Hemlock Bay
Page 104
“I accept your offer, if, in return, you give Lily and me our freedom.”
“It is just as I feared,” Olaf said and sighed. He nodded to his son.
Ian looked at his hands, strong hands, and lightly buffed his fingernails on his cashmere sleeve. He said to Simon, “I look forward to killing you, Mr. Russo. I knew you could never be brought to our side, that you could never be trusted. You have interfered mightily.”
Simon said, “You had your chance to get The Last Rites, Mr. Jorgenson. Freedom for Lily and me, but you turned it down. Let me promise you that you will never get that painting. When I die, it goes to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.”
Olaf said, “I do detest making mistakes in a person’s character. It is a pity, Mr. Russo.”
Lily said to Ian, “Is it true that you have Rembrandt’s Night Watch aboard your yacht?”
Ian Jorgenson raised a blond brow. “My, my, Mr. Russo has many tentacles, doesn’t he? Yes, my dear, I had it gently removed from the Rijksmuseum some ten years ago. It was rather difficult, actually. It was a gift to my wife, who died later that year. She was so pleased to look at it in her last days.”
The old man laughed, then coughed. Nikki handed him a handkerchief, and he coughed into it. Lily thought she saw blood.
Ian said, “As my father said, the Chicago Institute of Art is a difficult place, more difficult than even I wished to deal with. In the past ten years they’ve added many security measures that make removal of art pieces very challenging. But most important, my only contact, a curator there, lost his job five years ago. It was a pity. I didn’t know what to do until you moved to that ridiculous little town on the coast of California. This Hemlock Bay.”
Olaf said, “My son and I spent many hours coming up with the right plan for you, Lily. Ian traveled to California, to Hemlock Bay. What a quaint and clever name. It was such a simple little town, generous and friendly to newcomers, such as you and your daughter, was it not? He liked the fresh salt air, the serenity of the endless stretches of beach and forest, the magnificent redwoods, and all those clever little roads and houses blended into the landscape. Who could imagine it would be so simple to find such perfect tools? The Frasiers—greedy, ambitious people—and here they had a son who would be perfect for you.”
“Did they murder my daughter?”
26
“You think the Frasiers killed your daughter?” Ian Jorgenson repeated, his voice indifferent. He shrugged. “Not that I know of.” Lily suddenly hated him.
Olaf said, “I know you felt sorrow over your daughter’s death. But what does it matter to you now who is responsible?”
“Whoever struck her down deserves to die for it.”
“Killing them won’t bring back your little girl,” Ian said, frowning at her. “We, in Sweden, actually in most of Europe, do not believe in putting people to death. It is barbaric.”
What is wrong with this picture? Simon wondered, staring at Ian Jorgenson.
“No,” Lily said, “it won’t bring Beth back, but it would avenge her. No one who kills in cold blood should be allowed to continue breathing the same air I breathe.”
“You are harsh,” said Olaf Jorgenson.
“You are not harsh, sir? You, who order people murdered?”
Olaf Jorgenson laughed, a low, wheezy sound thick with phlegm, perhaps with blood.
“No, I always do only what is necessary, nothing more. Vengeance is for amateurs. Now, you do not have to wonder again if the Frasiers killed your daughter. They did not. They told me that they’d been concerned because your daughter, by ill chance, had seen some e-mails on Mr. Frasier’s computer, communications that she shouldn’t have seen. They, of course, assured the child that the messages were nonsense, nothing important, nothing to even think about.”
So that was why Beth had been moody, withdrawn, that last week. Why hadn’t her daughter come to her, told her, at least asked her about what she had seen? But she hadn’t, and then she’d been killed.
Olaf Jorgenson continued, “I understand it was an accident, one of your American drunk drivers who was too afraid to stop and see what he’d done.”
Lily felt tears clog her throat. She’d happily left Chicago and Jack Crane and moved to a charming coastal town. She couldn’t believe what it had brought them.
Simon took her hand, squeezed her fingers. He knew she was feeling swamped with the memories of her loss and despair. She raised her head to look at Olaf Jorgenson and said, “What do you intend to do with us?”
“It is just as I feared,” Olaf said and sighed. He nodded to his son.
Ian looked at his hands, strong hands, and lightly buffed his fingernails on his cashmere sleeve. He said to Simon, “I look forward to killing you, Mr. Russo. I knew you could never be brought to our side, that you could never be trusted. You have interfered mightily.”
Simon said, “You had your chance to get The Last Rites, Mr. Jorgenson. Freedom for Lily and me, but you turned it down. Let me promise you that you will never get that painting. When I die, it goes to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.”
Olaf said, “I do detest making mistakes in a person’s character. It is a pity, Mr. Russo.”
Lily said to Ian, “Is it true that you have Rembrandt’s Night Watch aboard your yacht?”
Ian Jorgenson raised a blond brow. “My, my, Mr. Russo has many tentacles, doesn’t he? Yes, my dear, I had it gently removed from the Rijksmuseum some ten years ago. It was rather difficult, actually. It was a gift to my wife, who died later that year. She was so pleased to look at it in her last days.”
The old man laughed, then coughed. Nikki handed him a handkerchief, and he coughed into it. Lily thought she saw blood.
Ian said, “As my father said, the Chicago Institute of Art is a difficult place, more difficult than even I wished to deal with. In the past ten years they’ve added many security measures that make removal of art pieces very challenging. But most important, my only contact, a curator there, lost his job five years ago. It was a pity. I didn’t know what to do until you moved to that ridiculous little town on the coast of California. This Hemlock Bay.”
Olaf said, “My son and I spent many hours coming up with the right plan for you, Lily. Ian traveled to California, to Hemlock Bay. What a quaint and clever name. It was such a simple little town, generous and friendly to newcomers, such as you and your daughter, was it not? He liked the fresh salt air, the serenity of the endless stretches of beach and forest, the magnificent redwoods, and all those clever little roads and houses blended into the landscape. Who could imagine it would be so simple to find such perfect tools? The Frasiers—greedy, ambitious people—and here they had a son who would be perfect for you.”
“Did they murder my daughter?”
26
“You think the Frasiers killed your daughter?” Ian Jorgenson repeated, his voice indifferent. He shrugged. “Not that I know of.” Lily suddenly hated him.
Olaf said, “I know you felt sorrow over your daughter’s death. But what does it matter to you now who is responsible?”
“Whoever struck her down deserves to die for it.”
“Killing them won’t bring back your little girl,” Ian said, frowning at her. “We, in Sweden, actually in most of Europe, do not believe in putting people to death. It is barbaric.”
What is wrong with this picture? Simon wondered, staring at Ian Jorgenson.
“No,” Lily said, “it won’t bring Beth back, but it would avenge her. No one who kills in cold blood should be allowed to continue breathing the same air I breathe.”
“You are harsh,” said Olaf Jorgenson.
“You are not harsh, sir? You, who order people murdered?”
Olaf Jorgenson laughed, a low, wheezy sound thick with phlegm, perhaps with blood.
“No, I always do only what is necessary, nothing more. Vengeance is for amateurs. Now, you do not have to wonder again if the Frasiers killed your daughter. They did not. They told me that they’d been concerned because your daughter, by ill chance, had seen some e-mails on Mr. Frasier’s computer, communications that she shouldn’t have seen. They, of course, assured the child that the messages were nonsense, nothing important, nothing to even think about.”
So that was why Beth had been moody, withdrawn, that last week. Why hadn’t her daughter come to her, told her, at least asked her about what she had seen? But she hadn’t, and then she’d been killed.
Olaf Jorgenson continued, “I understand it was an accident, one of your American drunk drivers who was too afraid to stop and see what he’d done.”
Lily felt tears clog her throat. She’d happily left Chicago and Jack Crane and moved to a charming coastal town. She couldn’t believe what it had brought them.
Simon took her hand, squeezed her fingers. He knew she was feeling swamped with the memories of her loss and despair. She raised her head to look at Olaf Jorgenson and said, “What do you intend to do with us?”
