“What’s up, Mitchell? I assume this isn’t social,” Hendricks answered in a gruff tone.
“Just got a threatening call from the Russian Mob, figured you’d want to know about it.”
Hendricks was silent for a moment. “Not this shit again.”
“It’s about the Tiffany window.”
“The one in your safe?” Hendricks sounded skeptical.
“No, the dome from the Commodore Wilson Hotel that’s been missing for thirty years,” Erik replied. “I don’t have it, and I don’t know where it is, but someone thinks I do.”
“Want to come down to the station and fill me in?”
“I’d rather do it here, inside the wards,” Erik said. “I have a pretty good idea who is behind the call. That way, you can take Susan home and make sure she’s safe. I tried to get her to take some time off, but you know your mom.”
“I’ll be over,” Hendricks replied. “And I’ll give the plainclothes officer out front a heads up to be even more alert. This used to be a quiet little town.” He hung up, and it took Erik a moment to react, lost in his thoughts.
“Is everything okay?” Susan’s voice shook him out of his trance.
He turned toward her. “Chief Hendricks is coming here to take my statement about getting a threatening phone call. I want you to leave with him. You were going to stay home for a while to be safe from the storm, but that also goes for avoiding bad people.”
She looked at him with a shrewd expression. “Mafia stuff?”
“It’s better if you don’t know.”
“I’ve lived in New Jersey my whole life. It’s hardly a new idea.” She gave Erik what he thought of as a “mom” look, assessing his state of mind. “Sit down. I’ll get you a fresh cup of coffee. Gather your thoughts before Cole gets here.”
Susan brought him coffee and sat quietly with him until a knock came at the door. “I’ll let him in.” Susan patted his arm. He heard the door open and a muffled conversation, and then the chief came to the break room, looking sodden.
“I hung his slicker up by the door so it could drip,” Susan told Erik. “I’ll keep sorting that new box of estate stuff.”
Erik motioned to the coffee pot. “Go ahead and pour a cup. Thanks for coming over.”
“I try to keep international crime syndicates from blowing up my town,” Hendricks replied, but he took Erik’s suggestion and returned with coffee.
“Now, what’s this all about?”
Erik recounted the phone call and shared the number, although he felt certain it would already be disconnected. “Then he threatened the store and Ben. Thick Russian accent. It’s got to be someone who works for The Oligarch.”
“You mean Vladimir Putin?” Hendricks looked confused.
Despite everything, Erik stifled a chuckle. “No. Russia and the Baltic states have a long history with rich, powerful men who control parts of the economy—legitimately and not-so—and are largely above the law.”
“I’m listening.”
“His real name is Konstantin Gusev,” Erik said. “We crossed paths several times, through proxies, when I worked with Interpol. He grew up wealthy, but his family lost most of their money under Soviet rule. He never lost his expensive tastes.”
“You think Gusev called you?” Hendricks clarified.
“No. Gusev always stayed in the shadows. He funded his art habit with his other businesses, drugs, human trafficking, weapons smuggling, and selling information.”
“And I imagine he also has ties to Bratva?”
Erik nodded. “All through third parties, so it’s an open secret no one can prove. There were rumors linking him to several museum thefts around the world, and that he killed art couriers, rival collectors, and committed arson to cover the robberies.”
“One of those rumors was that Gusev had the famous Amber Room that the Nazis stole from the Russians and that disappeared after World War II,” Erik continued. “He likedthings that were unique and high profile, so the Tiffany dome would fit right in.”
“And he decided to call you, why?” Hendricks always seemed surprised to discover more about Erik’s background, as if he had difficulty squaring the secret agent level cases he used to pursue with Erik’s quiet reinvention as a local antique dealer.
