Dead in Hong Kong (Nick Teffinger Thriller) (3 page)

John Ganjon.

Nathan Wickerfield.

Jack Draven.

Aaron Trane.

Dylan Jekker.

Trent Tripp.

She got coffee, took a seat in one of the worn leather chairs in front of
Teffinger
’s desk and said, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Something’s wrong, I can tell.”

“
No
thing’s wrong
.
”

She stood up, gave him a sideways glance and said, “Fine, be that way.”

THE CALL
TEFFINGER
HAD BEEN DREADING came mid-morning. A body had been found next to a BNSF railroad spur on the north edge of the city. The victim was a woman, an Asian woman, about thirty, with a wound to her chest.

Teffinger
jotted down the information, swung by
Sydney
’s desk and said, “You feel like taking a ride?”

She looked up.

“A body?”

He nodded.

“It sounds like the same place we found Angela Pfeiffer.”

She grunted.

“Now there’s a name from the past.”

THEY SPENT THREE HOURS processing the scene. On the drive back,
Teffinger
knew he shouldn’t do what he was about to do. It would put
Sydney
in a precarious position but telling her was necessary.

The Beatles’ “Thank You Girl” came from the Tundra’s radio.

Teffinger
punched it off and said, “I need to tell you something.”

Sydney
put a shocked look on her face.

“You just turned off a Beatles song,” she said.

“Yeah, I know.”

“You spend most of your waking moments trying to find a Beatles song.”

That was true.

“I knew something was wrong,” she said.

Teffinger
exhaled.

“I’ve been debating whether I should tell you what I’m about to tell you,” he said. “I finally concluded that it would be wrong to do it but more wrong not to do it, so here it goes.” He told her about last night—he came home to find a woman sitting on his front steps in the rain; she was a model from Hong Kong named d’Asia who was running for her life;
Teffinger
said he’d help her; they got tipsy and ended up making love; someone showed up in the middle of the night and tried to kill her; she ended up wrestling the knife away from her attacker and killing her in self defense; then she disappeared into the storm.

Sydney
frowned.

“Nothing’s ever normal with you
Teffinger
,” she said. “At least tell me you didn’t fall in love with this woman.”

Teffinger
said nothing.

“God, I can’t believe you sometimes.”

Teffinger
grunted.

“You’ve done this a thousand times,
Nick
,” she said. “You meet a woman and—bam!—everything else in the universe disappears.”

“There’s more to the story,”
Teffinger
said.

“
More?
”

“IT GETS WORSE,”
Teffinger
said. “I should have called the Lakewood P.D. but I didn’t,” he said. “Instead I had a couple of more beers. Then I did something stupid. I put the body in the back of my truck, threw a tarp over it and dumped it by some railroad tracks. The scene that you and I just investigated is the woman from last night.”

Sydney
stared at him.

“You’re messing with me, right?”

No.

He wasn’t.

“I don’t get it,” she said. “Why? Why would do such a crazy thing? There was a homicide at your house. You tampered with it on purpose. You moved a body. That goes against every rule in the universe.”

Teffinger
nodded.

He knew that.

“It’s not something I did lightly.”

“Lightly, heavily, what’s the difference?”
Sydney
said. “It’s insane. You could lose your job. No, not could, will.”

Teffinger
didn’t disagree.

“Here’s the way I look at it,” he said. “If I called Lakewood, they’d chalk it up as self-defense—which it was—and close the case. I’d never find out who the woman was, much less who she works for. So I moved the body to Denver to get the case under my jurisdiction. If I’m the investigating officer, the Hong Kong authorities will cooperate with me. I’m not only going to find out who she was, but who she was working for. That’s the only way I can help d’Asia.”

Sydney
shook her head in disbelief.

“So you put your entire career on the line to help some stranger?”

Silence.

Then
Teffinger
said, “I promised her. This was the only way I could figure out how to do it.” A pause, then he added, “But I’ll admit there’s more than that. I need to find her and get her in my life.” He squeezed
Sydney
’s hand. “I’m sorry to lay this on you, but I couldn’t have you wasting time on the case. Plus you have a right to know, on a personal level.”

She shook her head.

“I’m not going to tell anyone,” she said. “But between you and me, you went too far. You’ve always been on the edge, we both know that, but this is too much, even for you.”

Teffinger
exhaled.

“I promised her,” he said.

“That’s not an excuse.”

“I know,” he said. “But when you strip away all the peripherals in life, all you really have is your word.”

Day Two—August 4

Tuesday Morning

______________

MUSEE D’ORSAY SAT ON THE RIGHT BANK of the Seine and protected the world’s greatest collection of impressionistic art from the elements. Prarie started going there at age four, when her father used to bring her to work, and even then understood there was something timelessly special about the colors and brushstrokes and vibrancy of the paintings that her father referred to as “his babies.” “Not like you though,” he always added. “You’re more special than everything in here put together.”

Really?

Really.

“All of Paris, even.”

Normally she felt a sense of exhilaration and awe when she went there. The paintings always energized her and deepened her and expanded her. This time, however, walking to the entrance with some stranger named Emmanuelle Laurent at her side, she didn’t feel any of that.

She felt serious, as if h
er life was about to change.

“What I’m going to tell you and show you must remain confidential,” Emmanuelle said. “You must give me your word that whether you decide to help me or not, you won’t tell anyone what I’m about to tell you.”

Help her?

What did that mean?

“I don’t understand what’s going on,” Prarie said.

“You will.”

FIVE MINUTES LATER they were standing in front of Claude Monet’s “Poppies,” which depicted women with hats strolling through a green field with red flowers. A line of dark trees on the horizon separated the field from a summer sky.

“Have you ever seen this painting before?” Emmanuelle asked.

Prarie nodded.

“About a hundred times.”

“A hundred times?”

Right.

“Do you like it?”

She did
, v
ery much.

Who wouldn’t?

“What do you like about it?”

Prarie shrugged. “I don’t understand what’s going on.”

“Just indulge me for a moment,” Emmanuelle said. “Look at the painting carefully and tell me what you like about it.” Prarie almost protested, enough was enough, but studied the painting.

“I don’t know … the colors, the composition, the brushstrokes—everything,” she said. “There’s no part of it I don’t like.”

“I agree,” Emmanuelle said. “It’s nice. There’s only one thing wrong with it, that I can tell.”

“What’s that?”

Emmanuelle looked around to be sure she wouldn’t be overheard, then whispered in Prarie’s ear, “It’s a fake.” Prarie must have had a look on her face as if she was about to repeat the words out loud, because Emmanuelle put her finger on Prarie’s lips and said, “Shhh.”

No.

That wasn’t possible.

“This painting has been authenticated a hundred times,” she said.

“Not in the last six months it hasn’t,” Emmanuelle said. “Want to see some more fakes?”

Prarie did.

She did indeed.

EMMANUELLE TOOK HER to see four more paintings.

Van Gogh’s “Self Portrait.”

August Renoir’s “Nude in the Sunlight.”

Edgar Degas’ “Absinthe.”

Edouard Manet’s “At the Beach.”

Prarie had seen each of these paintings before, many times before, spanning a period of years. They were exactly as she remembered them, right down to the faded colors, the textures, the paint over paint and the time begotten cracks. Not a one of them looked less than a hundred percent authentic or an iota different than she remembered.

Why did the woman think they were fakes?

Why did she care?

And why was she was bothering to tell any of this to Prarie?

She was just about to ask these questions when Emmanuelle grabbed her hand and led her towards the exit. “Let’s go outside where we can talk. I have to warn you in advance, though. This is going to be a little unsettling.”

“Unsettling how?”

“You’ll see in a minute,” she said. “Just be prepared.”

Day Two—August 4

Tuesday Morning

______________

PRARIE AND EMMANUELLE ended up on the cobblestone walkway next to the Seine. A Batobus carved a wake as it motored east and passed a slow-moving barge. The Parisian sun sparkled on the water. A seagull flew low over the river, warding off other gulls who were trying to steal something out of its mouth.

Survival of the fittest; it was everywhere, at every level, all the time
.

“Okay, here’s the thing,” Emmanuelle said. “The five paintings I showed you—the original five paintings—were stolen from the museum six months ago and the fakes were substituted in their place at that time. The museum found out about it two months ago. It made a number of insurance claims. The CIM Group is the primary insurer for the museum, covering the first $200,000,000 in loss. There are excess insurance carriers behind CIM who are also on the hook. I’ve been retained by CIM in an ad hoc capacity to find the paintings. Technically, I’m an independent contractor, which gives me the flexibility to bend the law if I need to without getting CIM in trouble. No one knows who I’m working for and I need you to keep it that way. Will you?”

Prarie shrugged.

Sure.

Why not?

“Very few people know about this,” Emmanuelle said. “The fakes are extraordinarily accurate. They’re good enough that the museum is letting them hang until the matter can be resolved one way or the other.”

A teenage girl with too much makeup strolled past.

“I still don’t understand what any of this has to do with me,” Prarie said.

Emmanuelle exhaled.

“HERE’S WHAT HAPPENED as far as we can tell so far,” Emmanuelle said. “Someone did some research and found out who key museum employees were. They found out who worked in the preservation department.”

“That’s where my father worked,” Prarie said.

Emmanuelle nodded.

“Unfortunately, yes, your father,” she said. “They also found out who worked in the security department, which was headed by a man named Yves Blanc.”

Prarie didn’t recognize the name.

“I don’t know him,” she said.

“No reason you would,” Emmanuelle said. “Anyway, your father had a daughter, namely you. The head of the security department, Yves Blanc, also had a daughter, namely an 8-year-old named Dominique Blanc.”

Prarie chewed her lip, d
reading the words to come.

“Your father, being in the preservation department, had access to all the paintings,” Emmanuelle said. “If he got motivated enough, and if security worked with him, he’d be able to get original paintings off the walls, into his department, and out the door. He’d also be able to get fakes hung in their place. All he needed was to be motivated enough. He got that motivation when you were kidnapped in Hong Kong.”

Now it made sense, p
erfect
sense, finally after all this time
.