Legacy
Title: Legacy, Part II
Author's Name: frostian
Genre: RPS, AU
Pairing: JA/JP
Rating: R for language and violence
Word count: ~34k
Warning: Artistic license taken and abused.
Summary: With his father's death, Jared has inherited a painting that has to be returned to its rightful owner. In his quest to fulfill his father's last wishes, he stumbles over a motley crew of strongman, grifter, and a friend whom he'd never stopped caring for. But as they draw up a plan to return the stolen Modigliani, they realize that more than technology stands in their way.
Disclaimer: So much fiction, it could be spotted from an orbiting satellite!
Notes: Adapted from Something Wicked This Way Comes, written for j2_everafter.
Day Fifty-Three
Two days had passed but there was no further contact from Chad. And during the entire time Jared had been on the edge, barely getting any sleep. Driving home from work, Jared felt the familiar pinch of headache radiating from the back of his head and began to wonder exactly whom he had entrusted not only his safety but also that of his entire family.
Jared made a right turn and spotted a McDonald’s. He ordered a large coffee along with a Big Mac Meal so he could stay awake during the drive home. But the food remained untouched when he pulled up to his parking space in the complex though the coffee cup was drained.
He stumbled into his condo, fumbling for the lights.
The blitz attack came from behind, and Jared didn’t have a chance of retaliating. He found himself facedown on the floor with his hands twisted to the small of his back. He felt something tighten around his wrists and struggled once more as panic set in.
Unfortunately, it was futile and only further enraged whoever had tackled him.
“You’ll only manage to dislocate your shoulders if you keep going on like this.”
Jared felt a twinge of annoyance but stopped struggling. He didn’t know what he wanted to do but lying still on the floor of his own home wasn’t on his agenda.
As if sensing Jared’s hostility, the attacker placed a knee right in the center of Jared’s back and pressed down until pain aborted Jared’s ability to think straight.
“What do you want?” Jared managed to squeeze out between clenched teeth.
“After Koenig spoke to you, he called someone,” the stranger said, “and that someone’s wondering why in hell you want to return a painting that, by all accounts, has been returned to its rightful owner.”
“I just want it off my hands,” Jared hissed, taking gasps of air.
“Why? You can make a fortune…”
Jared heard the suspicion in the man’s tone and couldn’t stop himself from yelling, “It’s fucking cursed, okay?! It killed my father and I don’t want it!”
All movement stopped and Jared felt the tension melt from the man’s frame into his.
“Cursed?”
Jared took a deep breath and said, “This thing’s bad luck. It belongs to its original owner.”
“Well, shit, son, you should’ve said that at the get-go.” With that the attacker stood up.
The first thing Jared did was to take a deep breath. He moved gingerly and winced as pain shot up from his back.
“Let me take care of that.”
Before Jared could figure out what the man meant, the stranger grabbed him from behind and lifted him off his feet. Jared felt his spine stretch and then felt a crack.
Jared gave a yelp of shock but took a deep breath and felt the pain dissipate with an exhale. As soon as his hands were freed, Jared stretched out. He then suddenly whirled around to confront his attacker but all he got for his troubles was a swift kick in the diaphragm.
“Don’t get stupid,” the man said. “I’m here to see if you really have a problem.”
“The problem’s in my bedroom closet,” Jared wheezed out, “in a linen bag.”
“I know; I took pictures of it.”
“Okay,” Jared said, slowly uncurling until he stood straight. “Then you know I’m not lying.”
“Three by two, weighs about nine pounds. Pretty, I like Modigliani.”
“I’m glad you think it’s pretty, but I don’t give a shit about Modigliani or Picasso or Rembrandt.”
“Not an art fan?”
Jared shook his head and immediately regretted it as sharp agony ricocheted between his eyes.
“Sit down,” the man ordered kindly. “You’re going to pass out.”
“From the pain?”
“That, but mostly from oxygen deprivation,” was the answer. “You’re a big guy but that just means you use up more air.”
“Got to remember that,” Jared said.
He looked at his attacker and noted with grim annoyance that the guy was stockier and not as built as he was. Nevertheless, the man exuded dangerous competence, and Jared did not doubt for a moment he was more than capable of disabling men twice his size and three times his weight.
“A camera would do you better, son.”
Jared bristled at ‘son’. “And if I get a camera?”
“You’ll end up eating it.”
“Nice,” Jared muttered. “Is there anything else you need?”
“No, I was planning to shadow you for few days to see what kind of a man you are, but I got all I needed.”
“Should I be flattered or concerned?”
“I don’t give a shit,” the man said with a careless shrug.
“So, are you the specialist Chad was going to see?”
The stranger cocked his head and looked surprised. “You’re on first name basis with Koenig. And no, I’m not the specialist. I’m more of a middle man.”
“Another middle man?” Jared blurted out in outrage. “How long is this song and dance going to take?”
“As long as it takes.”
Jared narrowed his eyes. “What’s your name?”
“Not necessary, Chad will call you when everything’s arranged.”
Jared had about a hundred questions but couldn’t say anything. What strength he had left just slipped down his legs, through his toes and into the hallway’s parquet floor. Sensing his acquiescence, the stranger gave a crooked grin and a curt wave of farewell.
Jared ate his dinner while in the bath, and the water was so hot, it was still steaming when he got out of the stone tub.
Though Jared wanted nothing more than to go to bed, he felt compelled to study the Modigliani again. He had to admit that though he felt mostly revulsion for the artwork's history, Jared also admired the master’s handiwork.
If forced to give an opinion, Jared would say he preferred the old masters, but Modigliani’s interpretation of the twin girls was unusual in that even in an adult medium, the children’s innocence shone clear through the canvas.
Jared felt tears tickle his eyes as he remembered what his research had revealed. He knew better but Jared stroked an inch of the canvas lightly with his index finger, almost feeling a curl of hair stroke around his ring finger, the wispy lightness of it tickling his skin.
I wonder if the girls’ eyes were as purple as these are.
Jared recollected the sepia photographs of Ava and Sophia Landau. And Ava's filmed testimony was grainy enough that he couldn’t make out the color of her eyes.
Feeling ghoulish for wondering, Jared tucked the painting back into the closet and went to bed. He knew it was stupid to keep it in his condo, but he didn’t have any other place to stash it, and hey - if someone did steal it, at least the damn thing was off his hands.
He didn’t feel good thinking that, but Jared was desperate enough to accept the situation. With a weary sigh and the bitter taste of Advil still coating his tongue, Jared turned out the lights and dreamt of Ava’s testimony: something he wished he’d never watched.
Jensen took a deep breath before uncurling his lower extremities. He’d heard the main door open moments before and focused on the footsteps for just a second before dismissing them.
He knew the guest well enough.
“How did it go, Chris?” he asked, his voice slightly dulled by the sheer effort he was putting into his workout.
“The man’s a complete amateur,” Chris answered. “I swear: if I made a sudden move, he would’ve pissed in his two-hundred-dollar jeans.”
Jensen looked up, “Seriously?”
“Definitely, and his story’s legit, by the way,” Chris said. “I stopped by to have a gaggle with Murray. He’d done his homework, and everything Padalecki said checked out.”
Jensen lowered himself to the floor. “It’s Nazi loot, Chris. You know how I feel about that kind of shit.”
“But this kid wants to put it back,” Chris argued. “You have to admit, it’s a novel situation.”
“It’s Nazi shit, and that stuff stinks to high hell,” Jensen stated flatly. “And I am not touching it. No way, no how.”
“He’s doing it for his old man.”
Jensen froze for a moment. “The guy’s dead.”
“I think he bought the painting,” Chris explained. “And now his son’s going to set it right.”
“None of my business.”
“Jensen, he’s going to keep at this until someone stops him. And that’s probably going to be a thirty-eight to the back of the head.
“You know how much a Modigliani can go for in our market?”
Jensen studied the towel in his hands. “Two mil, easy.”
“And something this good? This well-kept?”
“The Concierge’s Son went for thirty-one million dollars.”
“So, in our world three million easy, if not four.” Chris gave a low whistle. “That’s a lot of money, easy money if you consider how stupid both Padaleckis have been. I mean … it was fucking miracle that they got to Murray and not someone like Koontz or Jackson.”
Jensen tossed the towel to the floor and rubbed his eyes. “He wants to return the painting. How in hell am I going to do a job with nine-ten pounds strapped to my body?”
“Hey, you’re returning stolen Nazi loot,” Chris argued. “If that doesn’t have God on your side, what does?”
For the first time in a long time Jensen laughed. Chris left, his face revealing the lightness of his mood. After his friend's departure, Jensen collapsed onto a sofa. He had deliberately played the devil’s advocate in order to hear Chris’ reasoning, which only confirmed what Jensen had already concluded.
I don’t do this, Jared dies.
Jensen didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.
Day Fifty
Jared didn’t want to appear nervous but he doubted he was fooling anyone in the room even for a moment. In fact, from the cool observation directed towards him, Jared knew if he fucked up in the next thirty minutes, he might as well deliver the Modigliani butt-naked to its true owner, for no one trustworthy would step up to help him in his quest to return the painting.
Chad finished his energy drink and let out an almighty belch. “Dude, when is the man getting here?”
Jared sighed in relief. He was half afraid he was going to get someone like the high-functioning psychopathic female character in the television show, Leverage.
However, his relief was short-lived, as he realized he could get a man who could be a high-functioning psychopath. Jared stood up from his chair and began pacing back and forth the tiny Ramada Hotel room whose bland décor did nothing to soothe his anxiety.
The door opened and a man stepped inside. Jared’s racing heart suddenly stopped when he recognized the stranger.
“Oh my God,” he blurted out. “Jensen?”
That got the two other men out of their seats.
“Hey, Jared,” Jensen said, his tone both fond and wary. “I was hoping this meeting would never happen but Chris told me you were determined to go through with this foolhardy plan of yours.”
“How in hell … what…” Jared stumbled over his words and found himself unable to express his shock.
“Sit down,” Jensen ordered gently. He turned to the other two men and asked, “Do either of you have something hard to drink?”
Chris pulled out a flask and handed it over. “Whiskey.”
Jared took a long drink and almost collapsed on the bed.
“Care to share?” Chad asked sharply.
“We knew each other when we were kids,” Jensen explained. “In fact we lived on the same street until my dad lost his job.”
“Did you know it was me?” Jared asked, looking bleary-eyed.
“Padalecki is not a common name, especially in Texas.”
“I … I don’t know what to say,” Jared said, dropping his gaze from Jensen’s face to his soft-soled black shoes.
“I think we’ll start with this idea of yours,” Jensen said. “Are you sure you want me to do this?”
Jared’s eyes snapped towards Jensen’s face. “Wait a minute - you’re going to return the painting?”
“Yes, Jared, I am.” Jensen sat on the bed next to Jared. “I’ll be the one who’ll physically replace the copy with yours.”
Jared cupped his face with his hands and panted out his panic. Jensen, alarmed by his behavior, got a glass of cold water and forced Jared to drain it.
“Why does it have to be you?” he finally managed to wheeze out.
“Because that’s what I do,” Jensen said. He caught Chris’ sharp look and added, “Or did for a while at least.”
“Okay,” Jared said. “Okay. Yeah, I need it to be returned.”
“You really won’t consider using intermediaries?”
“My dad did and he found it pretty hopeless,” Jared confessed. “And he was right. I tried to do the same thing and the problems are still there.”
Jensen knew only too well what Jared was talking about. Money was enough temptation for lawyers and like to play intermediaries unless criminal elements were involved, which in their world was pretty much half the population. And the word ‘Nazi’ was enough to scare even the most intrepid souls, and those who still stuck around were invariably untrustworthy or would, given half a chance, steal the painting for their own gain and leave both the giver and the recipient in a sea of quagmire since the process was done in private and usually in the grey area of the law.
“Now that you know it’s me,” Jensen said, “we need to go over some things.”
“Not tonight,” Chad said, standing up and dusting off his three-hundred-dollar shirt. “We can’t discuss business here.”
Jared couldn’t imagine why since they were all present, but he wasn’t in any mood to find out. He didn’t think he could handle another shock for the night if not the rest of the week.
“Look,” Jared said, “just call me when the meeting’s set up. We can talk things out then.”
Sensing his fatigue, the other men gave their consent and wordlessly filed out of the room. Jensen stood up to follow them when Jared grabbed his coat sleeve.
“I’m glad to see you,” Jared said fervently, “even under these circumstances.”
Jensen gave a wan smile. “I wish it was under different circumstances, too.”
“Promise me you’ll help me?”
Jensen looked pained for a moment before saying, “I swear.”
“Thanks.”
Jared was the last to leave the hotel. He drove around aimlessly before finding himself in the neighborhood they grew up in. Some of the houses were gambrel, some were ranch with split-level designs, but they all seemed so modest compared to the one his mother was living in now.
They were well-kept, a good evidence of their proud owners, along with well-trimmed grass and hedges. The old elm tree he and Jensen used to climb still stood on the corner lot, its long branches heavy with leaves, eternally stretching upwards and outwards.
Jared could never figure out how a tree that size could have survived the Texas summers, but this old grandfather did, and Jared suspected it would for centuries to come unless mankind actively interfered with its welfare.
He studied the single-floor ranch with its red roof and white garage doors, and remembered with stinging pain how happy he was in that house. How he went through his childhood devoid of worries or pains because he knew his parents loved him; Jeff, in spite of being an ass, loved him; his sister was a smart whip and loved him. And Jared had, without doubt, the coolest friend on the block if not the entire universe.
Jared’s gaze slid next door to the only brick building in the entire street. It was modest, but with its white wooden shutters and the brass knocker on the white door, it reminded Jared of stately colonial houses. He remembered how envious he was of the large backyard and the contraption Jensen’s father had built for his second son over the course of July Fourth weekend.
He couldn't figure out what it was for until he spotted Jensen practicing, and after that he took great enjoyment watching the kid next door perform spectacular movements on the haphazardly-built substitute for the rings.
It didn’t take long for Jared to realize that Jensen was a gymnast and a damn good one. And that was when Jensen was thirteen and still undeveloped enough physically to perfect his iron cross.
Jared closed his eyes, swallowed his tears and the bitter desire to find the nearest liquor store in order to buy out the entire stock of tequila.
Jensen slowly walked around the training room, silently counting his steps. He knew this habit should have stopped months ago, but at moments of high stress, he could not prevent himself from falling back into his old habit.
“Six-hundred-ninety-two,” he whispered out loud.
Jensen eyed the floor ahead of him and closed his eyes. He forced himself to step out of the invisible line he’d been following around the room and into the center. He looked up at the two rings dangling above and wished Chris was around in order to give him a boost.
As he focused on the apparatus Jensen felt the compulsive desire to continue counting decay and flake off his psyche. After a full minute he was able to leave the room without sparing too much thought about the last ritual.
It’s Jared, Jensen thought as he ate cheerios at one in the morning. Jesus, he could’ve gotten killed trying to do the right thing.
Jensen barked out a laughter that sounded more animal than human. He was only too familiar with people who tried to do the right thing, and what price others had to pay in order for the privileged few to indulge in their sentimentalities.
But this is Jared and everything changes with him in the calculation. Jensen felt the familiar loss of appetite and dumped the contents of the bowl into the garbage.
Everything changes with Jared. Jensen finally forced himself to acknowledge. If it were anyone else, Jensen would’ve convinced Chad to turn down the job and walk away. And if the client made some noise, have Chris pay a quiet but eventful visit.
Even Chris likes him and that’s rarer than a virgin in a whorehouse.
Smirking to himself, Jensen was getting ready for bed when he heard the doorbell ring. Then he heard the familiar impatient rapping.
He opened the heavy steel-reinforced door, leaned against it and asked, “What the hell, Kripke?”
“Got a minute?”
Jensen stepped aside to let his friend in. “What’s wrong?”
Kripke sighed and mopped his forehead with the battered beret he often sported during his night shift.
“I got a real bad one,” he said. “And I was hoping you could give a hand, maybe?”
“What happened?” Jensen was now worried. Kripke was easy to excite but nearly impossible to rattle so badly.
“There was a burglary today,” Kripke said, collapsing on the nearest chair available. “At least that’s what they’re calling it, but the truth is it was a home invasion.”
“Shit.”
“They stole two paintings, a Wesselman and Dubuffet.”
“They were hired to steal them,” Jensen said as he mentally calculated the prices for the works. “They could fetch a pretty sum but they’re nothing like a Chirico or Warhol. You’d have to know someone who specifically deals with those two. Or, more likely, someone wanted those two specific works.”
“You’re saying a bastard paid the three men to rob the paintings?”
“Any way they see fit,” Jensen concluded with a sigh. “You say art thief and people imagine Thomas Crown or the Pink Panther. But the truth is usually the opposite.”
“Like three men who attacked a pregnant woman, a blind war veteran, and forced a four-year-old to watch the beating?”
“Are you serious?”
Kripke nodded. “The entire precinct’s gone berserk. The three had the paintings then went to town on the family. The mother got the worst of it.”
“And the war veteran?”
“Grandmother - lost her vision while serving in Vietnam. Seriously, all they needed was to stomp on a nun and they would’ve gotten full house. As it stands, the doctors don’t think the mother's going to make it.”
Jensen knew what Kripke wasn’t saying; if the woman died along with her unborn child, most prosecutors in Texas would be looking for the death penalty. “The moment I hear anything about them, I’ll contact you.”
Kripke stood up. “Thanks, man.”
“How’s the job going?”
“I’m the only geek in a building overflowing with testosterone. I’m just grateful they don’t flush my head in the toilet as a form of morning exercise.”
Jensen grinned. He knew his friend was exaggerating. Kripke was the only detective assigned to cyber crime detail, and his office was actually a redesigned janitor’s closet located on the top floor. But Kripke’s talent for sniffing out the truth in a world that seemed to be built on nothing but lies, exaggerations, and endless imagination did not go unappreciated, even by testosterone-poisoned gorillas he called co-workers. This, along with a perverse sense of humor, made him a valued member of the detective division.
“What are the names of the paintings?” Jensen asked.
“Wesselman’s called Lady in Repose. The Dubuffet’s called Peter Cassel.”
Jensen closed his eyes and mentally flipped through the catalog in his head. “I’ve seen those before. I’ll be on the lookout for them.”
“Thanks.” Kripke took a glance at the clock and gave a low whistle. “Holy shit, it’s already one? Better go home before the missus decides to lock me out for the night.”
“Have a safe drive back,” Jensen said.
He watched Kripke get into his hideous yellow car - a retired taxi. Jensen had no idea why Eric would purchase such a wreck, but guessed his friend nursed a fetish for old cabs or the car was free. And free was nothing to laugh at on a cop’s salary.
He slipped into bed not five minutes later, but it took him another full hour before he could fall asleep. And then, he dreamt about flying; something that hadn’t happened since his father died.
Across the city, in its more hospitable and genteel section, Jared dreamt of the day Jensen helped him try the rings for the first time - and the sensation that he was going to fly forever in the arms of his best friend.
Day Forty-three
Jared brushed his teeth, then decided to call his mother before taking a shower. She sounded a lot better, but he wasn’t sure if she was pretending for his sake, for hers, or maybe for both. He wondered if she even knew or cared.
Like I should be judging, Jared closed his eyes and washed his hair. I’m planning to do an international heist, piss off multiple countries not to mention fucking around with the Interpol. Hey, maybe I can include Homeland Security just for the hell of it.
Jared needed three cups of coffee, a stack of pancakes, and a rasher of bacons to wash away the dire thoughts that cropped up in his head.
He reluctantly turned on his laptop, all the while dreading the condolence e-mails that flooded his inbox since his father’s passing. After a moment, he decided to avoid them altogether and instead started re-reading his notes.
His research on the Landau painting was fruitful if also repetitive of what his father had done. However, Jared was also capable of doing further work since he now had Internet, something that wasn’t readily available to his father when he began his research. Even so, Jared avoided looking at the FBI database while helping himself to others not related to law enforcement.
Before he could stop, Jared opened the folder he’d created on Landau family. The story was both tragic, and hopeful in that anyone from the Latvian family survived such brutal treatment.
Jared shut down his laptop and took a glance at his watch: only an hour had passed. Once again, he caved into his curiosity.
The painting was still in its pristine condition. Not that he expected any changes. But after reading its black history Jared wouldn’t have been surprised if it had Lovecraftian powers: the figures warping into hellish monsters, maybe even reach out from the canvas and grabbing him in order to pull him into their hellish world.
Seriously, I should just torch the goddamn thing and invite Jensen and his crew over for a barbecue.
Jared felt his heart hammer against his ribs as he grabbed the painting and ran out to the balcony. There were stairs that led to a private roof garden that came along with his condo. Jared had purchased the place just for that privilege, and barbecued when the weather allowed, which was the entire calendar year.
He turned on the gas and watched the flames leap up through the grating.
Jared looked at the painting and closed his eyes. He raised it and curled up his right knee in order to shatter the masterpiece.
Jared couldn’t do it.
He’d seen the pictures of twins on their tenth birthday and felt like he was destroying them all over again. After a minute of indecision, Jared brought the knee down just because he was getting fatigued.
“Good choice.”
Jared whirled around and spotted Chad. In full daylight the guy looked like a prosperous pimp with his suede fedora and matching shoes, not to mention the too-slim black suit that managed to over emphasize his lean figure.
“Not that I would have stopped you, but unless you were a complete jackass, nobody could destroy something that beautiful.”
“It’s not because of that,” Jared said, putting the painting back into its linen bag. “It’s because of what happened to her and her family.”
Jared was still studying the artwork in his grasp so he missed the look of concern that flitted across Chad’s face.
“Anyway, it’ll probably make piss-poor fuel.”
“Probably,” Chad agreed. “C’mon, be a proper host, man. Do you have a beer or something?”
Jared smiled and looked at Chad. “You are something else, you know that?”
“All this and brains too,” Chad said. “What’s not to love?”
“Follow me,” Jared said, still grinning. “But I’m warning you all I got is Pabst.”
“Better than Pissweiser."
Jared felt better and better as Chad kept up his prattle while they shared a six-pack. And though nothing Chad said was of any importance, the man’s particular combination of profanity and humor was the perfect cure for Jared’s dark mood.
“So, seeing anyone special?” Chad asked as he studied the pictures on the living room wall.
“No one,” Jared answered curtly.
Chad pointed to a picture of a girl who repeatedly showed up in various photographs. “What about her?”
“That’s Gen; we dated for a while but things didn’t work out. She’s in L.A. now.”
“She’s definitely a babe,” Chad said. “Does she have any hot friends?”
“Gen’s friends will sue you if you approach within fifty yards of them, so think twice.”
Chad rolled his eyes. “That’s what they all say.”
Jared hid his laughter by taking a sip of his beer. He watched Chad look around his photos for another minute before asking, “How did you meet Jensen?”
“It was business,” Chad answered. “I used to make my living being the middle man for people like him. Though, on occasion, I’m good for recon and like.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?”
“Not if you’re selective,” Chad said. “Anyway, I retired few years back. But I still do occasional favors for my favorite clients.”
“And Jensen’s one?”
“He’s the best. He’s very good at what he does and Jensen’s always pays on time. You have no idea how many people try to cut out the middleman after the job’s done.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
Chad gave a piercing look at Jared.
“The limp’s so slight it's almost unnoticeable unless you know how he moves.”
“A client screwed him over; nearly killed him.”
Chad’s tone was hard enough for Jared not to prod any further. Instead, the two got into easy banter discussing a very Texan pastime: football.
Day Forty-two
Jared couldn’t stop himself from fidgeting. He watched Chris study him with no pretense whatsoever, making Jared feel like he was in a crocodile pit with no way out. And Chad refused to make eye contact so there wasn’t any help from that corner.
Why the fuck did I get called here in the first place if…
He heard a whistling sound and turned to Chris to find the man handling a knife the size of his forearm. Jared couldn’t help himself:
“What’s your problem?”
Chris gave a bland look and smiled a little. “There was a girl, the most beautiful, kind girl you could have ever met. I knew, I knew she was the one. And we started going out: the happiest six months of my life.
“I had no idea we broke up. She had no idea we were going steady.”
Jared fumbled out, “I’m sorry.” He wasn’t quite sure how that answered his question, but after such an awkward confession he didn’t want to further the conversation.
Chris, on the other hand, seemed to have no qualms whatsoever. “So, anyway, things quieted down over the summer. And then I went to seventh grade.”
Jared’s jaw dropped for a moment before he blurted out, “Fuck you.”
Chris’ smirk blossomed into a full smile. “Got you there, didn’t I?”
“Fuck you twice.”
Jared’s irked answer only fueled Chris’ humor and the man burst into laughter. It was this scene that Jensen walked into.
“Dare I ask?”
Chris’ quick “yes” clashed with Jared’s “no”. Jensen’s gaze twirled between them for few seconds before he gave up trying to find any answers.
“All my contacts have come back,” Jensen explained as he passed out dossiers. Chad flipped through his and frowned a little. Jensen saw his reaction and said, “Yeah, I thought the same thing.”
“And what’s that?” Jared asked.
“We’re fucked,” Chad declared. “But we knew that. Now we know how fucked.”
“And how fucked is that?” Chris asked.
“Well fucked,” Chad answered.
“But at least it’s not in Berlin,” Jensen volunteered.
“That’s true,” Chad pulled out a sheet of what looked like a laundry list of gibberish and said. “Take a look.”
Both Jared and Chris did.
“Oh man,” Chris said. “This … this is like breaking into a museum, Jen.”
“I know,” Jensen muttered. “And stop calling me Jen.”
“Worse, this is like breaking into Gates’ compound,” Chad said, making Jared twice as nervous.
“No, not that bad,” Jensen argued. He noticed the surprised look on the other faces. “What? Everyone at least makes up a plan to hit that place: it’s a requirement.”
“So, not as bad as robbing ol’ Billy,” Chris said. “And it could be worse: it could be in Berlin.”
“What’s with Berlin?” Jared asked, finally caving into his curiosity.
“Berlin’s museums are pretty damn high-tech,” Jensen explained. “Even private galleries and homes are wired to the hilt. And the police response is outright spooky on how fast it is.”
“So, if this information is right, the painting's in Venice," Chad said.
“Hit it during summertime,” Chris offered.
“Why?” Jared asked, feeling like a complete tool with all his questions.
“Rolling blackouts,” Jensen answered. “There are only so much the power companies can handle, not to mention the buildings and their wirings. It’s not uncommon for the government to schedule blackouts in order to prevent a catastrophic breakdown.”
“But wouldn’t there be backup generators feeding off independent sources?” Jared looked at the others. “It just makes sense.”
“Yeah, but they’re only good as the companies that make them,” Chris answered. “And, more importantly, as the people who install them.”
“And because it’s Venice, there are only so many areas those monstrosities can be placed,” Jensen said. “Venice has strict building codes.”
“Bullshit building codes,” Chris countered. “Makes no fucking sense, but it doesn’t matter. You could go around that by either bribing the permits office or just go ahead and do what you want, and then pay the fine when the city realizes what happened.”
Jared let out a frustrated laugh. “Charming. So, there’s a good chance she didn’t file the right plans of her house?”
“Try definitely,” Jensen said. “Whenever the really rich renovate their houses, all the paperwork they file with the local offices mysteriously disappears. Besides, the odds are good the Baroness would’ve filed false ones to begin with. It’s not a crime to be off by few inches in the blueprints, at least.”
“So, we have to scope out the building,” Chris said. “In Italy. Where they’d gladly hang you for stealing art.”
Jared looked at Chris in alarm. “What?”
“Italy has one of the more stringent laws regarding art theft,” Jensen explained. “Not that that should surprise anyone, considering.”
“Do they know you?” Chad asked.
Jared’s alarm doubled. Shit, Jensen’s an art thief. What are the odds they don’t know him?
“I’m going to need new identities,” Jensen said neatly side-stepping the question. “I’ll have to fly out to Mexico or Brazil and catch a flight to Italy from there.”
“I can get you new set of papers,” Chad said nonchalantly. “It should take me three days. Let’s go Canadian. Nobody suspects anything bad about Canadians.”
“Unless hockey’s involved,” Chris added.
“True, but Jensen isn’t going to board the plane wearing skates.”
Chris grinned at his friend. “It’s a solid idea. Seriously, if you bring a hockey stick, you're guaranteed to have a free seat next to you.”
“Back to reality,” Jensen steered the conversation back to topic. “And we’re going to have to smuggle Jared’s Modigliani into Italy which is going to be a bitch.”
Chad burst out laughing. “First time we’re forced to smuggle a painting into a country in order to return it to its owner.”
“And Italy, to boot,” Chris added, then grinned when he realized the pun he’d made unconsciously.
“Chad, draw up the papers,” Jensen said, collecting the files from the others. “We’ll figure out the rest when we get to Venice.”
“Do you want to stay at a hotel or rent a condo?” Chad asked. “’Cause different paperwork for different residences.”
“I’ll get a place,” Jared volunteered, finally glad to be of some use.
“You sure about that?” Jensen asked.
“Why not?” Chad looked positively gleeful at the idea. “He’s got a clean record, no connection whatsoever to anybody in our side of the business - it’s perfect.”
Jensen gave a thunderous look at Chad but kept quiet. And that told Jared all he wanted to know.
“I’ll find an apartment,” Jared said firmly. “I have a buddy who specializes in European travel. He should be able to find us a good enough place.”
Jensen hastily scribbled down a list. “This is what we’re going to need.”
Jared glanced down the paper. “This is … interesting,” he saw the irritated look on Chris’ face and hastily added, “but do-able.”
“Call me if you need anything,” Jensen said. “Be careful about what credit card you use, okay?”
“Amex,” Jared said. “It’s my business card so I use it for all my travels. There won't be any red flags from that corner.”
“All right,” Jensen said. “We’ll meet here in two days to finalize our plans.”
Jared didn’t move from his chair. He wanted to speak to Jensen without the others present. He caught Chad and Chris look at him curiously but did not say anything. Instead, he entrenched himself into his chair and gave a mulish glare in return.
He watched the two men go out the door before rounding on Jensen. “I can’t do what any of you guys do, but I can rent a goddamn room without fucking it up.”
“I know what you can do, Jared: that’s not the problem. The problem is you being involved in the actual heist … return … whatever you call this. You realize if our plan’s blown, there is no chance in hell any Texan will be able to leave Italy.”
“They know you?” Jared asked, realizing where Jensen’s fears were coming from.
“Maybe,” Jensen said. “I pulled a job in Volterra few years back. It never made the papers because it was from a very private residence.”
“You mean a commissioned heist?”
“Yeah, and it went through perfectly.” Jensen blew out a frustrated breath and sat down. “As it turns out it was the worst job I could’ve taken at the time. You see - the family was connected.”
“Connected to what? The Vatican? The government?”
“Worse, the Mob. Of course I didn’t know that at the time.”
“What?”
“Yeah, the funny thing was I was stealing it back for the original owners.” Seeing Jared’s surprised look Jensen continued. “A bunch of thugs hit a family’s estate in Connecticut, back in 2007. It was in the papers?”
“I remember that,” Jared said. “It freaked my mother out because of how violent the robbery was. A guard died, didn’t he?”
“Got his head caved in for his troubles but his action saved the family. They managed to get to a panic room and stayed there while the thieves cleaned them out of a Pollack, a Monet, and a Tintoretto.”
Jared mused over that for a moment. “Okay, the Monet and Tintoretto I get, but a Pollack? Hanging on the wall of some Consigliere? That doesn’t make sense.”
“Strangely enough, that was exactly what happened. The people who commissioned the theft had a soiree and one of their guests recognized the Pollack. It didn’t take long for the info got back to the owners. They were smart enough not to do anything public, and even smarter to hire a thief who didn’t know what was happening.”
“So you got the painting back?” Jared asked.
“The Pollack, yes. The other two were found in a warehouse after a mysterious phone call to the local police.”
“Do you know for sure they know it was you?”
“Not really, but in my line of business it pays to be paranoid.”
“Going with that line of thought, let’s say they know you or are aware of you. They still don’t know you’ve returned to Italy as long as you’re under an alias.”
“As long as the alias works,” Jensen said. “There’s a difference. My cover could be blown but that doesn’t mean they’ll do anything. They might just track me or bust me the moment I enter Italy.
“Which is why I didn’t want you anywhere near me when we reach Venice.”
“I appreciate your concern but you need me at least for the beginning. So, take a deep breath and focus on what you’re suppose to do. And let me make a few phone calls, okay?”
“Done,” Jensen answered reluctantly. “Go get some rest.”
“I will,” Jared responded. But made himself a liar as night passed. All he could think about was the fact that Jensen was going back to Italy where the Mob might very well be eagerly waiting for some overdue payback.
And yet, he couldn’t call it off. Jared wondered if this made him a bad man or just a desperate one: and if there was any difference between the two.
Part I * Part III
Author's Name: frostian
Genre: RPS, AU
Pairing: JA/JP
Rating: R for language and violence
Word count: ~34k
Warning: Artistic license taken and abused.
Summary: With his father's death, Jared has inherited a painting that has to be returned to its rightful owner. In his quest to fulfill his father's last wishes, he stumbles over a motley crew of strongman, grifter, and a friend whom he'd never stopped caring for. But as they draw up a plan to return the stolen Modigliani, they realize that more than technology stands in their way.
Disclaimer: So much fiction, it could be spotted from an orbiting satellite!
Notes: Adapted from Something Wicked This Way Comes, written for j2_everafter.
Day Fifty-Three
Two days had passed but there was no further contact from Chad. And during the entire time Jared had been on the edge, barely getting any sleep. Driving home from work, Jared felt the familiar pinch of headache radiating from the back of his head and began to wonder exactly whom he had entrusted not only his safety but also that of his entire family.
Jared made a right turn and spotted a McDonald’s. He ordered a large coffee along with a Big Mac Meal so he could stay awake during the drive home. But the food remained untouched when he pulled up to his parking space in the complex though the coffee cup was drained.
He stumbled into his condo, fumbling for the lights.
The blitz attack came from behind, and Jared didn’t have a chance of retaliating. He found himself facedown on the floor with his hands twisted to the small of his back. He felt something tighten around his wrists and struggled once more as panic set in.
Unfortunately, it was futile and only further enraged whoever had tackled him.
“You’ll only manage to dislocate your shoulders if you keep going on like this.”
Jared felt a twinge of annoyance but stopped struggling. He didn’t know what he wanted to do but lying still on the floor of his own home wasn’t on his agenda.
As if sensing Jared’s hostility, the attacker placed a knee right in the center of Jared’s back and pressed down until pain aborted Jared’s ability to think straight.
“What do you want?” Jared managed to squeeze out between clenched teeth.
“After Koenig spoke to you, he called someone,” the stranger said, “and that someone’s wondering why in hell you want to return a painting that, by all accounts, has been returned to its rightful owner.”
“I just want it off my hands,” Jared hissed, taking gasps of air.
“Why? You can make a fortune…”
Jared heard the suspicion in the man’s tone and couldn’t stop himself from yelling, “It’s fucking cursed, okay?! It killed my father and I don’t want it!”
All movement stopped and Jared felt the tension melt from the man’s frame into his.
“Cursed?”
Jared took a deep breath and said, “This thing’s bad luck. It belongs to its original owner.”
“Well, shit, son, you should’ve said that at the get-go.” With that the attacker stood up.
The first thing Jared did was to take a deep breath. He moved gingerly and winced as pain shot up from his back.
“Let me take care of that.”
Before Jared could figure out what the man meant, the stranger grabbed him from behind and lifted him off his feet. Jared felt his spine stretch and then felt a crack.
Jared gave a yelp of shock but took a deep breath and felt the pain dissipate with an exhale. As soon as his hands were freed, Jared stretched out. He then suddenly whirled around to confront his attacker but all he got for his troubles was a swift kick in the diaphragm.
“Don’t get stupid,” the man said. “I’m here to see if you really have a problem.”
“The problem’s in my bedroom closet,” Jared wheezed out, “in a linen bag.”
“I know; I took pictures of it.”
“Okay,” Jared said, slowly uncurling until he stood straight. “Then you know I’m not lying.”
“Three by two, weighs about nine pounds. Pretty, I like Modigliani.”
“I’m glad you think it’s pretty, but I don’t give a shit about Modigliani or Picasso or Rembrandt.”
“Not an art fan?”
Jared shook his head and immediately regretted it as sharp agony ricocheted between his eyes.
“Sit down,” the man ordered kindly. “You’re going to pass out.”
“From the pain?”
“That, but mostly from oxygen deprivation,” was the answer. “You’re a big guy but that just means you use up more air.”
“Got to remember that,” Jared said.
He looked at his attacker and noted with grim annoyance that the guy was stockier and not as built as he was. Nevertheless, the man exuded dangerous competence, and Jared did not doubt for a moment he was more than capable of disabling men twice his size and three times his weight.
“A camera would do you better, son.”
Jared bristled at ‘son’. “And if I get a camera?”
“You’ll end up eating it.”
“Nice,” Jared muttered. “Is there anything else you need?”
“No, I was planning to shadow you for few days to see what kind of a man you are, but I got all I needed.”
“Should I be flattered or concerned?”
“I don’t give a shit,” the man said with a careless shrug.
“So, are you the specialist Chad was going to see?”
The stranger cocked his head and looked surprised. “You’re on first name basis with Koenig. And no, I’m not the specialist. I’m more of a middle man.”
“Another middle man?” Jared blurted out in outrage. “How long is this song and dance going to take?”
“As long as it takes.”
Jared narrowed his eyes. “What’s your name?”
“Not necessary, Chad will call you when everything’s arranged.”
Jared had about a hundred questions but couldn’t say anything. What strength he had left just slipped down his legs, through his toes and into the hallway’s parquet floor. Sensing his acquiescence, the stranger gave a crooked grin and a curt wave of farewell.
Jared ate his dinner while in the bath, and the water was so hot, it was still steaming when he got out of the stone tub.
Though Jared wanted nothing more than to go to bed, he felt compelled to study the Modigliani again. He had to admit that though he felt mostly revulsion for the artwork's history, Jared also admired the master’s handiwork.
If forced to give an opinion, Jared would say he preferred the old masters, but Modigliani’s interpretation of the twin girls was unusual in that even in an adult medium, the children’s innocence shone clear through the canvas.
Jared felt tears tickle his eyes as he remembered what his research had revealed. He knew better but Jared stroked an inch of the canvas lightly with his index finger, almost feeling a curl of hair stroke around his ring finger, the wispy lightness of it tickling his skin.
I wonder if the girls’ eyes were as purple as these are.
Jared recollected the sepia photographs of Ava and Sophia Landau. And Ava's filmed testimony was grainy enough that he couldn’t make out the color of her eyes.
Feeling ghoulish for wondering, Jared tucked the painting back into the closet and went to bed. He knew it was stupid to keep it in his condo, but he didn’t have any other place to stash it, and hey - if someone did steal it, at least the damn thing was off his hands.
He didn’t feel good thinking that, but Jared was desperate enough to accept the situation. With a weary sigh and the bitter taste of Advil still coating his tongue, Jared turned out the lights and dreamt of Ava’s testimony: something he wished he’d never watched.
Jensen took a deep breath before uncurling his lower extremities. He’d heard the main door open moments before and focused on the footsteps for just a second before dismissing them.
He knew the guest well enough.
“How did it go, Chris?” he asked, his voice slightly dulled by the sheer effort he was putting into his workout.
“The man’s a complete amateur,” Chris answered. “I swear: if I made a sudden move, he would’ve pissed in his two-hundred-dollar jeans.”
Jensen looked up, “Seriously?”
“Definitely, and his story’s legit, by the way,” Chris said. “I stopped by to have a gaggle with Murray. He’d done his homework, and everything Padalecki said checked out.”
Jensen lowered himself to the floor. “It’s Nazi loot, Chris. You know how I feel about that kind of shit.”
“But this kid wants to put it back,” Chris argued. “You have to admit, it’s a novel situation.”
“It’s Nazi shit, and that stuff stinks to high hell,” Jensen stated flatly. “And I am not touching it. No way, no how.”
“He’s doing it for his old man.”
Jensen froze for a moment. “The guy’s dead.”
“I think he bought the painting,” Chris explained. “And now his son’s going to set it right.”
“None of my business.”
“Jensen, he’s going to keep at this until someone stops him. And that’s probably going to be a thirty-eight to the back of the head.
“You know how much a Modigliani can go for in our market?”
Jensen studied the towel in his hands. “Two mil, easy.”
“And something this good? This well-kept?”
“The Concierge’s Son went for thirty-one million dollars.”
“So, in our world three million easy, if not four.” Chris gave a low whistle. “That’s a lot of money, easy money if you consider how stupid both Padaleckis have been. I mean … it was fucking miracle that they got to Murray and not someone like Koontz or Jackson.”
Jensen tossed the towel to the floor and rubbed his eyes. “He wants to return the painting. How in hell am I going to do a job with nine-ten pounds strapped to my body?”
“Hey, you’re returning stolen Nazi loot,” Chris argued. “If that doesn’t have God on your side, what does?”
For the first time in a long time Jensen laughed. Chris left, his face revealing the lightness of his mood. After his friend's departure, Jensen collapsed onto a sofa. He had deliberately played the devil’s advocate in order to hear Chris’ reasoning, which only confirmed what Jensen had already concluded.
I don’t do this, Jared dies.
Jensen didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.
Day Fifty
Jared didn’t want to appear nervous but he doubted he was fooling anyone in the room even for a moment. In fact, from the cool observation directed towards him, Jared knew if he fucked up in the next thirty minutes, he might as well deliver the Modigliani butt-naked to its true owner, for no one trustworthy would step up to help him in his quest to return the painting.
Chad finished his energy drink and let out an almighty belch. “Dude, when is the man getting here?”
Jared sighed in relief. He was half afraid he was going to get someone like the high-functioning psychopathic female character in the television show, Leverage.
However, his relief was short-lived, as he realized he could get a man who could be a high-functioning psychopath. Jared stood up from his chair and began pacing back and forth the tiny Ramada Hotel room whose bland décor did nothing to soothe his anxiety.
The door opened and a man stepped inside. Jared’s racing heart suddenly stopped when he recognized the stranger.
“Oh my God,” he blurted out. “Jensen?”
That got the two other men out of their seats.
“Hey, Jared,” Jensen said, his tone both fond and wary. “I was hoping this meeting would never happen but Chris told me you were determined to go through with this foolhardy plan of yours.”
“How in hell … what…” Jared stumbled over his words and found himself unable to express his shock.
“Sit down,” Jensen ordered gently. He turned to the other two men and asked, “Do either of you have something hard to drink?”
Chris pulled out a flask and handed it over. “Whiskey.”
Jared took a long drink and almost collapsed on the bed.
“Care to share?” Chad asked sharply.
“We knew each other when we were kids,” Jensen explained. “In fact we lived on the same street until my dad lost his job.”
“Did you know it was me?” Jared asked, looking bleary-eyed.
“Padalecki is not a common name, especially in Texas.”
“I … I don’t know what to say,” Jared said, dropping his gaze from Jensen’s face to his soft-soled black shoes.
“I think we’ll start with this idea of yours,” Jensen said. “Are you sure you want me to do this?”
Jared’s eyes snapped towards Jensen’s face. “Wait a minute - you’re going to return the painting?”
“Yes, Jared, I am.” Jensen sat on the bed next to Jared. “I’ll be the one who’ll physically replace the copy with yours.”
Jared cupped his face with his hands and panted out his panic. Jensen, alarmed by his behavior, got a glass of cold water and forced Jared to drain it.
“Why does it have to be you?” he finally managed to wheeze out.
“Because that’s what I do,” Jensen said. He caught Chris’ sharp look and added, “Or did for a while at least.”
“Okay,” Jared said. “Okay. Yeah, I need it to be returned.”
“You really won’t consider using intermediaries?”
“My dad did and he found it pretty hopeless,” Jared confessed. “And he was right. I tried to do the same thing and the problems are still there.”
Jensen knew only too well what Jared was talking about. Money was enough temptation for lawyers and like to play intermediaries unless criminal elements were involved, which in their world was pretty much half the population. And the word ‘Nazi’ was enough to scare even the most intrepid souls, and those who still stuck around were invariably untrustworthy or would, given half a chance, steal the painting for their own gain and leave both the giver and the recipient in a sea of quagmire since the process was done in private and usually in the grey area of the law.
“Now that you know it’s me,” Jensen said, “we need to go over some things.”
“Not tonight,” Chad said, standing up and dusting off his three-hundred-dollar shirt. “We can’t discuss business here.”
Jared couldn’t imagine why since they were all present, but he wasn’t in any mood to find out. He didn’t think he could handle another shock for the night if not the rest of the week.
“Look,” Jared said, “just call me when the meeting’s set up. We can talk things out then.”
Sensing his fatigue, the other men gave their consent and wordlessly filed out of the room. Jensen stood up to follow them when Jared grabbed his coat sleeve.
“I’m glad to see you,” Jared said fervently, “even under these circumstances.”
Jensen gave a wan smile. “I wish it was under different circumstances, too.”
“Promise me you’ll help me?”
Jensen looked pained for a moment before saying, “I swear.”
“Thanks.”
Jared was the last to leave the hotel. He drove around aimlessly before finding himself in the neighborhood they grew up in. Some of the houses were gambrel, some were ranch with split-level designs, but they all seemed so modest compared to the one his mother was living in now.
They were well-kept, a good evidence of their proud owners, along with well-trimmed grass and hedges. The old elm tree he and Jensen used to climb still stood on the corner lot, its long branches heavy with leaves, eternally stretching upwards and outwards.
Jared could never figure out how a tree that size could have survived the Texas summers, but this old grandfather did, and Jared suspected it would for centuries to come unless mankind actively interfered with its welfare.
He studied the single-floor ranch with its red roof and white garage doors, and remembered with stinging pain how happy he was in that house. How he went through his childhood devoid of worries or pains because he knew his parents loved him; Jeff, in spite of being an ass, loved him; his sister was a smart whip and loved him. And Jared had, without doubt, the coolest friend on the block if not the entire universe.
Jared’s gaze slid next door to the only brick building in the entire street. It was modest, but with its white wooden shutters and the brass knocker on the white door, it reminded Jared of stately colonial houses. He remembered how envious he was of the large backyard and the contraption Jensen’s father had built for his second son over the course of July Fourth weekend.
He couldn't figure out what it was for until he spotted Jensen practicing, and after that he took great enjoyment watching the kid next door perform spectacular movements on the haphazardly-built substitute for the rings.
It didn’t take long for Jared to realize that Jensen was a gymnast and a damn good one. And that was when Jensen was thirteen and still undeveloped enough physically to perfect his iron cross.
Jared closed his eyes, swallowed his tears and the bitter desire to find the nearest liquor store in order to buy out the entire stock of tequila.
Jensen slowly walked around the training room, silently counting his steps. He knew this habit should have stopped months ago, but at moments of high stress, he could not prevent himself from falling back into his old habit.
“Six-hundred-ninety-two,” he whispered out loud.
Jensen eyed the floor ahead of him and closed his eyes. He forced himself to step out of the invisible line he’d been following around the room and into the center. He looked up at the two rings dangling above and wished Chris was around in order to give him a boost.
As he focused on the apparatus Jensen felt the compulsive desire to continue counting decay and flake off his psyche. After a full minute he was able to leave the room without sparing too much thought about the last ritual.
It’s Jared, Jensen thought as he ate cheerios at one in the morning. Jesus, he could’ve gotten killed trying to do the right thing.
Jensen barked out a laughter that sounded more animal than human. He was only too familiar with people who tried to do the right thing, and what price others had to pay in order for the privileged few to indulge in their sentimentalities.
But this is Jared and everything changes with him in the calculation. Jensen felt the familiar loss of appetite and dumped the contents of the bowl into the garbage.
Everything changes with Jared. Jensen finally forced himself to acknowledge. If it were anyone else, Jensen would’ve convinced Chad to turn down the job and walk away. And if the client made some noise, have Chris pay a quiet but eventful visit.
Even Chris likes him and that’s rarer than a virgin in a whorehouse.
Smirking to himself, Jensen was getting ready for bed when he heard the doorbell ring. Then he heard the familiar impatient rapping.
He opened the heavy steel-reinforced door, leaned against it and asked, “What the hell, Kripke?”
“Got a minute?”
Jensen stepped aside to let his friend in. “What’s wrong?”
Kripke sighed and mopped his forehead with the battered beret he often sported during his night shift.
“I got a real bad one,” he said. “And I was hoping you could give a hand, maybe?”
“What happened?” Jensen was now worried. Kripke was easy to excite but nearly impossible to rattle so badly.
“There was a burglary today,” Kripke said, collapsing on the nearest chair available. “At least that’s what they’re calling it, but the truth is it was a home invasion.”
“Shit.”
“They stole two paintings, a Wesselman and Dubuffet.”
“They were hired to steal them,” Jensen said as he mentally calculated the prices for the works. “They could fetch a pretty sum but they’re nothing like a Chirico or Warhol. You’d have to know someone who specifically deals with those two. Or, more likely, someone wanted those two specific works.”
“You’re saying a bastard paid the three men to rob the paintings?”
“Any way they see fit,” Jensen concluded with a sigh. “You say art thief and people imagine Thomas Crown or the Pink Panther. But the truth is usually the opposite.”
“Like three men who attacked a pregnant woman, a blind war veteran, and forced a four-year-old to watch the beating?”
“Are you serious?”
Kripke nodded. “The entire precinct’s gone berserk. The three had the paintings then went to town on the family. The mother got the worst of it.”
“And the war veteran?”
“Grandmother - lost her vision while serving in Vietnam. Seriously, all they needed was to stomp on a nun and they would’ve gotten full house. As it stands, the doctors don’t think the mother's going to make it.”
Jensen knew what Kripke wasn’t saying; if the woman died along with her unborn child, most prosecutors in Texas would be looking for the death penalty. “The moment I hear anything about them, I’ll contact you.”
Kripke stood up. “Thanks, man.”
“How’s the job going?”
“I’m the only geek in a building overflowing with testosterone. I’m just grateful they don’t flush my head in the toilet as a form of morning exercise.”
Jensen grinned. He knew his friend was exaggerating. Kripke was the only detective assigned to cyber crime detail, and his office was actually a redesigned janitor’s closet located on the top floor. But Kripke’s talent for sniffing out the truth in a world that seemed to be built on nothing but lies, exaggerations, and endless imagination did not go unappreciated, even by testosterone-poisoned gorillas he called co-workers. This, along with a perverse sense of humor, made him a valued member of the detective division.
“What are the names of the paintings?” Jensen asked.
“Wesselman’s called Lady in Repose. The Dubuffet’s called Peter Cassel.”
Jensen closed his eyes and mentally flipped through the catalog in his head. “I’ve seen those before. I’ll be on the lookout for them.”
“Thanks.” Kripke took a glance at the clock and gave a low whistle. “Holy shit, it’s already one? Better go home before the missus decides to lock me out for the night.”
“Have a safe drive back,” Jensen said.
He watched Kripke get into his hideous yellow car - a retired taxi. Jensen had no idea why Eric would purchase such a wreck, but guessed his friend nursed a fetish for old cabs or the car was free. And free was nothing to laugh at on a cop’s salary.
He slipped into bed not five minutes later, but it took him another full hour before he could fall asleep. And then, he dreamt about flying; something that hadn’t happened since his father died.
Across the city, in its more hospitable and genteel section, Jared dreamt of the day Jensen helped him try the rings for the first time - and the sensation that he was going to fly forever in the arms of his best friend.
Day Forty-three
Jared brushed his teeth, then decided to call his mother before taking a shower. She sounded a lot better, but he wasn’t sure if she was pretending for his sake, for hers, or maybe for both. He wondered if she even knew or cared.
Like I should be judging, Jared closed his eyes and washed his hair. I’m planning to do an international heist, piss off multiple countries not to mention fucking around with the Interpol. Hey, maybe I can include Homeland Security just for the hell of it.
Jared needed three cups of coffee, a stack of pancakes, and a rasher of bacons to wash away the dire thoughts that cropped up in his head.
He reluctantly turned on his laptop, all the while dreading the condolence e-mails that flooded his inbox since his father’s passing. After a moment, he decided to avoid them altogether and instead started re-reading his notes.
His research on the Landau painting was fruitful if also repetitive of what his father had done. However, Jared was also capable of doing further work since he now had Internet, something that wasn’t readily available to his father when he began his research. Even so, Jared avoided looking at the FBI database while helping himself to others not related to law enforcement.
Before he could stop, Jared opened the folder he’d created on Landau family. The story was both tragic, and hopeful in that anyone from the Latvian family survived such brutal treatment.
Jared shut down his laptop and took a glance at his watch: only an hour had passed. Once again, he caved into his curiosity.
The painting was still in its pristine condition. Not that he expected any changes. But after reading its black history Jared wouldn’t have been surprised if it had Lovecraftian powers: the figures warping into hellish monsters, maybe even reach out from the canvas and grabbing him in order to pull him into their hellish world.
Seriously, I should just torch the goddamn thing and invite Jensen and his crew over for a barbecue.
Jared felt his heart hammer against his ribs as he grabbed the painting and ran out to the balcony. There were stairs that led to a private roof garden that came along with his condo. Jared had purchased the place just for that privilege, and barbecued when the weather allowed, which was the entire calendar year.
He turned on the gas and watched the flames leap up through the grating.
Jared looked at the painting and closed his eyes. He raised it and curled up his right knee in order to shatter the masterpiece.
Jared couldn’t do it.
He’d seen the pictures of twins on their tenth birthday and felt like he was destroying them all over again. After a minute of indecision, Jared brought the knee down just because he was getting fatigued.
“Good choice.”
Jared whirled around and spotted Chad. In full daylight the guy looked like a prosperous pimp with his suede fedora and matching shoes, not to mention the too-slim black suit that managed to over emphasize his lean figure.
“Not that I would have stopped you, but unless you were a complete jackass, nobody could destroy something that beautiful.”
“It’s not because of that,” Jared said, putting the painting back into its linen bag. “It’s because of what happened to her and her family.”
Jared was still studying the artwork in his grasp so he missed the look of concern that flitted across Chad’s face.
“Anyway, it’ll probably make piss-poor fuel.”
“Probably,” Chad agreed. “C’mon, be a proper host, man. Do you have a beer or something?”
Jared smiled and looked at Chad. “You are something else, you know that?”
“All this and brains too,” Chad said. “What’s not to love?”
“Follow me,” Jared said, still grinning. “But I’m warning you all I got is Pabst.”
“Better than Pissweiser."
Jared felt better and better as Chad kept up his prattle while they shared a six-pack. And though nothing Chad said was of any importance, the man’s particular combination of profanity and humor was the perfect cure for Jared’s dark mood.
“So, seeing anyone special?” Chad asked as he studied the pictures on the living room wall.
“No one,” Jared answered curtly.
Chad pointed to a picture of a girl who repeatedly showed up in various photographs. “What about her?”
“That’s Gen; we dated for a while but things didn’t work out. She’s in L.A. now.”
“She’s definitely a babe,” Chad said. “Does she have any hot friends?”
“Gen’s friends will sue you if you approach within fifty yards of them, so think twice.”
Chad rolled his eyes. “That’s what they all say.”
Jared hid his laughter by taking a sip of his beer. He watched Chad look around his photos for another minute before asking, “How did you meet Jensen?”
“It was business,” Chad answered. “I used to make my living being the middle man for people like him. Though, on occasion, I’m good for recon and like.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?”
“Not if you’re selective,” Chad said. “Anyway, I retired few years back. But I still do occasional favors for my favorite clients.”
“And Jensen’s one?”
“He’s the best. He’s very good at what he does and Jensen’s always pays on time. You have no idea how many people try to cut out the middleman after the job’s done.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
Chad gave a piercing look at Jared.
“The limp’s so slight it's almost unnoticeable unless you know how he moves.”
“A client screwed him over; nearly killed him.”
Chad’s tone was hard enough for Jared not to prod any further. Instead, the two got into easy banter discussing a very Texan pastime: football.
Day Forty-two
Jared couldn’t stop himself from fidgeting. He watched Chris study him with no pretense whatsoever, making Jared feel like he was in a crocodile pit with no way out. And Chad refused to make eye contact so there wasn’t any help from that corner.
Why the fuck did I get called here in the first place if…
He heard a whistling sound and turned to Chris to find the man handling a knife the size of his forearm. Jared couldn’t help himself:
“What’s your problem?”
Chris gave a bland look and smiled a little. “There was a girl, the most beautiful, kind girl you could have ever met. I knew, I knew she was the one. And we started going out: the happiest six months of my life.
“I had no idea we broke up. She had no idea we were going steady.”
Jared fumbled out, “I’m sorry.” He wasn’t quite sure how that answered his question, but after such an awkward confession he didn’t want to further the conversation.
Chris, on the other hand, seemed to have no qualms whatsoever. “So, anyway, things quieted down over the summer. And then I went to seventh grade.”
Jared’s jaw dropped for a moment before he blurted out, “Fuck you.”
Chris’ smirk blossomed into a full smile. “Got you there, didn’t I?”
“Fuck you twice.”
Jared’s irked answer only fueled Chris’ humor and the man burst into laughter. It was this scene that Jensen walked into.
“Dare I ask?”
Chris’ quick “yes” clashed with Jared’s “no”. Jensen’s gaze twirled between them for few seconds before he gave up trying to find any answers.
“All my contacts have come back,” Jensen explained as he passed out dossiers. Chad flipped through his and frowned a little. Jensen saw his reaction and said, “Yeah, I thought the same thing.”
“And what’s that?” Jared asked.
“We’re fucked,” Chad declared. “But we knew that. Now we know how fucked.”
“And how fucked is that?” Chris asked.
“Well fucked,” Chad answered.
“But at least it’s not in Berlin,” Jensen volunteered.
“That’s true,” Chad pulled out a sheet of what looked like a laundry list of gibberish and said. “Take a look.”
Both Jared and Chris did.
“Oh man,” Chris said. “This … this is like breaking into a museum, Jen.”
“I know,” Jensen muttered. “And stop calling me Jen.”
“Worse, this is like breaking into Gates’ compound,” Chad said, making Jared twice as nervous.
“No, not that bad,” Jensen argued. He noticed the surprised look on the other faces. “What? Everyone at least makes up a plan to hit that place: it’s a requirement.”
“So, not as bad as robbing ol’ Billy,” Chris said. “And it could be worse: it could be in Berlin.”
“What’s with Berlin?” Jared asked, finally caving into his curiosity.
“Berlin’s museums are pretty damn high-tech,” Jensen explained. “Even private galleries and homes are wired to the hilt. And the police response is outright spooky on how fast it is.”
“So, if this information is right, the painting's in Venice," Chad said.
“Hit it during summertime,” Chris offered.
“Why?” Jared asked, feeling like a complete tool with all his questions.
“Rolling blackouts,” Jensen answered. “There are only so much the power companies can handle, not to mention the buildings and their wirings. It’s not uncommon for the government to schedule blackouts in order to prevent a catastrophic breakdown.”
“But wouldn’t there be backup generators feeding off independent sources?” Jared looked at the others. “It just makes sense.”
“Yeah, but they’re only good as the companies that make them,” Chris answered. “And, more importantly, as the people who install them.”
“And because it’s Venice, there are only so many areas those monstrosities can be placed,” Jensen said. “Venice has strict building codes.”
“Bullshit building codes,” Chris countered. “Makes no fucking sense, but it doesn’t matter. You could go around that by either bribing the permits office or just go ahead and do what you want, and then pay the fine when the city realizes what happened.”
Jared let out a frustrated laugh. “Charming. So, there’s a good chance she didn’t file the right plans of her house?”
“Try definitely,” Jensen said. “Whenever the really rich renovate their houses, all the paperwork they file with the local offices mysteriously disappears. Besides, the odds are good the Baroness would’ve filed false ones to begin with. It’s not a crime to be off by few inches in the blueprints, at least.”
“So, we have to scope out the building,” Chris said. “In Italy. Where they’d gladly hang you for stealing art.”
Jared looked at Chris in alarm. “What?”
“Italy has one of the more stringent laws regarding art theft,” Jensen explained. “Not that that should surprise anyone, considering.”
“Do they know you?” Chad asked.
Jared’s alarm doubled. Shit, Jensen’s an art thief. What are the odds they don’t know him?
“I’m going to need new identities,” Jensen said neatly side-stepping the question. “I’ll have to fly out to Mexico or Brazil and catch a flight to Italy from there.”
“I can get you new set of papers,” Chad said nonchalantly. “It should take me three days. Let’s go Canadian. Nobody suspects anything bad about Canadians.”
“Unless hockey’s involved,” Chris added.
“True, but Jensen isn’t going to board the plane wearing skates.”
Chris grinned at his friend. “It’s a solid idea. Seriously, if you bring a hockey stick, you're guaranteed to have a free seat next to you.”
“Back to reality,” Jensen steered the conversation back to topic. “And we’re going to have to smuggle Jared’s Modigliani into Italy which is going to be a bitch.”
Chad burst out laughing. “First time we’re forced to smuggle a painting into a country in order to return it to its owner.”
“And Italy, to boot,” Chris added, then grinned when he realized the pun he’d made unconsciously.
“Chad, draw up the papers,” Jensen said, collecting the files from the others. “We’ll figure out the rest when we get to Venice.”
“Do you want to stay at a hotel or rent a condo?” Chad asked. “’Cause different paperwork for different residences.”
“I’ll get a place,” Jared volunteered, finally glad to be of some use.
“You sure about that?” Jensen asked.
“Why not?” Chad looked positively gleeful at the idea. “He’s got a clean record, no connection whatsoever to anybody in our side of the business - it’s perfect.”
Jensen gave a thunderous look at Chad but kept quiet. And that told Jared all he wanted to know.
“I’ll find an apartment,” Jared said firmly. “I have a buddy who specializes in European travel. He should be able to find us a good enough place.”
Jensen hastily scribbled down a list. “This is what we’re going to need.”
Jared glanced down the paper. “This is … interesting,” he saw the irritated look on Chris’ face and hastily added, “but do-able.”
“Call me if you need anything,” Jensen said. “Be careful about what credit card you use, okay?”
“Amex,” Jared said. “It’s my business card so I use it for all my travels. There won't be any red flags from that corner.”
“All right,” Jensen said. “We’ll meet here in two days to finalize our plans.”
Jared didn’t move from his chair. He wanted to speak to Jensen without the others present. He caught Chad and Chris look at him curiously but did not say anything. Instead, he entrenched himself into his chair and gave a mulish glare in return.
He watched the two men go out the door before rounding on Jensen. “I can’t do what any of you guys do, but I can rent a goddamn room without fucking it up.”
“I know what you can do, Jared: that’s not the problem. The problem is you being involved in the actual heist … return … whatever you call this. You realize if our plan’s blown, there is no chance in hell any Texan will be able to leave Italy.”
“They know you?” Jared asked, realizing where Jensen’s fears were coming from.
“Maybe,” Jensen said. “I pulled a job in Volterra few years back. It never made the papers because it was from a very private residence.”
“You mean a commissioned heist?”
“Yeah, and it went through perfectly.” Jensen blew out a frustrated breath and sat down. “As it turns out it was the worst job I could’ve taken at the time. You see - the family was connected.”
“Connected to what? The Vatican? The government?”
“Worse, the Mob. Of course I didn’t know that at the time.”
“What?”
“Yeah, the funny thing was I was stealing it back for the original owners.” Seeing Jared’s surprised look Jensen continued. “A bunch of thugs hit a family’s estate in Connecticut, back in 2007. It was in the papers?”
“I remember that,” Jared said. “It freaked my mother out because of how violent the robbery was. A guard died, didn’t he?”
“Got his head caved in for his troubles but his action saved the family. They managed to get to a panic room and stayed there while the thieves cleaned them out of a Pollack, a Monet, and a Tintoretto.”
Jared mused over that for a moment. “Okay, the Monet and Tintoretto I get, but a Pollack? Hanging on the wall of some Consigliere? That doesn’t make sense.”
“Strangely enough, that was exactly what happened. The people who commissioned the theft had a soiree and one of their guests recognized the Pollack. It didn’t take long for the info got back to the owners. They were smart enough not to do anything public, and even smarter to hire a thief who didn’t know what was happening.”
“So you got the painting back?” Jared asked.
“The Pollack, yes. The other two were found in a warehouse after a mysterious phone call to the local police.”
“Do you know for sure they know it was you?”
“Not really, but in my line of business it pays to be paranoid.”
“Going with that line of thought, let’s say they know you or are aware of you. They still don’t know you’ve returned to Italy as long as you’re under an alias.”
“As long as the alias works,” Jensen said. “There’s a difference. My cover could be blown but that doesn’t mean they’ll do anything. They might just track me or bust me the moment I enter Italy.
“Which is why I didn’t want you anywhere near me when we reach Venice.”
“I appreciate your concern but you need me at least for the beginning. So, take a deep breath and focus on what you’re suppose to do. And let me make a few phone calls, okay?”
“Done,” Jensen answered reluctantly. “Go get some rest.”
“I will,” Jared responded. But made himself a liar as night passed. All he could think about was the fact that Jensen was going back to Italy where the Mob might very well be eagerly waiting for some overdue payback.
And yet, he couldn’t call it off. Jared wondered if this made him a bad man or just a desperate one: and if there was any difference between the two.
Part I * Part III