Ghosts of the Past Read online

He struggled mightily with his eyelids until there was enough lubrication to his contacts to bring things into respectable focus. Lying on his back in the big king-size bed, his head propped up on two down-feather pillows, he was sure he hadn’t moved during the brief period of sleep. Unfortunately, it didn’t take long for all the events of the last 48 hours to come rushing back into his consciousness.

  God Almighty, what have I gotten myself into?

  He looked around the room and felt again the wave of disgust over someone having encroached upon his personal space and property. He was proud and protective of his home. Even as a bachelor, he had taken great pains to have a designer’s flair to his house and accessorize it accordingly. There were also distinct signs of a woman’s touch, the result of having lived with Whitney for over two years.

  The time with her had been fun and exciting, but unfortunately, it had been self-evident to both of them that they were not compatible for the long haul. They arrived at the decision to go their separate ways almost simultaneously, and she moved back to Tampa shortly thereafter to resume her career in broadcast television.

  That was five months ago, and now, the only beautiful woman he had met in that time was probably responsible for the destruction his house endured last night. He had wracked his brain late into the morning hours, searching for someone to fix the blame on. He was determined to confront Courtney Lewis and find out what her, or her father and his friend’s involvement might be, just as soon as his mind and body had two Advil, a hot shower, cup of coffee, and breakfast… in that order.

  He also couldn’t discount Dr. Karl as maybe having been involved, but why would an old college professor have an interest in a potential art discovery. No, with the Lewis’ background, Ferguson reasoned the art connection lay with them or them. He rolled out of bed and stripped off his boxers as he headed to the medicine cabinet and the shower.

  The combination of Ibuprofen, steaming water, liquid caffeine, and food had worked wonders mentally, physically and emotionally. Ferguson had rummaged through his briefcase and found the business card to Courtney Lewis he had saved from their meeting at Dr. Karl’s office. He went to the other bedroom that functioned as his office, picked up the phone, and suppressing his anger dialed the number on the card.

  “Speed Art Museum, Miss Lewis’ office,” came a very pleasant voice.

  “Is she in please?”

  “No, I’m afraid she’s out of the office until about two o’clock. Can I take a message please?”

  “Yes please. Tell her that Matt Ferguson will be in her office at 2:01 to discuss the results of our meeting yesterday.” Ferguson was short, but cordial.

  “Mr. Ferguson, she has some other meetings this afternoon that may prevent her from being available, I doubt she’ll be able to fit you in today.” The smooth voice was doing her best to cover for Courtney, having sensed the tension in Ferguson’s voice, and not recognizing his name at all. “Why don’t you leave a number and I’ll…”

  Ferguson cut her off, “She’ll see me! Thanks!” He hung up before another word was uttered.

  1400 Willows Tower was one of Louisville’s premier addresses. Located in the heart of Cherokee Park, it was one of the oldest and most affluent residential towers, in one of the oldest and most dynamic areas in town. Courtney loved living in the Willows, which offered her the cosmopolitan setting she had become accustomed to in her years of travel, and placed her conveniently close to the city’s most prolific restaurant and bar scene that lined nearby Bardstown Road for several blocks.

  Courtney’s ninth floor apartment was decorated remarkably like a contemporary art museum. Other than the two bedrooms and baths, there were no walls to speak of. It was one large open floor plan with whitewashed walls, and light colored hardwood floors. The walls were dotted with a wide variety of paintings, each highlighted spectacularly by various cannoned lights that were controlled by a large panel next to the front door. The furniture was sparse and contemporary, and was broken into spaces, defined by rugs and structural columns with ornate Romanesque moldings. Interspersed, in no particular pattern, were a half dozen incredible sculptures, including one bronze nude that was at least two times scale and had to be assembled at it’s present location.

  Courtney stood in her robe behind a large granite counter that separated the kitchen from the rest of the open space, finishing her espresso and listening to Joan Bullock on the speakerphone explain the strange phone call she had just received from a ‘Matt Ferguson’.

  “. . . if you don’t want to come in today, I’ll make up some excuse for you.” Courtney’s secretary finished up.

  “No, no. I do want to meet with him. It’s okay, really! I’m sorry, I should have told you before, but that’s the fellow I flew to Chicago with yesterday. I’ll be in there a little before 2:00 in case he shows up early.”

  “He was really short, he sounded upset or angry. I’d be very careful.”

  “Thanks Joan. Really, he’s fine. I’m not sure why he would come across that way with you. He’s been very polite. He’s actually very cute.”

  “Well, not on the phone he isn’t!” There was a slight pause for effect. “I’ll see you this afternoon then.”

  “Yep! Thanks again Joan for watching out for me, I appreciate it. I’ll be fine. See you after lunch.”

  Courtney could barely control her exuberance as she hung up the phone. What additional help does he need? Does he need my help? This could be the find of a lifetime! I’d love to discuss it further over dinner. He is quite attractive.

  She picked up her cup of espresso and headed to the shower, her head pounding from yesterday’s marathon day in Chicago, followed by an evening of dinner, drinks and dancing with Sheikh Makmoud and his entourage.

  The shower and espresso had provided their magic and Courtney felt like a new woman. She had pranced around the bathroom naked while she administered her make-up and dried her hair, periodically examining her reflection in the mirror over the sink and analyzing the small flaws in her body that didn’t seem to be there a few short years ago. She slipped on a silk robe and went out to the nook in the living room that served as her office. She sat down at the glass-topped table and turned on the laptop computer, determined to finish up some work and answer e-mails before heading to the museum.

  Two hours later, she entered her walk-in closet and went right to the outfit she had decided upon in the shower. She pulled from the hanger an Escada two-piece suit, sophisticated, but tailored and low cut enough to accentuate her feminine assets. She slipped on a pair of Gucci pumps, teased at her hair for some body, and re-examined herself in the full-length mirror. That ought to get his attention, she thought to herself.

  She returned to the kitchen, called her office, punched in the appropriate numbers, and listened to the four voicemail messages. Nothing of any consequence. She headed out the front door and took the elevator to the parking garage. She climbed in, turned over the black Porsche 911 and headed out of the garage into traffic toward what she believed was going to be a very interesting afternoon, and hopefully evening.

  Julio Bolivar closed the detective mystery book he had been reading to kill time while he waited for Courtney Lewis to emerge from her residence. When the black Porsche appeared out from under the Tower, a single beep on the one-way phone alerted Carlos Garagua in the white Taurus rental car parked thirty feet away in front of one of the park’s multitude of children’s playgrounds.

  Bolivar stood up from the park bench, tucked his book under his arm, and signaled to Garagua as he pulled away from the curb and settled in comfortably behind Courtney as she sped away. Bolivar slipped his suit coat onto his broad-shoulder frame, straightened up his hand-made silk tie, and ran his fingers straight back through his thick black hair. He had been sitting on the bench, in the shade for the better part of two hours. He had been in town less than twelve hours.
r />   Bolivar had dropped what he was doing, as he always did, when Guillermo Rocca called from Chicago, and flown in early that morning with Garagua on Rocca’s personal Gulfstream 300 jet. He had been Rocca’s right-hand man, and at 31, more like a son to Rocca. He was eternally grateful to Mr. Rocca for having sought and recognized his technological expertise and intelligence gathering savvy, plucking him out of the Ecuadorian military intelligence service, and offering him a lifestyle that he could never have achieved elsewhere. In return he was totally committed to Mr. Rocca, was willing to do anything for him, and had proved it several times. Armed with a few tidbits of information, he had developed all the background knowledge he needed to create and maintain a tight surveillance of Miss Courtney Lewis.

  As he crossed the side street, he opened the door to another rental, a silver Chrysler Concorde, tossed in his book and retrieved a logo’d retail bag. Walking into the lobby of the tower, he handed the security guard a Verizon Wireless business card that identified him as a local sales representative.

  “I have a new phone I’m delivering to Courtney Lewis in 901.” Bolivar said confidently as he opened up the plastic bag with a phone and several other accessories inside.

  “Go on up.” responded the guard, without a trace of hesitation or concern. He sat back down behind the desk and picked up his own novel, the latest best seller from Tom Clancy.

  “Thank you.” said Bolivar, as he walked down the corridor and into an open elevator. He punched in the seventh floor, a sigh of relief that the guard must not have seen Courtney leave several minutes before.

  It took only seconds for Bolivar to pick the deadbolt lock to Courtney’s front door, and he slipped inside unobserved. He went straight to the telephone behind the kitchen counter, removed the back cover and inserted a small bug inside. He replaced the phone and crossed over to open living space, nodding his head in appreciation. He spotted the large sculpture and ran his hands over the entwined pair of naked female bodies. It was a perfect spot for another bug, well hidden under the cupped hand of one of the groping participants.

  He repeated the same process on a lamp in the bedroom and then beeped again for Garagua on the one-way.

  “Yeah boss?”

  “You still have the girl?”

  “Yeah, I think she’s headed for her office.”

  “Good, don’t lose her. Also, switch on the receiver. We’re live, I need a reading.”

  Garagua leaned over to the passenger seat and flipped on the switches to the equipment stacked in the seat. “Go boss.”

  “Test, test, test.” Bolivar walked from the bedroom into the living room. “Test, test.”

  “Loud and clear boss.”

  “Good, let’s try the phone.” Bolivar picked up the phone, and waited for the dial tone.

  “That one’s good, too,” came the reply over the one-way.

  “Excellent, I’m heading for some lunch. Call me when she gets to where she’s going and I’ll drive over to you and pick up the equipment. You can stay on the girl.”

  “You got it boss.”

  Bolivar walked out of the tower into the warm sunshine, took a left toward the park and decided to walk toward Bardstown Road and lunch.

  The pasta special at The Comeback Inn was incredible as usual, coupled with the glass of merlot, it had taken some of the edge off Ferguson’s anger. He was still mad, but he decided on a long lunch to determine his line of thought and how he would proceed in the conversation he was about to undertake with Courtney Lewis.

  He wanted to make certain that she was aware of the danger that she put him in, the damage to his personal property, and that she was no longer to involve herself in any way, shape, or form. If there was even a hint of somebody or something that had the remotest connection to the letter, he was going to the police.

  He checked his watch. It was 1:28. He signaled the waitress for the check, paid, and headed for the car.

  The administrative offices for the Speed Museum are on the third floor of the main gallery building located on South Third Street adjacent to the University of Louisville’s Belknap campus. Ferguson had to pass through a security gate at the front entrance, receiving instructions on where the offices were and where to park. He wound his way around the large, pillared structure to an adjoining parking garage, and entered.

  He followed the ramps up three levels and found a spot on the exterior next to a beautiful, black Porsche 911convertible. He exited the Explorer, thumbed the lock button on his keyless entry remote, the locking mechanism responding with a chirp, and stole an admiring glance at the Porsche as he headed for the door leading into the museum. Inside, on the third floor, he had to take one last pass at a security guard seated behind an unassuming desk, and then he made a right turn at the end of a short hall into the well-appointed waiting room.

  “May I help you?” The petite, blond receptionist looked at Ferguson as he approached her desk.

  Yes, I have an appointment with Courtney Lewis,” said Ferguson cordially.

  “Your name?”

  “Matt Ferguson.”

  “Thank you!”

  She dialed in an extension on the phone console and announced Ferguson to Courtney when she answered.

  “She’ll be with you in just a minute. You may have a seat if you like,” motioning to the chairs and loveseats behind him.

  Before he could find the time to locate a seat, Courtney Lewis emerged from the only hallway that led from the reception area.

  “Good to see you again Matt!” Courtney smiled affectionately.

  “Miss Lewis.”

  “Please, come on back to my office.”

  “Thank you.” Ferguson dropped the magazine he had picked up on the coffee table in the waiting area and accompanied Courtney as she pivoted and retreated down the hall.

  “Please hold my calls Joan.”

  They walked in silence past three offices and a conference room and entered the second to last door on the left. Courtney could feel the tension, and tried to break it as she offered him one of the two brown leather chairs that faced each other in front of the modest Queen Anne’s desk. “Please, have a seat.”

  “May I shut the door?” Ferguson asked. “What I have to say should be in private.” He reached for the door, while Courtney moved to seat herself in the other available chair.

  “Absolutely. Should we sit?”

  “If you’d like. What I have to say won’t take long.”

  Courtney could feel the agitation in his voice. This meeting was not heading in the direction she was expecting. “Would you like something to drink… coffee, a soft drink?” She was grasping at anything to cut the tension that had settled in the air.

  “Miss Lewis, up until twenty-four hours ago, there were only eight people that knew about the letter outlining the possible whereabouts, of what could potentially be one of the art world’s find of a lifetime. One was my uncle, and he’s dead. The second would be me. The third is an old professor, with no apparent knowledge of the artwork under consideration. The other five are you, your father, and his three associates, all with an accomplished understanding of art, and the impact that a discovery of this magnitude might generate.

  “I mentioned twenty-four hours, because since then there is at least one other person who knows, and was willing to try and kill me to recover that letter.”

  Courtney’s eyebrows rose, and a slight tinge of disbelief ran through her body. Before she could even respond, Ferguson pushed on.

  “He was successful in obtaining a copy of one side of the letter, detailing the list of works, but not the map indicating the crash site. In the process of destroying quite a bit of my home and personal property, he damn near cut me in half.” Ferguson’s voice was beginning to rise with the anger that was returning, as he was reliving the previous night’s
episode.

  “There are only six people that could have been responsible for leaking the contents of the letter, or deliberately orchestrating the theft of the letter itself. And I’ve come to the conclusion it wasn’t Dr. Karl.”

  Courtney’s jaw dropped, hung for an instant, and then returned to meet her top teeth in a clench, as she started to flush with anger.

  “Wait just a damn minute. Are you accusing me of trying to arrange for someone to steal the letter from you, and have you knocked off in the process? You’ve lost your mind!”

  Ferguson was slightly taken aback at the outburst. “Well explain to me then how a complete stranger breaks into my house and is after one thing and one thing only. How does he have any idea what to look for? And I’m having a real hard time pinning this one to the good professor.”

  “So, without a shred of evidence, you put the finger on me!” Courtney was livid. “I think it’s time for you to leave!”

  “Not until I found out if anyone else knows about the letter. I am not going anywhere until I get some answers from you as to whom you and your father spoke to. I would like to know more about Allen, Hancock and the other one’s name. Who the hell were those folks, and I why am I to believe your Dad when he says he trusts them. I want some answers, otherwise I’m going back to the police, tell them everything, and implicate you and your and father.”

  “Paul Keeney is the other, and I haven’t spoken to anyone!” However, before she could get the last word out, she realized that she did not know much about the other three. She also had taken her father at his word. Her wandering eyes gave her away.

  “Who’s the no one that you just remembered.”

  “It can’t be… my dad wouldn’t do anything like that.”

  “Your father?”

  “He’s an art expert, he knows history, and I can trust him to keep his mouth shut. He can’t be responsible!” Courtney’s anger was turning to anguish.