The Day Before Yesterday's Thief: A Prequel to the Eric Beckman Series Read online

  Could I locate him based on the things we’d talked about? I hadn’t led him on—jewel thieves traveling with aliases don’t make friends with strangers. We had planned to share a cab, but his goal—eventual seduction?—was derailed by my detour in customs.

  I’d only gotten his first name, but at least it was an unusual one: Bolton.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Bolton Vance didn’t care whether he lived or died. It wasn’t that he was depressed—he was a reasonably happy person. The strong will to survive that keeps most of us out of trouble was simply not part of his DNA. He couldn’t see how his trait would be passed down through the generations, so he assumed that he had some kind of mutation or strange combination of genes. He accepted it as part of who he was.

  The day after the plane trip, Bolton sat in his condo, sipping tea from a travel mug. Instead of looking out on the dramatic view of the San Francisco Bay, he faced his wall of paintings. In fact, he’d closed the curtains, giving the room the feeling of an intimate art gallery. An overcrowded art gallery with a collection of paintings of many different styles. The ceiling was dark mahogany with elaborate track lighting that allowed each painting to be perfectly lit. The paintings ranged from Michelangelo’s The Fall and Expulsion from the Garden of Eden to Wyeth’s Dark Harbor Fisherman—his favorite—to Dali’s Metamorphosis of Narcissus. On some level, the mishmash of styles worked.

  Bolton Vance had painted them all.

  They were all forged but not in an illegal sense. His only profit was an improvement in his artistic ability. He copied to learn. Throughout his education and long after, his hobby was to copy the works of the masters, improving his craft technically but also getting into the minds of the painters. This worked best with self-portraits. He took a sip of tea and looked at Rembrandt’s Self-Portrait with Two Circles. Rembrandt sat in front of a mirror in the 1660s when he’d painted it. Bolton sat in front of the painting in a London gallery when he’d copied it. Although separated by over 300 years, the two artists must have shared many of the same thoughts while painting.

  Bolton imagined showing her the condo. Not in any sleazy come-up-and-see-my-etchings sense. Nor in a sense of showing off. No, it was just something he wanted to share with her.

  He gritted his teeth. Damn that stupid customs agent. Bolton had had everything planned out. They’d have shared a cab into San Francisco. She’d mentioned the Russian Hill district, which was where he lived. He’d have gotten her phone number and later invited her to have coffee.

  He’d waited a half hour for customs to finish. Any longer would have seemed too obvious. Of course, she didn’t seem all that interested in him. Or did she? Once again, he ran through their interaction in his head. And he realized: She’d skillfully avoided telling him her name. Or anything else significant, for that matter.

  One of the last passengers onto the plane, he’d gone up the spiral staircase into the upper seating area of the Pan Am 747. She’d been sitting with her shoes off and her legs folded beneath her, already deep into her book.

  Her hair was black and impossibly thick. He could almost feel himself painting it. It would have to be oil. He’d use his Grumbacher Lamp Black. Definitely. Perhaps in the style of Caravaggio.

  And the nose! Unnaturally long but her best feature. That would be hard to convey on canvas. Her soft black dress seemed elegant yet comfortable enough for an eleven-hour flight.

  She barely looked up as he put his carry-on luggage into the overhead bin. He settled in and then turned to her. “I’m Bolton.”

  She put a finger on her place in the book and turned to him. “Is first name or last name?” A nice smile but with a subtle undertone of I want to be alone.

  “First name.” He snapped on his seat belt. She’s not totally aloof. “What a wonderful accent. Are you … Russian?”

  “Something like that.”

  “May I buy you a drink?” Oof! That sounds as if we’re at a pickup bar.

  “Is a little forward, yes?”

  He laughed. “Just being friendly. It’s going to be a long flight. And we’re already delayed.”

  “Is lucky for you. Almost missed plane.”

  “Uh … true.”

  An hour into the flight, he made another attempt to break through the ice. “What are you reading?”

  She turned the cover of her book to him. The World According to Garp.

  He grimaced, jerking his head back and showing his teeth.

  “What?”

  “Rough book.”

  She cocked her head, frowning. “What do you mean?”

  “Sorry. Where are you in the book?”

  “Second son … uh … Walter … Walt is born.”

  “Right. Sorry, I’ve said too much. I’ll let you get back to your reading.” He took out his own book and read for an hour. When she fell asleep, he pulled out his sketch pad and started drawing. He’d have preferred to use charcoal, but his Palomino Blackwing pencil was adequate.

  When she woke, her glance fell on the drawing. Her drowsiness disappeared in an instant. “Wow, is good!”

  “Thank you.”

  “How did you do that?” There was an unmistakable sense of horror in her voice. As if the drawing had been Bouguereau’s Dante and Virgil in Hell.

  He handed her the pad. The drawing captured the moment she’d said, “What?” when talking about her book.

  “But I haven’t been looking at you. I was sleeping while you painted this. Turned away.” She looked at him with the same expression conveyed in the drawing.

  “I have a good memory.”

  “Photographic?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Can keep?” she asked.

  “Certainly.”

  She rolled it tightly. “Is very good, but please do not draw me, yes?”

  Bolton put his hands up in surrender. “Sorry. Is this a gypsy—?”

  She frowned, her body getting suddenly angular. “Is not gypsy thing. Gypsies think that photograph steals their soul, is what you think?”

  “I’m just joking around.”

  “Gypsies don’t think that, and I am not gypsy.”

  “Really. Just a joke. I don’t know anything about gypsies. Is there some reason you don’t want me to draw you?” Careful here.

  She put a bookmark in Garp and set it in her lap. “You are artist?”

  “I draw and design things for commercial purposes. Magazines, advertisements, mostly.”

  “Not for museums? Art shows?”

  He shook his head.

  She’d unrolled the drawing and looked at it again. “But could, maybe?”

  He’d shrugged. “Maybe.”

  Interesting woman. He finished his tea and went to his kitchen to fix lunch. His last revisiting of their interaction had brought out the thing that he’d missed the first times. The ice had been broken, and they’d had pleasant conversations during the rest of the flight, but she’d revealed almost nothing about herself. And she’d done it artfully and effortlessly.

  He went over to his drawing table, pulled out his charcoals, and started drawing her again.

  * * *

  Am I sociopath? I sat in a wicker chair on my condo’s balcony, a strong cup of coffee in one hand and the psychology book on my lap. My feet were up on the railing. On the twentieth floor of The Eichler Summit, I had a stunning view of the San Francisco skyline. Only a few of the buildings were above the fog, fog that had brought in the scent of seaweed and salt. I pulled my cardigan tighter.

  By putting the diamond in Bolton’s bag, I may have sentenced him to prison. Sure, he may have been able to prove his innocence, but people were often imprisoned for crimes they didn’t commit. Uncle Flavius spent four years behind bars for a heist he wasn’t even involved with. But that was back in Romania. USA is more fair.

  She looked at the definition again: a personality disorder manifesting itself in extreme antisocial attitudes and behavior and a lack of conscience. I have conscience, yes? My current
thoughts are proof of this. Besides, there was no time for conscience. I had a split second to think of a way out of the problem, and I came up with a solution. It was an issue of problem-solving. If they’d discovered the Portensia diamond on me, I’d have gone to jail. Worse, they would have unraveled my other crimes in quick order. I would have grown old in jail.

  Sociopath or not, it was time to find this Bolton man. If he wasn’t already in prison, liberating the diamond from him would be to his benefit. And mine, of course. I thought back to our interaction, seeking the clues that would return the diamond to me.

  I had been enjoying my book, even though it was in English, when he’d come up the spiral staircase. I had a double take—is what they call it?—because he was so good-looking. His black hair would have been neat and trim had he combed it. It was as if he’d had a recent and expensive haircut but had been too much in a rush to groom it. In the same way, he hadn’t shaved, or perhaps it was just a five o’clock shadow but early in the morning.

  He had rugged good looks. He could have been a private detective in a TV show like The Rockford Files or Mannix. He wore a gray suit jacket over an open blue shirt, with a thin gold chain around his neck. The combination worked.

  I had hoped the seat next to me would remain unoccupied. In other circumstances, I’d have welcomed the company, but I was traveling incognito. Keeping one’s identity secret could be tiring.

  “My name is Bolton,” he’d said and immediately offered to buy me a drink. Had he not seen the gin and tonic on the tray table? Not very observant for an artist. Maybe he was just flustered.

  Too bad he hadn’t given me his full name.

  What had we discussed? Oh yes, my book. He was right, The World According to Garp got pretty rough. One child killed and the other blinded in one eye because of the affair that Garp’s wife had? Aargh! I had to stop reading it.

  But the drawing of me! As good as photograph. What a shock, when traveling undercover. Good thing he gave it to me. I could imagine it in court:

  “And this is the woman who you say placed the diamond in your suitcase?”

  “Well, she stumbled over my bag right after customs pointed to her. She fumbled it upright again. I think that’s when she slipped it in.”

  “Objection! Calls for speculation.”

  Hmm. But was mute point—I had the drawing. On the other hand, if he did have a photographic memory, he could always draw me again. Maybe he had already done that. Nu e bine. Not good.

  In any case, sociopath or not, my path was clear: Find him. Find an artist who lives in San Francisco and has the unusual first name of Bolton. Should not be difficult. If needed, will hire private detective.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Bolton had nothing to go on. No name. No profession. How could he find her?

  She had to be rich. Her clothing was expensive, and she flew first class. Was she a model? An actress? Her body was firm and toned, not that he’d held her, of course.

  She seemed to know a lot about gold and jewelry. She was the only person that had ever recognized the tanzanite stone on the ring his brother had given him. Perhaps she was in the gem industry.

  He ended up going with what he had: dozens of snapshots. In his memory.

  The sun had set hours ago, and Bolton had the curtains open, giving him a panoramic view of the bay. Holding his second martini of the evening, he gave the painting on the easel a last, critical examination. Up close it didn’t look like a photograph, but reduced to fit on standard letter paper, it would pass. All that mattered was that it looked like her. It did. He’d gotten the color tone of the skin just right. Perhaps it looked more like her than any photograph. He moved his head side to side and smiled. Her eyes followed him. Again, not necessary, but it might make the posters more noticeable.

  He sat down and sipped his drink. He tried the caption out loud: “Have you seen this woman? Reward!” Maybe he’d put three exclamation marks on that last sentence. He’d get high-quality color prints done and post them around town.

  It was what he had to do.

  * * *

  After an exhilarating drive on the windy roads north of San Francisco, I pulled my Porsche to the gates of the Pathways Center for Autism. The guard knew me well and waved me through. I marveled each time I came; it was a wonderful place, and if I ever decided to drop out of the world, this is where I’d want to do it.

  It looked more like an Ivy League college campus than a boarding school for autistic teenagers. I turned the engine off and closed my eyes, appreciating the school’s oasis-like environment. The car ticked as it cooled, and wind rustled the leaves of the trees that shaded the pathways between the buildings. I breathed in the scent of newly mowed grass and listened to the shouts from a group of kids.

  The environment came with a cost. This was one of the most expensive treatment facilities in the country—in the world. Is good use for my ill-gotten gains, yes?

  I opened my eyes and waved to a girl walking awkwardly along a path. She waved back. That would have been an astounding accomplishment for Andrei Antonescu, my—how do you say it in English?—cousin once removed. More simply said, he is the grandson of my Uncle Rizvan. I refer to him as my nephew.

  I got out of my car and walked up the steps and into the reception area. The room resembled the lobby of a ski lodge.

  “Ah, Viviana. He’s all ready for you. He’ll be happy to see you.” Connie came around the desk and gave me a hug.

  Would he really be happy to see me? Hard to tell. Andrei didn’t show emotion. He didn’t smile or frown.

  “Anything new?” I asked.

  “Just a second. I have his chart here.” She went back to the desk and opened a folder. “Let’s see … he’s doing well with his yes/no board. He’s one of our best-behaved residents.”

  That pretty much meant no change. And I think they always say something like that. Putting a positive spin on things is their job.

  “Here he is!” Connie loaded those three words with a lot of happiness.

  Andrei came across the room accompanied by a higher functioning female resident. He walked a bit like a zombie, his eyes staring straight in front of him. His hair resembled a dark bird’s nest, with very little on the sides of his head. His face was narrow, as if he’d squeezed it with his hands on his cheeks. It made me think of the painting The Scream, but I don’t mean to imply that he was screaming inside.

  He’d inherited the dark eyebrows and deep-brown eyes from his Romanian heritage, and he had a thin beard and mustache. He wore a blue shirt and jeans, with a heavy backpack on his shoulders. The pack contained only padded weights—it apparently calmed him.

  Connie handed him his yes/no board, a contraption with two large buttons. The left button had a smiley face on it and the word “Yes.” It sounded a happy “ding” when pressed. The right had “No” on it. Pushing it resulted in a buzz.

  “Are you glad to be going with Viviana today?”

  He put his hand on the Yes button but didn’t press it. Good enough.

  I gave him a hug. He didn’t like being touched lightly but tolerated a deep, strong hug. Especially from me. I liked to think that he enjoyed it, but there was no way to be sure.

  Without looking him in the eye, I said, “Is good to see you, Andrei. We’re going to visit Uncle Zaza today. Have a special surprise there.”

  No reaction, but I didn’t expect one. I liked to believe that I was getting through—no, I was sure that I was. I felt that he took everything in but just didn’t respond. I chose to act as though this was the case and never talked down to him. “Zaza” sounds like baby talk, but it’s what I’d called my Uncle Zaharia since I was a child.

  After signing some papers, the two of us walked out to my car. It was a maroon, 1977 Porsche 911 convertible. I assumed that, like a normal fourteen-year-old boy, Andrei got a charge out of it. The top was down. We took the scenic route along Muir Woods Road, and I drove a little more safely than usual for Andrei’s benefit.

/>   Was Andrei happy? I looked over at him. He sat with the yes/no board on his lap, watching the road. The question didn’t seem appropriate. Apparently, in addition to suffering from autism, Andrei had some disease that made him unlikely to live past the age of thirty-five. I knew nothing about it. I didn’t want to know. Live in the present moment was my attitude when with him.

  Andrei had a special affinity for things related to touch. He liked exploring textures, but most of all, he was obsessed with physical puzzles. On that day, I’d brought him a puzzle made with wood, rope, and a metal ring. He’d solved it very quickly, almost without looking at it, removing the ring then putting it back. At that point it no longer interested him.

  Driving over the Golden Gate Bridge, I thought about the surprise I’d gotten Andrei: a small safe that I’d purchased at the Marin flea market.

  Ding, ding. Andrei had pressed the Yes button on his board. He put his hand over mine on the gearshift. Wow. He left it there for a few seconds and then put it back in his lap.

  I looked at him. Was he smiling? No. What had prompted his almost-show-of-affection? It was a crisp, blustery day, and we had just passed under one of the bridge’s towers. Was that what he was responding to? If only he would talk.

  Arriving at Uncle Zaharia’s home-slash-lab in the China Basin district of San Francisco, I parked and honked. Between Second and Third Streets, his place looked like a warehouse on the outside. It had been a warehouse, but he’d converted the inside to a cozy home adjoining a less cozy laboratory.

  Uncle Zaharia—Zaza—raised me, and the two of us had emigrated from Romania in 1972. He greeted Andrei and me at the door.

  “Viva!” He gave me a hug then released it. “And Andrei! It’s wonderful that you came to visit. I’m going to give Viviana a second hug, and it’s for you. Okay?”

  Andrei said nothing.

  Zaharia’s English was impeccable. Much better than mine. He insists we speak only English, but we both lapse into Romanian now and then.