Stone buzzed Joan. “Will you please bring me a small and a large FedEx box?”
A moment later she entered with the boxes.
Stone sealed one end of each and held them up. “Which one?”
“The larger one,” Ann said.
“Did you have any idea what was inside?”
“No. It didn’t weigh a lot, though.”
“Did you notice to whom it was addressed?”
“I never gave it a thought,” Ann said. “We dropped it in the box and drove home.”
“And what time did you get home?”
“I’m not sure, but the game was still on, and we watched the last quarter.”
“There are two ways to address a FedEx box,” Stone said. “One is with the multi-copy form that you fill out by hand. The other is one that you print out on a computer. Which way was the package labeled?”
“I honestly don’t remember,” Ann said.
“Do you remember how you both were dressed that day?”
“Well, Pio wears mostly black, no matter what the occasion. I think I was wearing a black denim suit—pants, not skirt.”
“Blouse?”
“I wear either white or black with that outfit,” Ann said. “I don’t remember which that day.”
“Where did you have your drinks?”
“On the terrace,” Ann said. “It was an unseasonably warm day.”
“When you left, did Mark see you to the door?”
“Now that you mention it, no,” Ann replied. “He said he was going to enjoy the last of the afternoon and finish his drink.”
“Where was the FedEx package?”
“It was on a table in the front hall. Mark called out and asked us to take it.”
“And he stayed on the terrace?”
“Yes, he never got up. He seemed drowsy and had his feet up on an ottoman.”
“Might he have dozed off out there?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” she said. “He was on his second drink, and the sun was warm.”
“On your way out of the building, did you encounter anyone?”
“There was a man on the front desk, but he barely took notice of us.”
“Did you cross paths with Morgan?”
“No.”
“Where were you parked?”
“Outside the building on Seventy-eighth Street.”
“Did you see anyone you knew on the way to the car?”
“No.”
“All right,” Stone said, “here’s where we are. You’ve lied to the police about your whereabouts when Mark Tillman was murdered. You may well have been the last people to see him alive, except for Morgan. You removed a package from the apartment that may have contained the van Gogh that Morgan says disappeared.”
“We did so at Mark’s request, and we had no idea what it contained, and we didn’t care.”
“Did you know that Mark owned a van Gogh?”
“Yes, he had shown it to us when we had dinner there a few weeks before. Angelo was there, too, and he saw it.”
“Has either of you ever expropriated a work of art belonging to someone else?”
“Certainly not,” Ann said. “Why would we do that?”
“For money?”
“We earn a decent living from our work,” Pio said. “We don’t need to steal.”
“Tell me, Pio,” Stone said, “suppose you suddenly came into, say, twenty million dollars, tax free. What would you do with it?”
“I’d buy a house,” Pio said.
“Where?”
“Either in East Hampton or in Paris.”
“Ann? How would you spend it?”
“The same way,” she replied.
“All right,” Stone said, “I’m going to have a conversation with Art Masi and tell him what you’ve told me today. Have I your permission to do that?”
“We’re going to look awfully bad to him,” Pio said.
“You already look bad, because he knows you lied to him,” Stone pointed out. “You’re just going to have to live with that and hope, now that you’ve told the truth, that will be enough for him. You can both expect to be questioned again, and next time longer and much more thoroughly. My best advice is to be contrite about lying to them, and don’t do it again.”
“Couldn’t we just refuse to answer any further questions?” Ann asked.
“You could, but the police would see that as a virtual confession of both murder and grand theft, not to mention colluding in insurance fraud. They would investigate you for weeks or months, maybe years. At least half the people you know would believe that you’re guilty, and that would last the rest of your life. It would be mentioned prominently in your obituaries. So unless that’s how you want to live your lives, you’d better be very, very cooperative with the police from now on. When they question you again, don’t ask for a lawyer, and tell the truth. When you’re done, come back to see me.”
“Oh, all right,” Ann said, and Pio nodded; then they left. Stone was disgusted with them.
24
STONE WAS THINKING about leaving his desk early when Joan buzzed him and said Art Masi wanted to see him.
“All right, send him in,” Stone replied.
Masi came in and sat down.
“Art, after your interview with Farina and Kusch, what are your feelings about the case?”
“Well, they’re lying, and I don’t know why, except that they’re hiding something incriminating.”
“Which crime do you think they may have committed?”
“Either one, or possibly both.”
“They came to see me after your interview. I’m now representing them.”
“But, Stone, the last thing you said to me was that you were glad you weren’t representing them.”
“I’m still not crazy about the idea, Art, but after speaking with them at some length, I don’t believe they committed either crime.”
“Well, that’s a pretty fast turnaround,” Masi said.
“No, I’ve never said I believed they were involved, and now I feel more strongly than ever that they’re not.”
“Explain to me why, please.”
“Let me tell you what they told me this afternoon.”
“I’m all ears.”
“They admit having been present in Tillman’s apartment on the afternoon of his death.”
“Well, that’s hardly exculpatory, is it?”
“They say that Tillman knew they were going to be in town, and he invited them for a drink at two-thirty. They showed up, had their drink, then made to leave. Tillman asked them to drop off a box at the FedEx store on Second Avenue. It was on their way to the tunnel. They agreed. The box was on the hall table, and they took it and deposited it in the receptacle outside the FedEx store.”
“Who was it addressed to?”
“They didn’t bother looking to see—they had no interest.” Stone picked up the large FedEx box beside his desk. “This was the kind of box. They identified it. Does that give you any ideas?”
“You think the van Gogh was in the box?”
Stone tossed him the box. “Wouldn’t it fit easily into that?”
“I suppose so,” Masi said. “But why would Tillman FedEx it to somebody?”
“Maybe he had an accomplice.”
“An accomplice in what?”
“In the theft of a valuable piece of art. You’ve searched his apartment twice and his beach house once, and you haven’t found it.”
“Who would he choose as an accomplice?”
“Well, on the available evidence, now that these kids have told the truth, he sent it to somebody. Is there a likely suspect among the people involved in the case?”
“Perhaps his wife?”
“He lived with her. He could have just handed her the package.”
“A friend?”
“What friend? He didn’t seem to have many. From what we’ve heard, he worked all the time.”
“A business partner?”
“His hedge fund had lost a lot of money. That’s not the sort of event to seal a friendship among partners.”
“He left his wife half a billion dollars,” Art said. “What would he need with another sixty million?”
“His estate was almost entirely in trusts, so that his executor could avoid probate. He wouldn’t have had access to those funds, and if he were a little short of money, sixty million might have been very welcome.”
“So he stole the painting from himself?”
“No, he stole it from his insurance company, then he sent it to somebody for safekeeping. Fortunately, Federal Express keeps records.”
“Then I’d better get over to that FedEx store and find out what packages were collected in their deposit box that Saturday afternoon,” Art said, rising.