Savich smiled. “My grandmother is an artist. The Night Tower is one of her paintings. It was stolen from the Prado in Spain. We’re following a rumor that Mr. Anatoly here had it taken and replaced with a fake, but it was spotted.”
Savich was leaning over to check a tattoo on the neck of one of the sons when two young men the size of linebackers ran into the kitchen, looked at the three dead men, and one of them screamed at the top of his lungs. Savich straightened, and both of them yelled curses at him and jumped. One of the men was waving a gun, the other his fists, both radiating out-of-control fury, Savich their target. Two NYPD officers came screaming in after them, guns drawn.
Time seemed to freeze. Ben saw one of the men strike Savich in the shoulder with a huge fist, sending him stumbling back against the big kitchen island. He saw the other man raise his gun, but then, in a move so fast it was a blur, Savich swung his leg up, sharp and hard, clipped the guy’s hand, and sent the gun flying across the kitchen. He turned fast, leaned forward, and slammed the outside of his hand against the other man’s throat. He stopped then and stared calmly at the young man who was cradling his hand, sobbing, his nose running.
It was over in less than three seconds.
Horace stared at Savich. “As my son would say, dude, that was very fine.” Then he picked up the gun, clicked out the magazine, barked at his officers, who were both wild-eyed and panting, “We’ve got it under control. Get back outside, both of you. I’ll deal with you later.”
He leaned over the young man who was sobbing and cradling his broken wrist. “Yuri, calm yourself down. I’m NYPD. These are FBI agents. None of us killed your father or your brothers. We found them like this. They were executed.”
Yuri wiped the back of his hand across his nose, raised tear-filled eyes. His brother was still wheezing, holding his throat, trying to get up. Horace said, “You, too, Toms, get yourself together. At least Agent Savich didn’t kill you.”
Sherlock slowly rose. She said to the young men, both now staring blankly toward their dead father, their two dead brothers, “We’re very sorry about this, Yuri, Toms. But you must steady yourselves.” She nodded toward Dillon. “This man isn’t good for your continued health if you don’t get a grip on yourselves. All right?”
• • •
An hour and a half later, Savich, Sherlock, and Ben stood on the front doorstep of the beautiful Italianate mansion and watched the two coroner’s vans drive off down the street, three Anatolys in black body bags inside one and one of the killers in the other. Techs swarmed through the house while officers canvassed the neighborhood. Savich agreed with his wife: the same man had killed five people in a matter of days; possibly it was also the same man who’d attacked Nicholas and Mike the previous night.
“Smart guy, aren’t you?” he said quietly. “And you’re not new to this. I’ll bet you’ve been at it a lot of years now.” He looked up to see the sun burst out from behind the gray clouds. The wind still snapped and cut, but it was becoming a beautiful winter day.
He said to Sherlock, who’d come up to stand next to him, “The killer wasn’t interested in the Picasso, merely set it against the wall by the safe. There were also two Manets, one Pissarro, and a gorgeous Berthe Morisot still hanging on the walls, all of them very valuable,
and I doubt they were stolen. Nor was he interested in the cash or the cocaine. And we have no clue what he was after. Did you think he found what he wanted?”
“Yes,” she said, “I have a strong feeling he did. He didn’t take the other goodies because he’s the consummate professional, a very well-paid consummate professional.”
Savich said as he pulled up his coat collar, “No sign of The Night Tower. I wonder if we’ll ever find grandmother’s painting now?”
Sherlock didn’t think so, but she said nothing.
• • •
Two hours later, Savich and Sherlock accompanied Louisa and a forensic team to Anatoly’s Midtown office because, Savich told her later, he’d simply had this feeling.
He found a small hidden room off Anatoly’s office. The room was climate-controlled, the lighting perfect. In the center of the room sat a comfortable armchair. Twelve paintings were beautifully hung on the white walls. One of the paintings was his grandmother’s The Night Tower.
57
Geneva, Switzerland
Friday afternoon
True to his word, Agent Pierre Menard met them on the tarmac at Geneva International. He was a short, neat man with graying temples, wearing a beautiful charcoal three-piece suit.
Some bulldog, Nicholas thought. Well, they’d soon see.
He bustled them into a white Toyota Land Cruiser with POLICE stenciled in blue on the side and bright orange stripes around the back, and started into the city.
Nicholas hadn’t been to Geneva in several years, but the city hadn’t changed. The architecture was eclectic—hypermodern buildings mixed in with classic French and medieval churches, side by side. The city still housed the world’s finest watchmakers, with twenty-foot-high signs clinging to the sides of the buildings. Rolex. Patek Philippe. Montblanc. Hermès. Every luxury a discerning shopper could need was headquartered and built here in the city of time.
Mike watched the scenery flow by, entranced by the modern glass buildings and huge parks buttressed by neoclassic lines. It was her first time in Europe, and she felt straight off the boat, stepping onto a strange shore.
Menard wasn’t much of a talker, though his English was quite excellent. Nicholas wanted details, but Menard shook his head. “I am sorry, Inspector Drummond. All I know is what we have already spoken of. We are going directly to the bank. When there is news of a sighting on the cameras, they will call. Who is this woman you’re chasing?”
“The Fox.”
The name perked him up. “The art thief? Mon dieu. No wonder you are here. The Fox is a legend. But you say he is a she?”