It was only fitting that we stopped at a red light as soon as von Oehson uttered those words. I don’t know. “What does that mean?” I asked.
“Two guys in masks kidnapped my son for a ransom they never got around to asking for,” he said. “They roughed him up, blindfolded him, and kept him stashed away somewhere. Then, without any explanation, they let him go. Just like that. Dropped him off in front of the church and sped off.” He folded his arms. “Why would they do that?”
In the intelligence community, this moment is called parallel convergence. It’s why intelligence agencies from different countries, even non-allies, are willing to share so much information. You simply never know when two seemingly disparate operations will intersect.
“I’ll tell you why they let Carter go,” I said. “They got spooked.”
“How?”
“One of their own went missing.”
I told von Oehson about Vincent Franchella. One minute I was talking to him in a hotel room, the next minute he was gone. Kidnapped, as well. I also told him about Vladimir Grigoryev, although I actually never said his name. All that mattered was what he was, not who. A pakhan.
“A what?” asked von Oehson.
“Think Russian crime boss,” I said, explaining how both Betty and Jade worked for him.
“So this mobster’s pissed that someone took advantage of a couple of his girls, and he lets it be known. A crazy Russian and his crew staring down some Italian wise guys.”
“The wise guys blinked,” I said.
“Is this where you tell me they fear the Russians because the Russians don’t have rules? I’ve seen that movie.”
“The Russians have rules.” Vladimir Grigoryev sure does. Two commandments, in particular. “No, if I had to guess, what your kidnappers feared was retribution from within.”
“I’m not following,” said von Oehson.
“Their boss. Whoever he might be,” I said. “Everything about Carter’s disappearance smacks of a job that was never blessed by, let alone shared with, upper management. As soon as Vincent Franchella went missing, they panicked. They were afraid it was all going to lead back to them.”
Von Oehson shook his head slowly. It wasn’t disagreement. It was disbelief.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“It’s all going to lead back to them anyway,” he said.
“What do you mean? The painting? You said it yourself, this had nothing to do with the Hungarians.”
“You’re right, it didn’t.”
“Now I’m the one not following,” I said.
“A nineteen-year-old rich kid owes three hundred grand that he doesn’t have. The two guys in masks show up to take him for ransom, and he tries to talk his way out of it. When that doesn’t work, he tries to barter. He thinks to himself, what can I offer these guys in kind that my parents won’t know is missing? That’s when he remembers an old painting he once saw tucked away in a closet. He has no idea what it’s worth, especially since it’s unsigned, but if his parents own the damn thing, it has to be worth something. What did he have to lose?”
“This is what Carter told you?”
“Not at first. He never mentioned it when my wife and I got home from the church and sat him down. He’d already admitted to so much, he figured why make it even worse if he didn’t have to? It’s not as if we’d asked him about the painting. He assumed we hadn’t noticed it was gone,” he said. “Only I had.”
“Did you tell him why? How you knew it was gone? The whole history behind it?”
“Absolutely not. Later, when I was alone with Carter, I explained that after he had posted his apparent suicide note, I had turned the house upside down looking for him or, at least, some clue as to what had really happened. I simply couldn’t believe that he’d killed himself. That’s when I noticed the painting was missing.” Von Oehson sighed. “When Carter heard that, that’s when he confessed.”
I had to let that all sink in for a few seconds. “In other words, Carter tried to settle a three-hundred-thousand gambling debt with a hundred-million-dollar painting. Did you tell him it was a Monet?”
“And make him feel even worse? No. He’d be suicidal for real.”
“What about what happened to it? Once his kidnappers got their hands on the painting, did Carter see it again?”
“He didn’t see anything. He was blindfolded,” said von Oehson. “He never even heard one of their names. But unless they’re as dumb as rocks they’re right now in the process of trying to get the painting appraised. When that happens the Hungarians are going to find out that their missing Monet has suddenly turned up in New York City. The art world is simply too small for that not to happen.”
“But it probably hasn’t happened yet,” I said. “Which means we still have some more time—and hopefully a few more moves to make.”
“Do you have any in mind yet?”
“I will.”
Von Oehson smiled. “I would expect nothing less,” he said, reaching into his pocket.
“What’s this?” I asked. Only I could plainly see what it was. An actual check as opposed to a copy of one. He was giving me the back-end payment of our deal—another million dollars made out to Harlem Legal House.
“My son is home safely. That’s what I hired you for. Nothing more,” he said. “Your work is done, and I thank you.”
“It wasn’t entirely my work that got him back.”
“All the same, he’s home safely.”
“What about the Hungarians? The painting?”
“That’s my problem now, not yours.”
“You’re only half right,” I said.
“How is it your problem?”
“I was referring more to Carter. He may be home, but with that painting still out there I’m not sure about the safety part.”
“You think he’s still in danger?”
“I’m not sure what to think, to be honest. This is more about a feeling.”
“Clearly not a good one.”
“Here,” I said, handing him back the check. “When that feeling is gone, you can give this to me again.”