“Oh, stop your whining,” Stone said. “You’re going to get it back, aren’t you?”
“And then you’re going to let me go to my kid’s soccer match?”
“After we see the painting, Rocco. Not until then.”
? ? ?
THEY ARRIVED AT the police garage, and there the Maybach was, staring them in the face with its big eyes.
“Thank God,” Rocco said, getting out of the car. “Will you take these cuffs off so I can pay the guy?”
Stone uncuffed him, and Rocco started toward the car.
“Hey!” the cop in charge yelled. “Don’t you touch that car until you’ve paid the tow bill and the ticket.”
Rocco reached in his coat pocket for his checkbook. “Sure, how much?”
The cop stared at the sheet on his clipboard. “Seven hundred and eighty dollars,” he replied.
“Seven hundred and eighty dollars? Are you kidding me?”
“Ticket is five hundred, plus the tow.”
Rocco swore under his breath. “Who do I make the check to?”
“No checks,” the cop replied.
Rocco swore again and produced a black American Express card from his wallet.
“We don’t take American Express,” the cop said. “Visa, MasterCard, or Discover.”
“This is the only credit card I use,” Rocco said, shaking it in the cop’s face.
“Like I give a shit,” the cop said. “So you’ll have to pay cash.”
Rocco put away his wallet and dug into a pocket. He counted bills. “I’ve only got six hundred and ten dollars,” he said.
“We’ll try and be patient while you go and get the cash,” the cop said.
Rocco dug into his pocket and came up with an iPhone, then pressed a button. “You got any cash in the till? Bring me three hundred.” He gave the address.
“Okay, now,” Stone said to the cop, “we need to look in the car. It’s a stolen-property thing.”
“Knock yourself out,” the cop said.
“Okay, Rocco,” Masi said, “unlock the trunk.”
Rocco got out his keys, and the three of them walked around the car and looked at the trunk. There was a hole the size of a half-dollar in the lid. Masi stuck a finger in the hole and opened the trunk. It was empty.
“I’ve been robbed!” Rocco yelled. “The picture was in the trunk!” He fingered the hole. “They’ve fucked up my Maybach!”
“Okay,” Masi said, “let’s get you booked.” He produced the handcuffs.
“Now, wait a minute, guys,” Rocco said. “I’ve cooperated, I’ve told you everything you wanted to know.”
“Not yet, Rocco,” Masi said. “Tell us who stole it.”
“How should I know?”
Masi reached for a wrist.
“Hang on a minute, Art,” Stone said. “Rocco, who knew the picture was in the trunk of your car?”
Rocco looked thoughtful. “Well, André Eisl saw me put it in there, so did Sol Fineman.”
“Anyone else know about it?”
Rocco thought about it. “No one else.”
“That kind of narrows it down, doesn’t it?” Stone said.
“Maybe it was just some junkie, looking for stuff to steal,” Masi replied.
“They didn’t break into the car,” Stone pointed out. “Just the trunk.”
“Then the guy we want is Sol Fineman,” Masi said.
“Yes,” Stone agreed, “and every cop in town has been looking for him since he disappeared from his apartment, with no results, not a trace.”
“Oh, shit,” Art said.
“He’s in the wind,” Stone replied.
“Well, gee, fellows, I’m awful sorry about that. The painting getting stolen wasn’t part of our deal, though. Can I go to my kid’s soccer game?”
“Getting our hands on the picture was the deal,” Stone said.
“Hey,” Masi said to the cop, handing him the arrest warrant, “hold this guy until a squad car can get here to take him in for booking.”
“You’re going to hold a bunch of parking tickets against me?” Rocco said.
“You could have walked, Rocco,” Stone said, “but you didn’t come through.”
Masi borrowed the cop’s handcuffs and cuffed Rocco Maggio to his car door. “See you around, Rocco. Sorry about your kid’s soccer match.”
“Wait a minute,” Rocco said, “maybe I can still help.”
“Speak,” Stone replied. “You know where we can find Sol Fineman?”
Rocco’s face fell. “No, I just have a number.”
“Which is now non-working,” Masi said. “Have a nice stay at Rikers.”
Rocco was weeping when they drove away.
50
AS SOON AS they were back in the car, Stone told Fred to drive them home, then he called Dino.
“Bacchetti.”
“It’s Stone.”
“How’d you do at the garage?”
“The car had been broken into. The picture was gone.”
“Oh, shit. Any idea who took it?”
“Our chief suspect is Sol Fineman.”
“The invisible man? That Sol Fineman?”
“One and the same. Of course, that’s per Rocco Maggio. He says only André Eisl and Fineman saw him put the picture into his trunk.”
“Well, if that’s all you’ve got.”
“Have you had any reports of Fineman? Anything at all?”
“Hang on, I’ll see.” Dino put him on hold.
“Dino’s checking,” Stone said to Masi.
“I’m praying,” Art replied.
Dino came back. “Not a fucking trace,” he said. “It’s like the guy just vaporized.”
“We need him bad,” Stone said.
“Sorry, pal.” Dino hung up.
“Now what?” Masi asked.
“We’ve still got our list of possible buyers, and we’ve visited only two of them. What’s our next one?”
Art consulted the lists. “First Lot Auctions,” he said.
Stone gave Fred the address.
? ? ?
FIRST LOT AUCTIONS occupied a double-wide gallery space on Madison Avenue in the Nineties. Fred double-parked out front so they could see the car, and they went inside. A young blond woman in a tight black dress and chewing gum was dusting pictures and sculptures displayed for the next auction.
She stopped chewing. “Something you wanted to bid on?” she asked. “The sale is tomorrow morning at ten.” She resumed chewing.
“No,” Stone said, “we’d like to speak to the owner of the place.”
“That would be Mr. Marx. He’s in London at the moment.”
“Who’s in charge?”
“Mr. Michaels,” she replied. “I’ll see if he’s available.” She disappeared into a back room.
“Why do I think this is futile?” Art asked.
“If you have a better idea . . .”
“No.”
The young woman reappeared and resumed her dusting. “He’ll be just a moment,” she said.
Ten minutes passed. “Let’s go,” Stone said, heading for the back door, with Masi right behind. The door opened into a hallway, with rooms on each side. In the last one they found a man packing papers into a cardboard box. He seemed startled to see them.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“Mr. Michaels?”
He looked them over. “No, he’s gone for the day.”
Stone walked over and looked into the cardboard box. He picked up a letter on top of a stack of papers; it was addressed to Mr. Warren Michaels.
“Okay, Warren,” Stone said, “what’s the rush?”
“Who are you?”
“We represent Sam Spain.”
Michaels went a little pale. “Sam Spain is dead. I read it in the Post.”
“We represent Mr. Spain’s estate,” Stone said, “and we have reason to believe that you are in possession of some property of Mr. Spain’s.”
“I’m not. I don’t know anything about it.”
“About what?”
“Ah . . .”
“It’s a picture,” Stone said. “A very rare one.”
“I don’t know.”
“You haven’t even asked what sort of picture,” Stone said.
“I don’t need to ask—I don’t have anything belonging to Sam Spain.”
“Actually, it belongs to Mrs. Mark Tillman,” Stone said. “Am I getting through to you?”
Michaels opened a desk drawer, retrieved a sheet of paper, and handed it to Stone. It was the police flyer with a reproduction of the van Gogh. “This is the only thing I know about belonging to a Tillman.”
“Then where is it?”
“How should I know?”
“Perhaps you’d rather talk to Sol Fineman about this?” Stone asked.
That had an effect. “Now, wait a minute, I don’t want that guy in here again.”
“Do you find Mr. Fineman frightening?”
“Yes, I do. The man carries a blackjack.”
“Not anymore,” Stone said. “We relieved him of that. Still, Mr. Fineman has other methods.”