“I know three or four guys who match that description,” Spain replied.
“Last name Fernandez,” Stone said. “This afternoon he ended up in a puddle of his own blood on the sidewalk, just down the street, after a dive off a rooftop.”
“Oh, yeah, I know that kid. He’s always offering me stuff he’s stolen. I never want any of it.”
“Sure you do, Sam,” Dino said. “You buy stuff from everybody. Anything to turn a buck.”
“I got no objection to turning a buck, but I do it by selling booze,” Spain said, waving a hand at the array of bottles behind the bar. “Have one on the house.”
“I’m too young to go blind,” Dino said. “Why don’t you unlock the office door?”
“Is that door locked?” Spain asked with a smirk.
Dino turned around, walked to the door, and delivered a kick just above the doorknob. There was a splintering sound as the jamb gave way, and the door flew open. He walked in, looked around, then opened another door that led to the alley beside the bar.
Stone ran outside and checked the alley from the other end; nothing but garbage cans. He came back inside, looked at Dino, and shook his head. “It was there a minute ago,” he said, “now it’s not.”
? ? ?
BACK IN DINO’S CAR, he turned toward Stone, who was in the rear seat with Masi. “Did you actually see it?”
“For just a second, when the guy came out. It was hanging over the desk in a cheap frame.”
“Have you ever even seen the picture?” Dino asked.
“I have an eight-by-ten transparency of it,” Stone replied. “It makes an impression that stays with you.”
“Masi, did you see it?” Dino asked.
“No,” Art replied, “I was looking for blades.”
“Dino,” Stone said, “check your computer and see if you can find a record and an address for Ralph Weede, with an e at the end.”
Dino pulled the car’s computer around on its supporting arm and did some typing. “He has a conviction for assault and battery twelve years ago,” Dino said. “Suspended sentence. I wonder how he got the job at 740 with a record for violence?”
“I wonder, too,” Stone said.
“Oh, and we just passed the building where he lives, sixth floor.”
“That’s the building where Manolo Fernandez took a swan dive off the roof,” Stone pointed out.
Dino did some more typing. “We’ll get him in for questioning,” he said.
“I can put him at Sam Spain’s half an hour after the murder.”
“I’ll mention that to Homicide,” Dino said.
34
IT WAS TOO LATE to call Morgan when he got home; he’d call her in the morning.
Bright and early, Morgan called him. “Are you enjoying your scrambled eggs?” she asked.
“Speaking of scrambled eggs,” Stone said, “Margaretta is unlikely to come to work this morning.”
“Funny you should mention that—she’s half an hour late. What do you know that I don’t know?”
“Yesterday somebody threw her son, Manolo, off a roof in Harlem, six stories to the sidewalk.”
Morgan made a moaning noise. “Poor Margaretta, she’s been expecting something like this for a couple of years. I’m sorry it finally happened to her.”
“There’s more. Manolo went off the roof of the building where one of your doormen, Ralph Weede, lives.”
“What makes you think Ralph is mixed up in this?”
“He’s mixed up with Margaretta,” Stone said. “He’s the guy who’s been shtuping her for a while, and he’s the genius who suggested a van Gogh would look nice in her living room.”
“Ralph wouldn’t know it was a van Gogh.”
“Those doormen know everything that goes on in your building. You think they would miss the theft of a sixty-million-dollar painting? Ralph wanted the picture stashed somewhere quiet, where nobody would look for it, until he could figure out how to unload it. He didn’t count on a strung-out junkie lifting it and selling it.”
“Manolo sold the painting? How?”
“Well, he didn’t take it to Christie’s and auction it. I think he sold it for a hundred dollars to a neighborhood bar owner named Sam Spain, who fancies himself something of an art collector.”
“Does he know it’s a van Gogh?”
“If he didn’t then, he does now. I saw Ralph Weede go into his bar yesterday, and I’m sure their chat included a brief lecture on art history.”
“How would a bar owner in Harlem dispose of a sixty-million-dollar painting?”
“Do you know what a fence is?”
“Like a garden fence?”
“No. A fence is sort of a freelance broker who buys and sells stolen goods—in your Limey parlance, things that fell off the back of a truck.”
“Lorry.”
“Sorry, lorry. You get the picture, so to speak.”
“Yes, but surely he’s a small-timer who’s never dealt with something like this.”
“Just as fences know their neighborhood thieves, like Manolo, they know other fences, who know still other fences, including some who may be way out of their neighborhood league. There are so-called ‘reputable’ art galleries on the Upper East Side where you could walk in with that van Gogh in a shopping bag and walk out with a million bucks in cash.”
“Which galleries?”
“That’s the trick, knowing which ones, and Sam Spain knows people who know people who know people who have a good eye for art, a greedy heart, and a lot of untaxed cash. In a week, that van Gogh could be hanging in a very private collection in Hong Kong or Macau, and a man in New York named Arthur Steele would be crying his eyes out.”
“Who’s Arthur Steele?”
“He’s the guy who insured your painting.”
“You’re right,” she said, “I’m beginning to get the picture.”
“No, you’re beginning to lose the picture, unless I can find a way to short-circuit the sales process before the painting leaves Sam Spain’s hands.”
“And how are you going to do that?”
“I’m going to pay Mr. Spain a visit,” Stone said.
“Stone, wouldn’t that be dangerous?”
“Possibly, but I will arrive bearing gifts that may turn Mr. Spain’s head.”
“I don’t want you to lose yours in the process.”
“Neither do I. If you haven’t heard from me in, say”—he consulted his wristwatch—“two hours, call Dino and tell him I’ve got my tit caught in a wringer in Harlem.” Without another word, Stone hung up.
? ? ?
AN HOUR LATER Stone arrived at Sam Spain’s Bar, just as Sam himself was turning the CLOSED sign to OPEN. He walked in and set his briefcase on the bar; Sam was already behind the bar at an adding machine, counting last night’s take.
“Good morning, Sam,” Stone said.
“Sez who?” Sam grumbled.
“My name is Barrington,” Stone said.
“Ah, you’re the ex-cop, now a civilian.”
“Today I’m in the business of buying art.”
Sam swept a hand toward the junk on his walls. “Take your pick—five hundred bucks.”
“I want to pay more than that.”
“Okay, a thousand bucks.”
“Even more, Sam. I want to buy the picture you bought from Manolo Fernandez, and I’m willing to give you a handsome profit on the transaction.”
“Now, listen—”
“No, you listen. I’ll make this easy for you. If you hang on to that picture or try to move it, the earth is going to fall on you. You’ll be hounded by the NYPD, the FBI, and the state police forces of a dozen countries. There will be so many cops in here, from so many places, there won’t be room for the people who buy your booze, let alone fence their goods, and you’ll end up doing some very serious time. That’s not a good prospect for somebody your age, Sam. Think about it.”
“Okay, I’m thinking. How much should I be thinking about?”
“I’m authorized by the insurance company to offer you one million dollars in cash for the return of the picture—today.”
Sam looked surprised. “Is there a million bucks in that briefcase, or are you packing something else?”
“There’s a substantial down payment in the briefcase,” Stone said. “I can have the rest of the cash here in a couple of hours.”
“How substantial?”
“Thirty-five thousand dollars.”