often Swiss, who were not particularly concerned about a painting's provenance so long as it improved the quality of their collection. As Swiss law protected patrons of the arts who had unwittingly purchased stolen property with a five-year statute of limitations, it was a convenient arrangement for all. From the point of view of the Zürich police, the principal investigatory agency, the missing element was Interpol's failure to link Wheeler to any criminal circles in Europe. How did he come by these paintings? Nobody knew. Was he a victim of others - duped into buying stolen goods? Interpol could not say and the Swiss were disinclined to pursue the matter. In fact, other than loose talk - a friend of a friend speculating on certain acquisitions, they maintained steadfastly that there was no hard evidence linking Wheeler to anything illegal. They could not in good conscience participate in the investigation by authorizing warrants or wiretaps against the man, his family or his business.
Marcus offered another sly smile. In over twenty-five years as a police officer, Thomas, I have discovered one thing always holds true. Evidence is extremely difficult to find if you refuse to see it.'
'Doesn't seem to deal in forgeries.'
'It's art. They all deal in forgeries whether they like it or not, but from what I can tell, that's not his game. He's a specialist. You want Monet, he'll find you a Monet. You want Leonardo da Vinci, maybe he has a couple in his attic he can let you have if the price is right.'
Turning the page, Malloy noticed Wheeler escorting a thirty-something Nordic blonde beauty. A typical trophy date, he thought, and was turning the page when he spotted the word Tochter. Tapping the photograph, 'He has a daughter?'
'Beautiful, isn't she?'
'Lives in Zürich?'
'She lives anywhere she wants, Thomas.'
'Katherine Kenyon.'
'Lady Kenyon, actually. Papa had the money, little Katie married the blood. On their honeymoon they climbed the north face of the Eiger. The husband and three other men are still up there.'
'I remember that. That was what? Ten . . . eleven years ago?'
'Something like that. You'd think an experience like that would keep her off the mountains. The only thing it did was convince her never to climb with ropes. Apparently, Lord Kenyon got dragged over by the other three. Lady Kenyon was able to cut the rope before she joined them. She came down alone - without ropes - and hasn't used them since.'
'Still climbs?'
'Swiss TV had a special on her about three years ago. At the time they were saying she was one of the top five climbers in Switzerland, which makes her one of the best in the world. You don't walk away from something like that.' Malloy closed the dossier and slipped it into the shopping sack Marcus had set between them. Marcus brought a holstered Sigma .380 off his belt.
'Loaded and very clean. I want it back when you leave, if it's possible.' By possible he meant unused.
Malloy wiped his friend's fingerprints from the holster and weapon, then slipped it next to his spine the way he wore his .380 in the States.
'I'm assuming your rates haven't changed.' He brought two bound stacks of thousand dollar bills from the pocket of his sports jacket and passed it to his friend under the lip of the table.
Marcus pocketed the money with satisfaction and listened to Malloy's instructions. When Malloy had finished, he smiled. 'Just like old times. Except we don't kill anybody.'
'Sounds like you've missed me.'
'Every cop in Zürich misses you, Thomas. Since you left, the crime rate has plummeted. They'll be talking layoffs pretty soon.'
Bob Whitefield was sitting in Malloy's darkened hotel room nursing a glass of Scotch when Malloy returned from his meeting with Marcus Steiner. Whitefield was a tall, heavyset man with a quick, watery smile and a soft, nervous voice. He had a couple of chins, a few remaining strands of black hair running across his scalp, and small, perpetually twitching brown
Marcus offered another sly smile. In over twenty-five years as a police officer, Thomas, I have discovered one thing always holds true. Evidence is extremely difficult to find if you refuse to see it.'
'Doesn't seem to deal in forgeries.'
'It's art. They all deal in forgeries whether they like it or not, but from what I can tell, that's not his game. He's a specialist. You want Monet, he'll find you a Monet. You want Leonardo da Vinci, maybe he has a couple in his attic he can let you have if the price is right.'
Turning the page, Malloy noticed Wheeler escorting a thirty-something Nordic blonde beauty. A typical trophy date, he thought, and was turning the page when he spotted the word Tochter. Tapping the photograph, 'He has a daughter?'
'Beautiful, isn't she?'
'Lives in Zürich?'
'She lives anywhere she wants, Thomas.'
'Katherine Kenyon.'
'Lady Kenyon, actually. Papa had the money, little Katie married the blood. On their honeymoon they climbed the north face of the Eiger. The husband and three other men are still up there.'
'I remember that. That was what? Ten . . . eleven years ago?'
'Something like that. You'd think an experience like that would keep her off the mountains. The only thing it did was convince her never to climb with ropes. Apparently, Lord Kenyon got dragged over by the other three. Lady Kenyon was able to cut the rope before she joined them. She came down alone - without ropes - and hasn't used them since.'
'Still climbs?'
'Swiss TV had a special on her about three years ago. At the time they were saying she was one of the top five climbers in Switzerland, which makes her one of the best in the world. You don't walk away from something like that.' Malloy closed the dossier and slipped it into the shopping sack Marcus had set between them. Marcus brought a holstered Sigma .380 off his belt.
'Loaded and very clean. I want it back when you leave, if it's possible.' By possible he meant unused.
Malloy wiped his friend's fingerprints from the holster and weapon, then slipped it next to his spine the way he wore his .380 in the States.
'I'm assuming your rates haven't changed.' He brought two bound stacks of thousand dollar bills from the pocket of his sports jacket and passed it to his friend under the lip of the table.
Marcus pocketed the money with satisfaction and listened to Malloy's instructions. When Malloy had finished, he smiled. 'Just like old times. Except we don't kill anybody.'
'Sounds like you've missed me.'
'Every cop in Zürich misses you, Thomas. Since you left, the crime rate has plummeted. They'll be talking layoffs pretty soon.'
Bob Whitefield was sitting in Malloy's darkened hotel room nursing a glass of Scotch when Malloy returned from his meeting with Marcus Steiner. Whitefield was a tall, heavyset man with a quick, watery smile and a soft, nervous voice. He had a couple of chins, a few remaining strands of black hair running across his scalp, and small, perpetually twitching brown
Similar Books
