The Dead Caller from Chicago

Thirty-six

I hesitated too long before I lied.

“On vacation,” I said. The less she knew about what was going on, the safer she’d be.

“It must be one hell of a vacation; he’s not even answering his cell phone,” she said softly. She’d recognized the lie.

“Recently there’s been a new twist in the saga of the Four Flowers,” she went on. “There is a particularly nasty divorce playing out in Los Angeles. A movie producer and his wife are battling over who gets to keep Brueghel’s painting of the Rose, among other things.”

“One of the Four Flowers?”

“Yes, but more interesting, the movie producer and his wife jointly hold purchase options on two more: the Daffodil and the Chrysanthemum.”

“Bringing them effective control of three of the Four Flowers?”

“Yes.”

“Just like the Nazis?”

“Precisely, but remember: The objective back then was to unite all four in the Führermuseum.”

“Our own nasty little Nazi knew about the Reich’s objective?”

She nodded. “That’s my supposition. He hustled in, bought up the fourth flower for himself, and looked to make a killing if he could find a way of selling it anonymously to his own people, once the war was over.”

“If the fourth flower, the Daisy, can be located, it would dramatically increase the value of the other three?”

“Tenfold, if all four flowers can be reunited and sold as a complete set. That’s why the divorce story hit the National Enquirer and People magazine a couple of months ago. Both ran a picture of the long-missing Daisy, since enormous money would be at stake if the fourth flower was ever found. So far, that notion has just been a fantasy; excellent magazine fodder, nothing more.”

It hadn’t been happenstance that had brought Snark Evans back from the dead. He’d come across a People, or a National Enquirer, he’d seen the picture of the Daisy, and he recognized the painting he swiped from Rudy Cassone and passed off to Leo on his way out of Rivertown. Millions would be his if he could get it back from Leo.

Those same news flashes out of Hollywood had roused Rudy Cassone to take another run at Tebbins. I’d found the triggering event.

“How was Leo when he called you? Did he mention the Daisy specifically?”

“He was trying to sound casual, but there was tension in his voice.”

“You really think it’s the Daisy under that?” I asked, pointing at the picture on the table.

“Leo would certainly know how to camouflage it.”

“Paint over a masterpiece?”

“It used to be done all the time, back when masters reused canvases. Of course, they didn’t know they were going to become masters. Otherwise, they would have splurged on new canvas. Besides, Leo’s painting was done in acrylic. It’s water soluble. It can be removed.”

“How do we find out?”

“I assume you want to investigate this very quietly?”

I nodded.

“It’s not like Leo to not have called himself.” Her eyes were unblinking on mine. She wanted an explanation.

“I’m handling this for him.”

She leaned across the table. “Where’s Leo, Dek?”

I couldn’t lie, nor could I tell her a truth that would put her in danger.

“Safe,” I said.

We both looked at the fireplace. The fire had died.

She stood up. “I know someone who can X-ray what’s beneath Leo’s pink cows,” she said, standing up, “but Leo already knows what’s under there.”

“I’ll pass that along.” I got up, too, and we walked downstairs.

“Tell him everything is in the envelope.”

“You sent him an envelope?” I grabbed my coat and started walking her outside. I needed to see her safely to her car and headed for home.

“I dropped it off on my way here.”

My throat dried in an instant. “Drive straight back to your building. Don’t let anyone into your condo.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Tell your building’s security people you need a special watch on your place for the next few days.”

“Damn it, Dek. What are you doing?”

I opened her car door. “Straight home, no stops.”

I followed her out to Thompson Avenue. Only when she turned east toward Chicago did I cut through the side streets to Leo’s house.

The envelope Amanda had left for him was still there. I jammed it in my pocket.

My call to Amanda’s cell phone got sent to voice message. She set it that way, when she was driving.

“False alarm,” I said. “Sorry for my irrational behavior tonight.”

It felt odd, as it had for some time, to hang up without telling her I loved her.