Michelangelo's Notebook Part 12

"Spit it out," Valentine said, smiling.

"Let me say only this," Newman murmured.

"The archdiocese of New York has some very fine collections under the purvue of its archives division. They also have ready access to the Vatican collections in Rome. Colonel Gatty, by the way, is what they refer to as a 'Friend' of the Vatican museums."

"You're kidding."

"Not at all," countered Newman. "The Vatican museums were founded in the 1500s. Their collection is . . . how shall I put this . . . extensive. Like any other museum, they regularly deaccession. When they do, the colonel is first in line."

"The Vatican is dealing in looted art?"

"I never said that. Not really." Newman pursed his lips into a small smile.

"Christ," Valentine whispered.

"I seriously doubt that he was directly involved," said Newman, cracking himself up again.

Valentine tried to clear his thoughts. "All right," he said after a moment. "Forget about the Vatican. What about the Parker-Hale?"

"Private art museum with an endowment about as big as the Whitney but smaller than the Getty."

"A player?"

"Undoubtedly."

"Alexander Crawley?"

"Like Juan Gris, he too is dead. Nasty."

"His reputation?"

"Academically it was unblemished. Columbia, Harvard or Yale-I forget which. Studied conservation in London at the Courtauld Inst.i.tute of Art, curator at the Fogg in Boston, that sort of thing. Went to the Parker-Hale under the wing of the director, James Cornwall, in the mid-nineties. Took over as acting director a year ago when Cornwall pa.s.sed on."

"Pa.s.sed on?"

"It is how alter c.o.c.kers like myself refer to dropping dead. And by the way, in Cornwall's case it was peacefully-Az a yor ahf mir, May I be so lucky-in his sleep. He'd had several heart attacks. He was in his eighties, I believe."

"You said Crawley was academically clean; what about otherwise?"

"Socially very good with people, an excellent fund-raiser. He tended to cheat when it came to buying and selling."

"How so?"

"It was in the way of being a ring; you know what that is, of course."

Valentine nodded. In the business of art and antiquities a ring was a secret a.s.sociation of dealers who conspired to keep the prices down at auction. Not only were they frowned upon, they were illegal, const.i.tuting both fraud and price-fixing.

"He had his friends, then?"

"That's right, and it was a circle that is very difficult to break in to." Newman frowned. "An interesting connection, if that's what you're looking for."

"What's that?"

"He often sold works to the archdiocese of New York and vice versa."

"Any idea why someone would want to kill him?"

"He was not a very nice fellow, I'm afraid, unlike his predecessor. James Cornwall was a good and fair man. He showed no favorites."

"He must have thought well of Crawley, though."

"Perhaps at first. They had a falling-out toward the end. I hear rumors to that effect. He certainly wouldn't have been Cornwall's anointed heir."

"But he became acting director."

"James Cornwall's health had been failing for some time. The man he'd chosen to take over when he retired had resigned under something of a cloud." The old man shrugged his shoulders. "Although it should not be so, these things are sometimes political. Crawley had his friends on the board of directors. He stacked the deck in his favor, so to speak."

"Who was the man who resigned and under what sort of cloud?"

"His name was Taschen, Eric Taschen, and the cloud had quite a purple tinge to it."

"s.e.x?"

"I'm afraid so, Michael." The old man in the black suit let out a heartfelt sigh. "As ever it was and ever shall be."

29.The priest, this time using his Larry MacLean persona, sat at an empty table in the enormous, high-ceilinged Main Reading Room of the New York Public Library. High over his head, the frescoed clouds were lost in the gloom above the dusty chandeliers. The only real light came from the old-fas.h.i.+oned shaded lamp on the table in front of him.

For the past few hours the library's dumbwaiters had delivered him every possible piece of information concerning the Grange Foundation from the miles of stacks below him. He'd been making notes on a pad of yellow paper but it didn't amount to much. In fact, most of the information was contradictory.

According to the public record the Grange Foundation was established in 1946 from the bequests of Frederick Henry Grange (1860-1945), and his wife, Abbie Norman Grange, nee Coleman (1859-1939). His wife had been an heiress and Grange himself had been a self-made man, a shanty-Irish son of a Boston Back Bay cop. He rose to become an investment banker, entrepreneur and brokerage owner with Kennedys and Fitzgeralds as both partners and clients.

One of his most lucrative investments had been in the Chicago stockyards. By the early 1900s he was a millionaire and began investing in railroads. By the time of his death he had profited from two world wars and had a.s.sets of 172 million dollars, while his wife had left behind a second, earlier trust worth almost twice that much.

As a fully private trust the Grange Foundation was not required to file anything but the most basic disclosure doc.u.ments. Since all of its activities were not for profit and dispensed from tax-paid funds they were not required to report to any government agency. The foundation was located on St. Luke's Place in Greenwich Village, looking into the park that had once been the churchyard where Edgar Allan Poe had meandered, composing his strange, unsettling poetry.

According to the foundation's brochure it was dedicated to supporting museums, all types of performance groups, visual arts organizations, art service organizations, community arts programs and organizations providing high-quality arts experiences for young people.

It also had a separate section, the McSkimming Foundation, that provided art law services, particularly focusing on Holocaust victims, forgery and stolen art. McSkimming had been a close friend of Frederick Grange, an avid collector of art and the senior partner in the law firm that managed Grange's interests and those of his wife. They were close in another way: McSkimming's son, James, had married Grange's daughter, Anna-James dying during the war, and his wife predeceasing him, dying in childbirth in 1940. The child was born with severe mental r.e.t.a.r.dation and was inst.i.tutionalized.

All very well, at least superficially. A closer look revealed that most of it was either misdirection or an outright lie. According to his Google search after logging on to one of the library's computers, he had discovered a great deal about both Frederick Grange and his foundation. Grange had indeed been shanty Irish and the son of a cop, but he had never been an entrepreneur, brokerage owner, investment banker or railroad tyc.o.o.n. He had, in fact, been a clerk in the firm of Topping, Halliwell & Whiting, where McSkimming had been a junior partner.

Topping, Halliwell & Whiting basically dissolved at the close of the war with the blasting away of half its partners and even more of its younger a.s.sociates, although the firm still existed in corporate fact. It was purchased in 1945 by several unnamed partners and hired its own lawyers-and it was this group of lawyers who created the Grange Foundation and the McSkimming Art Trust, purportedly given family trust tax status by the use of the inst.i.tutionalized heir, Robert McSkimming.

In 1956, following the death of the boy at the age of sixteen, the foundation was quietly reincorporated as a tax-deductible charity while retaining its name. It was no longer a family trust or a foundation; it was the sh.e.l.l of one, run from behind the scenes by several directors, who, under the charter of the organization were not required to identify themselves. Nowhere did there seem to be any record of the names of those directors, since the directors of the public board were all the newly recruited lawyers now operating under the defunct Topping, Halliwell & Whiting banner. By 1956 all traces of the original partic.i.p.ants in what had to be a completely fraudulent operation had vanished. But the foundation remained, on its way into the early part of the next century, still in existence after sixty years. It didn't make any sort of sense; an elaborate, complex and very expensive hoax, but to what purpose and what eventual end?

Since the regular audit statements filed of their grants to other inst.i.tutions with the IRS had never been a cause for suspicion, that meant that the three or four hundred million dollars' worth of a.s.sets held by the Grange Foundation were real enough even though they obviously had not come from bequests made by Frederick Grange or his wife.

The Grange Foundation was a front to disperse funds that had no real source. It was money laundering on an enormous scale, and it had now been going on for more than half a century. It was quite extraordinary, and remarkably simple. But where was the money coming from that needed laundering, and how was a small boy spirited away from a convent in the north of Italy involved? The Grange Foundation was a small part of his quest here in America. According to his contact in the Vatican, the boy from the past and his present whereabouts were crucial. He scrawled his name on the pad: Frederico Botte He knew that once, the boy had been given another name-a dangerous name-and it was his job to make sure it would never be revealed. He wrote the second name below the first: Eugenio He glanced at his watch. It was well into the afternoon but there was probably time to get back to the hotel and change into his Father Gentile garb before going off to his meeting with the good friars at St. Joseph's Church in Greenwich Village.

While checking out the Grange Foundation on the Internet he'd run a quick check on the staff at the Community of Sant'Egidio and discovered that there was no one working there who went back as far as Frederico Botte's arrival in their care, but he knew he could probably find out something of use.

He switched off his lamp and left the football field-sized room, the clouds in the frescoes far above him frozen in a perpetually blue and sun-drenched sky. Unfortunately real life wasn't quite that simple. He went across the main lobby, his footsteps echoing on the s.h.i.+ny marble floor, then pushed out through the main doors and discovered that in real life it was raining hard. Ducking his head he ran down the steps, paused to buy an umbrella from one of the enterprising vendors who always seemed to forecast the weather better than the weathermen, then headed for his hotel.

30.Carl Kressman eased weary old bones out of bed at his normal early hour, then went up into the tower of his Florida-style beach house to take a look at the day. As usual, the weather was nearly perfect: cloudless sky, limitless azure Gulf, gentle breeze and a temperature that was somewhere in the eighties already.

Kressman went down to his bedroom again, slipped into his bathing suit and gave himself a quick once-over in the full-length mirror on the bathroom door. At seventy-five he still had most of what he'd had at twenty, except now some of it was chemically or mechanically enhanced. v.i.a.g.r.a and a couple of other potions kept his p.e.c.k.e.r up when it was necessary-which wasn't all that often, if truth be told-and a pacemaker that looked like a pack of cigarettes stuck under the skin of his chest kept his ticker tocking. For some reason, unlike most of his friends, he still had all his hair-white, now, of course-and trifocal contact lenses kept his vision twenty-twenty. He was tanned, fit and in good spirits, completely in command of his senses and rich as Croesus. What else could a man want?

The tanned old man took the circular staircase down to the main floor, went to the all-white kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee from the automatic machine. Standing by the sink and looking out at the big swimming pool at the back of his lot he shook his head, savoring the rich flavor of the brew. Life was certainly a strange thing; there was a time when he had counted his life in minutes. The thought of living out the last of his long life in a place like this, with beach houses, swimming pools and machines that made coffee for you before you woke was almost too much to comprehend. He had come through wars, hurricanes and untold other disasters and had more than just survived-he had prospered. He laughed out loud at that. At twenty years old he had barely heard of shrimp let alone tasted one, and in the end the wonderful little morsels had made him rich.

Kressman finished his coffee, rinsed out his mug at the sink, then put it in the rack to dry. He crossed the tile-floored living room, went out through the screen door onto the covered porch and then down the steps to the pool. More than one person had made fun of him for having a pool when his house was only fifty feet from the Gulf of Mexico but he enjoyed the convenience. The pool was filled with salt.w.a.ter pumped in from the Gulf, filtered and heated to eighty degrees, night or day. There was no surf to get in the way of his exercise and no currents or riptides to deal with.

He walked down the concrete ap.r.o.n around the pool, slipped out of his slippers at the foot of the diving board and picked up his goggles out of the little plastic basket he kept there. He went out to the end of the board, bounced twice, lightly, then arced into the air, slicing into the breeze-rippled water with the near professional ease of long practice.

Kressman began his regular laps, his mind clearing as he went through his routine of alternating crawl and breast stroke. As he swam he let his mind go free, memory skittering over his life, his happy years with his wife-dead now after a short, painful battle with cancer-his two children, boy and girl, one a doctor now, the other a professor in New York. He thought of his businesses, taking half a dozen old shrimpers from Fernandina Beach, refurbis.h.i.+ng them and putting them to work, half a dozen becoming a hundred, a hundred becoming a freezing and packaging depot, the depot station becoming one of the biggest seafood companies in the south. Investing in Alabama coast real estate and getting even richer.

All so he could wind up swimming in his pool in the early morning, all by himself with his memories. He reached the end of his routine, did one more lap just for the h.e.l.l of it, then floated on his back for a minute or two, staring up into the young morning sky, thinking about having a big breakfast down the road at the new and improved Nolan's, recovered from the hurricane now, and back in business better than ever. Steak, eggs and pan fries and to h.e.l.l with his cholesterol for once. "Liegt der Bauer unterm Tisch, war das Essen nimmer frisch!" as his papa used to tell him.

He flipped over onto his front, treaded water for a moment and then paddled forward until his feet touched the slightly grainy gunite of the shallow end. He stepped forward, pus.h.i.+ng through the water with a side-to-side sweeping motion of his arms, barely feeling the first spike of gla.s.s as it sliced through his foot. By the third step he was aware that something was wrong; like a lot of men his age, Kressman had type 2 diabetes and had lost a great deal of sensation in his feet, but by now the pain had gone farther up his legs. He looked down and saw that the water around him was turning pink.

Another step and one of the deadly, invisible weapons sliced through his right Achilles tendon. He staggered, then fell, his arms outstretched. One of his hands was punctured and another piece slashed into his left calf. Kressman, already going into shock, knew that he was in terrible trouble. As well as diabetes, Kressman also suffered from a number of minor heart ailments, all of them requiring the administration of blood thinners. One of them was Coumadin-also known as Warfarin, a powerful rat poison. Multiple cuts like he'd just received and in warm water could easily result in his exsanguinating-bleeding out in a matter of minutes.

He crawled forward, trying to reach the safety of the steps leading out of the pool. His other hand was cut, his index finger almost amputated. He gave a gurgling scream and fell to one side, and he was pierced twice more, once just below his ribs on the right, cutting through his thin flesh into his liver, the second piece of gla.s.s goring him in the thigh, opening up the femoral artery close to his groin.

He screamed again, his mouth half underwater and he began to choke. He tried to roll over and failed, his torn hands flailing, trying to find purchase on the bottom of the pool only to meet with more agony. As the ripped artery in his leg poured out his lifeblood the water around him turned from pink to red. His eyes rolled back in his head and he slowly rolled over, his face fully underwater. A moment later he died, the battery in the pacemaker still jolting his heart with electricity every few seconds and getting no response, the organ still jerking spasmodically in the dead man's chest.

31.Detective Sergeant Bobby Izzard-known inevitably as Izzy since his days playing box ball on the busy sidewalks outside his apartment building deep in the bowels of Queens-studied the long breakfast buffet on the lower level of Zeke's Down Under, then filled up his plate with scrambled eggs, bacon, home fries, a few fried oysters, a scoop and a half of marinated Royal Reds and some dirty rice to balance things out.

Like just about everyone else on the Gulf Sh.o.r.es Police Force his belly hung over his belt and it was probably killing him along with the beer, the cigarettes and watching football on Sundays instead of playing it, but frankly, he couldn't give a good G.o.dd.a.m.n. He'd escaped his nagging wife, New York winters, a homicide caseload that never seemed to get any smaller and a twisting pain in his gut that was threatening to turn into an ulcer, or maybe something worse. In Gulf Sh.o.r.es, Alabama, of all places, he'd found paradise, and one of its fundamental joys was eating breakfast at Zeke's Down Under.

Paradise for sure. In the first place, lots of people died in Gulf Sh.o.r.es, which was why there was one full-time funeral home in the town of five thousand and two more in the town of Foley, just up the road. Died, yes-murdered, no. Almost all of the deaths were from old age, almost all the dead bodies had been under a doctor's care, and none of them had any interest for Izzy.

As part of a three-man detective squad, Bobby Izzard spent most of his time looking into purse s.n.a.t.c.hings, the occasional bunco beef where some jerk tried to slick an old lady's life savings, and missing persons, most of which turned out to be people with Alzheimer's who'd wandered off. Once in a while during the s...o...b..rd season-when the town's population trebled and quadrupled as northerners poured into their high-rise beach condos-Izzy would hook himself up with the marine squad and go out in the big cruiser to look for floaters and annoy boaters who looked like they might be trying to smuggle in a bale or two, but in the three years he'd been on the job serving and protecting the people of Gulf Sh.o.r.es, Alabama, he'd never drawn his gun, only twice used his cuffs and had never had anyone lift a hand in his direction, let alone fire a shot.

And that was just the way he liked it. This wasn't NYPD Blue or Law & Order or CSI or even Kojak. This was Gulf Sh.o.r.es, Alabama, home of petting zoos, miniature golf courses and shark fis.h.i.+ng charters. Gulf Sh.o.r.es, where the living was high-fat and who cared? Where dying was just a simple question of your heart stopping after a nice round of mini golf with your friends at Pirate's Cove. If anyone got murdered it was in Mobile or Pensacola and that was none of his d.a.m.n business.

He picked up a pot of coffee on his way back to his table, sat down with his favorite view of the marina and the wharf and started to methodically work his way around the oversized plate. It was too early for most people. With the exception of a few hungover-looking charter boat captains and a tottering group of old tourists in yellow T-s.h.i.+rts and Tilly hats to guard against the sun he had the place to himself. For a minute.

He'd just speared his first Royal Red and was swirling it around in the sugary marinade when he saw Kenny Frizell out of the corner of his eye. Kenny was a go-getter, a local, and, G.o.d help him, Kenny was his partner, the second man in the so-called investigative team that made up the Gulf Sh.o.r.es Detective Bureau. The third man was the K-9 end, a good old boy named Earl Ray Pasher whose only love was El Kabong, his enormous, drooling, grinning American bloodhound.

Kabong was at his happiest when sniffing around the bloated corpse of a drowning victim, a suitcase full of cocaine, a growhouse bas.e.m.e.nt full of hydroponic weed, or picking out the trailer down the bayou back roads that was actually a crystal meth lab. Kabong was so good at his job that he and Pasher were constantly being borrowed by other forces in Alabama as well as out of state, and neither one of them was around much. Anything that smelled of anything in Gulf Sh.o.r.es had long since been given the once-over by the Kabonger.

Kenny looked like a cartoon character in a suit. He had carrot red hair in a marine corps buzz, a build like Popeye on steroids and a face like Howdy Doody, except he wasn't old enough to remember the famous puppet. The only reason he was a corporal and a detective was because he'd completed a two-year a.s.sociate's degree in criminal justice at Faulkner State Community College, Gulf Sh.o.r.es campus. Kenny didn't pause in front of the buffet-wasn't even tempted. He didn't even hook himself a coffee. Kenny just came on in those big black shoes, the freckles on his round cheeks all aglow. Unlike Izzy, who after three years was tanned a nice tea-stained color, Kenny just burned. He always looked like he'd been gone over with a blowtorch or stepped out of a pizza oven. Watching him cross the floor, Izzy began to lose his appet.i.te. Kenny looked serious. Worse than that, he looked worried.

The young detective sat down across from his partner.

"We got a problem, Iz."

"No, you've got a problem. You haven't told me what it is yet, so I'm still enjoying my breakfast." He picked up a piece of bacon, wrapped it around one of the marinated Royal Reds and popped the morsel into his mouth, chewing and doing his imitation of Homer Simpson, which almost always got a laugh out of Kenny. Not this time.

"We've got a body in a swimming pool."

Izzy sighed. Kenny liked to get full value for all that education, which meant it took him forever to get to the point.

"Presumably a dead body."

"Yeah."

"Old person?"

"Yeah."

"So old people drown in pools all the time."

"Except he didn't drown. I don't think anyway. It looks as though he bled to death in the pool. He's floating faceup and the water's red." Faceup was a little strange. Natural flotation usually made bodies flip onto their fronts.

"He in the deep end of the pool or the shallow?"

"Shallow."

That explained it. He was probably grounded on the bottom of the pool.

"Somebody call Maggie?"

"On her way."

Gulf Sh.o.r.es was lucky enough to have a county coroner who was not only a doctor but also a pathologist, working out of the morgue at the Baldwin County Medical Center up the road in Foley, a ten-minute drive away down Route 59. Maggie was in her early fifties, like Izzy, but she had an a.s.s like an eighteen-year-old and she knew it, which was fine with Izzy.

"Hemorrhoids, maybe?" Izzy ventured.

Kenny's mouth twisted up into a cross between a scowl and a simple look of distaste. Somebody with an a.s.sociate's degree didn't joke about possible murder victims. Izzy, on the other hand, even made jokes about the extraordinary number of pedestrians killed crossing Gulf Sh.o.r.es Boulevard-most of them half blind or carrying walkers or canes-referring to it as the annual roadkill count. Men were squirrels, women were beavers. For Izzy violent death was a job; for Kenny it was a calling.

"I think it was murder," said Kenny, his voice heavy with doom.

"Why?" said Izzy. "People bleed for all sorts of reasons. Maybe he had lung cancer or an embolism or something."

"I don't think he could see too well, or his goggles got clouded up."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"There's broken bottles all over the bottom of the pool."

"Bottles?"

"Yeah, like you'd take a bottle and smash it and then put the bottom of the bottle on the bottom of the pool. I've got twenty-twenty vision and I could barely see them. There's hundreds of them. It looked like he was swimming and started walking up the deep end and got cut, badly. Not to mention this big long sliver of gla.s.s that's sticking out of his mouth. That was no accident."

Izzy took a sip of coffee and fished out his Zippo and his Marlboros. "A sliver of gla.s.s?"

Kenny nodded, somber. "About a foot long, like a dagger. Looks to've cut his tongue just about in half."