“Look,” Maggio said, pleading in his voice, “I’m not trying to bribe anybody, I’m just asking, sincerely, what can I do to fix this?”
“Well, paying your parking tickets is a start,” Stone said.
“I’ve got a checkbook in my pocket,” Maggio replied.
“But that alone won’t do it.”
“What else, then?”
Stone and Masi exchanged a glance. “You could return some stolen goods,” Masi said.
Maggio’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of goods?”
“I don’t know,” Masi said, “what kind of stolen goods have you handled lately?”
“C’mon, give me a hint. I’ll help if I can.”
“Oh, you can,” Stone said. “Here’s a hint—it’s a painting by a famous artist, but with a dicey provenance.”
Masi looked out the window but said nothing.
“Doesn’t that sound just a little bit familiar?” Stone asked.
Still nothing.
“Okay, try this—you loaned André Eisl the money to buy it.”
“Doesn’t sound familiar,” Maggio said.
“You’re not trying hard enough, Rocco,” Masi said.
“I don’t know how I can help you. Anything else?”
“Well, a few days at Rikers Island while we sort out the tickets might improve your memory.”
“That would make you a no-show at your son’s soccer match,” Stone chimed in. “Maybe several matches.”
Maggio flinched, as if something had bitten him. “You want me to incriminate myself.”
“Well, Rocco,” Masi said, “give us what we want, and maybe you’ll make the soccer match, and maybe you’ll walk—if you give us all the information we need.”
“This is screwy,” Maggio said. “You walk into my place of business wearing really expensive suits, and tell me you’re cops.”
“I showed you my badge,” Masi said.
“How about him?” Maggio asked, jerking his head toward Stone.
Stone produced his own badge.
“And you’re riding around in a Bentley?”
“The department doesn’t own that,” Stone said.
“I’m in the shipping business, not the art business.”
“Describe your relationship to André Eisl,” Stone said.
“He’s an old friend. I help him out once in a while.”
“Help him out at, say, ten points a week?” Masi asked.
Maggio shrugged. “I do what I can to help my friends.”
“You’re a prince of a guy, Rocco,” Stone said.
“Yeah,” Masi chimed in, “and listen to this. We’re going to find that picture, one way or another, with your help or without it. If we find it without your help, we’re going to nail you for fencing it and transporting it, and you’re going to miss all your son’s soccer matches until he’s in his forties.”
“On the other hand . . .” Stone said, letting Maggio finish the sentence in his head.
“I’ll walk? If I tell you where the picture is, you’ll guarantee it?”
“We’ve made our best offer, Rocco,” Masi said. “You can pick it up or just let it lie there.”
“It’s not as simple as that—it’s complicated.”
“Explain it to us,” Stone said. “We’ll do our best to follow.”
“If I give up the picture, two people are going to die.”
“Which two?” Stone asked.
“Eisl and me.”
“Tell us why, Rocco.”
“Eisl, because he can’t pay back the money I loaned him. Me, because I loaned it to him.”
“So you’re telling us that there are people above you who control all your actions?” Masi asked.
“Not all my actions, but I hardly ever have five million lying around the office.”
“Okay,” Masi said, “let’s start with whose safe the money came from.”
“Come on, if I wander that far astray my family dies, too.”
“Okay, we’ll leave out that part of the story,” Masi said. “Let’s start with Eisl’s first phone call to you about the picture.”
Maggio sighed. “Okay, he calls me and says he can lay his hands on an honest-to-God van Gogh for five mil.”
“And you bought that, sight unseen?”
“Not exactly. I got a good look at it. This guy brought it to the gallery.”
“Are you an art expert, with a specialty in van Goghs?” Stone asked.
“No, but I’ve got my ear to the ground. If something big turns up stolen, I’ll hear about it. Sometimes.”
“And you heard about the van Gogh?”
“Everybody in town heard about the van Gogh a year and a half ago. Lately, things went quiet, then this guy Sam Spain, up in Harlem, says he’s got his hands on it.”
“Yeah, we know about Sam Spain. We want to know about you and Eisl.”
“Well, Eisl makes an appointment with Spain, and he sends his guy over with a picture in a garbage bag.”
“This would be Sol Fineman?”
“Listen, if you know all this, why do I have to tell you?”
“Go on with your story.”
“Okay, we look at it, we compare it to the notice on the Internet that went out when it was stolen from this guy Tillman. I ask Eisl if it’s the real thing.”
“And you have faith in his opinion?”
“André is a third- or fourth-generation art dealer,” Maggio said. “His grandfather, I think, started in Vienna, then Hitler comes along and his father beats it out of Europe with a shipment of art and makes his way to New York.”
“How does one get from Vienna to New York with a shipment of art in, what, 1938?”
“He chartered an airplane and flew to Lisbon, then to the Azores, then to Newfoundland, then to New York. He had Swiss francs and gold, and he spread it around on his long flight.”
“So you took Eisl’s word for the authenticity of the picture?” Stone asked.
“Yeah, I did. André said he could turn it in twenty-four hours for twenty mil.”
“And?”
“And I made a phone call,” Maggio said. “The money was there in an hour.”
“Okay, Rocco,” Masi said, “let’s get to the point. Where’s the picture now?”
Maggio heaved a large sigh. “In the trunk of my car.”
49
STONE JABBED MAGGIO in the ribs. “The car that was towed?”
“That’s the one,” Maggio replied.
“How did it get in the trunk of your car?”
“I gave Sol Fineman a suitcase with five mil in it, then I put the picture back in the laundry bag and put it in the trunk of my car. André Eisl didn’t want it in the gallery, and I didn’t want it in my office. The trunk seemed a safe enough place.”
“And now it’s in the police garage,” Masi said. “I’d say the trunk is safe enough there.”
“Fred,” Stone asked, “do you know where the police garage is?”
“Ah, er, yessir,” Fred said hesitantly.
“And how do you happen to have that information?”
“Well, Mr. Barrington, I had occasion to visit that place—once before.”
“What occasion was that?”
“The occasion when this car was towed. I’m terribly sorry, sir, I just ran into a deli to get a sandwich, and when I came out it was gone.”
“And when was this?”
“About a month ago.”
“That was when I couldn’t find you for a couple of hours, wasn’t it?”
“It could very well have been, sir.”
“All right, forget it, Fred, just take us to the garage.”
“Yes, sir.”
Stone leaned back in the seat. “What kind of car is it, Rocco?”
“It’s a Maybach,” Rocco replied. He pronounced it “My-bach.”
“What is that?” Masi asked.
“It’s a sort of super-Mercedes,” Stone replied. “They made it for only a few years. At around three hundred and fifty thousand, they weren’t selling enough, so they stopped making them. I believe they’re doing very well in the used market.”
“Business has been good, huh, Rocco?” Masi said.
“Good enough. I got a good deal, it was a repo.”
“Let me guess,” Stone said. “You gave somebody a very big car loan, and he fell behind on the payments?”
“Something like that,” Rocco said.
“Art,” Stone said, “call the garage and have them root out the Maybach and have it ready when we get there.”
Masi got on the phone, then hung up. “It just arrived. They haven’t even put it in the garage yet. They said there had been some damage.”
“Damage?” Rocco spat. “Those bastards damaged my Maybach?”
“They didn’t damage it, Rocco, it arrived that way. They make a note of any damage every time a car comes in.”
“I’ll bet the sonsofbitches did it on purpose,” Rocco said. “Some people are just envious.”