Painted Ladies

32

After lunch, Rita went back to work, and I went to see Quirk. Belson was with him in his office.

“Got an ID on your two assailants,” Quirk said.

“And they are?” I said.

“Two Dutch nationals,” Quirk said. “Mercenaries. What’s the names, Frank?”

“One’s Joost. The other one’s Van Meer,” Belson said. “You care which is which?”

“Not right now,” I said.

“Joost is thirty-four, Van Meer is thirty-five. They weren’t in our system, so we tried Interpol and there they were.”

“You dig that up?” I said to Belson.

“Yep.”

“Frank Belson,” I said, “international detective.”

“Long-distance phone caller,” Belson said.

“And you’re still a sergeant?”

“They don’t promote you for doing a good job,” Belson said. “They promote you for scoring on the lieutenant’s test.”

“So take the test,” I said.

“He won’t,” Quirk said.

“No?” I said.

“I am what I am, and if that’s good, I should be promoted. I’m not taking no fucking test,” Belson said.

Quirk grinned.

“Frank’s a great cop,” Quirk said. “But nobody’s arguing he ain’t a hard-on.”

“I don’t believe I’ve ever heard anyone argue that,” I said.

“You want to hear about these two guys you killed?” Belson said. “Or you and the captain want to keep having fun?”

“Joost and Van Meer,” I said. “Tell me.”

“Served in the Royal Dutch Army. Airborne brigade. Fought in Iraq and Afghanistan.”

“There were Dutch troops in Iraq and Afghanistan?”

“What am I,” Belson said, “Meet the Fucking Press? That’s what Interpol told me.”

“Learn something every day,” I said.

“Probably not in your case,” Belson said. “They got out, served with the Israeli army, some kind of commando unit. Maybe covert ops. Got out of that and started a private security agency, Joost and Van Meer. Then they went off Interpol’s radar.”

“Why is Interpol interested?” I said.

“They’re wanted for questioning in the murder of some French guy, owned an art gallery,” Belson said with no expression.

“Art,” I said.

“Yep,” Belson said.

“What do the French cops tell you?” I said.

“Guy had their name on an appointment calendar for the day he was killed.”

“Not much,” I said.

“Enough to want to interview them,” Belson said.

“True,” I said. “Anybody got any thoughts about the tattoos?”

“Nobody knows anything about that,” Belson said.

“Puts us in good company,” I said.

“We’re talking with folks at the Holocaust Museum in D.C.,” Quirk said.

“Progress?”

“They’re trying to run down an outfit in Germany. Supposed to have everything about the Third Reich.”

“Is that hard to do?” I said.

“Apparently,” Quirk said. “And it’s not just a matter of locating the stuff. It’s getting access to it with somebody fluent in German.”

“American embassy?”

“I’m sure mine would be the first call they’d take,” Quirk said.

“We got art, and Dutch stuff, and Jewish stuff, and German stuff, and Holocaust stuff, and a guy got killed on Route Two, and a guy got killed in France,” I said. “We figure this out, I’ll get promoted to lieutenant.”

“Maybe not,” Quirk said.

“Not if you don’t take the freakin’ test,” Belson said.

Quirk smiled.

“Excellent point, Frank,” he said.