“Good idea,” Stone said, and Masi turned to go. “Art?”
Masi turned. “I think I may know who he sent it to, but I don’t want to prejudice you.” Stone took a sheet of paper, wrote something on it, sealed it into an envelope, and handed it to Masi. “That’s my best guess. See if I’m right after you’ve traced the package.”
Art tucked the envelope into an inside pocket of his jacket. “I’ll call you when I know something,” he said.
Masi drove uptown and found the FedEx store, with its outside deposit box. He went inside, where a young woman was behind the desk. “May I speak to the manager, please?” She looked far too young to be the manager.
“Who shall I say wants him?” she asked.
Masi produced his badge. “Lieutenant Masi of the NYPD. Tell him not to worry, he’s not in any trouble.”
She disappeared into the rear of the store and came back with a young man who appeared to be even younger than his staffer. “I’m Rich Mann,” he said.
“Congratulations,” Masi said. “About eighteen months ago”—he gave him the date—“a Saturday afternoon, someone deposited a large FedEx box in your outside receptacle. I’d like to know to whom it was addressed.”
“You got a tracking number?”
“No.”
“An address?”
“No, but it was sent by a Mr. Mark Tillman of 740 Park Avenue.”
The boy went to a computer and began typing. “Mr. Tillman has two accounts with us—one at his office, one at his home, at 740 Park.”
“Good.”
“Nothing was shipped from either address on that date.”
That brought Masi up short. “Suppose he used a blank waybill that he picked up at this shop, or one like it, and suppose he used another name as the sender.”
“And what name would that be?”
“I don’t know,” Masi replied.
“That’s not very helpful,” the boy said.
“Somewhere in your computer, don’t you have a record of what was sent from this shop on that date?”
“Yes, but that could be hundreds of packages.”
“Is there a separate list of what was put into the deposit box?”
“No, those packages would be sent with all the others. There were, let’s see”—he tapped some more keys—“two hundred and eight packages dispatched from this store on that date.”
“And none of them sent by Mark Tillman?”
“No, sir.”
“Thank you,” Masi said, and turned to go.
“Just a sec,” the boy said. He was staring at his screen.
“What?” Masi asked.
“We got one package that was sent to Mr. Mark Tillman, at 740 Park.”
“You mean that on the waybill Tillman was listed as the addressee?”
“That’s right. It was sent for third-day delivery, and it was delivered to 740 Park on the following Wednesday at ten fifty-four AM and signed for by a doorman.”
“Can you print me a copy of your screen, please?”
“Sure,” the boy said. He pressed a key, and a moment later a printer spat out a sheet.
“Thank you very much for your help,” Masi said, and walked out of the shop, tucking the page into an inside pocket, where he ran into an obstruction. He removed an envelope from his pocket, the one Stone Barrington had given him. He opened it and found a single sheet of paper with a name written on it: MARK TILLMAN
25
STONE WAS ON HIS WAY uptown in a cab to meet Dino, Viv, and Morgan for dinner when his cell phone rang. “Hello?”
“It’s Art Masi.”
“Hello, Art. How did you do with Federal Express?”
“I did okay. How did you know?”
“Know?”
“Who the package was addressed to.”
“I guessed. Obviously, I was right.”
“You were. Why would Tillman send the painting to himself?”
“He sent it to the only person he trusted,” Stone said. “He didn’t have a lot of friends, and apparently none he would entrust with his art treasure. Did you find out when it was delivered?”
“He sent it for third-day delivery. The following Wednesday a doorman in his building signed for it. The homicide guys missed that.”
“It’s understandable. Why would they be interested in a package that arrived three days after his death? Would you have thought to look for that?”
“No,” Art replied.
“Neither would I,” Stone said. The cab pulled up in front of Rotisserie Georgette. “I’ve gotta run. Let me know if you come up with something else.” He hung up and got out of the cab.
Dino was there, alone. “Hey.”
Stone sat down and immediately a waiter set down a High Rock on the rocks. They didn’t serve Knob Creek. “Where are the girls?”
“Where are they ever?” Dino asked. “Viv wasn’t home when I left to walk down here. She probably went to the apartment to fix her makeup or something. Morgan is your problem.”
“Right,” Stone said, tasting his New York State bourbon. It was lighter than his usual, but flavorful. “I had an interesting day,” he said.
“I wish I could say that,” Dino replied. “Regale me with the events.”
“Well, I learned that Pio Farina and Ann Kusch were at Mark Tillman’s house on the afternoon he died.”
Dino sat up straight. “Why didn’t you tell me that before?” he demanded.
“Because I learned about it only today.” He explained how Art Masi had called them in for questioning. “After that they came to my office and asked me to represent them.”
“Do you think they offed Tillman?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because the evidence doesn’t support a charge. They got there at two-thirty, had a drink, then left.”
“Did you check that with the doormen?”
“No, did your people?”
Dino glowered at him. “Don’t be a smartass.”
“I haven’t been back to the building, or I would have asked, but I would have thought that your people, as a matter of routine, would have inquired if he had any visitors that day.”
Dino whipped out his cell phone and pressed a button; a brief conversation ensued, then he hung up. “They inquired and were told by the doormen that Tillman had no visitors, until his wife went up.”
“Something else,” Stone said. “When they left, Tillman asked them to drop off a package for him at a FedEx office on Second Avenue.”
“How big a package?”
“Not big, but big enough to hold the van Gogh.”
“I’d like to know who he sent it to,” Dino said. “I’ll have somebody check with FedEx.”
“Don’t bother, Art Masi has already done so. Tillman sent it to himself.”
Dino stared at Stone blankly. “What the fuck?”
“That’s pretty much what I thought, until I realized he had sent it to the only person he trusted. He sent it three-day. It arrived on the Wednesday morning after his death.”
“Does Morgan know about this?”
“She would have been the only one home on that Wednesday,” Stone said.
“Have you mentioned it to her?”
“No, but Masi has searched the apartment twice, and it wasn’t there. He searched the East Hampton house, too, and found nothing.”
“He’s an art guy,” Dino said, “not a homicide detective.”
“He knows how to look for a painting,” Stone pointed out.
“Here come the girls,” Dino said. “Keep your mouth shut about this.”
“We bumped into each other on the way in,” Viv said, “and we did a little window-shopping.”
Everybody kissed everybody else.
? ? ?
AFTER DINNER, Stone took Morgan home and stayed the night. After sex, she always slept like a stone, and she did so that night.
In the middle of the night, Stone crept out of bed and walked downstairs. He switched on the lights in the living room and had a look around. Now, where would somebody put a package that had been delivered? He looked under the furniture, then checked the coat closet in the entry hall. There, he found an empty frame, about the size to have held the van Gogh, but no package.
He walked back into the living room and looked at the wall of pictures; they were thickly hung. Without counting, he estimated fifteen or twenty. The space where the van Gogh had hung had not been filled; it was between a Matisse still life and a Utrillo Paris street scene.