Ghosts of the Past (11 page)

Bolivar had dropped what he was doing, as he always did, when Guillermo Rocca called from Chicago, and flown in early that morning with Garagua on Rocca’s personal Gulfstream 300 jet. He had been Rocca’s right-hand man, and at 31, more like a son to Rocca. He was eternally grateful to Mr. Rocca for having sought and recognized his technological expertise and intelligence gathering savvy, plucking him out of the Ecuadorian military intelligence service, and offering him a lifestyle that he could never have achieved elsewhere. In return he was totally committed to Mr. Rocca, was willing to do anything for him, and had proved it several times. Armed with a few tidbits of information, he had developed all the background knowledge he needed to create and maintain a tight surveillance of Miss Courtney Lewis.

As he crossed the side street, he opened the door to another rental, a silver Chrysler Concorde, tossed in his book and retrieved a logo’d retail bag. Walking into the lobby of the tower, he handed the security guard a
Verizon
Wireless
business card that identified him as a local sales representative.

“I have a new phone I’m delivering to Courtney Lewis in 901.” Bolivar said confidently as he opened up the plastic bag with a phone and several other accessories inside.

“Go on up.” responded the guard, without a trace of hesitation or concern. He sat back down behind the desk and picked up his own novel, the latest best seller from Tom Clancy.

“Thank you.” said Bolivar, as he walked down the corridor and into an open elevator. He punched in the seventh floor, a sigh of relief that the guard must not have seen Courtney leave several minutes before.

It took only seconds for Bolivar to pick the deadbolt lock to Courtney’s front door, and he slipped inside unobserved. He went straight to the telephone behind the kitchen counter, removed the back cover and inserted a small bug inside. He replaced the phone and crossed over to open living space, nodding his head in appreciation. He spotted the large sculpture and ran his hands over the entwined pair of naked female bodies. It was a perfect spot for another bug, well hidden under the cupped hand of one of the groping participants.

He repeated the same process on a lamp in the bedroom and then beeped again for Garagua on the one-way.

“Yeah boss?”

“You still have the girl?”

“Yeah, I think she’s headed for her office.”

“Good, don’t lose her. Also, switch on the receiver. We’re live, I need a reading.”

Garagua leaned over to the passenger seat and flipped on the switches to the equipment stacked in the seat. “Go boss.”

“Test, test, test.” Bolivar walked from the bedroom into the living room. “Test, test.”

“Loud and clear boss.”

“Good, let’s try the phone.” Bolivar picked up the phone, and waited for the dial tone.

“That one’s good, too,” came the reply over the one-way.

“Excellent, I’m heading for some lunch. Call me when she gets to where she’s going and I’ll drive over to you and pick up the equipment. You can stay on the girl.”

“You got it boss.”

Bolivar walked out of the tower into the warm sunshine, took a left toward the park and decided to walk toward Bardstown Road and lunch.

The pasta special at
The
Comeback
Inn
was incredible as usual, coupled with the glass of merlot, it had taken some of the edge off Ferguson’s anger. He was still mad, but he decided on a long lunch to determine his line of thought and how he would proceed in the conversation he was about to undertake with Courtney Lewis.

He wanted to make certain that she was aware of the danger that she put him in, the damage to his personal property, and that she was no longer to involve herself in any way, shape, or form. If there was even a hint of somebody or something that had the remotest connection to the letter, he was going to the police.

He checked his watch. It was 1:28. He signaled the waitress for the check, paid, and headed for the car.

The administrative offices for the Speed Museum are on the third floor of the main gallery building located on South Third Street adjacent to the University of Louisville’s Belknap campus. Ferguson had to pass through a security gate at the front entrance, receiving instructions on where the offices were and where to park. He wound his way around the large, pillared structure to an adjoining parking garage, and entered.

He followed the ramps up three levels and found a spot on the exterior next to a beautiful, black Porsche 911convertible. He exited the Explorer, thumbed the lock button on his keyless entry remote, the locking mechanism responding with a chirp, and stole an admiring glance at the Porsche as he headed for the door leading into the museum. Inside, on the third floor, he had to take one last pass at a security guard seated behind an unassuming desk, and then he made a right turn at the end of a short hall into the well-appointed waiting room.

“May I help you?” The petite, blond receptionist looked at Ferguson as he approached her desk.

Yes, I have an appointment with Courtney Lewis,” said Ferguson cordially.

“Your name?”

“Matt Ferguson.”

“Thank you!”

She dialed in an extension on the phone console and announced Ferguson to Courtney when she answered.

“She’ll be with you in just a minute. You may have a seat if you like,” motioning to the chairs and loveseats behind him.

Before he could find the time to locate a seat, Courtney Lewis emerged from the only hallway that led from the reception area.

“Good to see you again Matt!” Courtney smiled affectionately.

“Miss Lewis.”

“Please, come on back to my office.”

“Thank you.” Ferguson dropped the magazine he had picked up on the coffee table in the waiting area and accompanied Courtney as she pivoted and retreated down the hall.

“Please hold my calls Joan.”

They walked in silence past three offices and a conference room and entered the second to last door on the left. Courtney could feel the tension, and tried to break it as she offered him one of the two brown leather chairs that faced each other in front of the modest Queen Anne’s desk. “Please, have a seat.”

“May I shut the door?” Ferguson asked. “What I have to say should be in private.” He reached for the door, while Courtney moved to seat herself in the other available chair.

“Absolutely. Should we sit?”

“If you’d like. What I have to say won’t take long.”

Courtney could feel the agitation in his voice. This meeting was not heading in the direction she was expecting. “Would you like something to drink… coffee, a soft drink?” She was grasping at anything to cut the tension that had settled in the air.

“Miss Lewis, up until twenty-four hours ago, there were only eight people that knew about the letter outlining the possible whereabouts, of what could potentially be one of the art world’s find of a lifetime. One was my uncle, and he’s dead. The second would be me. The third is an old professor, with no apparent knowledge of the artwork under consideration. The other five are you, your father, and his three associates, all with an accomplished understanding of art, and the impact that a discovery of this magnitude might generate.

“I mentioned twenty-four hours, because since then there is at least one other person who knows, and was willing to try and kill me to recover that letter.”

Courtney’s eyebrows rose, and a slight tinge of disbelief ran through her body. Before she could even respond, Ferguson pushed on.

“He was successful in obtaining a copy of one side of the letter, detailing the list of works, but not the map indicating the crash site. In the process of destroying quite a bit of my home and personal property, he damn near cut me in half.” Ferguson’s voice was beginning to rise with the anger that was returning, as he was reliving the previous night’s episode.

“There are only six people that could have been responsible for leaking the contents of the letter, or deliberately orchestrating the theft of the letter itself. And I’ve come to the conclusion it wasn’t Dr. Karl.”

Courtney’s jaw dropped, hung for an instant, and then returned to meet her top teeth in a clench, as she started to flush with anger.

“Wait just a damn minute. Are you accusing me of trying to arrange for someone to steal the letter from you, and have you knocked off in the process? You’ve lost your mind!”

Ferguson was slightly taken aback at the outburst. “Well explain to me then how a complete stranger breaks into my house and is after one thing and one thing only. How does he have any idea what to look for? And I’m having a real hard time pinning this one to the good professor.”

“So, without a shred of evidence, you put the finger on me!” Courtney was livid. “I think it’s time for you to leave!”

“Not until I found out if anyone else knows about the letter. I am not going anywhere until I get some answers from you as to whom you and your father spoke to. I would like to know more about Allen, Hancock and the other one’s name. Who the hell were those folks, and I why am I to believe your Dad when he says he trusts them. I want some answers, otherwise I’m going back to the police, tell them everything, and implicate you and your and father.”

“Paul Keeney is the other, and I haven’t spoken to anyone!” However, before she could get the last word out, she realized that she did not know much about the other three. She also had taken her father at his word. Her wandering eyes gave her away.

“Who’s the no one that you just remembered.”

“It can’t be… my dad wouldn’t do anything like that.”

“Your father?”

“He’s an art expert, he knows history, and I can trust him to keep his mouth shut. He can’t be responsible!” Courtney’s anger was turning to anguish.

“Well if you’re not responsible, and you believe your dad can keep the secret that narrows it down to his trusted friends.”

Courtney knew her dad was not capable of something like this, and if she swore him to secrecy, he was certain to have abided by it. It has to be one of the others.

“Look, Matt you may not believe me, but I swear to you that I had nothing to do with the things you’re accusing me of. I promise you that I spoke to one else other than my father. And I know my father. There is no way in hell that he could be involved with this at all.”

Ferguson was skeptical, but recognized the sincerity in Courtney’s voice. “What do you know about the others?”

“Not enough. I have met Jason Allen before, several times as a matter of fact, and I know my Dad thinks highly of him. Paul Keeney and Sotheby’s reputations are impeccable, and he’s been there for years. AXA is well known and respected for their art insurance products. As for Mr. Hancock, I have never met or heard of him before. Listen, are you so damn certain that Dr. Karl may not have mentioned it to anyone else.”

Ferguson was not certain. He just couldn’t believe that Karl could be involved. However, he didn’t contemplate the possibility of Karl inadvertently letting the information slip. Maybe Courtney was right. Either that, or she was a superb liar. There was only one way to find out. “Let’s go see him!”

“Who, Dr. Karl?”

“Yeah. Both of us, you and me together. We’ll find out from him what he knows. Somebody’s responsible, and I want to find out who.”

“That’s fine with me. I have nothing to hide. I had nothing to do with this. What are you going to do even if you do find out who’s responsible?”

“I’m going to threaten them with the police. I’ve already written a synopsis of the events that have transpired and I’ve indicated that the focus of attention be directed at all of you.” Ferguson lied. He had no such written document at all. “And I can easily add Dr. Karl’s name as well. I’ve placed it with my will in case anything happens.” Ferguson lied again.

“Well, once again you have nothing to be afraid of from me. I swear to you that my father and I have nothing to do with your troubles. I’ll be the first to admit, I’m very interested in the letter and the possible recovery of the art, but certainly not at the expense of stealing anything, much less trying to have you hurt. I don’t know what I must have been thinking, but I was hoping your visit here today might lead to something more along the lines of an invitation to dinner, not an accusation of attempted murder.”

For the first time, Ferguson felt that he might possibly have made a mistake. Maybe he had falsely accused her without analyzing all the facts and everyone else involved. Nevertheless, the fact remained that she was still one of only two original people he confided in, and she could still be lying through her teeth. The dinner comment was intriguing, he thought.

“Do you have time right now to visit Dr. Karl?” The mellowing of Ferguson’s tone did not go unnoticed by both of them.

“I do. In fact, I’d welcome a visit to the professor.” Courtney picked up her phone, punched in a three-digit extension and told the receptionist that she and Ferguson were going to step out for an hour or two.

With that, both of them rose, and without saying a word exited the museum and began the one-mile walk through campus to the Language Arts building.

Chapter
8
 

May
20,
2001.
Louisville,
Kentucky.

The Ford
Crown
Victoria
slowed as it approached the cluster of emergency vehicles crowded into the driveway and front yard of the modest one-story ranch house on Grandview Avenue. Detective Toby Shutt maneuvered through the opening of gathered neighbors and bystanders, created by two uniformed Jefferson County police officers.

He parked behind one of the three police cruisers on the scene, killed the engine, and stepped out to greet one of several officers on the scene.

“Hello David. Looks like we got ourselves a mess here.” Shutt addressed officer David Laise, who was shaking his head back and forth, as he flipped open a small steno pad in his left hand.

“I think you could say that, Lieutenant. This is a real cluster fuck.” Laise replied.