The Malhoa Connection Read online

  Estelle Ryan

  The

  Malhoa Connection

  A decades-old crime. A torment not forgiven. Ice-cold revenge.

  When a prolific international criminal takes one of Doctor Genevieve Lenard’s friends hostage in his own flat, she is hard pushed to believe his motivation. Calling on her expertise as a nonverbal communications specialist, she sees the genuine fear and desperation behind this thief’s blustering demand to help him stop the Collector.

  For almost a year, the Collector has evaded Genevieve and her team, leaving behind a trail of stolen artworks, burned-down museums and blown-up galleries. And innocent victims.

  Grudgingly cooperating with this thief and his associates, Genevieve and her team track the Collector to the cobbled alleyways of Lisbon, Portugal, where they have only one chance to stop this merciless killer from exacting revenge that took decades to plan—an action that would have an irreversible political and economic impact on a global scale.

  Contents

  The Malhoa Connection

  Chapter ONE

  Chapter TWO

  Chapter THREE

  Chapter FOUR

  Chapter FIVE

  Chapter SIX

  Chapter SEVEN

  Chapter EIGHT

  Chapter NINE

  Chapter TEN

  Chapter ELEVEN

  Chapter TWELVE

  Chapter THIRTEEN

  Chapter FOURTEEN

  Chapter FIFTEEN

  Chapter SIXTEEN

  Chapter SEVENTEEN

  Chapter EIGHTEEN

  Chapter NINETEEN

  Chapter TWENTY

  Chapter TWENTY-ONE

  Chapter TWENTY-TWO

  Chapter TWENTY-THREE

  Chapter TWENTY-FOUR

  The Malhoa Connection

  A Genevieve Lenard Novel

  By Estelle Ryan

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First published 2021

  Copyright © 2021 by Estelle Ryan

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is purely incidental.

  Chapter ONE

  “FREY?” COLONEL MANFRED Millard stepped over a burned chair and waited until Colin looked at him. “Tell me about this Molola. Do we care about him?”

  “Malhoa. José Malhoa.” Colin huffed in annoyance, then straightened from where he’d been using a pen to lift burned papers from the scorched wooden desk. My romantic partner, teammate and an international thief was always irritated when Manny mispronounced important names.

  We were in the consulate general of Portugal in Strasbourg. Two nights ago, a fire had ravaged the interior of the building, destroying or severely damaging everything in the consulate. It was only when the embassy in Paris revealed that fourteen valuable artworks had been stored here that we’d been contacted.

  The art theft and consequent fire matched the pattern of crimes we’d connected to the Collector—a ruthless criminal we’d been investigating for more than a year. We still hadn’t found any actionable leads that could lead to an arrest. Or even an identity.

  Of the fourteen artworks in the consulate general, eleven had been found in the rubble, damaged beyond repair. Those had been sculptures and modern artworks. Three paintings were missing. Stolen. This was the Collector’s modus operandi. Especially since one of the paintings perfectly fitted the pattern of stealing paintings from a specific era.

  The José Malhoa painting.

  Colin turned to look at Manny. “Yes, Millard, we care about Malhoa. We care a lot. José Malhoa represented the naturalism movement in Portugal. He died in 1933 at the age of seventy-eight. The Drunks is one of his most famous works. Another one, Autumn, had a slight impressionist influence, but he always remained faithful to the naturalist style. There are hotels and museums named after Malhoa, so yes, he is important. The loss of The Drunks is a travesty.”

  As always when Colin talked about artists and art, his face became more animated. Focusing on this important development in our case took my mind off the ash on my boots, the horrid smell and the utter destruction surrounding us on the first floor of this three-storey building in the heart of Strasbourg.

  “Doc, have you seen enough?” Manny was in an exceptionally bad mood this morning. He hadn’t wanted to come to this crime scene, but had finally agreed when I’d insisted.

  Apart from our run in with the Collector in Croatia a year ago, this was the first crime scene that I’d been able to see in person. The other twelve bombings and arsons of museums and art galleries had all taken place in non-European countries. That in itself had me wondering about this fire. In Europe. In the city where we resided.

  I wouldn’t put it past to Collector to do something as strategic as that. And also to toy with us. That was another pattern I’d noticed in the Collector’s actions—the enjoyment of playing games with people. I hadn’t expected to find anything significant at this crime scene. But I wanted to be here for the off chance it would trigger an insight that could lead us to the Collector.

  “Doc!” Manny walked closer, kicking up ashes. “Can we bloody leave now?”

  I nodded. I’d seen enough. “There isn’t much left here.”

  “That’s what I told you when you insisted on coming.” His attention shifted from me to a man who’d entered the conference room we were in. The middle-aged man was heading the arson investigation and the expression on his face showed his interest in our presence. Manny grunted. “Let me deal with this. Wait for me by the cars.”

  Colin shook his head and held out his hand. “Shall we?”

  “Where is Vinnie?” I took Colin’s hand.

  “He joined Francine.”

  Francine had been quite vocal about coming with us. Until she’d stepped into the foyer of the consulate general. Then she’d declared there was no way she was going to put her precious Bruno Magli stiletto boots into that ‘muck’. She’d retreated to the SUV, her tablet already in her hand.

  An annoying sound brought me out of my musings. I looked at my handbag, then frowned at Colin. “Really?”

  Colin had changed the ringtone of my smartphone. Again. A man was singing about being happy. Even though it was an upbeat tune, I was relieved when it ended.

  “But Jenny, this is one of the many ways I prove how deep my love is for you.” His smile was filled with mischief.

  “It doesn’t matter how many times you say that, it doesn’t make sense.” The phone started ringing again and I took it from its usual place in my handbag, looked at the screen and swiped to the right. “Bree.”

  “Finally!” She paused dramatically, then sighed when I didn’t respond. “I’ve been phoning you for hours.”

  “You called me twice.”

  She snorted. “I know. I’m just pulling your leg.”

  “Why did you phone?” As much as I enjoyed Gabriella Reuben’s exuberance and valued her friendship, I wanted to get back to our team room so I could think about the implication of the Malhoa being stolen in our city.

  “Not in a chatty mood? Okay.” She hummed softly. “Is it the Collector? You still haven’t found him?”

  “No.” I walked into the pleasant spring day and stood on the sidewalk. The outside of this building had been painted a horrid light pink, which was now marred by streaks of black from the smoke escaping the windows. This whole section of the sidewalk and street had been t
aped off by the police.

  Our SUV and Manny’s sedan were parked next to each other on the street, inside the perimeter. Vinnie was leaning against our SUV and I shuddered when I thought about the dirt being transferred to his jeans. Francine was on the backseat, her laptop on her lap and her tablet next to her. I nodded at Vinnie and turned my attention back to the phone conversation when Bree called my name for a third time.

  “I’m here.”

  “So? Have you found any more intel on the Collector since the last time we spoke?”

  “No.” I hated that this was my answer.

  “You’re really not in a chatty mood, are you? Never you mind. You know I can chat enough for the both of us.” She laughed when I groaned.

  Bree had entered our lives two years ago when she’d helped us with a case in Prague. She was an exceptional investigative journalist and had become a good friend. She’d once told me that our team had become her third family. Her blood relatives lived in England, her brother in London, working for Scotland Yard. Her second, not-blood-related, family was in Düsseldorf, where she’d made her home after a co-worker from her previous job had outed her as transgender in a media interview and sensationalised it.

  “I’m frustrated with our lack of progress.” I sighed. “Two weeks ago, the Collector set fire to a Museum of Modern Art.”

  “No! Where?”

  “Salvador, Brazil. This time the people working for the Collector didn’t even wait for the evening. They set the fire at the height of the museum’s daily visits. Three tourists and five schoolchildren from a youth group died in the fire.”

  “Shit.” She was quiet for a moment. “What did they take this time?”

  “It’s been hard to determine how many paintings were taken. But they estimate at least seventy.” Neither I nor anyone else on my team had drawn a single useful connection between the stolen paintings we’d traced back to the Collector and the stolen artefacts that had first led us to this criminal. It was entirely possible there were more we weren’t aware of. Usually, I insisted on more data. But the artworks stolen during crimes with the Collector’s modus operandi had become so numerous, it was becoming a hindrance in finding a link—anything—that could lead us to the Collector.

  “Am I hearing cars?” Bree paused. “I am. Where are you?”

  “Outside another crime scene.”

  “Way to bury the lede, girl. What crime scene? Tell me, tell me.”

  I told her about the fire in the consulate general as well as the stolen art.

  “Okay, wait. Let me get this straight.” She cleared her throat. “This Collector idiot has already bombed seven million museums, set another five million on fire, caused ten million gas explosions and in the process how many people died?”

  I winced. “You are extremely inaccurate, Bree.”

  She sniffed. “Then correct me.”

  “The case we investigated last year revealed the bombings of two museums, two fires, one gas explosion and the bombings he’d planned for the ship and church in Rovinj.”

  “Those bombings you stopped.”

  I shuddered. I avoided recalling the paralysing fear I’d experienced when I’d come face to face with the person who’d been doing the Collector’s bidding. “You also have it wrong that the Collector committed these crimes.”

  “You’re being too literal. In my opinion he lit the fuse when he blackmailed people into these vicious and violent crimes.” She grunted. “Casualties?”

  “Thirty-seven.” The word came out hoarse. At least there had been no casualties in the consulate general. I cleared my throat. “The bombings also injured a lot of people, many of whose injuries were life-changing.”

  “Fucker.”

  That expletive had been used more and more frequently by my teammates the longer it took us to locate and stop the Collector. I exhaled heavily and walked closer to the SUV. “The six crimes we found connected to more modern paintings did not have any casualties. Not until the fire in Brazil that destroyed not only a historical site dating back to the sixteenth century, but also an unknown number of priceless artworks on display. Eight people died.”

  “I’m so sorry, Genevieve.” She cleared her throat. “Maybe a distraction will help.”

  “No.”

  “That’s your answer for everything today.” Her smile was audible in her voice.

  “It’s the only appropriate answer.” One of the many things I enjoyed about Bree was that she didn’t look for hidden meanings in my behaviour and words. She was unusual for a neurotypical individual.

  “Well, tough. I’m going to distract you even if you don’t want it.”

  “I really don’t.”

  “That’s why I sent the email to Francine. I know she won’t be able to resist the temptation of a juicy scandal that includes a filthy-rich Angolan heiress and stolen goodies.”

  I sighed. My best friend, our team’s IT expert, loved ‘juicy scandals’. Bree and Francine had that in common. “You are devious.”

  “Ooh, thank you.” Her tone was light with laughter. “There’s no deadline or urgency to the stuff I sent. I’m sure Colin will be interested in the artist mentioned.”

  “Why aren’t you looking into this yourself?” I would’ve expected her to jump at this.

  “I’m up to my neck looking into a financial thing. I might have to go to Cyprus soon. I think. I don’t know yet. Anyway, have a look at the stuff I sent whenever you have time.”

  “I’ll consider it.”

  “Yay! That’s as good as a yes.”

  “It’s not.”

  “It’s not a no.”

  “Goodbye, Bree.”

  “I love you, Genevieve.”

  “Hmm.” I ended the call and suddenly wondered if I should’ve told her that I loved her too. That was something Francine would’ve done. Francine, Colin and the rest of the team had taught me a lot about love. Through their unconditional acceptance, they’d shown me the nuances of affection and the importance of verbalising it. Maybe I should’ve replied to Bree. I shook off that thought, knowing that Bree didn’t expect me to be neurotypical, just as I didn’t expect her to be anything other than the woman she was.

  Colin and Vinnie were talking about the damage to the building and how long it might take to restore the structure. Francine was engrossed in something on her laptop, not even looking up when Manny joined us. He put his phone in his jacket pocket and scowled at Vinnie and Colin. Then he looked into the SUV.

  “What are you looking at?” Manny stepped closer to Francine. “Is this about the Collector?”

  “Hmm?” Francine turned and blinked up at Manny. “Oh. Huh. No. This is an email from Bree.”

  “What does she want now?”

  “Your watch collection.” Francine laughed when Manny took a step back. She leaned to the side to look around him at me. “He thinks I didn’t notice that he bought another watch last week.” She looked back at Manny and fluttered her eyelashes. “Shnookums, my sugar daddy, my love muffin, did you really think I wouldn’t notice a new accessory? Me? The queen of fashion?”

  Manny’s lips tightened, but then his eyes narrowed. “You’re deflecting, supermodel. Why?”

  Francine sighed dramatically as she turned back to her computer. “Because you huff and puff every single time I look at anything not related to that stupid Collector.”

  Vinnie snorted, then chuckled when Manny turned to glare at him.

  “This is not a bloody laughing matter.” Manny rubbed his hand over his face. “We need to get the Collector and stop him.”

  “Who was it this time?” Colin raised one eyebrow. “Your boss at Interpol, Daniel’s captain or the president?”

  Colin had been recruited to work for Interpol as a consultant, retrieving objects that could’ve resulted in wars had they landed in the wrong hands. He was a thief. Manny was the only one of us who had ever worked as a law enforcement officer. Our team worked directly under the president of France. Manny was
our official team leader and often had to deal with the political fallout of our investigations.

  I didn’t envy him.

  “All three, Frey.” Manny’s shoulders slumped on a heavy exhale and he shook his head. “I’ve had to deal with all three of them this morning. The president just phoned. He’s worried about this thing at the consulate. The Portuguese government is asking for an explanation of how this could happen on French soil. To top my day off, Interpol is having conniption fit after conniption fit every time the Collector leaves chaos in his wake when he steals something.”

  “And Dan’s boss?” Vinnie frowned. He was good friends with Daniel Cassel, a GIPN team leader. Similar to the US SWAT and Germany’s GSG 9, they were elite police officers who were called out whenever the local police needed a stronger response. Daniel’s team had been working more frequently with us, even assisting when our investigations took us abroad.

  “Captain Bouvier is getting his knickers all twisted in knots because Daniel and his guys have been helping us look into the Collector.” Manny shrugged. “I get why he’s nagging about it. This has been going on for too long now.” He glared at Francine. “That’s why I don’t want you wasting your time with whatever you’re hiding from me.”

  “I’m not hiding... okay, don’t look at me like that.” Francine waved both hands in the air, her bracelets jingling. She put her laptop on the seat and got out of the SUV. “I was curious about Bree’s email and then I was having a bit of fun with you. But I swear, I only spent a few minutes on it.”

  Manny rubbed his hand over his face again, regret stamped on his features. He took a step closer and gently kissed Francine’s forehead.

  She caught his face between her hands before he could move away and looked into his eyes. “I’m not upset with you. You’re my grump. I know you. I love you. I tease you. Get over it.”

  Manny grunted, colour creeping up his neck as he straightened stiffly. “Bloody hell, woman. We’re in public.”

 
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