False Impression

“Another time,” said Jack, climbing into the back of a cab. “So where was she heading this time?”

“Bucharest.”

“Why would she want to take a priceless Van Gogh to Bucharest?” asked Jack.

“On Fenston’s instructions, would be my bet,” said Joe. “After all, it’s his hometown as well as hers, and I can’t think of a better place to hide the picture.”

“Then why send Leapman to London if it wasn’t to pick up the painting?”

“A smokescreen?” said Joe. “That would also explain why Fenston attended her funeral when he knows only too well that she’s alive and still working for him.”

“There is an alternative we have to consider,” said Jack.

“What’s that, boss?”

“That she’s no longer working for him, and she’s stolen the Van Gogh.”

“Why would she risk that,” asked Joe, “when he wouldn’t hesitate to come after her?”

“I don’t know, but there’s only one way I’m going to find out.” Jack touched the red button on his phone, and gave the taxi driver an address on the West Side.

__________

Fenston switched off the recorder and frowned. Both of them had listened to the tape for a third time.

“When are you going to fire the bitch?” was all Leapman asked.

“Not while she’s the one person who can still lead us to the painting, Fenston replied.

Leapman scowled. “And did you pick up the only word in their conversation that matters?” he asked. Fenston raised an eyebrow. “Going,” said Leapman. Fenston still didn’t speak. “If she’d used the word coming. ‘I’m coming home’—it would have been New York.”

“But she used the word going,” said Fenston, “so it has to be Bucharest.”

Jack sat back in the cab seat and tried to work out what Petrescu’s next move might be. He still couldn’t make up his mind if she was a professional criminal or a complete amateur. And where did Tina Forster fit into the equation? Was it possible that Fenston, Leapman, Petrescu, and Forster were all working together? If that was the case, why did Leapman only spend a few hours in London before returning to New York? Because he certainly didn’t meet up with Petrescu or take the painting back to New York.

But if Petrescu had branched out on her own, surely she realized that it would only be a matter of time before Fenston caught up with her. Although, Jack had to admit, Petrescu was now on her own ground and didn’t seem to have any idea how much danger she was in.

But Jack remained puzzled as to why Petrescu would steal a painting worth millions when she couldn’t hope to dispose of such a well-known work without one of her former colleagues finding out. The art world was so small and the number of people who could afford that sort of money even smaller. And even if she succeeded, what could she hope to do with the money? The FBI would trace such a large amount within hours, wherever she tried to hide it, especially after Tuesday’s events. It just didn’t add up.

But if she did take her audacious act to its obvious conclusion, Fenston was in for a nasty surprise, and no doubt would react in character.

As the taxi swung into Central Park, Jack tried to make some sense of all that had happened during the past few days. He had even wondered if he would be taken off the Fenston case after 9/11, but Macy insisted that not all his agents should be following up terrorist leads while other criminals got away with murder.

Jack hadn’t found it difficult to obtain a search warrant for Anna’s apartment while she remained on the missing list. After all, relatives and friends needed to be contacted to find out if she had been in touch with them. And then there was the outside possibility, Jack had argued in front of a judge, that she might be locked in her apartment, recovering from the ordeal. The judge signed the order without too many questions.

“I hope you find her,” he said, a sentiment His Honor had cause to repeat several times that day.

Sam had burst into tears at just the mention of Anna’s name. He told Jack that he’d do anything to assist, accompanied him up to her apartment, and even opened the door.

Jack walked around the small, tidy apartment while Sam remained in the hallway. He didn’t learn a great deal more than he already knew. An address book confirmed her uncle’s number in Danville, Illinois, and an envelope showed her mother’s address in Bucharest. Perhaps the only real surprise was a small Picasso drawing hanging in the hallway, signed in pencil by the artist. He studied the matador and the bull more closely, and it certainly wasn’t a print. He couldn’t believe she’d stolen it and then left the drawing in the hall for everyone to admire. Or was the drawing a bonus from Fenston for helping him to acquire the Van Gogh? If it was, it would at least explain what she was up to no

w. And then he walked into the bedroom and saw the one clue that confirmed that Tina had been in the apartment on the evening of 9/11. By the side of Anna’s bed was a watch. Jack checked the time: 8:46.

Jack returned to the main room and glanced at a photograph on the corner of the writing desk of what must have been Anna with her parents. He opened a box file to discover a bundle of letters that he couldn’t read. Most of them were signed “Mama,” although one or two were from someone called Anton. Jack wondered if he was a relation or a friend. He looked back up at the photograph and couldn’t help thinking that if his mother had seen the picture, she would have invited Anna back to sample her Irish stew.

“Damn,” said Jack, loud enough for the cab driver to ask, “What’s the problem?”

“I forgot to phone my mother.”