The FBI Thrillers Collection (16 page)

“Look at this view,” Lily said. “I always get a catch in my throat when I see the ocean.”

They reached the end of the road very quickly. Abe Turkle’s cottage was a small gray clapboard, weathered, perched right at the end of a promontory towering out over the ocean. There were two hemlock trees, one on either side of the cottage, just a bit protected from the fierce ocean storms. They were so gnarly and bent, though, that you wondered why they even bothered to continue standing.

There was no road, just a dirt driveway that forked off the narrow asphalt. In front of the cottage was a black Kawasaki 650 motorcycle.

Simon switched off the ignition and turned to Lily. She held up both hands. “No, don’t say it. I’m coming with you. I can’t wait to meet Abe Turkle.”

Simon said as he came around to open her car door, “Abe only eats snails and he grows them himself.”

“I’m still coming in with you.”

She carefully removed the seat belt, laid the small pillow on the backseat, and took his hand. “Stop looking like I’m going to fall over. I’m better every day. It’s just that getting out of a car is still a little rough.” He watched her swing her legs over and straighten, slowly.

Simon said, “I want you to follow my lead. No reason to let him know who we are just yet.”

When he reached the single door, so weathered it had nearly lost all its gray paint, he listened for a moment. “I don’t hear any movement inside.”

He knocked.

There was no answer at first, and then a furious yell. “Who the hell is that and what the hell do you want?”

“The artist is apparently home,” Simon said, cocking a dark eyebrow at Lily, and opened the door. He kept her behind him and walked into the cottage to see Abraham Turkle, a brush between his teeth, another brush in his right hand, standing behind an easel, glaring over the top toward them.

There was no furniture in the small front room, just painting supplies everywhere, at least twenty canvases stacked against the walls. The place smelled of paint and turpentine and french fries and something else—maybe fried snails. There was a kitchen separated from the living room by a bar, and a small hallway that probably led to a bedroom and a bathroom.

The man, face bearded, was indeed Abe Turkle; Simon had seen many photos of him.

“Hi,” Simon said and stuck out his hand.

Abe Turkle ignored the outstretched hand. “Who the hell are you? Who is she? Why the hell is she standing behind you? She afraid of me or something?”

Lily stepped around Simon and said, extending her hand, “I like snails. I hear you do, too.”

Abraham Turkle smiled, a huge smile that showed off three gold back teeth. He had big shoulders and hands the size of boxing gloves. He didn’t look at all like an artist, Simon thought. Wasn’t an artist supposed to wear paint-encrusted black clothes and have long hair in a ponytail? Instead, Abraham Turkle looked like a lumberjack. He was wearing a flannel shirt and blue jeans and big boots that were laced halfway to his knees. There were, however, paint splotches all over him, including his tangled dark beard and grizzled hair.

“So,” Abe said, and he put down the brushes, wiped the back of his hand over his mouth to get off the bit of turpentine, and shook Lily’s hand. “The little gal here likes snails, which means she knows about me, but I don’t know who the hell you are, fella.”

“I’m Sully Jones, and this is my wife, Zelda. We’re on our honeymoon, just meandering up the coast, and we heard in Hemlock Bay that you were an artist and that you liked snails. Zelda loves art and snails, and we thought we’d stop by and see if you had anything to sell.”

Lily said, “We don’t know yet if we like what you paint, Mr. Turkle, but could you show us something? I hope you’re not too expensive.”

Abraham Turkle said, “Yep, I’m real expensive. You guys aren’t rich?”

Simon said, “I’m in used cars. I’m not really rich.”

“Sorry, you won’t want to buy any of my stuff.”

Simon started to push it, then saw that Lily looked on the shaky side. Simon nodded to Abe Turkle and just looked at him.

“Wait here.” Abe Turkle picked up a towel and wiped his hands. Then he walked past them to the far wall, where there were about ten canvases piled together. He went through them, making a rude noise here, sighing there, and then he thrust a painting into Lily’s hand. “Here, it’s a little thing I did just the other day. It’s the Old Town in Eureka. For your honeymoon, little gal.”

Lily held the small canvas up to the light and stared at it. She said finally, “Why, thank you, Mr. Turkle. It’s beautiful. You’re a very fine artist.”

“One of the best in the world actually.”

Simon frowned. “I’m sure sorry we haven’t heard of you.”

“You’re a used-car salesman. Why would you have heard of me?”

“I was an art history major,” Lily said. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t heard of you either. But I can see how talented you are, sir.”

“Well, just maybe I’m more famous with certain people than with the common public.”

“What does that mean?” Simon asked.

Abe’s big chest expanded even bigger. “It means, used-car salesman, that I reproduce great paintings for a living. Only the artists themselves would realize they hadn’t painted them.”

“I don’t understand,” Lily said.

“It ain’t so hard if you think about it. I reproduce paintings for very rich people.”

Simon looked astonished. “You mean you forge famous paintings?”

“Hey, I don’t like that word. What do you know, fella, you’re nothing but a punk who sells heaps of metal; the lady could do a lot better than you.”

“No, you misunderstand me,” Simon said. “To be able to paint like you do, for whatever purpose, I’m really impressed.”

“Just hold it,” Abe said suddenly. “Yeah, just wait a minute. You aren’t a used-car salesman, are you? What’s your deal, man? Come on, what’s going on here?”

“I’m Simon Russo.”

That brought Abe to a stop. “Yeah, I recognize you now. Dammit, you’re that dealer guy…Russo, yeah, you’re him. You’re Simon Russo, you son of a bitch. You’d better not be here to cause me any trouble. What the hell are you doing here?”

“Mr. Turkle, we—”

“Dammit, give me back that painting! You aren’t on any honeymoon now, are you? You lied to me. As for you, Russo, I’m going to have to wring your scrawny neck.”

Lily didn’t think, just assumed a
martial arts position that Dillon had shown her, the painting still clutched in her right hand.

She looked both ridiculous and defiant, and it stopped Abe Turkle in his tracks. He stared at her. “You want to fight me? You going to try to karate chop me with my own painting?”

She moved back and forth, flexed her arms, her fists. “I won’t hurt your bloody painting. Listen, pal, I don’t want to fight you, but I can probably take you. Yes, I can take you. You’re big but I’ll bet you’re slow. So go ahead, if you want, let’s just see how tough you are.”

“Lily, please don’t,” Simon said as he prepared to simply lift her beneath her armpits and move her behind him. To Simon’s surprise, Abe Turkle began shaking his head. He laughed, and then he laughed some more.

“Jesus, you’re something, little lady.”

Abe made to grab the painting from Lily’s hand, and she said quickly, whipping it behind her back, “Please let me keep it, Mr. Turkle. It really is beautiful. I’ll treasure it always.”

“Oh, hell, keep the stupid thing. I don’t want to fight you either. It’s obvious to me that you’re real tough. Hell, I might never get over being scared of you. All right, now. Let’s just get it over with. What do you want, Simon Russo? And who is the little gal here?”

“I’m just here to see which Sarah Elliott you’re working on now.”

Abe Turkle glanced back at his easel, and his face blotched red as he said, “Listen to me, Russo, I barely heard of the broad. You want to look?”

“Okay.” Simon smiled and walked toward Abe.

Abe held up a huge hand still stained with daubs of red, gold, and white paint. “You try it and I’ll break your head off at your neck. Even the little lady here won’t be able to hold me off.”

Simon stopped. “Okay. Since there were no paintings missing from the Eureka Art Museum, you must be having trouble working from photographs they brought to you. Which one is it? Maybe
The Maiden Voyage
or
Wheat Field?
If I were selecting the next one, it would be either of those two.”

“Go to hell, boyo.”

“Or maybe you had to stop with the Sarah Elliotts altogether now that they’re gone from the museum? So you’re doing something else now?”

“I’d break your head for you right this minute, right here, but not with my new stuff around. You want to come outside?”

“You were right about the lady,” Simon said. “She isn’t my wife. She’s Lily Savich, Sarah Elliott’s granddaughter. The eight paintings that were in the museum, including the four you’ve already copied, belong to her.”

“Are you finishing a fifth one, Mr. Turkle? If you are, it’s too bad because you won’t get paid for it. The real one is back in my possession so there won’t be any chance to switch it.”

Simon said, “Actually, I’m surprised you’re still here in residence since the paintings have flown the coop. They’re hoping they’ll get them back? No chance.

“To be honest, Abe, the real reason we’re here is that we want to know who commissioned you. Not the collector, but the local people who are paying you and keeping you here.”

“Yes,” Lily said. “Please, Mr. Turkle, tell us who set this up.”

Abe Turkle gave a big sigh. He looked at Lily and his fierce expression softened, just a bit. “Little gal, why don’t you marry me and then I could look at those paintings for the rest of my life. I swear I’d never forge anything again.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m still married to Tennyson Frasier.”

“Not for long. I heard all about how you just walked out on him.”

“That’s right. But even so, the paintings belong in a museum, Mr. Turkle, not in a private collection somewhere, locked away, to be enjoyed by only one person.”

“They’re the ones with all the money. They call the shots.”

Simon said, “Abe, she’s divorcing Tennyson. She wants to fry that bastard’s butt, not yours. You’d do yourself a favor if you helped us.”

Abe said slowly, one eyebrow arched up a good inch, “You’ve got to be joking, boyo.”

Lily stepped forward and laid her hand on Abe Turkle’s massive shoulder. “We’re not joking. You could be in danger. Listen, Tennyson tried to kill me, and I wondered, Why now? Do you know? Did something happen to make him realize that I was a threat to him, before you’d finished copying all the paintings? Please, Mr. Turkle, tell us who hired you to copy my paintings. We’ll help you stay safe.”

“That really so? Your old man tried to kill you? I’m sorry about that, but I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. Both of you need to just get out of here now.”

He was standing with his legs spread, his big arms crossed over his chest. “I’m sorry you were almost killed, but it doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

“We know,” Simon said, “that this cottage is owned by the Frasiers. You’re staying here. It isn’t a stretch to figure it out.”

“I don’t have anything to say about that. Maybe when this is over, the little gal will share some lunch with me, I’ll marinate up some snails, then broil them. That’s the best, you know.”

Lily shook her head, then walked to the easel. Abe didn’t get in her way, didn’t try to block her. She stopped and sucked in her breath. On the easel was a magnificent painting nearly finished—it was Diego Velázquez’s
Toilet of Venus,
oil on canvas.

“It’s incredible. Please, Mr. Turkle, don’t let some collector take the original. Please.”

Abe shrugged. “I’m just painting that for the fun of it. I’m in between jobs right now. No, you don’t want to say that it’s because you took all the Sarah Elliott paintings away from the museum. Nah, don’t say that. There’s nothing going on here so I’m just having me some fun.”

Simon came around and looked at the nearly completed painting. “The original is in the National Gallery in London. I hope your compatriots elect to leave it there, Abe.”

“Like I said, this is just for fun. A guy’s got to keep practicing, you know what I mean? Look, I painted this from a series of photos. If I were in it for bucks, I wouldn’t have let her see it. I’d be in London, too.”

Lily couldn’t give up, not yet. “Won’t you just tell us the truth, Mr. Turkle? Tennyson Frasier married me only to get his hands on the paintings. Then he tried to kill me. Did he tell you that, Mr. Turkle? It’s possible that he murdered my child as well, I don’t know for sure. Please, we won’t involve you. Just tell us.”

Abe Turkle looked back and forth between the two of them. He slowly shook his head.

“I wish you hadn’t found me, Russo,” Abe Turkle said, shaking his big head. “I really wish you hadn’t.” He turned then and walked out the cottage door.

“Wait!” Lily started after him.

Simon grabbed her sleeve and pulled her back. “Let him go, Lily.”

They watched from the doorway as the big, black Kawasaki scattered rocks and dirt as it picked up speed. Then he was gone.

“We screwed up,” Simon said.

“I wish he’d stayed and fought me,” Lily said.

Simon looked down at her, remembering the image of her in a fighting position, with that painting in her right hand. He grinned. He lightly touched his hand to her hair. “You’re all blond and blue-eyed, you’re skinny as a post, your pants are hanging off your butt, and knowing you for just a short time, I know you’ve got more guts than brains. I swear to you, when I tell Savich how his little sister was ready to take on Abe Turkle, he’ll…No, better not tell him how I nearly got you into a fight. Well, shit.”

Lily punched him in the gut. “You jerk. I didn’t see you trying to do anything.”

Simon grunted, rubbed his palm over his belly, and grinned down at her. “I hope you didn’t pull anything loose when you hit me. Not in me, in you.”

“I might have, no thanks to you.”

She didn’t speak to him until they were back in the car and headed down to Hemlock Bay.

“We’re going to see Tennyson?”

“Nope, we’ve got other fish to fry.”

Washington, D.C.
The Hoover Building
Fifth Floor, The Criminal
Apprehension Unit

It was one o’clock in the afternoon. Empty sandwich wrappers were strewn on the conference table, leaving the vague smell of tuna fish with an overlay of roast beef, and at least a dozen soda cans stood empty. They’d just finished their daily update meeting. Savich’s second in charge, Ollie Hamish, said to the assembled agents around the CAU conference table, “I’m going to be going to Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, in the morning. Our research says that he not only took the real Wilbur’s name, he’s spent a lot of time in Wright’s hometown. Chances are, though, that he’s not going to Dayton, since everyone’s looking for him there, but to Kitty Hawk. I’ve gotten all the data over to Behavioral Sciences, to Jane Bitt. We’ll see what she’s got to add, but that’s it, so far.

“I’m going to our office down there, fill them all in, and get things set up for when he turns up.”

Savich nodded. “Sounds good, Ollie. No more supposed sightings of the guru in Texas?”

“Oh, yeah,” Ollie said, “but we’re letting the agents there deal with them. Our people here believe guru Wilbur is already heading across country, due east to North Carolina. Our offices across the South are all alerted. Maybe we can get him before he hits Kitty Hawk. It might be that Kitty Hawk will be his last stand. We don’t want him to bring real havoc when he gets there. We’ll see if Jane Bitt agrees.”

Sherlock said, “Have we got photos?”

“The only photo we’ve got is old and fuzzy, unfortunately. We’re looking at getting more.”

Special Agent Dane Carver, newly assigned to the unit, said, “Why don’t you give me the photo, Ollie, and let me work on it. Maybe we can clean it up in the lab.”

“You got it.”

Savich looked around the conference table. “Everyone on track now?”

There were grunts, nods, and groans.

Millie, the CAU secretary, said, “What about Tammy, Dillon? Any sightings? Any word at all yet?”

“Not a thing as yet. It’s only been a day since I spoke to Marilyn Warluski at Quantico. Our people are staying with Tony, Marilyn’s boyfriend, in Bar Harbor. His phone’s covered. If Tammy calls, we’ll hear it all. He’s cooperating.” Savich paused a moment, then shrugged. “It’s frustrating. She’s not in good shape, yet no one’s seen her. Chances are very good that she did indeed murder a pharmacist in Souterville, New Jersey. The other pharmacist checked and said someone had rifled through the supplies. Vicodin, a medication to control moderate pain, and Keflex, an oral antibiotic, a good three or four days’ supply, were missing. Evidently she killed the guy because he refused to give her anything.

“As you know, we alerted police on all islands to Tammy’s possible presence. Now they also know to keep a close eye on doctors and pharmacies, and why.”

Ollie said, sitting forward, his hands clasped, “Look, Savich, she threatened you. I read you the note. She means it. We’ve all been talking about it, and we think you should have some protection. We think Jimmy Maitland should assign you some guards.”

Savich thought about it a minute, then looked down the table to Sherlock. He realized that she was thinking about Tammy finding out where they lived and coming to the house. She was thinking about Sean. He said to Ollie, “I think that’s a great idea. I’ll speak to Mr. Maitland this afternoon. Thanks, Ollie, I really hadn’t thought it through.”

He called a halt, scheduled a meeting with his boss, Jimmy Maitland, within the hour, and kissed Sherlock behind a door. Then he went to his office and punched in Simon’s cell phone.

Simon answered on the third ring. “Yo.”

“Savich here. Is Lily all right? What’s going on?”

“Yes, she’s fine.” Simon then told him about their meeting with Abe Turkle, omitting Lily’s challenge to beat the crap out of Abe. Then he told him about their much shorter meeting in Hemlock Bay with Daddy Frasier. “That old guy’s really something, Savich. The guy hates Lily, you can see it in his eyes, colder than a snake’s, and in his body language. I think he would have threatened her if I hadn’t been there.”

Savich wanted details, and so Simon told him exactly what had happened.

They’d gone to Elcott Frasier’s office because they wanted to get in the old man’s face, scare the bejesus out of him, let him know that everyone was on to him. Since he was the president and big cheese of the Hemlock National Bank, he had the shiny corner office on the second floor, all windows, a panoramic view of both the ocean and the town. Simon had wondered if Frasier would see them. His administrative assistant, Ms. Loralee Carmichael, at least twenty-one years old, and so beautiful it made your teeth ache to look at her, left them to kick up their heels for only twelve minutes, acceptable, Simon decided, since they’d caught the old man off guard and he’d probably want to get himself and his stories together. But Simon was worried about Lily. He’d have given anything to put her on a plane back to Washington, D.C., where she’d be safe. She looked nearly flattened, her face pale and set. If there’d been a bed nearby, he’d have tied her down in it. She moved slowly, but she had that lockjaw determined look, and so he kept his mouth shut.