All Lies Read online

  I sat down at the kitchen table and inspected the package more closely. It was definitely old. Although originally well-sealed, the yellowed tape along the edges had come away from the cardboard and it looked as if it had been opened once or twice since the original sealing. I pulled back on the cardboard and found something rectangular wrapped in butcher paper, but not taped. Obviously a book, it was about twelve inches long, by eight inches wide. What struck me was its thickness—almost five inches.

  Enough suspense. I took off the paper, only to reveal a plumber's manual. A 1933 updated edition, no less. To say I felt let down would be putting it mildly. I was expecting something other than that. Anything other than that. Something old and ornate, or something with obvious value.

  Then I stopped. 1933. I had assumed all along, due mostly to Izzy's questions about my grandfather, that whatever was going on had to do with him. But my grandfather would have only been about thirteen in 1933. Could this have actually come from my great-grandfather?

  I opened the book, more out of frustration than curiosity, and suddenly it all became clear. The book was hollowed out! In the hollow space was a yellowed letter-size envelope. It had once been sealed, but over the years most of the glue had disappeared. There were two small spots that had remained connected, but it looked as if someone had pulled them apart. Had someone else opened it? I carefully opened the envelope, dumping the meager contents on the table. There were a total of three paper items, two of which were so fragile I was afraid to unfold them. The third was a small postcard-sized paper from an art gallery in Fairfield, Iowa, called the Simpson Gallery, acknowledging receipt of a painting by Lando Ford on loan. It said it was loaned by a Bruce Honeycutt. My great-grandfather?

  That made no sense at all. Fairfield, Iowa? Where the hell was Fairfield, Iowa, and why would my great-grandfather have gone there? And who was Lando Ford?

  Next I unfolded a hand-written letter. Robert, There were three of us involved… I stopped.

  Already I could tell that it was going to make as little sense as the other paper, so I put it down and unfolded the final piece of paper. It was actually two pages. A newspaper article from the New York Times from May 2, 1933:

  Art Thieves Raid Brooklyn Museum ~ Ten Old Masters, Eight From Friedsam Collection, Taken During Week-End ~ World Alarm Is Sent Out ~ Dangling Rope Is Left By The Invaders ~ Fingerprints Of Two Found On Window

  A daring week-end theft of paintings from the Brooklyn Museum was revealed yesterday by Dr. William H. Fox, director of that institution, who asked the police to broadcast an international alarm for the thieves and their loot.

  Ten paintings, eight of them from the valuable collection of the late Colonel Michael Friedsam, were taken from the fifth floor galleries. They were valued at about $35,000 and were not insured.

  A sixty-foot length of rope, knotted fast to a newel post on the fourth floor of the building at the Washington Avenue end and extending to the ground, gave a hint of the manner in which the thieves escaped. Fingerprints on the window sill indicated that two men committed the crime, the most sensational of its kind in years.

  The article went on to describe the paintings that were taken, including one each by Rubens and Van Dyck. I had never heard of any of the others—and had barely heard of those two. The article also mentioned that the thieves probably snuck in while the museum was open and hid behind statues or in dark corners. They were able to avoid the eight security guards on duty that night. Rather than being cut from the frames and rolled, the wood panels had been pried whole from their frames and the pictures carried out on their "stretchers." Since most of the paintings were reasonably small, the thieves were able to escape with them pretty easily.

  I opened my laptop and Googled the art heist. There wasn't a lot about it, but the little bit I found indicated that it was still considered an unsolved mystery. Of the ten paintings, four were later recovered—supposedly a botched ransom demand. The other six were never found, and the thieves were never identified.

  I went back to the letter and began reading it again. I assumed Robert was his son, my grandfather: Robert, There were three of us involved, not two. Tony, Mikey, and me. Four if you count John. I helped plan it, but I didn't do the actual heist. And there were eleven paintings stolen, not ten. It was the eleventh one we were after. The special one. They were only supposed to get that one, but I guess they got greedy. Too bad. It got Mikey killed. That painting is dangerous. There's a fortune down there, but I don't know exactly where John hid it. And now he's probably dead too. You need to get the painting first. It'll help you find where the treasure is hidden. If you want to try for the treasure, you can, but be warned: A lot of people have died because of it. The slip shows where the painting is. There are eggs, too. They might be the most valuable of all. You'll understand when you see them. Maybe by the time you read this people will have forgotten about it. Good luck but be careful.

  Treasure? Fortune? Eggs? I knew without a shadow of a doubt that this is what Izzy was looking for. It also meant that the people who killed Izzy were also looking for it.

  This wasn't just any painting.

  Chapter 4

  I had nothing but questions. It had been over eighty years since the heist. Why now? Had some new information come to light? Why did the official report state that ten paintings had been stolen, when in fact it was eleven? Was something being covered up? If my great-grandfather was so anxious to get rid of it, why leave a note for his son to find later? Why not just be done with it?

  It suddenly dawned on me that I had to go to work in the morning. I made a copy of the article and put the original back in the envelope inside the book. The gallery receipt and letter I kept. Then I carefully wrapped the book and put it back in the cardboard, then set it on my bookshelf. My thinking was that if someone broke in, they were going to ransack the place looking for it. But if they found it with little trouble, they might leave without doing too much damage. By putting the original article back in, they might think that was all there was. It was worth a try.

  I got to work the next morning at my usual time of 7:00, and was immediately overwhelmed by a feeling of stagnation. I hadn't liked my job for many years, but I had never had this sensation. I suddenly had thoughts of quitting, this time without the accompanying fear of the unknown. Really, how much worse off could I be? I'd have the freedom to look for something interesting. I had always been frugal, and had accumulated enough in my savings to keep me going for a while. And now, with my father's house, I could either sell it or take out a mortgage on it and use the cash to live on. No matter how I looked at it, there were no downsides to quitting. I would just have to find the right time to quit, and then would give my notice.

  The right time came at 9:30 when I got a call from my alarm company that the burglar alarm in my apartment had just gone off. I told them I was on my way. Upon leaving the office, I found myself grabbing a few of my personal belongings. This was my notice. I was never coming back. How easy was that?

  I got to the T station with a mixture of elation and fear. The fear part had more to do with how much damage I'd find in my apartment. I didn't keep any cash in there—not that that was what they'd be looking for—and my gun safe was in a secure place, so it was more a question of how quickly they would find the package and leave. Luckily, with the alarm screeching at them, they wouldn't be long. And God help them if Mo was home. She and Seymour each had a key to my apartment, and the last person in the world I would want to see bursting through a door and coming at me would be Mo.

  I arrived at the Orient Heights T station near my apartment and ran all the way to my building. There was a police car out front and one of the cops was talking to Seymour, who looked bullshit to have to be out of his apartment. He barely said anything to me as I approached. He probably figured it was my fault that he had to be questioned.

  I identified myself and was led up the stairs by the cop. Seymour was right behind us and veered off into his apartment witho
ut a word, slamming the door behind him.

  "Pleasant guy," said the cop.

  "You should see him when he's unhappy," I answered.

  "The woman downstairs," he looked at his notes, "a Molly Peters, is up in your apartment with my partner. She says she's not leaving until you get home. Said she's part of some neighborhood watch and it's her job to remain until you arrive."

  I smiled. Her idea of the neighborhood was our building.

  "She says the perpetrator was already gone by the time she got there."

  "Lucky for him," I said.

  We reached the third floor landing and were greeted by the cop's partner.

  "It's all yours," he said sullenly, brushing past us. "I'll be in the car."

  The cop with me looked at his partner's back as he headed down the stairs.

  "What's with him?" he muttered.

  I knew immediately what it was. He had tried to hit on Mo and she put him in his place. Mo got that a lot. She was quite attractive: average height, jet black long hair—I never knew whether it was natural or dyed—and a great body. She had massive muscles, but not the bodybuilder type, and I could easily see how she appealed to a certain kind of guy, like a cop. The funny thing was that her lover was a petite thing with curly blonde hair. She reminded me of Little Bo Peep.

  "Hey, Mo, thanks for watching the place."

  "My pleasure. This is the first burglary we've had around here in a while. I'm surprised. I can't see that anything was taken though."

  I looked over at the bookshelf. The package was gone. The cop was on his radio, so I whispered to Mo, "I know what's going on. I'll tell you later."

  She raised her eyebrows, nodded, and headed out the door.

  I quickly looked around the apartment and checked my gun safe in the bedroom. Everything seemed fine. The only thing missing was the package. No real damage had been done to the place, except for the broken door leading out to the fire escape. Time to call another carpenter.

  "Anything missing that you can see?" asked the cop.

  I lied. "No. Doesn't look like they got anything."

  Interesting how things had changed. Just the day before I was ready to spill my guts and give my life story if they wanted it. Now, I was realizing that this wasn't a police matter. It was something in a completely different realm. Maybe I wasn't as intimidated as I thought.

  The police quickly lost interest and were gone within minutes. I looked around my now quiet apartment and took a deep breath. In twenty-four hours, my life had completely changed. It wasn't so much the specific events, although they certainly jump-started the whole thing. It was more that for almost the first time, something exciting had happened in my life and I was embracing it. I just wasn't quite sure what to do with it all.

  My cell phone buzzed. A text, and I knew who it was from without looking. It would be my boss asking when I was coming back in. Sure enough, it was. How about this, asshole, never. That's what I would have liked to respond. However, I had a little more class than that. Obviously not enough to actually give notice, though.

  I responded, "A major personal situation has just come up that I have to take care of, and I'm afraid I have to make today my last day on the job. Sorry for the inconvenience."

  The predicted obscenity-laden response appeared two minutes later. I'd have to remember to contact the HR department about payment for my vast amount of unused vacation time. I took a minute to send a group text to all of the employees under me—a more personal version of the text I sent my boss. I also let them know that I would contact them individually when time permitted. Somehow though, I knew I wouldn't. As of about 9:30 that morning, the job, and everything—and everyone—connected to it ceased to exist for me.

  Mo knocked on my door and let herself in. I offered her a beer and we sat at my kitchen table, where I told her the whole story, leaving nothing out. I always found Mo easy to talk to, despite me being a little intimidated by her attractiveness and—more so—by her ability to break me in two. The funny thing about Mo was her job. One would think by looking at her that she ran a gym or a security agency. No, she was a second-grade teacher in the Boston Public School system. And, from what I heard, a pretty awesome teacher at that. I was glad that today was a holiday and she was home for me to talk to. I needed to bounce this off someone, and I didn't want to involve my mother any more than I already had.

  "Shit," was her response to it all. "The good thing to come out of this is that you quit that fucking job. How long have I been telling you just to quit?"

  "Well, you moved in six years ago. So, six years."

  "You bet your ass."

  "Do you talk like that in front of your second-graders?"

  "Absolutely. It's a new plan I instituted. 'Swear word a day.' I've had great success with it. In truth, I'm so sweet there, if anyone—including the other teachers—heard me swear, I think they'd have a stroke."

  "So you save it all for me."

  "Hey, that's what friends are for. So, what's your plan?"

  "I don't know," I answered. "I guess I'll start looking for another job."

  "No, I mean about all this shit."

  "I don't know. What can I do? I figured that when they stole the book, it'd be pretty much over."

  "And that's it? You're not going to pursue it?"

  "I'm certainly curious, but I wouldn't know where to start."

  "Oh, c'mon Del. I always thought you were smarter than that. Do what Izzy wanted you to do. Research your great-grandfather. Research your grandfather. Research that old gallery in Fair-fucking-field, Iowa. Research Izzy. Find out where she was really from. Try to find out why she would know something about your family. There are all kinds of things you can do. You've got your freedom. You said you have money in the bank. You have your dad's house to fall back on. For the first time since I've known you, you've got some life to you."

  "Why does everyone say that?"

  "Because it's true. Let's face it, Del. Your life kinda sucked. All you had was your work, and that was a real prize. Your life has been going nowhere. And now you've been handed something exciting. Follow it up. This could turn out to be quite the adventure."

  With that rationale in place, the decision was easy. "Okay, I'll do it."

  I thought back to my father's final comment. Like my relatives before me, I had now made a choice. The question was, would I be continuing the Honeycutt curse or breaking it?

  Chapter 5

  Mo was gone and I was still sitting at my table, feeling like a deer-in-the-headlights. She was right. I had taken back my freedom, and if I couldn't do anything with it, then I was a real sad case. I should be jumping at the chance to solve this mystery. She was also right that Izzy was on track about one thing: I should know something about my lineage. Granted, my situation was a bit different from some. My father never knew his father, and my grandfather was a young teenager when his father died. There wasn't a lot of information that was passed down, so I couldn't really blame my father for not talking about it.

  It was time to get started. I made a list of all the angles that I needed to cover. I realized that there were a few people to research, so subscribing to Ancestry.com would be my second order of business. My first would be to go back to my father's house and spend some more time in the attic. There had to be something else up there.

  However, that first order of business turned out to be something entirely different. My door buzzer went off and I jumped out of my chair, banging my knee on the table. After the robberies, it seems I had become a little nervous. I limped over to the window and looked down. Whoever was at the door was under the overhang, but I didn't see anyone who looked suspicious hanging back from the door. I pressed the intercom.

  "Hello?"

  A woman's voice. "I'm sorry to bother you. Is this Delmore Honeycutt?"

  "Um, yeah. Can I help you?"

  "My name is Sabrina Spencer. I think you knew my sister, Izzy. I'm wondering if I could talk to you."

 
Oh great, there was another one.

  "Uh, sure. Give me a minute and I'll come down."

  I made my way into my bedroom and opened my gun safe. I pulled out my Sig Sauer .40 and stuck it in my belt behind my back. She might be alone, but she might not be.

  A word about my gun. When I moved to East Boston, everyone I knew who lived in the city told me to take a gun course and get my firearm concealed-carry permit, then go out and buy a gun. If I was going to live in East Boston, I was going to need one. At first I thought they were joking, but after my first month there, and suddenly realizing that I didn't even notice the police sirens anymore, I decided to take it seriously. I took the course, got my permit, and bought a gun. I was told that for home protection, a revolver was my best choice, but I thought the semi-auto looked cooler, and hey, I had my license, so I could buy what I wanted. I had been to the gun range a half a dozen times over the past ten years, and I had renewed my license when it came due, but in reality, I was a terrible shot. Carrying it with me to meet Izzy's sister gave me a little confidence though, so it was worth it.

  I got to the bottom of the stairs and could see through the opaque glass that she was alone. I still opened the door cautiously, just to be safe.

  I almost fell over. She was stunning! She wasn't fashion model beautiful, but my kind of beautiful. She had a natural look about her, with little or no makeup. Wavy auburn hair flowed to her shoulder blades, the red tint gleaming in the sun. She was about 5'5" with a body to kill for—an expression that had more meaning of late. She smiled, revealing an ever-so-slightly crooked front tooth that somehow just enhanced her beauty.

  "Um…" My mind had gone blank.

  "Delmore?" she asked.

  "Uh…" C'mon, get it together. "Del. You can call me Del." Was she used to this kind of reaction? If she was, she didn't show it. She had a combination of innocence and strength about her. She probably knew how beautiful she was, but it was almost like she didn't care.