Island Getaway, An Art Crime Team Mystery (8 page)

Curt smiled. “Where are you staying while
you’re in town?”

Annika gave him the name of the small hotel
where her room was—in one of the low-slung medieval buildings near
the harbor—and agreed to be ready to go to dinner at seven. By then
the ferry had docked and they made their way down from the top deck
and onto the pier, and from there into Visby.

They parted ways in
Hamngatan
—Harbor
Street—and Annika headed for her hotel while Curt made for the
nearest American chain hotel, a Clarion or Best Western; Annika
wasn’t really sure. All she knew was that she needed some time to
power down, to enjoy her narrow escape from Stockholm and from
Nick, before she was fit to go out again.

Her room turned out to be on the second
floor, tucked under the eaves of the house, with an alcove looking
out over the street and harbor, and a narrow, almost virginal bed.
Good thing she had no plans of inviting anyone to share it. Curt
seemed nice enough, but she didn’t intend to have sex with him in
the next two or three days, and she had left Nick behind in
Stockholm.

Not that Nick would want to have sex with
her anyway.

Although if he did, she had a hunch he’d be
a lot harder to resist than Curt.

Whatever. The bed was comfortable, and after
taking another quick shower to rinse off the city dust and sea
spray, she lay on the bed looking out the window at the sliver of
blue sky, listening to the seagulls squawking and the voices
chirping in Swedish on the street below.

It was beautiful. Everything about it was
lovely, from the narrow cobblestoned streets to the medieval
buildings and the countryside she’d seen from the ferry, with green
meadows and white, sandy beaches. It was like a miniature paradise,
at least this time of year. It might be a little less idyllic in
the winter, when snow blanketed everything. Then again, it probably
had its own brand of charm then too.

Why had had father left Gotland? And settled
in Brooklyn, of all places? Not that there was anything wrong with
Brooklyn, she supposed—it was home for her; she’d always lived
there—but if she’d grown up here, it certainly wouldn’t have
crossed her mind to go anywhere else. Why would she, if she were
living in what had to be one of the most beautiful, interesting,
historic places in the world?

Yet Carl Magnusson had left all this to go
to Denmark and then the States. And he’d never gone back. Hadn’t he
missed it? What had happened to his family? Had there been no one
left here?

Tomorrow, she determined to find the answers
to those questions. She’d learn where her father grew up, and go
see the place. She’d find any relatives who might be left, and
introduce herself to them. They were her relatives too, and they
deserved to know that he was gone. And she’d figure out what
happened, and why he’d left this gorgeous place, never to
return.

And she’d start tonight, over dinner with
Curt.

“Dammit all to hell!”

Nick curled his fingers into a fist and
thought about slamming it into the nearest wall. Then he thought
better of it, since breaking his knuckles wouldn’t do anyone any
good. If he hurt himself enough that he couldn’t do his
job—including subduing a bad guy and pounding him into submission
if he had to—they’d bring him home and assign someone else to
follow Annika Holst around, and that just wouldn’t do. It would
take a new guy time to get up to speed—time during which anything
could happen to her—and besides, Nick didn’t trust anyone else to
do the job right. He uncurled his fist again and flexed his
fingers.

“At least we know where she is,” Fredrik
said.

Nick scowled at him. “No, we don’t. We know
where she’s supposed to be, but that isn’t the same thing.”

“It’s time for dinner,” Fredrik said. “She’s
probably just left her room to get something to eat.”

Probably. But that didn’t stop Nick from
worrying.

The receptionist from the Lady Hamilton
Hotel had called an hour ago, to tell him that Annika Holst had
been in touch. From Gotland. To let the staff know that she no
longer required her room at the Lady Hamilton and to discard any
luggage left behind. Which, according to the receptionist, had been
a black suitcase full of clothes.

Ever since then, Nick had been in a panic.
Even the discovery that Annika had made it safely to Visby and was
checked into a hotel there, hadn’t made him feel any better,
especially after he couldn’t rouse her on the phone.

What the hell was going on? Why hadn’t she
told him she was leaving Stockholm? For that matter, why hadn’t she
checked out of the hotel properly, and used the plane ticket she
had to fly to Visby? Why, instead, had she left half her luggage
behind, put the second half into a shopping bag so it wouldn’t look
like she was making a break for it, and hopped a bus and then a
ferry to get to Gotland? She had spent more money, more time, and a
whole lot of effort... and for what?

“I imagine she was trying to avoid you,”
Fredrik said, answering the question Nick wasn’t aware he’d asked
out loud.

Nick contemplated the wall again. Maybe just
a little punch? Just enough to scrape his knuckles and give him
something else to think about? “Why would she do that?”

Fredrik shrugged. “I have no idea. I guess
she doesn’t trust you.”

No shit, Sherlock
. “She has no reason
not to trust me.”

“Sure.”

“She doesn’t!” Nick shoved a hand through
his hair and resisted the temptation to grab a fistful and yank.
“Dammit, I’ve been doing this job for a long time. Years. I know
how to talk to a suspect without letting them know that I suspect
them of anything.”

“Uh-huh,” Fredrik said.

Nick turned a narrow-eyed stare at him.
“What the hell does that mean? That tone of voice?”

Fredrik smirked. “It means you’re doing a
good job trying to convince yourself.”

Nick opened his mouth to protest, but
stopped when Fredrik held up a hand. “Listen, Nick. I like you.
You’re good at what you do. I’m not saying you’re not. But in this
case, I think you should consider that your judgment’s a bit
impaired.”

“Meaning?”

If the flat and deadly calm of Nick’s voice
bothered Fredrik, he didn’t let it show. “Meaning, this girl’s
gotten under your skin. I have no idea how. From what I’ve seen of
her, she doesn’t seem the type who’d know how to wrap a man around
her finger. Especially someone with your experience. But what the
hell do I know?”

Nothing. He knew nothing. And to add insult
to injury, or annoyance, it was impossible to guess from Fredrik’s
tone whether he was talking about Nick’s experience in the bureau,
or his experience with women. And Nick wasn’t about to ask.

“I feel bad for her,” he said instead. “My
gut says she isn’t involved.”

“You sure that’s your gut speaking? And not
something a little lower?”

“Fuck you.”

“No thanks,” Fredrik said, with a big grin.
“And I’m sure you’d rather—”

He stopped as his computer signaled an
instant message, and the levity dropped off his face.

“What?” Nick asked, moving closer.

Fredrik scanned the message. “Looks like we
caught a break.”

“What kind of break?”

Fredrik glanced at him. “The bag turned
up.”

“Annika’s bag? Where?”

“Bus station at Nynäshamn.”

Wonderful. “Where’s that?”

“Hour and a half down the coast,” Fredrik
said. “It’s where your girlfriend boarded the ferry to Gotland this
afternoon.”

Nick stiffened. “If you’re suggesting—”

“I’m not suggesting anything. A lot of
people come through Nynäshamn. And the bag was hidden away under a
bench. It could have been there since yesterday. There’s no proof
that your girlfriend put it there.”

Nick decided to ignore the way Fredrik
referred to Annika as Nick’s girlfriend—twice. He also refrained
from trying to convince Fredrik that Annika hadn’t left the bag
there. “Can you have someone check the passenger lists for the
ferry for the past two days? Just in case someone pops?”

“I can try,” Fredrik said. “Though it’s not
like international travel where you have to show identification to
board, you know. It’s just a ferry. You pay, you go on.”

Of course. It couldn’t be easy. “At least
pull payment records and try to make a match through a credit card.
Someone who came in on the same flight—or at the same time—so
they’d be at the airport when we landed yesterday. Or someone with
a connection to Annika and her father. If whoever it was paid cash,
I guess we’re out of luck, but it’s worth a try.”

Fredrik nodded. “I’ll send someone down
there to pick up the bag and bring it back here.”

“Don’t bother.” Nick headed for the door.
“I’ll go down there myself. And tomorrow morning I’ll take the
first ferry to Gotland and give her the bag myself. And tell her
everything.” And then he’d shake her until her teeth rattled and
ask her what the hell she thought she was doing, ducking him. If he
liked her answer, he might kiss her.

Fredrik looked at him, steadily, for a
moment. “Is that smart?”

Nick shrugged. “I figure if the silver had
been inside, you would have said so. If she doesn’t have the
silver, she’s not involved.”

Fredrik didn’t answer, and Nick added, “What
was in the bag?”

“Ashes,” Fredrik said.

Just as Nick had thought.

He reached for the doorknob. “I’m on my way
to the bus station. Call me with any news.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Fredrik
threw after him. Nick lifted a finger in response—the middle
one—but kept moving.

The restaurant Curt took her to for dinner was more properly a
tavern, in true medieval style: dark and full of atmosphere, with
low ceilings and rough plank floors. Seating was family style, on
long wooden benches by rough wooden tables. Annika had thought
about putting on her blue dress again, but when she walked through
the door, she was glad she hadn’t. The place wasn’t fancy; most of
the patrons were dressed just as she was, in jeans and T-shirts.
She’d have looked severely out of place in the blue silk.

The food was good, though. Traditional
Swedish cuisine: pickled herring and wheat bread, boiled potatoes
with a sprinkling of fresh parsley, and thick pea soup. Annika ate
until her stomach hurt, and then sat back and looked around. “This
is a great place. How did you know about it?”

It was tucked up close to the city wall, out
of the way of the tourists, and she doubted it featured in the
vacation brochures. Most of the patrons seemed to be local:
grizzled old men with rosy cheeks and clear blue eyes, and young
families with tow-headed children.

A shadow seemed to cross Curt’s face, or
maybe it was just the darkness inside the tavern. “My mother used
to come here when she was young. With her husband.”

“Your father?”

Curt nodded. “I never knew him. He died
before I was born.”

Not too far before, Annika surmised, or he
couldn’t be Curt’s father.

“That’s when your mother emigrated to
America?”

“When I was one,” Curt nodded. “She had
family there, in Minnesota, that she went to stay with.”

“Lots of Scandinavians in Minnesota.” Just
like in Brooklyn. “So your mother never went back? Not even to
visit?”

He shook his head. “She didn’t like to talk
about Sweden. I never knew what happened with her and my dad. Not
until about six months ago. That was when she realized she didn’t
have much time left, and she started telling me everything.”

“That must have been...” Annika hesitated,
“difficult.”

Curt shrugged. “The whole thing was
difficult. But at least now I know.”

True. Curt didn’t have to dig into his
mother’s past. She’d shared it with him. Annika’s father hadn’t had
that opportunity.

“You’re lucky. All I know about my dad is
his name and that he grew up on Gotland. I guess tomorrow I’ll
start looking around. See if anyone remembers Carl Magnusson.” She
lifted her glass and took a small sip of beer, managing not to
wince at the taste. Everyone drank beer, Curt said, and since there
was so little alcohol in it, Annika had let herself be persuaded to
give it a try. At the moment, she wished she’d asked for
Pommac
, the local fruit-flavored soft drink, or a good
old-fashioned Coca-Cola. Or just plain water.

“We could start by asking right here,” Curt
suggested. “How old was your dad?”

Thirty when he left Gotland. Thirty two when
Astrid was born. Thirty three when Andy was born, and thirty five
when Annika was born. Twenty seven years ago. “Sixty two.”

“A couple of these guys look like they might
be around that age.” Curt looked around the tavern. “How about that
guy, over there?”

The man he indicated sat alone in the
corner, his hands wrapped around something stronger than beer. He
had the air of a man bent on serious drinking. But he did look like
he might be around the right age.

“I don’t know...” Annika said, biting her
lip.

“Oh, come on. I’ll go with you.” Curt gave
her a smile.

Annika blinked at him. “Why do you
care?”

“I want you to find out who your father
was,” Curt said. “Come on. Before he gets too drunk to understand
what we’re asking.” He got up from the bench.

“Fine.” Annika followed, reluctantly. “But
if he didn’t know my father, I’m not asking anyone else. I’ll check
the church registers and the newspaper archives tomorrow, but I’m
not making a fool of myself tonight.”

Curt didn’t answer, just gave her a look
over his shoulder.

It was fine for him, Annika thought as she
followed him across the floor, threading her way past tables and
benches. He obviously didn’t have any trouble talking to strangers;
just look at the way he’d picked her up on the ferry earlier. Going
up to a perfect stranger and starting a conversation probably
didn’t make him feel nauseous, the way it did her.