Torsson led Daniel back to the living room. Stopping by a sketch of a file of soldiers marching with their spears sloped over their shoulders, each with a baby skewered on top, the Interpol agent told him,
“The Italian police fast tracked a search of his phone records. That story he gave about not being outside the country is untrue. He was in France just three months ago. Paris, as a matter of fact. He used his phone from Paris.”
“Three months ago? That was before Lafontaine acquired the painting of War.”
“Yes, but Lafontaine had been looking for it. And his assistant had said that he had become very secretive and worried about others looking for it.”
Daniel grunted. “That’s right. Maybe Lafontaine met Peeters and got a bad impression of him. He’s a real charmer, as you saw. Lafontaine, with his art connections, got a hold of War and Peeters didn’t. Maybe Peeters heard about it and didn’t like it too much.”
Torsson glanced in the direction of the dining room. “He does have a history of violence.”
“But would he commit murder? Maybe. He certainly has sick fantasies. What about the phone records for when the murders were happening?”
“All show him in Bologna.”
Daniel shrugged. “His phone was in Bologna. Any criminal with half a brain leaves his phone at home before going out to commit a crime.”
“We’ve searched the house and his office and haven’t found the other paintings.”
“Once again, an intelligent criminal would stash them somewhere safer than that. This guy isn’t exactly a model citizen, but he seems fairly intelligent given his job and level of education.”
“You think we have our man?”
Daniel shook his head. “I think so, especially after that lie about France. I sure as hell am going to arrest him. We have enough circumstantial evidence to hold him for a day or two. If he’s the killer, and I’m 99 percent sure he is, we can find evidence soon enough. If he isn’t, then we need to keep him in protective custody.”
Daniel and Torsson went back into the dining room, where Peeters stood gazing at the painting of his ancestor.
“Why didn’t you tell me about your little trip to Paris three months ago?” Daniel asked in a curt tone.
Peeter’s head whipped around, eyes wide. He recovered quickly, putting on a calm poise. “Oh, I forgot. A brief trip to see the Goya exhibition at the Louvre. Wonderful painter, Goya. Especially the paintings of the Napoleonic Wars. He could really see.”
“What else did you do there?”
Peeters shrugged. “Nothing much.”
“Did you search for the painting of War?”
Peeters’s features hardened. “Agent Walker, I think that’s enough questioning for now. If you wish to speak to me further, you’ll have to speak with my attorney.”
Daniel’s eyes narrowed, his hand straying closer to the gun in his shoulder holster. This man was dangerous. Smart too, which made him even more dangerous.
“Mr. Peeters, it’s in your best interest to cooperate with us.”
The accountant looked him in the eye. “And I will. Through my lawyer.”
Have it your way, dumbass. You can’t bully me like you bullied your wife.
Daniel turned to Torsson. “You’re Interpol, so you can make the arrest.”
Peeters frowned. “On what charges?”
Torsson moved to Peeters’s side. “For three counts of murder.”
Peeters looked confused. “Murder?”
Daniel studied him closely as he said, “For the owners of the other Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.”
Peeters’s eyes widened. A smile tugged at the edges of his mouth, taking Daniel aback. Peeters hung his head and tried to look serious. “I didn’t do that.”
Suspicion welled up in Daniel’s heart.
Yeah, this guy is definitely up to something. That surprise looked genuine, though. Weird. Maybe he’s not fully aware of his actions?
“Know who did?” Daniel asked.
“Talk to my lawyer.”
Torsson led him out. Daniel watched him go, still not sure if they had captured a calculating killer or a sad, lonely man who had gone criminally insane.
* * *
Remi followed Torsson and the Italian officer as they led Italo Peeters outside, hurrying to catch up to them.
“Has anyone ever tried to steal your painting?” she asked.
Peeters looked annoyed and confused. “No. Hardly anyone knows I have it. Now go away, woman.”
He said “woman” like it was an insult. Remi ignored the slight. This was too important.
“Has anyone ever threatened your life?”
“Besides my wife sucking the life out of me for the last twenty years? No. I don’t know what your partner is talking about. Murders? Do I look like a murderer to you, you stupid woman? Now go away. I have nothing more to say.”
The Italian officer opened the back of a police car parked at the curb and helped Peeters inside. He didn’t look at her. This might be her last chance to get information. If he wasn’t the murderer, he might have some knowledge that would help find who really was doing the killings.
He wouldn’t do it out of any feelings for the greater good, since he obviously didn’t have any, but he might do it out of self-preservation.
“Mr. Peeters, please. Someone is killing off the owners of the Four Horsemen one by one and stealing the paintings. I can tell you didn’t do it.” She hoped he believed that more than she did. “The killer already has three of the paintings. He’s coming for you next. If you don’t help us, he might get you.”
Peeters snorted. “In a police station? Quiet, you cow.”
“If he can’t get you, he could get your painting.”
“Take it to the police station, then. If it gets stolen, I’ll sue!”
Protecting it made sense. “I’ll take care of it, Mr. Peeters.”
He glowered at her. “You?”
“I’m an art historian and I’ve worked as a curator at—”
“You won’t touch my painting! Get a real curator to handle it.”
The officer slammed the door shut on him.
You mean a male curator? Right because “real” art curators don’t have breasts, even though the majority of them do.
Idiot. I’m tempted to leave you to the killer.
Or are you the killer? You certainly have plenty of hate boiling inside you. And a fair bit of madness too.
The police officer and Torsson got in the patrol car and drove off, leaving Remi to stand on the sidewalk, wondering.
An impulse made her pull out her phone and check her messages. No calls or texts from Cyril. She checked her email and her heart leapt. An email from him!
A moment later, she slumped. It was only a message about a meeting, sent to the entire history faculty because he was department head. It wasn’t specifically to her.
Had he included her in the message as a deliberate snub, knowing she wouldn’t be there to attend but wanting to show that life went on without her, that he could send a work email without sending a personal one addressing their fight?
Or had it slipped his mind entirely? Had he just sent that routine message out to the faculty without a thought of her at all?
Both possibilities sent a wave of depression over her.
She looked around the quiet street. A café stood across the way, nearly full as people enjoyed a coffee in the sunshine. A clothing store and a small supermarket stood next to it. The rest of the street was lined with modern apartment buildings much like the one where Italo Peeters lived. People moved up and down the street doing their shopping or going to or from home, totally unaware that in this mundane neighborhood a man had just been arrested on suspicion of murder and a woman was feeling her heart break.
* * *
The Fifth Horseman watched from the café across the street as Italo Peeters was led to the police car. He cursed his luck and he cursed himself. After poisoning Pier Paolo Manetti and taking the portrait of Pestilence, he had allowed himself a brief rest. Just a couple of hours to take a nap and to admire the three paintings he already had.
The set had almost been complete, and already the pattern of stars was hinting at the final answer. That had dazzled him for a time when he really should have been driving as fast as he could to Bologna to kill Peeters and get the final painting.
Foolish. A moment’s weakness and the answer, almost within his grasp, had been snatched from him.
Rage seethed in him as the police car drove away, taking his fourth victim out of reach.
No, he couldn’t fail now. Not after so many years of painstaking research. Not after so many years of sacrifice. He had to get the painting of Famine. He had to kill Peeters in the appropriate manner.
Both tasks had to be accomplished. The fourth painting was essential to understand the whole. That’s why they had always been kept separate. And each owner had to be punished for their folly in their own special way.
For only he, the Fifth Horseman, could understand the key. They all thought they could unlock it, and perhaps given enough time they could have. Montgomery Dyson had the resources. Pierre Lafontaine had the background. Pier Paolo Manetti had the connections. Italo Peeters had the spirit.
But only he had the wisdom.
And only he had the cunning.
Such as now. An Italian woman in her forties was standing uncertainly at the edge of the café, looking for an empty table. There was none. He waved over to her with the guidebook he used as a prop and said with his distinctive American accent.
“Ma’am, if you don’t mind sharing a table, you can sit over here.”
The woman looked at him, hesitating. He gave her the innocent, open smile of a tourist. She smiled back and sat.
“Thank you,” she said.
“No problem. I love your city. So beautiful, and great food.”
“Oh, I’m happy you’re having a good vacation. Have you been in Italy long?”
“Not too long. I’ll be here a little while yet.”
With that, he opened his guidebook and pretended to read. The woman, having shared enough conversation for courtesy’s sake, pulled out her phone.
The Fifth Horseman suppressed a smile. Good. The police were looking for a lone man. They would never suspect a couple, which is what they now looked like to the casual eye.
Now he could sit here for a while without fear and see what the police did. Italy’s famously slow service would ensure the woman would be here for at least half an hour.
Yes. He would watch, and he would wait. No one, not even the police, could stop him now.