“I hope you didn’t get out of the hospital too soon,” Dino replied, following Stone upstairs.
“I called the doctor, and he says it’s normal for me to feel tired for a day or two.” He sat Dino down in the study and poured them both a drink. “How’d you do on the phone numbers from Sam Spain’s cell?”
“Art Masi is running them down. He could have something for us tomorrow. This is not going to be easy, you know. If Sam laid it off on some buyer, nobody’s going to admit buying it, and if they did, it will be with cash from a mattress—there won’t be any bank records.”
“Don’t depress me any further.”
“Why are you depressed?”
“The doctor said a blow to the head can do that. Also, I’ll get a very nice finder’s fee if I recover the thing.”
“And you’re depressed about that?”
“I’m depressed because it looks like it’s not happening.”
“What if Art recovers it?”
“I’ve made a deal with Art.”
“So this search is off the books?”
“It just never happened. If it’s found, I’ll return it to its rightful owner, Arthur Steele can cancel payment on the theft, and you can take the picture off your computer so people will stop looking for it.”
“Okay.”
“If all that happens fairly quickly, there will be a nice gift in it for you, too.”
“Are you trying to bribe me, you sonofabitch?”
“Certainly not, I’m trying to reward you.”
“Oh, I guess that’s okay.”
“Where’s Viv this time?”
“In Cincinnati, I think. I’ve stopped trying to keep track. How come you’re not seeing Morgan tonight, instead of me?”
“Well, she’s prettier, I’ll give you that, but she demands a certain energy level that I can’t meet in my reduced state.”
“Oh, did I mention that Sol Fineman has disappeared? Two detectives went to his apartment and it had been cleaned out—and I mean cleaned. Not even a print in the place. Nobody knows nothing, of course.”
“Somehow I don’t think he ran from the attempted-murder charge.”
“You think he’s sold the painting and scampered?”
“I heard Sam tell him to deliver it. That meant he would have gotten paid for it, and Sam wanted five million for it. He may even have gotten that much. No, I think Sol has, shall we say, relocated?”
“That’s a good word.”
“And with Sam’s money.”
“Certainly.”
“Ten to one, his cell phone is no longer in service,” Stone said.
“I won’t take that bet. He’s probably on the road somewhere between here and Key West. Maybe I should put out an APB.”
“Don’t bother. If Sol is careful enough for Sam to trust him with a lot of cash, he’s careful enough to have an identity ready to fall back on.”
Stone’s cell phone buzzed, and he answered.
“Hey, it’s Art Masi.”
“Good evening, Art. You find something?”
“I’ve got a couple of good possibilities, but all these gallery people know me. You want to help me out in the morning? We need somebody who looks and sounds like a credible buyer.”
“Sure.”
“I’ll give you a call around ten AM.”
“See you then.” He hung up.
“What’s up?” Dino asked.
“Art wants me to do a couple of walk-ins at galleries tomorrow morning. He thinks they’ll think I’m a credible buyer.”
“Makes sense.”
Helene brought dinner, and Stone opened a bottle of wine. They dined silently for a few minutes.
“Do you have anything new about the people attacking cars with sledgehammers?”
“We’ve had no new reports of that activity. My guys on the case think they’ve crawled back into their shells and we won’t hear from them again.”
“That’s okay with me,” Stone said. “I have a thought about something else.”
“Okay, spill it,” Dino said. “I don’t want to have to guess.”
“I think it’s just possible that Angelo Farina’s son, Pio, and his girlfriend, Ann Kusch, are credible suspects in Mark Tillman’s murder.”
“You have any evidence of either, or just a wild hair up your ass?”
“Probably more of the latter than the former.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Couple of things. Ann told me that Pio always dresses in black, and at the time she told me that, she was dressed in black, too. They’re both mountain and rock climbers and would have the skills to rappel down the side of a building.”
“And that’s all you’ve got?”
“Sort of.”
“How about a motive for either crime?” Dino asked.
“Art theft—they would have the necessary contacts for unloading the picture.”
“True enough, but by their own account, they took the picture to FedEx and shipped it back to Mark Tillman.”
“Maybe they planned to steal it later, when a few days had passed between the murder and the picture being delivered. Or maybe it wasn’t a murder, but an accident during the attempted theft.”
“Stone, your theory is so full of holes as to be unworthy of consideration.”
Stone sighed. “I know.”
“You know,” Dino said, “it’s a good thing you’re not a cop anymore. I’d have to fire you.”
“And I couldn’t give you an argument,” Stone replied. “I like those kids, and I don’t want them to be involved in this.”
“But you felt you had to bring up the black clothes and the rock climbing?”
“I think that was just a way of clearing my head. I knew you’d shoot me down.”
“I’m always happy to do that,” Dino said.
44
STONE MET ART MASI at a coffee shop uptown. “Okay, Art, what have we got?”
“The calls on Sam’s phone are a mishmash—a trucking company, a liquor distributor, a glassware supplier, mostly people he’d legitimately be in touch with for the running of his business, the bar.”
“Anything else?”
“Two art galleries and a small auction house. One of the galleries is new, open about four months. The other is an old-line place, going back to the twenties, a third generation in charge.”
“And the auction house?”
“A year and a half old, the sort of place that operates out of a gallery-like premises and rents hotel ballrooms for their auctions. They deal in everything from jewelry and wristwatches to high-end paintings and sculptures, most of them not the artist’s best work.”
“Sounds a little seedy. I like that.”
“The galleries are closer, in the Sixties and Seventies. The auctioneer is up in the Nineties, so let’s do the galleries first. Did you bring your car?”
“It’s outside.”
“Okay, the Haynesfield Gallery is around the corner on Madison, on your right. I’ll work the other side of the street. Whistle if you need me.”
Stone got into the Bentley and gave Fred his instructions. “Slowly,” he said, “we’re window-shopping. The Haynesfield Gallery, on your right.”
“Yes, sir,” Fred replied. He drew to a slow halt outside. Stone got out of the car and checked out what was in the window. An abused Picasso print, not very large but with a matting and a heavy rococo frame, was the central exhibit. He went inside.
A tall, thin young man wearing a skinny-cut black suit with stovepipe legs and a short jacket was leaning against the rear wall, working on a puzzle in a folded newspaper. “Just a sec, be right with you,” he called out.
Stone circumnavigated the small room, not finding a thing worth hanging in a powder room. Two words—cheap and nasty—characterized the place.
The young man finished his puzzle, tossed it on a counter, and came forward. “Now,” he said, “what can I do you for?”
“I don’t see anything good enough to buy,” Stone replied.
“Well, what are you looking for?”
“Something special, something that will knock my girlfriend’s eye out when she sees it.”
“I gotcha. How about a Jackson Pollock?”
“She doesn’t like abstracts, she likes a landscape, especially of the post-impressionist period.”
“And when was that?”
“Right after the impressionist period.”
“Like a Matisse?”
“More like, what’s his name, who cut off his ear?”
“Ah, van Gogh. I might be able to find you something, but I warn you, it’s going to be expensive.”
“Money is not a problem—not that I don’t want a good price. Show me what you’ve got.”
“Let me root around in the back,” the young man said.