Who Killed Tiffany Jones? Read online

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  room area. Rick was no longer on the couch where she had insisted he stay when she went to bed. Apparently he had decided that if they weren’t sleeping together there was no reason to stick around and had let himself out during the night. Relieved, she showered, went downstairs, and, after starting a pot of coffee, retrieved the morning newspapers that had been shoved through the slot in the outside door of the brownstone.

  The New York Times had a brief obituary that chronicled Tiffany’s sudden rise to fame as the queen of disco, her fall from grace in the late ’80s, her divorce from Thomas Brenner, the volatile music mogul to whom she had been married for ten years, her unexpected marriage to financier and import/export tycoon Klaus Svrenson, and her mete-oric resurgence as a chanteuse in 1999. The story did not give a cause of death but, along with Klaus, cited Faith and Emerald, Tiffany’s two young children from her first marriage, as survivors.

  The Daily News hadn’t covered the story, but the Post, under a typically dramatic headline, DEATH AT THE APOLLO, ran both a photo of Tiffany and a story suggesting that the circumstances of her death were

  “unusual.” Kim read the report carefully, noting that the Post empha-sized how Tiffany’s dressing room door had been locked from the inside, and also how it made much of the unavailability of the star’s personal attendant Maria Casells, presumably the last person to see her alive. Apparently, after being questioned by the police, Maria had either refused to talk to reporters or, as the story hinted, “disappeared.”

  Kim had never been one to put much faith in the tabloid’s often lurid insinuations, but the story did get her attention. Reclining on the sofa with coffee and toast as she gazed out of her huge picture window at the Hudson River and New Jersey skyline, Kim decided that if only out of curiosity she would call Maria and talk with her again within the next few days. As she relaxed and riffled through the rest of the paper, another photo and headline caught her attention: SOAPSTAR NABBED

  AT MELEE, the headline read, and underneath it was a photo of Rick in 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 10

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  handcuffs, head bent in an attempt to conceal his identity, being hustled out of the Paradox, a well-known gay after-hours club. Kim nearly gagged on her coffee before getting over the initial shock and compos-ing herself. A few moments later, she laughed aloud as she reared back onto the embroidered African-print fabric that covered her Maurice Villency sectional.

  “Damn,” she muttered, staring at the picture. Shaking her head, she rose and started up the stairs. She wasn’t sure why Rick had been at the Paradox, but the thought that he might be hitting from both sides of the plate wasn’t a complete shock. Still, the possibility that she had been deceived angered her. That’s it for his sorry, lying ass, she thought, as she stepped into the shower. Her next thought was, Thank God for condoms.

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  TWO

  Amsterdam—Saturday, July 14

  Ke es Va n d e rVa l l strode into De Prins Grand Café and sat at one of the choice tables in an alcove near the middle of the room without waiting for the maître d’ to seat him. He leaned back into the plush golden chair and looked impatiently at his watch.

  After fifteen minutes, he began to wonder what could possibly be taking Winthrop James so long. Had something else happened? Kees ran a shaking hand through the unruly dark blond curls that were suddenly pasted to his forehead with sweat. He needed to get home quickly. He hadn’t been feeling well all morning.

  He blew his nose into a silk handkerchief and stared out of the bay window beside him at the greenish-gray waters of the Prinsengracht.

  Sea gulls and herons darted back and forth along the tree-lined banks of the canal. On the far side of the water, tourists gazed up at the 400-year-old, bell-gabled canal houses lining the tiny cobblestone street. As 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 12

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  far as Kees was concerned, this was one of the most spectacular views in Amsterdam.

  But the view couldn’t hold his attention for long. Kees was rising to make his way out of the restaurant and down to the offices of Textel International Corporation when Winthrop finally strode through the door. The tall, immaculately dressed Englishman stood in the entranceway and surveyed the room. He sauntered over to Kees’s table and extended his hand with a wide smile.

  “Kees, my friend, how are you?”

  Kees smiled stonily up at Winthrop’s pale, lightly freckled face before taking his seat again. “Well, what exactly can I help you with, Winthrop?” he asked, leaning back in his chair. “What’s the problem now?”

  Without answering, Winthrop unfolded the local newspaper and dropped it on top of the empty plate in front of Kees. Then he sat down and awaited Kees’s reaction.

  Kees paled visibly as he read the headline: TWO POLICE OFFICERS

  FOUND DEAD. When Winthrop didn’t speak after a few moments, Kees whispered, “What does this have to do with me?”

  “Well, my friend, the incident appears to have your signature written all over it. Let’s just say that there are those who feel you’re drawing too much attention to yourself.”

  “I don’t know anything about it.”

  “All right, for the sake of argument, let’s assume you don’t. The problem is the same as it has been in the past. It’s nothing we haven’t discussed before. For whatever reason, and I’ll avoid going into that, things are not moving rapidly enough on your end. You seem to be distracted by other interests. I just wanted you to know that these diversions haven’t gone unnoticed. If I were you, I’d be more careful.”

  Kees blanched. “What are you trying to say, Winthrop?” he shouted. “Get to the point! If you’re accusing me of something, say 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 13

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  so. But be careful. Unless something has changed, you’re just a func-tionary. You should be worried about your end, which from what I know only involves paper pushing and ass kissing. Why don’t you try coming down from your ivory tower and take a look at the real world.

  As I said,” he gestured at the newspaper, “this has nothing to do with me.”

  “Is that so? Well, then the word on the street is entirely wrong and you’re being maligned. And perhaps you’re right, maybe I’ve over-stepped my bounds.” He smiled. “By the way, did you get a call from New York this morning?”

  Kees paused. He wasn’t aware that Winthrop knew anything about Klaus. Did his connections stretch that far, or was he just fishing?

  Kees had the distinct feeling that he was being set up. “No,” he said,

  “did you?”

  Winthrop leaned back in his chair and sighed.

  “Perhaps this wasn’t a good idea. I seem to have put you on the defensive. And that, I assure you, is the last thing that I wanted to do, honestly. My intention was to look out for you and myself as well.

  Look, the business is our primary concern, and we’ve both been well rewarded by it. It’s far too lucrative to let our individual concerns become an obstacle. I’m headed back to Antwerp this afternoon; I have to meet with some African businessmen. But I wanted to make sure that you were all right before I left.”

  Winthrop smiled arrogantly. Kees had never liked him, and now he felt like smashing his fist into that smug little British face. He restrained himself, however, and stood up. Two could play at this game of chess.

  “I understand what you’re saying, and I appreciate your concern.

  I’ll take . . . necessary precautions. Good day, Winthrop.”

  Winthrop James nodded as Kees turned and strode toward the exit.

  When he disappeared, Winthrop smiled, picked up the newspaper, and ordered a cup of te
a.

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  When Kees returned to his flat, he immediately opened the cellophane bagful of heroin that he had left on the coffee table. He ignored the telephone until its tenth ring, then, annoyed, picked it up.

  “Hallo. Who the hell is it?”

  “Kees, my friend, you sound like you’re pissed off. Well, so am I.

  I’ve heard some disturbing news, and I hope you have a very good explanation. I wasn’t happy to hear that you’re operating your own private business out of our warehouse.” The voice gradually rose in intensity. “Now that wouldn’t be so disturbing if you had informed us or properly compensated us. What disturbs me most is that you’ve also been bragging about it. Do you think that because you’re a few thousand miles away, in fucking Amsterdam, that you can’t be touched!”

  When Kees recognized the voice, he nearly dropped the phone. It was Riccardo Napolini calling from the United States.

  “Riccardo . . . I, uh, I intended—”

  “Shut up, Kees. We’ve warned you before and I thought we’d come to an understanding—”

  “If this has to do with James—”

  “James? No, that’s not what this is about. I don’t care about that fucking bookkeeper. I don’t like his prissy little English ass any more than you do. I’m talking about respect and keeping a low profile.

  Yeah, he called one of my guys. He wanted to discuss the meeting you had earlier today. But that’s not the problem. The problem is my warehouse.”

  “I know, I know,” Kees muttered. “I was going to straighten it all out but—what about this thing with Klaus?”

  “Don’t worry about that. Klaus panicked because he thinks his wife got whacked. We’ll take care of that situation. Your problem is with me and the fucking warehouse. I brought you into this deal. I don’t want to be forced to explain any fuckups, you understand? The only reason the 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 15

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  annex hasn’t been raided yet is because your guy Petris informed us of the difficulties you had there the other day. I made some calls to the local authorities and took care of it. For the time being. And get this straight, I only saved your ass because you’re supposed to be handling our business out of there also.”

  “Riccardo, don’t worry, I’ll take care of this.”

  Napolini sighed. “Do I sound worried, asshole? Look, here’s what you’re going to do. First, you move all of your contraband out of the warehouse. Second, you arrange to have all the money you owe us sent immediately. Someone will let you know where to send it tomorrow.

  And last, you will concentrate on the business we set up for you—fuck everything else. You will do all this within two days. Don’t disappoint me, Kees. Are we clear?”

  Kees slammed the telephone back into the cradle. But only after he was sure Riccardo had already hung up. He stood, staring out of the floor-to-ceiling windows that ran the length of his apartment, at the brackish waters of the Brouwersgracht. Pacing back and forth in front of the windows, he tried to think of some way of getting the money owed Napolini’s outfit.

  As the bells of the renowned Westerkerk tolled in the distance, he felt a familiar, dull ache creeping from the nape of his neck up through the back of his skull. He pinched his nostrils and inhaled deeply. Shit, not right now! He rushed back to the coffee table, trying to fight the urge but knowing that only another line of heroin would do it. Shakily, he opened the bag and poured a small mound of white powder onto the mirror on the coffee table, then cut two neat lines with a razor blade.

  After greedily snorting both lines, he leaned back on the couch and felt the rush warm his body. His headache immediately began subsiding.

  Ten minutes later, he stood, pushed the cellophane bag into his briefcase, and hurried out of the door.

  The warehouse was a narrow, red-brick building that dated back to the 1780s. Inside, hundreds of shipping crates were stacked along the 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 16

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  walls. They contained artifacts and curios from nearly every country in Europe as well as some rare sculptures and paintings by well-known artists. The artifacts and art work awaited shipment to shops and galleries all over the world. But the real business of the warehouse went on behind the showroom.

  Kees pushed his way past the two Indonesian women who dealt with the artists and art patrons that flocked to Kühne’s Art Gallery daily. He stalked up the winding staircase, past his own office, and then down a concealed back staircase behind the broom closet at the end of the hall. The staircase led to an annex that had been built in the 1940s to house Jews fleeing Nazi persecution; they hid in secret rooms and passageways, sometimes for years, waiting for liberation. The annex was all but undetectable. How could anyone have found out?

  Who could I have told? Kees wondered.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Kees entered the first of three rooms located two and a half floors below ground level. Off to the right, a dozen men in blue aprons sat hunched over large blocks of heroin, carefully cutting them up, then weighing and packaging the smaller bundles. They didn’t notice him enter.

  Kees went to a second room looking for his assistant, Kantjil Sabo, and found him sitting on a crate full of AK-47s. He was doing an inventory on three crates of Kalashnikov rifles from Eastern Europe. The rest of the new shipment, at least another dozen crates, waited to be inspected.

  “Start packing,” Kees shouted, although Kantjil was seated less than three feet from him. “We’re leaving. Everything has to go. We have to be out of here by the day after tomorrow.”

  “Why? What happened?” the young man asked.

  “Napolini knows about those two police officers we killed.”

  Kantjil didn’t miss the fact that Kees said “those two police officers that we killed.” He hadn’t killed anybody. In fact, he had been out of the room when Kees shot the officers in the back as they bent to inspect a suitcase full of heroin in the tiny room behind them.

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  “You should have paid them off, Mr. Van derVall. We’ve operated here without a problem for the past two years—”

  Kantjil saw the punch coming, but he couldn’t duck fast enough.

  Kees’s fist connected squarely with the bridge of his nose. He crumpled off the edge of the box, hitting his head as blood spurted across the cold, tiled floor. Kees pulled a .45 caliber pistol from his waist holster, cocked it, and leveled it at Kantjil’s head.

  “Don’t ever question me again,” Kees said. “Do you understand me? Now start packing. All of it. I’ll call you and tell you where to take it later.”

  Kees strode up the stairs and out of the building. But once he was settled in the plush seat of his Lexus, he realized that he didn’t know where he wanted to go. He was too upset to go home. So he headed to the only other place that he could think of.

  He drove to a tiny cobblestone street called Snoekjessteeg Cen-trum. To the right, a two-story, salmon-colored townhouse stood directly behind a five-floor apartment building. Kees parked out front and went inside.

  The townhouse was actually an exclusive coffee shop. In fact, you couldn’t get in if you didn’t know someone. The person Kees knew was his old friend Petris. At least he had thought that he knew Petris. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  Black leather couches lined the walls and club music throbbed in the background. Large-breasted women in bikini tops, halters, and miniskirts waded through the smoky crowd selling top-quality mari-juana from colorfully decorated menus. Magic mushrooms and Ecstasy also flowed like water.

  But Kees didn’t want anything that the beautiful waitresses offered.

  He’d brought his own. He settled into a seat and lifted the
plastic bag from his suitcase.

  By midnight, Kees was even more wired. He still didn’t want to go home. Unable to think of anything else to do and with nobody else to 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 18

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  call, Kees rang up Kantjil and insisted that he go out to a club with him. Unwilling to upset his boss any further, Kantjil grudgingly agreed.

  After a few failed attempts to get into the trendy, upscale clubs, they wound up at a small, seedy hip-hop club called Frankie’s. There was sawdust on the floor and a stained-glass picture of Satan drinking blood from a crystal goblet on the wall above their heads. The seats were sticky and Kantjil sat gingerly so as not to dirty his clothes. Kees didn’t even notice the gummy residue on the back of his slate-gray Hugo Boss suit.

  Sometime during the night, Kantjil left. Kees didn’t remember when. Nor did he remember where or when he had gotten into a brawl. But when he woke soon after dawn lying facedown on the bank of the Amstel River, he suspected that he had. Unable to find his car, he staggered to his feet and unsteadily began walking toward his home.

  As he walked, the events of the previous day played out in his mind.

  He didn’t care about James or the dead policemen; his real concern was that his business was being put in jeopardy. Kees had to admit, even to himself, that he had been damned foolish. But what could he do about that now? How would he pay Riccardo and the Napolini family? He had put some cash away but it wasn’t enough to cover what the Napolinis would want.

  Kees looked back over his shoulder as he walked. He couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching him, following him no matter which way he turned. Before the call from Klaus he had felt untouchable, totally in control. But now, even though Riccardo had assured him there was nothing to worry about for at least two days, he felt vulnerable.