Frame-Up Page 13

Aiello sat there in silence. I thought it was just hard for him to make the first disclosure. Then another thought hit me. Maybe he doesn’t know.

  “It’s the key to a numbered account, isn’t it? That much I could figure out. But where is it?”

  Aiello still looked at the table, and nothing came out. I was becoming more certain by the moment that Aiello had no idea of the details. That might have been one key to his vulnerability.

  Then the clouds began to lift. It takes a certain amount of sophistication to play money games with numbered accounts. The bank or vault, whatever it was, most certainly was not in the United States. It could have been on an offshore island. It could have been in Amsterdam or Zurich, or anywhere in between.

  I thought of the kind of people who play those games. I looked at the pathetic figure across the table, who had likely never in his life mastered a concept more complex than raw violence. He clearly could not have pulled it off.

  But my old pal, John McKedrick, could.

  I looked over at the table of monkeys who came in with Aiello and wondered who in all of Aiello’s organization, beside John, could have managed a deal involving a foreign account. Frightening as it seemed, perhaps the most intelligent and educated member of that tribe other than John was Benny Ignola, and in the sophistication game, Benny clearly did not hold the cards.

  What the hell were you up to that last week, Johnny? That week when Terry O’Brien said you were tense and distracted?

  “What’s in the vault, Mr. Aiello? That’s the price of the numbers.”

  Aiello instinctively looked left and right and leaned over the table.

  “A picher.”

  “What kind of a picher? Like for water?”

  “A picher, you schnook. A painting. It’s a big deal.”

  “What picture?”

  “I don’t know. It’s worth a lot of money. It’s by this guy, Vermeer.”

  I almost fell off my chair. I remembered from a basic art history course at Harvard that Vermeer’s work was probably the most highly priced in the world. I knew there were a limited number of his paintings in existence, and every one of them was worth at least as much as the combined salaries of the Boston Red Sox, to put it in terms I could understand.

  “How in the world did you get a Vermeer?”

  Another look in each direction, and then in a whisper with hand signals. “Keep it down. Keep it down. It was hot. That lawyer, McKedrick, he heard about it. How we could get it.”

  I was stunned, but I had to keep the flow going.

  “How would John hear that?”

  “He did some business for me. In Europe. In Amsterdam.”

  “What kind of business? Drugs?”

  I could see him pull back.

  “Let’s not get too much into this thing. I’ll tell you what you need to know about the picher. The rest is none of your business.”

  “All right. So John goes to Amsterdam to transact business for you. So what?”

  “So he comes back from a trip three weeks ago. He says he met these guys over there. They can arrange to get this picher and sell it to me for like a third of what it’s worth. It’s hot. They can’t sell it on the market. Everyone knows it.”

  Now he has me completely baffled. A third of what it’s worth is still in the high millions. Why would Aiello want to put that kind of money into it? He had even less ability to sell it than the people who had it.

  “I don’t suppose you want to tell me what you’d planned to do with it after you bought it.”

  “That’s right. I don’t. I told you what it is. Now come across with the numbers.”

  Something frightening was taking shape in my mind.

  “Suppose I do, Mr. Aiello. What will you do with them?”

  “That’s none of your business too.”

  “Think about this. I give you the code to a vault somewhere in the world. Maybe Amsterdam, where John met these people. Have you thought about the fact that it could be a joint account and someone else has to supply the other half of the code? That’s not unusual.”

  He was looking at me as if he was getting a glimmer of where I was going.

  “So?”

  “I think you need to get your hands on that painting. I think you’re over your head in some kind of financing deal that John McKedrick put together, and now you’ve got to come up with that painting. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here talking to me.”

  I paused, and he didn’t interrupt.

  “That means someone’s got to find out where this vault is and deal with another someone on the other side.”

  I looked over at the table of thugs he had brought with him. “Which of those geniuses are you going to send to do it?”

  There was no answer.

  “If not them, who else have you got?

  Again no answer.

  “I think you’re in one hell of a spot, Mr. Aiello.”

  He started to say something, but backed off.

  “I told you before. My only interest in this thing is Peter Santangelo. The best way to get Peter an acquittal is to find out who actually killed John. I’m guessing it wasn’t you. You needed John to pull this off.”

  I looked him in the eye and he didn’t blink. Good sign.

  “Suppose I go after the painting. I think it could be someone connected with that deal who killed John. If I can get the painting and find out who’s involved, you get the painting. I get the information.”

  He had a sarcastic edge to his voice, but he didn’t sound completely shocked by the suggestion.

  “You’re gonna work for me? What the hell makes you think I trust you?”

  “No offense, Mr. Aiello, but in my worst day I wouldn’t work for you. Call it a joint venture. As far as trusting me is concerned, two things. One, I’m not like you, and you know it. You can ask anyone in this town. You’ll hear that my word is good. Second, what the hell would I do with a stolen Vermeer? And a third thing while we’re at it. What are your other options? Benny Ignola?”

  He knew better than I did that he could trust Benny as far as he could throw city hall. I saw him glance over at his collection of orangutans plowing their way through the basket of rolls. It took him a minute to exhaust every other option before he turned back.

  “How do I know—?”

  “You don’t. You’ve got my word. If I get the painting, I’ll give it to you. That’s worth a hell of a lot more than anything else you’ve got going.”

  Thirty more seconds, and he leaned over the table.

  “You take Benny Ignola with you. I need some insurance.”

  “For what it’s worth, okay.”

  I figured I could loose Benny at any point in the journey. It was a small price to pay.

  “And while we’re at it, Mr. Aiello, I want this card up on the table. If I ever find out that you were responsible for John’s death, I’ll take it to the D.A. to save Peter.”

  He put on a half-grin and shook his head.

  “I said it before. You got big ones. You talk to me like this.”

  “It’s better you know now. I won’t go back on my word.”

  I think it was a new concept to Aiello — keeping one’s word for the honor of it rather than fear for one’s kneecaps. He was struggling with it, but it was probably his last option.

  “How you gonna do it? The picher.”

  “You’ve got to give me someplace to start. Give me a name. Something. Do you know anyone connected with the deal?”

  He thought. I could see that John let him in on as little as possible. Finally he leaned closer and whispered.

  “There’s this guy at Harvard. McKedrick knew him. He’s a professor. Teaches art or somethin’. Name sounds Russian. like something-ovitch.”

  “Was it Denisovitch? Leopold Denisovitch?”

  “Yeah. McKedrick said he could tell if it was real or a phony. He’s the one said it was real.”

  I knew the name because Professor Denisovitch had taught the course that both Joh
n McKedrick and I had taken in History of Art 102.

  I looked at my watch. It was quarter of two. I badly needed to touch base with Mr. Devlin. I needed fifteen minutes to fill him in on what I’d been up to in the past hour, and half an hour to talk him out of having me committed to McLean’s.

  I left Aiello with the promise that I’d let him know when I was ready to make a move.

  When I walked down the carpeted staircase that led to School Street, I recalled that just two weeks week ago, I had an interesting but ordinary law practice. This week I’d survived two assassination attempts, I was up to my targeted posterior in the business of the archenemy of all that’s holy, Dominic Santangelo, and to ice the cake, I was the commissioned emissary of Santangelo’s personal Judas, Fat Tony Aiello. Go figure.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  As soon as the elevator ding signaled that I’d reached our office floor, it hit me that I hadn’t seen my secretary, Julie, in a spell. She being the long-suffering fire wall between me and those who vent their frustration at trying to reach me at times like this, I had an idea I’d hear about it.

  “Michael, what precisely could I threaten you with to get you to return some of these calls? Some of these people want to barbecue me, and I’m not even the lawyer.”

  “Give me a list of the top five. I’ll do it before I leave.”

  “Here’s a list of the eight who are forming a lynch mob.”

  I had one parting request.

  “Julie, would you get the number for Professor Leopold Denisovitch at Harvard? See if you can get him on the phone.”

  “No.”

  Julie always knew how to stop me in mid-step.

  “Why not?”

  “Because if I do, you won’t return those calls.”

  “How’s this? Give me twenty minutes to go through this list, and then you have Professor Denisovitch on the line.”

  I consumed the next twenty minutes soothing feathers and arranging postponements in the sincere hope that Devlin & Knight would have a practice left when this Santangelo business was finally put in the “closed” file. I buzzed Julie’s line.

  “I have fulfilled all commitments, My Lady. I can only assume that Professor Denisovitch is pacing while waiting on hold.”

  “Not quite, Michael. He’s not in his office.”

  “Where is he?”

  “That’s as much as I could pry out of his assistant or secretary or whatever she is. Do you want me to get her back on the line?”

  I thought about it. This was the last thin thread that I had to follow. It had to be done delicately.

  “No. Would you see if his office is still in the Fogg Art Museum? It’s on Quincy Street in Cambridge. I’ll be with Mr. Devlin for a while.”

  My first five minutes with Mr. D. were spent filling him in on my exploits with Benny Ignola and Tony Aiello. The Benny story amused him, given his passing acquaintance with the ineffable Mr. Ignola. The part about the two in the taxi on Charles Street brought scowls and the kind of grumblings that I knew were founded on a deep concern for his junior partner. The Fat Tony story got us into deeper water.

  “You know I don’t like this, Michael. What the hell are you planning on doing? And this time give me all of it.”

  In a burst of honest disclosure, I told him that I planned on getting in touch with Professor Denisovitch to try to get a lead to the painting in the coded vault. We shared the feeling that John’s involvement with that painting had some connection to his death. I also told him about my commitment to get the painting for Tony Aiello. That was a mistake.

  “How do you plan to get into that vault even if you find out where it is? The chances are there’s another half of the code in the hands of whoever’s on the other side of that painting business.”

  “I’m going to do what I learned from my senior partner. I’m going to follow one step till it leads to the next one in the hope the steps don’t run out. I learned that from my master mentor.”

  “You also picked up some of the Irish blarney. I forgot to tell you. It doesn’t work on another Irishman.”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  “I mean it, Michael. You’re playing with the worst sort.”

  “Worse than Dominic Santangelo?”

  “Yes. Dominic is at least predictable. And there are limits to what he’ll do.”

  “As long as murder is within his limits, can this be much worse?”

  “Yes, Michael. This Professor Denisovitch. Do you know him?”

  “He was my professor at Harvard in an art history course. But I was just one of forty names on a class roster. On the other hand, it’s an entrée.”

  “All right, Michael. Here are your marching orders. See what you can learn from the professor. That’s it. We’ll talk about it when you get back.”

  “Okay, Mr. Devlin.”

  I was halfway to the door when he froze me.

  “Michael. Look at me.”

  I put on a blank expression, and faced the penetration of his glare.

  “That was too damn easy, Michael. What have you really got in mind?”

  “I committed myself to Aiello to get that painting in exchange for the only lead I could get. That means that I have to go wherever this vault is and tangle with whatever emissaries from hell also want that damn painting. It’s like walking a tightrope with one leg. I have no idea how I can possibly get out of this thing alive. I know I’m over my head. I hate this at least three times as much as you do. But I know I have to give it my best shot in spite of your welcome concern. Maybe I’ll see you Wednesday, or in the next life.”

  Needless to say, those words never got past my lips. What did was simply: “I’ll see the professor and let you know what I get. You’re the boss.”

  “And don’t you forget it.”

  By early afternoon, I was cruising the back streets of Cambridge around Harvard to find one of the elusive parking spaces around the Fogg Art Museum. The Fogg is a piece of Harvard that goes back to 1895. It houses one of the world’s greatest university collections of fine art from the Middle Ages to the present. It also houses the Straus Center for Conservation and Technical Studies, with facilities for testing the physical materials of paintings for authentication. Most importantly, it housed the office of one of its luminaries, Professor Leopold Denisovitch.

  I found the door with the stenciling on frosted glass that boasted the professor’s name, with the legend beneath it, Helga Swenson, Ph.D., assistant.

  I rapped on the glass and heard from the inside “COME” in a voice low enough to be on either side of the male/female divide. I opened the door to a large room that would have made any art connoisseur gasp. Every inch of the walls was covered with paintings so closely packed that it seemed to form one breathtaking mural. A wild guess was that they were being warehoused on the walls until Professor Denisovitch could authenticate them.

  A voice seemed to come from the massive desk against the far wall. It came from an elongated figure bent double over my side of the desk, so that it was only visible from the rump down.

  Whatever was absorbing her attention did not release her for the amenities of a formal introduction. The baritone voice, tinted with what I recognized from my undergraduate days as a “Harvard accent,” bounced off the rear wall.

  “Place the examinations on the chair and depart. That will be all, young man.”

  I almost wished I had some examinations to drop and run. I closed the door, partly for privacy and partly to send a signal.

  “Ms. Swenson?”

  The head came up slightly but made no move to rotate.

  “Are you conversant with the English tongue, young man? You may depart. There will be no tipping.”

  “Not even to cover my parking meter and maybe lunch?”

  I thought maybe impertinence would be a surefire grabber. It was. She slowly rose to full stature and turned to face, or rather face down, this insolent pup. When totally unfolded, she exceeded six feet by at least two inc
hes more than I did. I assumed from the name that her now white hair was once Norwegian blonde. It was baled into a utilitarian bun and fastened with some kind of a claw, consistent with the earth-toned frock and the sensible shoes.

  I jumped in with a preemptive introduction. “Ms. Swenson, my name is Michael Knight. I was a student of Professor Denisovitch. That was some years ago. In any event, it’s rather important that I speak with the professor.”

  In the same baritone, “Concerning?”

  “Concerning a painting.”

  “Yes. I didn’t imagine you was getting up a touch football game. What about this painting?”

  “Actually that’s rather a delicate subject. Could I speak with the professor?”

  She stiffened somewhat, if that was possible, and gained another inch in height. From that higher ground, she considered me for a second or two before dismissing me with two words and turned back to her former position.

  The two words were, “No. Depart.”

  There was a door to the right of the desk that I strongly suspected led to Professor Denisovitch’s office. The problem was getting through it. I knew it meant either physically overcoming this Viking, or winning her over. The law of possibilities indicated the latter.

  “Ms. Swenson, I don’t want to spar with you. You’ve got intelligence and height on your side. On the other hand, I can’t leave this office without seeing Professor Denisovitch. I hate to dredge up an old cliché, but this is quite definitely a matter of life or death.”

  I thought sure she’d dismiss that pathetic speech and shoot me another “Depart.” I was surprised when she turned around and simply said, “Yours or Professor Denisovitch’s.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Whose life?”

  If I said “mine,” it would probably be a matter of enormous indifference to Brunhilde. If I said “the professor’s,” it would sound like a melodramatic trick. On the other hand, I wondered why she even suggested the latter possibility?

  “Probably both. At the moment, it’s very possible that the professor is in serious danger. I’m a lawyer. I’ve become involved with people who lead me to believe he needs someone on his side.”

  She seemed to soften and actually sat back against the front of the desk.