Chapter 5 Erik #2
“No, the dome from the Commodore Wilson Hotel that’s been missing for thirty years,” Erik replied. “I don’t have it, and I don’t know where it is, but someone thinks I do.”
“Want to come down to the station and fill me in?”
“I’d rather do it here, inside the wards,” Erik said. “I have a pretty good idea who is behind the call. That way, you can take Susan home and make sure she’s safe. I tried to get her to take some time off, but you know your mom.”
“I’ll be over,” Hendricks replied. “And I’ll give the plainclothes officer out front a heads up to be even more alert. This used to be a quiet little town.” He hung up, and it took Erik a moment to react, lost in his thoughts.
“Is everything okay?” Susan’s voice shook him out of his trance.
He turned toward her. “Chief Hendricks is coming here to take my statement about getting a threatening phone call. I want you to leave with him. You were going to stay home for a while to be safe from the storm, but that also goes for avoiding bad people.”
She looked at him with a shrewd expression. “Mafia stuff?”
“It’s better if you don’t know.”
“I’ve lived in New Jersey my whole life. It’s hardly a new idea.” She gave Erik what he thought of as a “mom” look, assessing his state of mind. “Sit down. I’ll get you a fresh cup of coffee. Gather your thoughts before Cole gets here.”
Susan brought him coffee and sat quietly with him until a knock came at the door. “I’ll let him in.” Susan patted his arm. He heard the door open and a muffled conversation, and then the chief came to the break room, looking sodden.
“I hung his slicker up by the door so it could drip,” Susan told Erik. “I’ll keep sorting that new box of estate stuff.”
Erik motioned to the coffee pot. “Go ahead and pour a cup. Thanks for coming over.”
“I try to keep international crime syndicates from blowing up my town,” Hendricks replied, but he took Erik’s suggestion and returned with coffee.
“Now, what’s this all about?”
Erik recounted the phone call and shared the number, although he felt certain it would already be disconnected. “Then he threatened the store and Ben. Thick Russian accent. It’s got to be someone who works for The Oligarch.”
“You mean Vladimir Putin?” Hendricks looked confused.
Despite everything, Erik stifled a chuckle. “No. Russia and the Baltic states have a long history with rich, powerful men who control parts of the economy—legitimately and not-so—and are largely above the law.”
“I’m listening.”
“His real name is Konstantin Gusev,” Erik said. “We crossed paths several times, through proxies, when I worked with Interpol. He grew up wealthy, but his family lost most of their money under Soviet rule. He never lost his expensive tastes.”
“You think Gusev called you?” Hendricks clarified.
“No. Gusev always stayed in the shadows. He funded his art habit with his other businesses, drugs, human trafficking, weapons smuggling, and selling information.”
“And I imagine he also has ties to Bratva?”
Erik nodded. “All through third parties, so it’s an open secret no one can prove. There were rumors linking him to several museum thefts around the world, and that he killed art couriers, rival collectors, and committed arson to cover the robberies.”
“One of those rumors was that Gusev had the famous Amber Room that the Nazis stole from the Russians and that disappeared after World War II,” Erik continued. “He liked things that were unique and high profile, so the Tiffany dome would fit right in.”
“And he decided to call you, why?” Hendricks always seemed surprised to discover more about Erik’s background, as if he had difficulty squaring the secret agent level cases he used to pursue with Erik’s quiet reinvention as a local antique dealer.
“I stopped one of his attempted thefts and recovered other stolen artwork from his holdings when I was with Interpol,” Erik answered.
“I testified against him in court, and my team tracked the sources for the laundered money he used to pay for his art on the shadow market. So yeah, he remembers me.”
“Well, I’ve got to give you credit for brass balls.” Hendricks sipped his coffee and was quiet for a moment.
Erik had left out that Gusev was a witch, undeterred from using deeply questionable magical traditions to aid his undertakings.
“Do you think he was behind the two murders linked to that ‘haunted’ window?” Hendricks didn’t use finger quotes, but the distinction was clear in his voice.
“No. Too small potatoes for him. Ben and I believe it was the Newark Mob. Specifically, a boss who goes by The Collector.”
“What’s up with the fancy nicknames? Oligarch. Collector. Pretty fancy for career criminals,” Hendricks groused.
“The mobsters who make it to the top have a grandiose streak,” Erik told him. “They never get that completely right in the movies.”
Erik heard Ben’s key in the lock and looked up as his partner came inside and shrugged out of his soaked raincoat.
“I’m guessing you or Nolan know something about this Collector, too?” Hendricks looked like he felt a headache coming on.
Hearing The Collector and The Oligarch’s names come up rattled Erik more than he hoped he had let on. It frustrated Erik that despite their best efforts to leave the past behind them, neither he nor his partner could seem to evade the shadows from their former jobs.
“Way too much,” Ben answered, having heard the chief’s last comment. “What do you want me to tell you?”
Ben came into the break room and poured himself a cup of coffee. He greeted Erik with a peck on the lips and then sat next to him across from Hendricks.
“Erik filled me in about this Oligarch guy. What do I need to know about The Collector? And who the hell comes up with the pretentious nicknames?” Hendricks asked.
“It’s part of the mobster ego and posturing,” Erik replied. “They’ve all watched The Godfather and Scarface too many times.”
“The Collector’s real name is Remo Barone,” Ben said.
“His people have been in the Family for generations, and they think they’re Mafia gentry.
Lots of money, patrons of the arts, they send their kids to expensive colleges and donate a lot of laundered money to things like the ballet and symphony.
Which doesn’t change the fact that they’re stone-cold killers. ”
“I guess people can ignore a lot when someone writes a big check,” Hendricks grumbled.
“Barone must have gone to a lot of art museums growing up, because that’s what he stole,” Ben continued.
“Erik probably ran across him on international busts. I chased his ass around New Jersey. Sometimes it wasn’t about breaking into a museum.
The owner of a piece of art died suddenly, and Barone could swoop in and buy the art below market rate.
We’d hear later that other potential bidders had their lives threatened if they outbid him,” Ben said.
“We saw the same kind of things with his European activity,” Erik chimed in. “He managed to dodge the harsher penalties and seemed to consider lesser charges a cost of doing business.”
“Barone knew how to set things up so they were legal enough to skate past scrutiny,” Ben added.
“And when the money trail or the provenance was shaky, my team and I got pulled in,” Erik said.
“Barone isn’t going to remember either of us fondly.” Ben finished his coffee and set the cup aside.
Erik didn’t mention that, like The Oligarch, Barone employed a witch to help cover his tracks and eliminate rivals. He always wondered if that was why Barone’s taste in artwork gravitated toward dark supernatural themes.
He had never figured out whether Barone truly liked the art he pursued so ruthlessly, wanted to show off his wealth, or thought that acquiring rare and valuable pieces created legitimacy.
“You both have had very…colorful…lives,” Hendricks said. “And I appreciate the briefing. But if no one knows where the Commodore Wilson Tiffany dome is, why the sudden Mafia interest in something that vanished thirty years ago?”
Erik strongly suspected that magic had something to do with it, but he knew that wasn’t what Hendricks wanted to hear.
“We’ve put out some feelers to our contacts who are still in the business,” Erik said.
“He may have found out that we were looking for it. And the thirtieth anniversary of the Commodore Wilson’s implosion may have brought the dome back to people’s minds.
The haunted window wasn’t related, but maybe it was a reminder. ”
“What are they going to do? Ransack Cape May until they find the dome?” Hendricks asked.
“Only if they can’t make Ben or me tell them what they think we know,” Erik said. “And they’ll take Samuels’s window as a consolation prize if they can’t get the dome.”
Hendricks pushed his now-cold coffee to the side. “Much as I hate to admit it, that means that the two of you are going to have to figure out a plan to send the goons packing with as little bloodshed as possible, preferably before the big festival.”
“Thank you for including us in the planning,” Ben said, and Erik knew his partner would understand just how big an admission it was on the chief’s part.
“I want to be in the loop all the way along,” Hendricks added in a stern tone. “Full partner. Don’t make me regret this.”
“After the threat I got about Ben, I told Susan I thought it would be best if she didn’t come in to the store until we got to the bottom of this,” Erik said. “And that she take extra care not to become a target. These guys are ruthless, and they would know that threatening her would be leverage.”
“I’ve already invited her to stay with us for a while, spend time with the grandkids,” Hendricks replied. “Thank you for thinking about her safety.”
“Of course,” Erik said. “That’s what friends are for.”
Susan left with Hendricks after giving Ben and Erik hugs. “Stay safe,” she admonished. “I don’t want to be away from the store for long.”
Once they were gone, Erik locked up and tidied the break room before he and Ben headed up to the apartment.