Marked Man Read online

  “How do I get in touch with you?”

  “You want to talk to me, talk to my mother. She’s the only one I trust with a number.”

  “Okay. But I have to know more. You have to tell me what the FBI is looking for.”

  “Do I got a choice?”

  “Not if you want me to have any leverage,” I said.

  “It was just a small job.”

  “Not so small if the FBI is still looking.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t so small at that. Was a blonde I used to hump when I still had some meat on my bones. Her name was Erma.”

  “The name alone gives me chills.”

  “She was big and beautiful, Erma was.” The hint of a smile, a blush of pride, like one bright memory in a life of infantile failure. “And so was what we pulled.”

  I stared at his silhouette in the dim light of the dark beach, the excitement starting to build. “Tell me, Charlie. What the hell is it that you can get your hands on?”

  “You ever hear,” said Charlie, “of a guy named Rembrandt?”

  6

  The Randolph Trust sits on a leafy suburban street in the heart of the Main Line. You’d expect to find a mansion or two on that street, sure, a few swimming pools and a tennis court, a purebred Dalmatian patrolling a front yard as big as a football field, and closets full of shoes you couldn’t afford. You wouldn’t expect to find one of the finest art galleries in the entire world. But there it sat, in a great granite building set down in that incongruous location by the iconoclastic real-estate magnate Wilfred Randolph. In a series of small galleries in that granite building were hung some of the finest paintings ever wrought by human hand, the fruit of Wilfred Randolph’s maniacal passion for art, his entire collection except for two masterworks that went missing long ago.

  I knocked on the great red doors of the granite building and waited. A few minutes later, one of the doors opened a crack and an old guard with a bulbous nose stuck out his head.

  “No visitors today,” he said. “The galleries are closed on Tuesdays. We allow visitors only on the second Monday of every month and alternating Wednesdays.”

  “No Thursdays?”

  “We have classes on Thursdays.”

  “What about Fridays?”

  “We’re open on Good Friday only.”

  “Quite a schedule.”

  “It’s all according to Mr. Randolph’s will.”

  “Quite a will. But I’m not here to tour the galleries. I have an appointment with Mr. Spurlock.”

  He looked me over before examining a clipboard in his hand. “Are you Victor Carl?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Why didn’t you say so? Come on in, we’re expecting you.”

  When I stepped inside, he closed the great door behind me with a gloomy thunk and locked it shut. Then he led me through a narrow foyer and into a large room with benches in the middle and paintings on the walls. It all sounds a little pedestrian, paintings on the walls, like nothing we haven’t all seen hundreds of times before, but trust me when I tell you this was nothing like I had ever seen before. The artwork on the walls left me speechless.

  “Mrs. LeComte wanted to personally escort you to Mr. Spurlock. She’ll be with you shortly,” the guard said before leaving me standing there alone, eyes wide with amazement.

  Wilfred Randolph made his fortune the old-fashioned way, by buying up swampland and selling dreams. The Randolph Estates was the most exclusive residential development in Florida: What with the mangrove and mosquitoes, nobody lived there. But even so, plenty bought the dream and the sales made Wilfred Randolph a rich man. Newly wealthy and anxious to rise in the world, Randolph spied opportunity within the thorny thatches of high culture, and in that unlikely landscape he found his purpose in life. He would buy art. His brokers and his bankers descended like a plague of locusts on a Europe economically devastated in the aftermath of the First World War, and whole swaths of the Continent were denuded. He bought old masters and overlooked masterpieces at bargain rates and snatched up new works by struggling unknowns still fighting for recognition in their native countries. He had too much money and too many advisers not to make a hash of it, but he also had something else that made his collection different from anyone else’s. Wilfred Randolph happened to have a golden eye, and those unknown artists whose paintings he bought for pennies turned out to be the giants of twentieth-century art, painters like Matisse and Renoir, Picasso and Degas, Monet. And there was the very fruit of their genius, hanging on the walls around me.

  “It’s quite astonishing, isn’t it?” said a woman’s voice from behind me.

  “Is that a Seurat?” I said gesturing toward a huge pointillist piece raised above a door on the far wall.

  “Very good, Mr. Carl.”

  “How come I’ve never seen that one before in any art books?”

  The woman behind me sniffed. “We don’t license photographs of our art. Mr. Randolph believed the only way to experience a work of art was to view it in the flesh.”

  I turned around and faced the woman. She was tall and straight and elegantly gray, a well-dressed and well-aged woman in her seventies. She had once been quite pretty, you could tell, with a narrow face and dark features, but with time everything had pinched together.

  “I am Mrs. LeComte,” she said. “I’m to accompany you to Mr. Spurlock.”

  “Accompany away.”

  “Could you tell me first the purpose of your meeting with Mr. Spurlock?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “but I can’t.”

  “You’re a criminal lawyer, Mr. Carl, aren’t you?”

  “You make it sound like I’m more criminal than lawyer.”

  “I am just curious to know why a criminal lawyer is meeting with Mr. Spurlock here at the trust. It is quite unusual.”

  “I’m sure it’s not that unusual. But as I’ve said, I can’t talk about our meeting. It’s a matter of privilege, you see.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I am the chief administrator of the trust, have been for over forty years. I was appointed by Mr. Randolph himself to this post.”

  “Really? What was he like?”

  “He was an extraordinary man, very fierce and very loyal. He gave me complete authority over all matters pertaining to the trust and its educational mission during his lifetime, and I’ve held that authority since. I’m sure I could help you with any inquiry.”

  “Maybe it’s my mistake,” I said. “I thought Mr. Spurlock was the president of the Randolph Trust.”

  “That is his title, yes. But, you see, I run things.”

  “I’d just as soon talk to the title. Is he waiting for me? I don’t want to be late.”

  She fought to control the anger that was twisting her mouth into a thin, wriggly worm. “This way, please,” she said.

  Mrs. LeComte led me out of the ground-floor gallery, up a wide staircase, and through an upstairs gallery filled with giant canvas bouquets of wild color.

  “Matisse,” I said.

  “Yes. We have five of his works in this room.”

  I stopped and spun around. “These are amazing.”

  “If you want to see the artwork, Mr. Carl, buy a ticket. We are open to the public the second Monday of each month and alternate Wednesdays.”

  “Let’s not forget Good Friday.”

  “Mr. Spurlock is waiting in the boardroom,” she said, her voice shivering with cold. There is nothing more bracing than a frigid blast of anger, though I couldn’t help wondering where it was coming from and why it was directed at me.

  “We should have coffee sometime, you and me,” I said to her.

  She stepped back, tilted her head, and gave me the once-over, not like I was a vile specimen in a jar, more like she was determining whether I was a man worth another slice of her time. Whatever she was now, Mrs. LeComte had surely been something once.

  “Maybe we will,” she said, “if you behave. Now, come along. It doesn’t do to keep Mr. Spurlock waiting.”

&n
bsp; At the end of the hallway, Mrs. LeComte knocked lightly before pushing open one of the double wooden doors and leading me into the boardroom.

  7

  Two men waited for us at a great mahogany table in the dark, wood-paneled room. One I recognized as a fixture of the local bar association, Stanford Quick, tall and distinguished, with his gray suit and club tie. Quick was the managing partner of Talbott, Kittredge and Chase, one of the city’s most respected law firms, as well as the trust’s main counsel. He was the kind of old-school lawyer who had inherited his place at the table and seemed most concerned with his table manners. I had grown comfortable dealing with the type, their gentle condescension kept my inbred resentment at a peak. It was Quick whom I had called after my meeting with Charlie Kalakos and who had set up this appointment. The other man was shorter and younger and considerably better dressed, Jabari Spurlock, president and CEO of the Randolph Trust.

  “Thank you, Mrs. LeComte,” said Spurlock after she had introduced me.

  “I thought I could be of assistance to the discussion,” said Mrs. LeComte, her manner suddenly less imperious.

  “Good-bye, Mrs. LeComte,” said Spurlock. He stared at her until she backed out the door and closed it behind her. “Difficult woman, that, but she has been a fixture here from before I was born. Take a seat, Mr. Carl. We have much to discuss.”

  “Thank you,” I said as I sat across from them at the long table. “Quite a place you got here.”

  “Have you never been to the trust before?”

  “No,” I said. “And it’s no wonder, what with your screwy scheduling.”

  “Our visiting hours were all specified in Mr. Randolph’s will,” said Quick. He sat at ease at the table, long and languorous, leaning back, seemingly bored. “It is not up to us to change those terms, much as we would like to.”

  “We are merely the custodians of Mr. Randolph’s passions and intentions,” said Spurlock. “He believed his art was for the benefit of the working classes, not just the wealthy patrons who had time to tour museums at their leisure. To that end, the times for visitors to stroll the galleries are limited. Instead much of the calendar at the trust is reserved for teaching art appreciation to the less advantaged and the keenly interested, all based on Mr. Randolph’s startling methods.”

  “It sounds so very noble.”

  “It is, Mr. Carl, and yet, even so, our methods and practices are constantly under attack by the privileged few.”

  “You’ve read, of course, Victor,” said Stanford Quick, “of the trust’s battles with its neighbors. And you’ve also read that there is a movement afoot to use the trust’s current economic crisis to move the entire collection into the city and turn its control over to the art museum.”

  “It’s been front-page news.”

  “Yes, Mr. Carl,” said Spurlock, “unfortunately it has. Which brings us to your visit.”

  “I simply mentioned to Stanford that I might have information concerning a missing painting.”

  “No, Victor,” said Quick. “You were more specific. You mentioned a missing Rembrandt. The only Rembrandt ever purchased by Mr. Randolph was a self-portrait painted in 1630 that was stolen from the trust twenty-eight years ago. Is that the painting you were referring to?”

  “Was it a picture of some guy with a hat?”

  “Do you have the painting in your possession, Mr. Carl?” said Spurlock.

  “No,” I said. “In fact, I’ve never seen it.”

  “But you know where it is,” said Spurlock.

  “No, I don’t. I don’t know anything about the whereabouts of the painting, about how it was stolen, or by whom.”

  “Then what are we doing here?” said Quick.

  “The thing is, I have this client who claims he does.”

  “A client, you say,” said Quick. “Who?”

  “I need to find out some things first, like how the painting went missing in the first place.”

  “It was stolen,” said Spurlock. “There was a robbery.”

  “A professional job by a crack group of the highest caliber,” said Quick. “Most likely from out of town. Impeccably planned, flawlessly executed. Taken was Mr. Randolph’s collection of religious icons, made of gold or silver, that he had purchased from all over the world, including Russia and Japan. None of those icons have been recovered, and it is assumed that they have been melted down for their precious metals. Also taken was an amount of currency and a large quantity of jewelry owned by Mr. Randolph’s wife and kept at the trust because of its supposed tight security.”

  Thinking of the haul of jewels in my desk drawer, I tried to stop my eyes from widening with interest at that little nugget.

  “Any idea of who was behind it?” I said.

  “Not really. There appeared to be an inside contact, which was puzzling, because most employees of the trust had been hired by Mr. Randolph and were insanely loyal. A young curator was suspected of being involved, but there was never enough evidence collected to prosecute her. Still, of course, she was let go.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Chicos, I think,” said Quick. “Serena Chicos. But as for the Rembrandt, its inclusion in the robbery was always puzzling. It is a signal piece, not easily sold, and, in fact, from what we can gather, it has never appeared in the black markets that deal with stolen art. It simply vanished, along with a small Monet landscape taken at the same time. Both paintings disappeared without a trace.”

  “Until now,” said Spurlock, “when you come to us claiming to have a client who can return the Rembrandt to us. For a fee, I assume. This is a shakedown, I assume.”

  “Why do you assume that?”

  “Another part of your reputation precedes you, Mr. Carl.”

  “Whatever the circumstances,” said Quick, “we cannot be involved in a shakedown.”

  “I would be appalled at the very suggestion,” said Spurlock, “simply appalled. Except that the specific work in question is a very valuable piece to the trust, in more ways than you can imagine. One of the claims they are using in trying to wrest control of the trust is a supposed laxity in our security over the years, and the missing Rembrandt is Exhibit A. It would be very valuable to our cause to recover that painting. Unfortunately, Mr. Carl, our finances are at a difficult stage. To be frank, we are worse than broke, we are tragically in debt. We would not be able to pay near to what the painting is worth.”

  “How much is it worth?” I asked.

  “It is priceless,” said Quick.

  “Everything is priceless until a price is placed upon it,” I said.

  “At auction,” said Spurlock, “similar Rembrandts have fetched upwards of ten million dollars.”

  “Yowza,” I said.

  “But of course those paintings weren’t stolen,” said Quick. “The trust is the rightful owner of that painting. As such, the painting could not be sold at auction, it could not be sold to a legitimate collector, it could not be shown. It is ours. If we find it, we can simply take it.”

  “If you find it.”

  “How do we know your client isn’t taking us for a ride?” said Quick. “The details of the robbery have been in all the papers. You wouldn’t be the first person to come to us with supposed information about one or the other of the missing paintings. The other claims have proven to be fraudulent. Somehow I expect that this claim is fraudulent, too.”

  “There’s an L,” I said.

  “Excuse me?” said Spurlock.

  “On the back of the canvas. Apparently the work was damaged at one point. You can’t tell from the front, but my client informed me there has been a restoration. From the back of the canvas it is clear. There is an L-shaped repair.”

  Spurlock looked at Quick, who opened a file. Slowly, he paged through the documents until he found what he was looking for. An old photograph of a browned piece of canvas. He fought to contain his excitement as he passed the photograph to Spurlock.

  “Who is your client, Victor?” said Q
uick, leaning forward now. “And what does he want?”

  “He simply wants to come home,” I said.

  “Go ahead, Mr. Carl,” said Spurlock. “Explain what we can do?”

  “My client is currently under indictment for crimes he committed long ago. He is actively being sought by both the district attorney’s office and the FBI, as well as by his former gang, who would like to silence him. What he wants is a deal with the government that will give him protection and allow him to avoid any jail time. It all seems fair enough to me. But the feds have let it be known that the deal is not acceptable to them. I was hoping someone with influence would ask them nicely to change their minds. Isn’t there a congressman on your board? Isn’t one of your benefactors also a large contributor to the Republican Party?”

  “You’ve done your homework, Mr. Carl. And you are telling me there is to be no money involved?”

  “This is America,” I said. “There’s always money involved. My client would like to start a new life with a nice stake, but his needs aren’t excessive and the amount won’t be anything you’ll have trouble meeting, even with your financial troubles. I’m sure we can work that out later.”

  “I’m sure we can,” said Spurlock. “Yes, yes, I am sure.”

  “Whom in the public sector should we talk to?” asked Quick.

  “Do you know K. Lawrence Slocum in the D.A.’s office?”

  “Larry? Sure. Head of homicide now, isn’t he?”

  “That he is. He’s handling it for the D.A. On the federal side, there’s a prosecutor named Jenna Hathaway who has taken charge of the case.”

  “Hathaway, you say?” said Quick.

  “That’s right. Apparently she’s looking for a glory ride. You want to apply pressure, you apply it to her.”

  “Good. So now, Victor,” said Quick, “for us to do what we need to do, you have to tell us: Who is your client?”

  “His name is Kalakos. Charles Kalakos. Slocum will know him as Charlie the Greek.”

  There was something in Stanford Quick’s eyes just then, a slight flinch that indicated he had heard the name before. Interesting. Maybe Quick had done his homework, too.