Murder at the National Gallery (40 page)

With Carole were two Secret Service agents, two plainclothes detectives from MPD, an administrative aide, and a woman from State who’d been meeting with Carole when the call came in. The Veep’s wife provided a capsule account of what transpired.

“What did he say specifically?” Jordan asked.

“This,” she replied. “All calls to the office are recorded.”

The aide punched buttons on an elaborate tape recorder, and voices came through separate enhanced speakers:

“Mrs. Aprile’s office,”
an aide’s voice said.

“I would like to speak with Mrs. Aprile.”
The voice was male, deep and resonant.

“Who’s calling?”

“I would prefer not to identify myself. But Mrs. Aprile will want to speak with me, I’m sure.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but it is our policy not to take calls where the caller—”

“Please tell Mrs. Aprile I know where the original
Grottesca
can be found.”

Carole’s aide paused, obviously processing what the caller had said. One of the detectives spoke, but Jordan waved him off, leaning closer to the speakers.

“It’s very important that Mrs. Aprile speak with me,”
the caller said.

“Please hold on.”

There was a lull until Carole Aprile picked up her extension.
“Who is this?”
she said.

“A friend, Mrs. Aprile
. Grottesca
is very important to you. I know where it is.”

“Where?”

He laughed.
“I can’t make it that easy.”

“Why not? If you motivation is to see the painting returned to its rightful owner, I’d think you’d want to—”

“I’ve said enough for today, Mrs. Aprile. I’ll contact you again.”

“Wait. I—”

The line went dead.

“A nut,” a detective said.

“We’re taking him seriously,” a Secret Service agent said. “How many murders have there been over this painting?”

“Four,” Steve Jordan said. “At least three. We’re not sure about Mason’s cause of death.”

“We want to set up a trace on this line,” said a detective. “Any problem with that, Mrs. Aprile?”

She looked to the Secret Service agents. “Not if it’s okay with Mrs. Aprile,” one said.

“Do you recognize the voice, Carole?” Annabel asked.

“No.”

“He said he was a friend.”

“I took it to mean he was
acting
as a friend,” she said. “Not a friend in the true sense. What’s next?”

A Secret Service agent answered. “We’re going to increase security for you, Mrs. Aprile.”

She laughed. “I can’t imagine more security than I already have.”

“You won’t even notice,” he said.

Everyone left the room except for Annabel and Steve Jordan, at Carole’s request. “What do you think?” she asked.

“I think you should take the call seriously in two ways, Mrs. Aprile,” Jordan said. “Obviously, the safety of everyone involved with the Caravaggio exhibition is of concern. Second, the caller could be legit. He might really know the whereabouts of
Grottesca
.”

“That would be wonderful,” said Annabel. “If the painting is recovered, it would take the pressure off the exhibition.”

“Off all of us,” Carole said.

“What do we do?” Annabel asked Jordan.

“Sit tight, I suppose. He’ll call again. Or reach you another way. Maybe too canny to use the phone again. Maybe the trace will work. And you’ve got your recorder going, Mrs. Aprile. All we can do is wait.”

“My least favorite thing,” she said.

“First thing you learn as a cop, Mrs. Aprile. Patience. Especially in this type of situation.”

“Annabel,” Carole said as they prepared to leave her office.

“Yes?”

“Thanks for being here, for being along all the way.”

“Just taking the bitter with the sweet, as my father used to say. It’s been nothing but sweet fun, mostly. Now we’re into the bitter.”

“Has there been any progress in investigating the murders?” Annabel asked as Jordan drove her back to the Market Inn, where she’d left her car.

“Only what I told you earlier. We’ve been talking to anybody who was close to Mason. They all have an alibi for when he took his tumble. His son was at a bar with his girlfriend. The bartender isn’t certain what time they left, but he thinks it was past midnight.”

“Julian.”

“Yeah. Right after he was interviewed he went to Paris.”

“He was allowed to leave the country?”

“Homicide’s ruled him out.”

“I suppose that’s reasonable considering Luther’s
death
still hasn’t been ruled a homicide. Has it?”

“No, it hasn’t.”

“What about his girlfriend?” Annabel asked.

“She worked for the kid’s father at the National Gallery. Lynn Marshall.”

“Yes, I know her. I mean, I’ve met her on a few occasions.”

“The son, as I understand it, went to stay with his mother in Paris. He told us he had been planning to do that. Mason’s first wife, the kid’s mother. His second wife was visiting relatives in Florida when he died. I know what I didn’t tell you. The umbrella found at the scene belongs to that pretentious pant-load, Mr. Scott Pims.”

“It does? Was he with Luther that night?”

“Uh huh. He says he and Mason had an early dinner together at his apartment. Mason left around nine, according to Pims.
Claims he doesn’t know where he went after that. Pims stayed home to work on a book he says he’s writing.

“Believe him?” Annabel asked.

“Yeah. He showed one of our people files logged on his computer with time-date stamps that have him there when Mason died.”

“Those things can be doctored,” Annabel offered.

“What are you saying, that you think Pims might have pushed his friend down the steps?”

“Just free-associating.”

“Everybody who knew Mason at the National Gallery has an alibi, some that check out, some that don’t.”

“What about the ones that don’t?”

“Lacking motive. But no one’s been ruled out completely. Look, I’m assigning people to keep an eye on you.”

“That isn’t necessary.”

“My call, Annabel. You won’t even know they’re around. Thanks for the help.”

“Mac will. Know they’re around. Oh, by the way, you said after the Dumbarton incident you might want to use me again to recover stolen art.”

His laugh was easy. “As I remember, you accused me of considering that. I denied it.”

“And without conviction. I’ll help in any way I can, Steve. Please remember that. I’m beginning to hate anyone stealing or destroying art.”

“Yeah, except you don’t make a very believable hater, Mrs. Smith.”

When Annabel walked through the door of their Foggy Bottom home, Mac was on the phone with a former law student who’d been offered two excellent jobs and was seeking his professor’s advice on which to take. After the conversation, Mac joined her in the kitchen. “You were at the White House?” he said.

“You got my message. I was with Carole. She had a call from a man claiming to know
Grottesca
’s whereabouts.”

“Oh? Who was he?”

“He didn’t leave his name, said he’d call again. The conversation was taped.”

“An interesting development.”

“Mac, I have something to tell you.”

“Yes?”

Annabel’s phone rang.

“Tell me,” Mac said.

She headed for the corner of the kitchen where a phone and her answering machine sat but didn’t pick up. Her outgoing message played. Then, a male voice said,
“Good evening
,
Mrs
.
Smith. I trust you are well
.
”

Annabel and Mac looked at each other. The voice was similar to the one Annabel had heard in Carole Aprile’s office. The difference was this version had an Italian accent.

“
I am calling because of your interest in Caravaggio and
Grottesca.”

“Should I pick up?”

“Let it record,” Mac said quickly.

“Grottesca
is for sale. If you are interested, I can arrange it. I will call again
.”

Mac came to her side and picked up the receiver. Dead air. “First Carole, now you,” he said gruffly. “Any idea who it might be?”

“No. Listen, Mac, we have to talk.”

“Okay.”

“Let me call Steve Jordan and tell him about this call. Will you dub the message onto another tape so we don’t lose it?”

“All right.”

While Mac went to his study to make a copy of the answering machine’s cassette, Annabel called Steve Jordan’s office. “Good,” she said, “you’re still there. I just received a call similar to the one Carole got. What? Sure. Hold on.” She placed her hand over the mouthpiece and yelled, “Mac, can we play the tape for Steve over the phone?”

He stepped into the kitchen carrying the original tape and a recorder. “I haven’t dubbed it yet,” he said.

They held the mouthpiece close to the tape machine and played the tape. “What do you think?” Annabel asked Jordan when it was over.

“Could have been the same person. The Italian accent threw me.”

“Did it sound authentic to you?”

“Hard to say. Hang on to that tape.”

“Mac’s making a copy.”

“Good. I want to hear it again on good equipment, compare it to Mrs. Aprile’s call. When can we get together? Can you come down to headquarters now?”

“No. I mean, I will if—”

“Not necessary. There should be an officer parked outside your house by now. Staying home?”

“Yes.” She looked at Mac. “We may go out for dinner.” Raised eyebrows asked for her husband’s agreement. “Sure,” he said, returning to the study.

“Annabel,” Jordan said. “Take this seriously. Something’s boiling here.”

“Don’t worry, I share your concern. I’ll call tomorrow.”

“Let’s go to Citronelle,” she said to Mac after he’d finished his dubbing chore. “We haven’t been there yet.”

“What was it you wanted to tell me?”

“Over dinner.”

By the time they’d arrived at the trendy restaurant and settled in, Mac seemed to have forgotten that Annabel had an announcement to make. He dominated the conversation with his reaction to a Supreme Court decision announced that day with which he fervently disagreed. When he finished, he sipped his wine and said, “You haven’t said much.”

“You’ve been on a roll,” she said.

He looked at her quizzically. “Is that a complaint?”

“Hardly. And I totally agree with you. It was a dumb decision. Speaking of dumb decisions, I have a confession to make.”

“What am I about to hear?” he asked, his expression serious.

“Nothing worthy of Oprah,” she said. “I haven’t sold the gallery, nor have I called in someone to paint the shutters on the house.”

“Thank God,” he said, wiping imaginary sweat from his forehead with the back of his fingers. “I intend to get to the shutters this weekend.”

“Mac, I did an undercover job for Steve Jordan and his art squad.”

Mac sat back and lowered his chin almost to his breastbone. “You
what
? Worked undercover for—? I’m—”

“I didn’t exactly go undercover …” Annabel recounted her involvement in retrieving the three pre-Columbian artifacts for Dumbarton Oaks.

Mac maintained his posture throughout her story. Then he sat up. “I’m glad it turned out the way it did,” he said. “But the much larger question, lady, is why you never told me about it.”

“I know, I know,” she said, touching his hands. “I should have, and fully intended to. I don’t know why I didn’t. Like not returning a phone call and finding it harder every day that
passes. Maybe I was afraid you would tell me not to do it. I wanted to do it.”

“Would it have mattered if I didn’t want you to do it?”

“Of course it would have.”

“But would you have gone ahead with it anyway?”

“I really don’t have an answer for that. I like to think I would. After all, we’ve always operated on the premise that two fulfilled individuals make a better couple.”

“Yep. And I still agree with that approach,” he said. Espresso was served. He smiled, raised his tiny cup, and said, “To your successful foray into crime.” They touched rims. “But let’s have an understanding from this moment forward. We don’t do things like this without telling each other.” She started to respond, but he held up his index finger. “You have to admit, Annabel, that every time I’ve made the mistake of getting involved in somebody’s murder, I filled you in from the git-go.”

She nodded.

He raised his cup again. “To the peaceful life we’ve managed to achieve.”

Her cup stayed on the table. “Mac,” she said.

“Yes?”

“That call about the Caravaggio. Carole’s call. If Steve feels I can be of help in recovering the painting, I want to do it.”

Mac was silent until they were home again. “I don’t think you should get involved.”

“But if I could be of help—”

“The Dumbarton Oaks caper—I suppose we can call it that—involved little risk. But four people have already been murdered over
Grottesca
.”

“We don’t know how Luther Mason died.”

“But it undoubtedly had something to do with
Grottesca
. He had fifty thousand dollars in his pocket. He was accused of having a copy made so he could steal the original. And what about Father Giocondi? And Peter Lafroing?”

“All the more reason, it seems to me, to be willing to lend a hand. If the painting is successfully recovered, maybe the murders will stop.”

He said grimly, “Maybe stop with
you
, Annabel. No. Pardon me if I don’t allow the person I love more than anything in this world to put her life in jeopardy.”

“That’s sweet, Mac.” She didn’t smile. “It also sounds slightly dictatorial, a tone I’m not used to hearing from you.”

“I don’t mean to sound that way, but I think you know what I’m getting at. A couple of pre-Columbian pieces is one thing. A Caravaggio worth maybe fifty million bucks is another.”

She sighed and tucked her bare feet beneath her on the couch. “I suppose you’re right.”

“I’m not being critical of you
wanting
to do it. I understand the motivation. And helping to recover a stolen masterpiece, maybe identify a murderer or murderers as a bonus. I suppose if I were asked, I might—”