Read Online Henry Wood: Time and Again: by Brian Meeks - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Brian Meeks
Tags: Historical, Crime, Mystery, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Crime Fiction, Noir, Thrillers & Suspense, Mystery/Crime
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enjoyed his sea bass, and indulged his sweet tooth with a piece of cheesecake. He sipped coffee for a while after his meal, left a generous tip, and then parted, grabbing a cab to a building where three of his more elderly parishioners lived.
Rose Webber, seventy-two and widowed, lived on the fifth floor and baked cookies, daily. She would often bring them down to the church, and for this, Patrick would visit her and play cribbage at least once per week. Her husband had been a hard worker his whole life, saved his pennies, and invested in Coca Cola stock when he and Rose were young. Eventually, he was able to retire and buy her the beautiful home she had always wanted.
On the third floor, Ginny and Doug, both seventy-five, lived among their collection of china that they had bought over a lifetime. Patrick liked visiting them, and even salivated over a few of the majolica pieces, which dated to 14th century Italy. If he had met them fifteen years ago, he would have robbed them blind – now they were just baubles. Plus, he liked them both.
Patrick considered this affection for Rose, Ginny, and Doug as a personal character flaw. He assumed he must be getting old. They served their purpose, though.
It was not uncommon for Father Patrick to visit them, usually early in the morning or later in the evening. Everyone knew his face and was not at all surprised to see him in the halls. He never took the elevator, as he told everyone the exercise was good for spirit and body. In truth, Patrick hated taking the stairs, but it was a small sacrifice to maintain believability.
Unit 429, on the fourth floor, right next to the stairwell, was owned by a man nobody knew. The name on the box wasn't familiar to the residents. Everyone assumed the occupant just liked to keep to himself. The name, actually another alias for Father Patrick, wasn't known this side of the Atlantic. Whenever Patrick needed to tear off his collar and just have a nice cup of tea, as himself, he would simply pay a visit to Rose on floor five and then sneak back downstairs into his apartment.
The other priests were not surprised when Father Patrick didn't return, as he was known to stay out late… trying to find and help the homeless. Tonight, he stopped in to see Rose, knowing she would be out playing canasta. He knocked a couple of times, for show, then snuck into his own apartment.
The walls were adorned with paintings by Edgar Degas, Honoré Daumier, George Bellows, and Thomas Cole. Each was a copy, meticulously recreated by Patrick. At one point or another, he had possessed the originals, but then they were passed along. He didn't care much about owning originals, as his own copies meant far more to him, and his focus was on getting the big score. With each successful auction, he would crave one bigger and better, always telling himself he needed just one more to retire. Patrick had visions of living in the south of France and painting away the days.
Patrick sat down at his easel. He was working on an original piece. He could copy the masters, but somehow was unable to come up with his own ideas. He thought about the message he had received from that vile pig, Andre. He thought about his note and wondered if he had made the correct play. He was curious how the various collectors would react to his threat to delay the auction. He smiled. Patrick liked having these suckers, who were dying to give up their millions just to get a piece of history. He suspected that if any one of them tried to tell his forgeries from the real ones, there wasn't but one among them who could spot the difference.
He thought about The Falcon. He wondered what this bird of prey's reaction might be to his threat.
Tomorrow would be a busy day. He had plans to double check. In two days, the package would arrive, God willing, and he would need to make arrangements for individual viewings. Each prospective bidder would be taken to a different location. They would be allowed to spend up to
Rose Webber, seventy-two and widowed, lived on the fifth floor and baked cookies, daily. She would often bring them down to the church, and for this, Patrick would visit her and play cribbage at least once per week. Her husband had been a hard worker his whole life, saved his pennies, and invested in Coca Cola stock when he and Rose were young. Eventually, he was able to retire and buy her the beautiful home she had always wanted.
On the third floor, Ginny and Doug, both seventy-five, lived among their collection of china that they had bought over a lifetime. Patrick liked visiting them, and even salivated over a few of the majolica pieces, which dated to 14th century Italy. If he had met them fifteen years ago, he would have robbed them blind – now they were just baubles. Plus, he liked them both.
Patrick considered this affection for Rose, Ginny, and Doug as a personal character flaw. He assumed he must be getting old. They served their purpose, though.
It was not uncommon for Father Patrick to visit them, usually early in the morning or later in the evening. Everyone knew his face and was not at all surprised to see him in the halls. He never took the elevator, as he told everyone the exercise was good for spirit and body. In truth, Patrick hated taking the stairs, but it was a small sacrifice to maintain believability.
Unit 429, on the fourth floor, right next to the stairwell, was owned by a man nobody knew. The name on the box wasn't familiar to the residents. Everyone assumed the occupant just liked to keep to himself. The name, actually another alias for Father Patrick, wasn't known this side of the Atlantic. Whenever Patrick needed to tear off his collar and just have a nice cup of tea, as himself, he would simply pay a visit to Rose on floor five and then sneak back downstairs into his apartment.
The other priests were not surprised when Father Patrick didn't return, as he was known to stay out late… trying to find and help the homeless. Tonight, he stopped in to see Rose, knowing she would be out playing canasta. He knocked a couple of times, for show, then snuck into his own apartment.
The walls were adorned with paintings by Edgar Degas, Honoré Daumier, George Bellows, and Thomas Cole. Each was a copy, meticulously recreated by Patrick. At one point or another, he had possessed the originals, but then they were passed along. He didn't care much about owning originals, as his own copies meant far more to him, and his focus was on getting the big score. With each successful auction, he would crave one bigger and better, always telling himself he needed just one more to retire. Patrick had visions of living in the south of France and painting away the days.
Patrick sat down at his easel. He was working on an original piece. He could copy the masters, but somehow was unable to come up with his own ideas. He thought about the message he had received from that vile pig, Andre. He thought about his note and wondered if he had made the correct play. He was curious how the various collectors would react to his threat to delay the auction. He smiled. Patrick liked having these suckers, who were dying to give up their millions just to get a piece of history. He suspected that if any one of them tried to tell his forgeries from the real ones, there wasn't but one among them who could spot the difference.
He thought about The Falcon. He wondered what this bird of prey's reaction might be to his threat.
Tomorrow would be a busy day. He had plans to double check. In two days, the package would arrive, God willing, and he would need to make arrangements for individual viewings. Each prospective bidder would be taken to a different location. They would be allowed to spend up to
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