The Missing Piece (33 page)

“Is that the cauldron?” said Cokeley.

“Yes.”

“And you dug it out of the ground within Marshal Tito's compound near Pula, in what is now Croatia.”

“Yes,” said Stjepanovic. “It took all day to dig around it and four men to lift it out of the hole.”

“And then?” said Cokeley.

“Liar! Murderer!”

McQueen froze, eyes wide open, as Andreas stood up and pulled a gun from his pants. The officer at the door rushed toward him. Foxx instinctively opened his holster guard.

Time slowed. Andreas raised his gun and aimed it at Stjepanovic. Stjepanovic tilted his head, a haughty smirk on his face. Andreas squeezed the trigger. A red dot appeared on Stjepanovic's forehead. Then his head snapped back and his entire body twisted out of the chair.

Foxx got his gun out of his holster.

“Drop it,” he said.

Andreas looked at Foxx, then he looked down at McQueen.

“Finally,” he said. “It is finished.”

Andreas moved as if to drop his gun, then quickly raised it to his mouth and blew his own head off.

*   *   *

The rest of the day passed in a blur for Foxx, Linda, Bernadette, and even McQueen. There were the NYPD detectives, of course. And there were the IG investigators Bev had dispatched the moment word of the shooting reached central administration. After that, there were the reporters.

By close of business, the identity of the shooter and his motives were well known. His name was Andreas Szabo, and he was the brother of Luca Szabo and the son of Karolina Szabo. Luca Szabo was the quarry worker who found the Salvus Treasure in a forest near Polgardi, Hungary. He had been murdered in 1980 by a detachment of Yugoslav soldiers, who then staged the unearthing of the treasure on Marshal Tito's vacation compound. The leader of that detachment was Orkan Stjepanovic. Years later, when the Hungarian magazine
Az Igazsag
ran a feature story documenting the Hungarian provenance of the treasure, Stjepanovic returned to eradicate the rest of the Szabo family. He found only Karolina.

All this information was found neatly printed on sheets of a legal pad in a large zippered plastic bag inside Andreas Szabo's flannel shirt. There also were Andreas's identification papers, the letter written by his mother on the day he left Hungary, a photocopy of the
Az Igazsag
article, and a tattered photo showing Luca Szabo holding a plate from the treasure.

There was no mention of the missing piece.

*   *   *

Foxx insisted on escorting Linda home, and Linda insisted on traveling by taxi, and so they rode uptown together.

“I have something to tell you,” said Foxx. The taxi had just crossed Canal Street, and they were clear of Foley Square and the gravitational pull of the courthouse. “I was not assigned to your part by coincidence.”

“Captain Kearney moves in mysterious ways,” said Linda.

“Not Kearney,” said Foxx. He pointed upward.

“Sharon?”

Foxx pointed upwards again.

“I give up, Foxx.”

“The inspector general.”

“I see.” Linda looked out the window for a block, then back at Foxx. “Why you?”

“That's a long story.”

“Tell me.”

“Some other time. There's something else you need to know first.” Foxx pulled the cell phone out of his pocket, frowned, then dropped it back in. “That was the IG.”

“Why didn't you answer?”

“Because I didn't want her to tell me not to tell you.”

“Her timing is that good?” said Linda.

“Not always. Actually, hardly ever,” said Foxx. He pressed his hand to his chest, feeling the phone vibrate. Bev again, no doubt. Maybe her timing was that good. “You ever study astronomy?”

“Me? God, no,” said Linda.

“Neither have I,” said Foxx. “But I've read about it, and what surprised me is how many interstellar objects aren't directly visible. Like black holes. You can't see them, but you can find them by observing the behavior of objects around them.”

“What's your point, Foxx?”

“You and Judge Johnstone had a serious disagreement that day, right?”

Linda nodded.

“To you, it was a philosophical disagreement. You thought he should have a full-blown trial. Let in all the evidence. Let the jury decide on all the facts. He wanted to restrict the evidence as a way of forcing the parties to settle. Am I right?”

“Close enough,” said Linda.

“But it was odd behavior, especially after all the work you had put in preparing for the trial, especially those pretrial rulings.”

“That's right,” said Linda. Her voice sounded small, as if she knew she was about to hear something she did not want to hear.

“What you didn't see was the black hole.” Foxx waited a moment for Linda to react. She didn't, not visibly, and he went on. “After the heist, all the officers connected with security that day were interviewed by the IG. Judge Johnstone was interviewed, too. Not about the trial or his rulings, but about insisting the courtroom doors remain unlocked when Captain Kearney ordered otherwise.”

“That was within his rights,” said Linda.

“But it wasn't common sense,” said Foxx. “Anyway, the IG investigation wrapped up just before Thanksgiving. In mid-December, the IG got an anonymous phone call that Judge Johnstone had been bribed to rule in Lord Leinster's favor.”

Linda said nothing. She turned away from Foxx, who could still see her reflection in the window. She swallowed hard.

“The IG recalled Johnstone under the pretense of reopening the investigation of the heist. Instead, she confronted him with what the caller had said. He admitted everything.”

“Which was?”

“Afraid I'm not privy to that,” said Foxx. “But I do know that he never collected on the bribe. That allowed the IG to offer her deal: retire and it all goes away.”

“Who bribed him?”

“The obvious answer is Lord Leinster since he benefited from the rulings. But the IG suspects it could have been Croatia since, as matters stood had the rulings gone as originally planned, Hungary likely would have won.”

“How did that help Croatia for Lord Leinster to hold on to the treasure?” said Linda.

“Live to fight another day? Cultural antipathy? We saw how easily that urn disappeared. Maybe Croatia thought the treasure would be less secure in Leinster's hands.”

“What do you think?”

“Generally, things are what they seem until proven otherwise,” said Foxx.

“And then?”

“Well, the IG thought whoever tried to bribe Johnstone might try to influence you. And not necessarily by offering money. That's what got me assigned.”

“So, the mugging was related to the trial.”

“That's what the IG thinks,” said Foxx.

“And now?”

“Another opening, another mistrial,” said Foxx.

“Sounds like a song.”

“Yeah, an old one.”

They reached Linda's brownstone. Foxx went in with her and made sure nothing was amiss. Doors secure, windows locked, closets devoid of bogeymen. After he finished, they stood in the foyer. A definite sense of the bittersweet hung in the air.

“Bernadette will come by to fetch me tomorrow morning,” said Linda. “She suggested it, and I thought why not. She's the only person I feel really has my best interests at heart. Present company excluded.”

Foxx reached for the doorknob.

“I guess this is it,” said Linda. She smiled and lifted her hand. Her palm felt warm against his.

“See you tomorrow at court,” said Foxx.

“That you will.”

“We'll always have City Island.”

“That we will,” said Linda.

Outside, Foxx headed toward the park instead of toward Broadway. He stopped where the shadows were darkest and stared at Linda's stoop. His phone buzzed; Bev again.

“Yeah.”

“Well, well, well. Fancy catching you on the phone.”

“I don't want to be reassigned just yet.”

“It's over, Foxx. You stay with her until she formally grants a mistrial tomorrow. Why? You think it was the protestors?”

“I don't know what to think. But right now she needs some stability.”

“You? A stabilizing force? You know, Foxx, you have some sense of humor.”

“No,” said Foxx. “I have a sense of the absurd.”

*   *   *

McQueen waited for the call that never came, then arrived at Gary's apartment building at precisely eight o'clock. They'd made it to first base, he thought, but with today's shooting they might be stranded there without scoring. The case was headed for a certain mistrial, which would delay the determination of who owned the treasure. So they'd be sitting on the piece for a while, unless Gary had some other brilliant idea. Which he might. After all, he figured out that the piece was still in the courthouse.

McQueen had wrapped the piece in several plastic grocery bags, then laid it sideways in a paper shopping bag. He took the elevator to the fourth floor and did not smell any cooking coming out of 4D. That was a good sign. The door to Gary's apartment was locked, so he let himself in with the key Gary had given him. He wondered what would happen when Ursula finally moved in. She'd probably demand that he hand it over. He doubted he would give a shit, being that he'd be rich as all hell someday.

Gary sat in the battle chair just inside the living room.

“Did you hear what happened at the courthouse?” said McQueen. “Another goddam shooting during the trial.”

“What?” said Gary. “Who?”

“A witness. Tell me you didn't hear.”

“I didn't. Is everyone else okay?”

“An officer got slugged in a stairway on three. Probably followed the shooter there when he picked up the gun.”

“Another inside job, huh? Ivan?”

“I'd bet on it, but no one's figured that out except me, and I'll keep that quiet till we do something about this. He ain't going anywhere.”

Gary spun his chair and rolled toward the computer table. The plywood top was clear—no monitors, no keyboard, no mouse.

“What happened to your computer?” said McQueen.

“Stupid me,” said Gary. “I got so excited when I hung up with you that I hit the lift button instead of the joystick.
Kaboom!
”

“That's not like you, Gary,” said McQueen, assuming it was a joke until he saw the shattered monitors facedown on the floor.

“Yeah, but it's not like me to find out we're rich,” said Gary. “So, what happened? Who was the witness?”

“An old Yugoslav soldier named Stjepanovic,” said McQueen. He recounted what little he had heard of Stjepanovic's testimony, then added, “The guy who shot him was sitting right next to me.”

“Jesus, Mike, do they know who he is?”

“They know everything,” said McQueen. “It was all neatly wrapped up in a plastic bag.”

He explained what the police found and the rumors circulating the courthouse.

“Pure revenge. I suppose that's understandable. It's stronger than a lot of emotions,” said Gary. “So, what are we waiting for?”

McQueen set the shopping bag on the coffee table and lifted the piece out by the neck. He stood it upright and peeled down the plastic bags one at a time.

“Like an artichoke,” said Gary.

McQueen lifted the urn and swept the bunch of bags onto the floor.

“It's smaller than I remember,” said Gary.

“The wax takes off the shine,” said McQueen.

Gary rolled up to the coffee table. He stared at the urn for a long time, moving his head slightly to change the angle, as if to prove to himself that it was a real, three-dimensional object and not a mirage, a will o' the wisp, fata morgana. Then he stood it on his belly.

“Solid,” he said. “Heavy.”

“Must have taken Ivan forever to drip all that wax,” said McQueen.

Gary set the piece back on the coffee table. He took out a pocketknife and carefully scraped off a section of wax to expose the silver beneath.

“Pretty good shine,” he said. “I suppose this'll melt right off.”

“So, what we do next?” said McQueen.

“What we do next is have a drink.”

“I'm talking about selling the thing.”

“And I'm talking about celebrating,” said Gary. “What do you want?”

“Beer, I guess.” McQueen started for the kitchen. “What about you?”

“Sit, Mike. I'll get them.”

“No, it's—”

“Mike, sit. You've been my eyes, my hands, my legs for all this. The least I can do is get us a couple of beers from the fridge.”

McQueen sat. He heard the refrigerator door open, bottles rattle, silverware tinkle.

“Hey,” he called in. “We can go bigger on the kitchen now.”

“That we can,” Gary called out.

“We even can pay people to do the work instead of sucking up to guys like Larkin.”

“Yeah. Who needs Larkin?”

“Maybe whoever we get to work on your kitchen can work on my cabin.”

“A two-fer,” said Gary. He rolled back out, one huge hand holding the two mugs of dark beer by the handles while the other worked the joystick.

“That one,” he said.

McQueen took it.

“Cheers,” he said.

“Cheers,” said Gary.

They clinked mugs, then took long slugs. Gary rested his beer on his lap while McQueen settled back onto the couch.

“Who woulda thought Ivan was involved in this,” he said. “Not me, that's for sure. But in a way, it makes sense. Inside guy. Comes from the same town where the treasure was found.”

“I wonder if he realizes he doesn't have it anymore,” said Gary.

“Who the hell knows?” said McQueen. “What's he going to do about it, anyway? What are we going to do about it? A mistrial means more delay before we can find a buyer.”