Lifeguard - James Patterson [32]
I nodded and patted him on the back. I made my way toward the door.
“No offense, kid,” he said, stopping me, “but you mind leaving through the back?”
The stairs led to a small parking lot that hooked around to an alley. I waved back at Uncle George as he watched me go. I knew he loved me like a real nephew.
But he had made a mistake, and I caught it.
In no report I had read or seen on TV had anyone mentioned a Jackson Pollock being stolen.
Chapter 37
ELLIE WAS FUMING and, actually, she liked herself best when she got like this—feisty, combative, standing up for herself.
She’d been conned. She’d gone to bat for Ned and he’d let her down. The sonuvabitch knew, she kept telling herself over and over. He knew Tess McAuliffe. He was with her the day she was killed. She felt like a complete fool.
Ellie was still in the Boston office, but was headed back home that night. She spent the day fielding calls—a frantic one from her parents in New Jersey, one from the regional director of the FBI, going over her ordeal with the Crisis Team one more time. And then trying to dig up someone in the business who had gone by the name Gachet.
She knew the name, of course. Anyone with an art degree did.
Gachet was the subject of one of van Gogh’s last paintings. It was finished in Auvers, in June of 1890, only a few weeks before he died. The famous doctor with the achingly sad blue eyes. It was first sold from van Gogh’s estate for 300 francs, $58. In 1990 a Japanese businessman paid $82 million for it, the most ever paid for a piece of art at the time. But what the hell did any of that have to do with the theft in Florida?
She also spent some time pulling up whatever she could find on Ned Kelly. His friends’ police records. His father’s. The older brother, who’d been shot in 1997 by the police in the middle of a robbery, possibly set up by the father.
That stuff was all true.
Then she found Ned in a team picture of the 1998 BU hockey team on the university’s Web site. She checked with Stoughton Academy. He had been accused, unjustly, by a female student. And cleared a few weeks later. Just as Ned told her. He hadn’t been lying about that.
Just about the past four days?
The guy had never been in any real trouble in his life; now he was wanted for two sets of grisly murders? No matter what the evidence said, Ellie still felt sure: he was no killer. A liar, maybe. Someone in totally over his head. A womanizer, possibly. But a cold-blooded killer? Shit, he didn’t even know how to use a gun.
She pushed herself away from the desk. Maybe Moretti was right. Stick to the art. Sure, it was fun playing with the A team for a while, but her days of chasing murderers were through.
“Shurtleff?” One of the Boston agents stuck his head in her cubicle.
Ellie nodded.
“Someone for you on line two.”
“Who is it?” she asked. The story was all over the media. She’d been dodging calls from the press all day.
“Celebrity call,” the agent said with a shrug. “Someone named Steve McQueen.”
Chapter 38
THIS TIME she was determined to handle it right. By the book. Not like the day before. Though the crack about Steve McQueen was making her suppress a smile. Ellie pressed a button to record the call. She cupped her hand over the receiver and whispered to the agent, Trace this call.
“You miss me, Ellie?” Ned Kelly said when she came on the line.
“This isn’t a game, Ned,” Ellie said. “People here think you’re guilty as shit. I told you we had one chance to help you, but that chance is fading fast. Tell me where you are. Let me come get you. Give yourself up.”
“Guess that’s a no,” Ned sighed, as if disappointed.
“You want to know what I miss?” Ellie said, feeling herself getting angry. “I miss not taking that gun from you and putting you in cuffs when I had the chance. I trusted you, Ned. I went way out on a limb for you. And you didn’t tell me the truth.”
“What are you talking about?” he said, caught by surprise.
“About the Brazilian Court, Ned. About Tess McAuliffe. About