The other priests were not surprised when Father Patrick didn't return, as he was known to stay out late… trying to find and help the homeless. Tonight, he stopped in to see Rose, knowing she would be out playing canasta. He knocked a couple of times, for show, then snuck into his own apartment.
The walls were adorned with paintings by Edgar Degas, Honoré Daumier, George Bellows, and Thomas Cole. Each was a copy, meticulously recreated by Patrick. At one point or another, he had possessed the originals, but then they were passed along. He didn't care much about owning originals, as his own copies meant far more to him, and his focus was on getting the big score. With each successful auction, he would crave one bigger and better, always telling himself he needed just one more to retire. Patrick had visions of living in the south of France and painting away the days.
Patrick sat down at his easel. He was working on an original piece. He could copy the masters, but somehow was unable to come up with his own ideas. He thought about the message he had received from that vile pig, Andre. He thought about his note and wondered if he had made the correct play. He was curious how the various collectors would react to his threat to delay the auction. He smiled. Patrick liked having these suckers, who were dying to give up their millions just to get a piece of history. He suspected that if any one of them tried to tell his forgeries from the real ones, there wasn't but one among them who could spot the difference.
He thought about The Falcon. He wondered what this bird of prey's reaction might be to his threat.
Tomorrow would be a busy day. He had plans to double check. In two days, the package would arrive, God willing, and he would need to make arrangements for individual viewings. Each prospective bidder would be taken to a different location. They would be allowed to spend up to two hours carefully examining the piece, and each would be permitted to bring an expert. Patrick laughed at this last rule, as his clients were much too vain to bring an expert, and thus cast their own “credentials“ into question. To arrange separate viewings, Patrick had assembled individual teams. This was expensive, as the members of each team didn't know one another.
Over the years, Patrick had mastered living in the shadows. If forging was his best skill, reading people was a close second. He knew how to press buttons. Each team had been carefully built. Patrick could tell who might betray him and who would be loyal. He knew what motivated his prospects: to some he provided money, to others fear, and, to a few, friendship. Whatever it took to get people to do his bidding – and never speak of it – he did.
In his early years, before the war, he had pulled off some brilliant cons and was never caught. There were a couple of close calls, but he always had an out. During the war, however, he really flourished. There were all sorts of people stealing, selling, and dying. He excelled at profiting from the chaos. Working both sides of the street taught him the value of anonymity. By the time the shooting had stopped, he was wealthy beyond most people's wildest dreams. He was also a ghost.
It was then that he moved to the U.S. He spent years building up the network of people he would need to start fencing the works of art, which nobody else could touch.
He added a touch of yellow, then put his brush down and walked to the table in the center of the room. The plan sat patiently, waiting for at least one more review. His love of planning was perhaps his third greatest asset. Tonight he would review every detail. At 3:00 a.m., he would go to bed, confident in his vision and his plan.
Chapter Seventeen
Henry put Katarina in a cab around 10:30 p.m. and walked home. He tried to think about the case. He wanted to concentrate on Mickey…but the thoughts of her hauntingly beautiful eyes and soft touch were filling his head.
Mostly, they had spent the evening eating and drinking. The conversation was of the “good ole days.” Henry had tried to ask her about what she was up to, why she was in town. He couldn't remember her giving him a straight answer.
Was she being evasive on purpose, or just letting the wine go to her head? She had mentioned working with art once or twice, and that she was in town on business. He thought she had said she would only be around for a few weeks, but he also remembered her mentioning that she was considering staying.
The only thing he was completely sure of: the steak was fantastic.
As Henry tossed his keys on the dresser, he gave a glance at the clock on the nightstand. It was 10:47. He grabbed a glass. The clink, clink, clink of the ice cubes and the fizz of the Coke were like the round bell going off. He had taken some time off, but the fight was back on, and it was time to focus on finding Mickey's killer.
He picked up the phone and dialed. When he heard the voice on the other end say “hello,” he started.