years, a pitifully small period of time to store a great work of art. While I wait to sell it freely, it only increases in value. In Switzerland, the statute runs a pathetic five years. Imagine that! Barely any time at all. In Liechtenstein and the Cayman Islands, a painting can come out of a bonded free-port warehouse in seven days. Seven days! Do you know that the recovery rate for stolen art is less than ten percent? Hardly a high-risk enterprise. Even for famous works, such as that Rembrandt with which you are so enamored, the recovery rate is less than fifty percent. The international art community is disjointed and pathetic. The Art Loss Register in New York and Geneva has improved the situation somewhat, but not nearly enough to slow me down. The worldwide market remains largely unregulated. Interpol is useless. Most countries have rejected the latest UNESCO treaty on art and antiquities. If I wish to sell, I need only go to the right country to do so. If I wish to keep the art, to admire it and treasure it, I need only remove it from its place of origin. No law requires a buyer to research the provenance of a work of art or to try to determine whether it has been lawfully obtained or stolen. And as a result, almost no one does. My work is preposterously simple—barely even a challenge. It would be more difficult to rob your local savings-and-loan than to heist a world-famous van Gogh.”
“So that makes it okay?”
“I take care of my possessions!” Renny shouted. “I save them from perilous hands! Even in museums, standards for preservation and restoration techniques are dangerously uncertain. I am much better able to maintain and protect these priceless gems for the common good of humanity.”
“Pretty funny,” Loving grunted. His strength was beginning to return, but he knew he was nowhere near ready to make a move. “Hearing you babble on about the common good of humanity while you’re torturin’ a guy tied to a chair.”
“Many sacrifices have been made to bring art into the world,” Renny opined. “You will barely be a blip on the cultural horizon.”
Totally delusional, Loving realized. But he wouldn’t get anywhere by pointing that out. It was just possible this was his opportunity to extract some information. “So Victoria—was she an art freak, too?”
“Victoria?” He made a snorting noise. “She knew nothing of art. All she knew was how to steal. And she wasn’t all that good at that.”
“So why was she at the Roush press conference?”
Renny ignored the question. “If that woman had any real talent or intelligence, she’d have been working the stock exchange. Or robbing payroll shifts. Box-office proceeds. Instead, she made do with podunk palaces like that five-and-dime museum in Boston. And she practically screwed that up. To her eternal detriment. Failed to notice what rich fathers she might offend.” He shook his head. “After that, the doors to the art world were closed to her. She was limited to penny-ante crime. Convenience stores. Liquor stores. Running petty errands for politicians and their cronies.”
“But what was she doing at the Roush press conference?” Loving asked again, even more insistently.
“You have too many questions. Now I do not believe you know anything. And even if you do, I do not believe you have told anyone.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Am I? We have cut your face—tortured you with electricity. Where is your cavalry, eh? Where are your saviors? I think they are not coming. I think they do not exist.”
The door to the storage closet opened and Wilhelm entered the room. He was carrying a space heater and a long iron rod with a sharpened tip. He plugged in the space heater. And waited.
“Do you know what it feels like to have a red-hot iron shoved into your body?” Renny asked.
“Happy to say that I don’t,” Loving grunted.
“That is about to change. I do not suppose this would be the time when you would like to talk?”
Loving shook his head.
“I thought not. Pity. I have almost grown to—well, if not like, then at least respect you.”
“I’m ready, Father,” Wilhelm said. The red tip of the iron rod illuminated the barely lit storage closet.
“Very well. Proceed.”
Wilhelm did not hesitate. He jabbed the red-hot iron into Loving’s exposed gut. Flesh sizzled. Loving cried out, unable to stop himself. And then Wilhelm jabbed him again. And again.
Loving slumped, all his strength oozing out of him. If he hadn’t been tied to the chair, he’d be a puddle on the floor. Renny said something, but Loving’s brain was no longer able to process the language.
Loving fought as hard as he could to hold it together, but it was useless. His body needed a release from pain more than his brain needed to register understanding. In a matter of seconds, blackness enveloped him.
51
B
en was huffing and puffing by the time he reached the top of the three-tiered marble steps outside the D.C. Circuit Court of Appeals building. After convincing the weekend security staff to let him in, he found the elevators inoperative—budget cuts required shutting off some of the interior systems during the weekend. After mounting three more flights of stairs to get to the top floor, he was near exhaustion. By the time he located Judge Roush’s office, he was limping and clutching a stitch in his side.
Perhaps Christina was right. Maybe he did need to get more exercise.
He found Judge Roush in his chambers, a wonderfully ornate room reflecting the Federal architecture of the era in which it was built. Rococo crown molding linked all four painted wood walls to the ceiling. Roush’s desk looked as if it was at least two hundred years old; it had a sliding removable lap panel for writing upon and a secretary’s rack for sorting correspondence. Judge Roush looked as if he belonged in this Old World environment—far more than he ever did in the brighter, more modern Senate building or the Rose Garden of the White House.
“So,” Roush said, barely looking up, “you found me.”
“Yeah,” Ben said, leaning against a high-backed chair and wheezing. “And it took me all day. Next time leave a note.”
“I didn’t want to be found.”
“That much seems clear.” Still gasping a little, Ben slid into the chair. “So what gives?”
Roush leaned back in his desk chair. There was a tranquillity on his face that belied the fact that he was in hiding. “Wonderful office, don’t you think? I still remember the first day I came here. Thought I’d reached the pinnacle of my career, the summit. Beautiful office, nice home in the suburbs, good salary—what else was there? I’d made it to the federal court of appeals. The only position higher would be the Supreme Court—and that was so unlikely it didn’t even bear consideration. I mean, what were the odds? Not even worth thinking about.” He sighed. “I would’ve been better off if it had stayed that way.”
“Don’t say that,” Ben replied. “You were chosen for a reason. I sincerely believe that. And I don’t mean a political reason.”
Roush smiled, but Ben knew it was a smile that meant his words had been mentally brushed aside and ignored. “I’ve been happy here. Always. Love my work. Love my colleagues. Would’ve been perfectly content to spend the rest of my days working in this office.”
“You could,” Ben said, even though he didn’t want to. “It’s not as if you’ve resigned. Withdraw from the Supreme Court confirmation process and just stay.”
He shook his head slowly. “No. Much too late for that. Thomas Wolfe was right—you can’t go home again.” He stared at the green ink blotter on his desk. “Especially not after all the scandal. Wouldn’t be fair to the other judges. I’d be an object of suspicion and mistrust, a blight on the court.” He inhaled deeply. “No. Like it or not, this part of my life is over.”
“Then let’s work together to start a new life. On the Supreme Court.”
Roush pursed his lips. “I know you’ve been to see Ray. I assume he told you.”
Ben chose his words carefully. “He confirmed my suspicion that the woman who was murdered at your home was also the mother who conceived the child that was aborted.”
“Do the police know?”
“I haven’t heard anything. But it’s only a matter of time. Both the press and the Republicans are pouring millions into investigating this new aspect of your past. Frankly, I’m surprised they haven’t already made the connection. But for that matter, I’m surprised they haven’t been able to identify the victim.”
“There’s a reason for that,” Roush said, but he left it hanging, without explanation.
“I did warn you,” Ben said, trying to fill the silence. “I advised you to tell me everything. Better to give me the bad stuff up front and let me prepare for it than to allow me to be blindsided.”
“You feel as if you’ve been blindsided?”
“I feel as if I’ve been sucker-punched by a Mack truck.”
Roush nodded. “I really thought that maybe, just maybe, I could slip by. Especially since the Republicans were in such a hurry. I thought it was possible it wouldn’t come out.”
“I must say,” Ben replied, “that there’s something odd about the way it was never revealed during the committee hearings, but was revealed the instant you got out of committee. It’s as if someone was holding it back, waiting to use it only if it became necessary to derail your confirmation.” Ben waited for some explanation. He got none. “But you were naïve to think there was any chance it wouldn’t come out. And you’re talking to someone who more or less majored in Naïve.”
Roush smiled but said nothing.
“Tell me what happened, Tad. Please.”
He looked up abruptly. “You mean about the murder? I have no idea. You don’t think—”
“No. I mean about your past.”
“It’s all dead and gone. Over with. A long time ago.”
“Evidently not. There must be some reason she came to see you on the day of your press conference.” Another interminable silence. “Tad, please.”
“No. I…can’t. I’ll just withdraw, that’s all. And then it will be over and I can retreat into obscurity and—”
“Listen up, buster,” Ben said, his voice acquiring a new and unaccustomed strength. “Do you have any idea how many people have poured hours and hours of their time, not to mention thousands and thousands of their dollars, into your nomination?”
“I know you’ve worked very hard.”
“Forget about me. There are literally hundreds of us. Hundreds of people who put their necks on the chopping block for you. Do you know how many phone hours Christina has logged, working for you instead of that Wilderness Bill that means so much to her? Or the Poverty bill? What about Senator Hammond, the Democratic leader backing a Republican appointee—how often does that happen? You can’t just crawl away in a fit of self-imposed martyrdom.” Ben’s lips tightened. “You haven’t got the right. You owe them better.”
“Ben,” Roush said, spreading his hands wide, “there’s nothing more I can do.”
“Of course there is. You can tell me what happened. Everything, this time. Every single bit. Then we’ll see where we can go from there.”
Roush sighed, weariness etched in his brow and the creases circling his face. “All right,” he said, finally. “But you aren’t going to like it.”