“And that’s it?”
“Did I mention that she is six feet one inch tall and very fit, and that her husband was seven inches shorter and a doughboy?”
“You can’t blame a girl for going to the gym.”
“No, but you can blame her for planning his death and executing her plan.”
“What about the van Gogh?”
“The apartment was thoroughly searched and it was not found.”
“When she came home from shopping, did any of the staff see her?”
“The two men on the desk both saw her go upstairs.”
“And how long after that was the call to nine-one-one?”
“Six minutes, as far as we can tell.”
“Was the elevator on the ground floor when she arrived?”
“Yes, it’s passenger-operated and trained to return to the ground floor after delivering a passenger. We feel that six minutes is a little too much time to have elapsed, if her story were true.”
“Had there been any reports in the city of a cat burglar operating?”
“Three in the two months prior.”
“So her account is plausible?”
“Then how the fuck did the guy get up to the penthouse? Do you really believe he could climb, hand over hand, on a rope, fifteen stories? And how the hell would he have gotten the rope hooked on the parapet?”
“Two ways spring to mind. One, he fired a rocket that took the rope to the top. That’s how the soldiers on D-Day got up the cliffs at Normandy.”
“Implausible. What’s your second theory?”
“He somehow got into the building and made his way to the penthouse and hooked on the rope before continuing. The husband interrupted him just after he had detached the painting from the wall. Rappelling down was a one-way trip.”
“That building is arguably as secure as any on the East Side.”
“I’ve been in that building a couple of dozen times. I had a client there for a while, and I’ve never noticed anything in the way of security, except the two men at the desk.”
“There’s a camera in the elevator, so a burglar didn’t get in that way.”
“How many people used the elevator in the hour before she called nine-one-one?”
“Thirteen, four of them men, who were noted by the deskmen.”
“How many of the men were workers or repairmen?”
“All of them.”
“Did they keep a record of them at the desk?”
“No, but they recognized two of them, and they called up to ask the occupants if they were expecting visitors.”
“Did they call Mr. Tillman for that purpose?”
“No, he had told his wife that he didn’t feel well and was going to take a nap.”
“How was his body dressed when the EMTs got there?”
“Pajamas.”
“Dino, if Morgan were tried in court on the basis of that evidence, the jury wouldn’t be out for an hour before they acquitted her, and half that time they would have spent filling out the required forms.”
“That doesn’t mean she’s not guilty.”
“Sorry, pal, you’ve got nothing but suppositions.”
“Yeah, that’s what the DA said, and Tillman was a friend and campaign contributor of his.”
“And you still smell sulfur?”
“Yeah. What was she like in the sack?”
“That’s a rude question. Like somebody who hadn’t had sex since her husband died. Did you find a boyfriend in her life, before or since her husband’s death?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so. See ya.” Stone hung up, fuming.
10
AROUND ELEVEN AM JOAN buzzed him. “Arthur Steele on one.”
Arthur Steele was chairman and CEO of the Steele Group, a conglomerate of insurance companies, which was one of Stone’s major clients. He also served on their board. He pressed the button. “Good morning, Arthur.”
“Good morning, Stone. Could we meet for lunch at The Club? There’s something important.”
“Of course.”
“Twelve-thirty. I have a private dining room.”
“See you there.”
? ? ?
STONE ASKED FOR MR. STEELE on his arrival and was sent to a floor above the main dining room, where a staff member directed him to a small dining room.
Steele was seated already, and his briefcase was on the table. He stood and greeted Stone cordially, and they sat down. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering for us,” he said. “Would you like a drink?”
“I’ll have a glass of wine with lunch,” Stone replied.
“I have a lot of talking to do,” Steele said, “so we may as well get at it.”
“Please do, Arthur.”
“It has been reported to me that you spent last night, from around ten PM until nine this morning, in the apartment of Morgan Tillman, presumably in her bed.”
Stone was surprised. “Arthur, have you had someone following me?”
“No, I’ve had someone following Morgan Tillman. Last night, it was pretty much the same thing.”
“I have nothing to say about that, Arthur. Go on.”
“Are you aware that Mrs. Tillman was, perhaps still is, the principal suspect in the death of her husband?”
“I was made thoroughly aware of that by our police commissioner earlier today. He laid out his case.”
“And what did you think of it?”
“I thought that, in the unlikely event that she were tried, she would be acquitted in short order.”
“I’m afraid that’s what I thought, too,” Steele said.
“I suppose your interest in this business has something to do with insurance?”
“It certainly does. We insured the van Gogh in the value of sixty million dollars.”
“I’d heard it might be worth forty million.”
“People always over-insure,” Steele said. “It’s one of the ways we make our money.”
“Did you pay the claim?”
“Mark Tillman’s policy states that if the painting is stolen, we have a grace period of eighteen months before payment is due, to give us and the authorities time for a thorough investigation. Our time is up soon, and I’m afraid that unless the picture is recovered, we’ll have to pay.”
“I trust you laid off some of your liability on a reinsurer?”
“Lloyd’s took fifty percent of it. They’re very interested in the investigation, as you might imagine, and I’m speaking to you with their concurrence.”
“Arthur, what, exactly, are you speaking to me about?”
“Is Morgan Tillman your client?”
“We have no formal arrangement, nor even an informal one. She sought advice on dealing with the police when the windshield of her Bentley was smashed. I expect you’ll be receiving a number of claims for similar events.”
“Yes, I’ve heard about that rash of breakages.”
“I introduced her to Dino so that she could vent. She did so, and that was the extent of my involvement in her affairs.”
“So she is not your client?”
“I don’t intend to bill her, so no, I guess not.”
“All right, from here on we are operating under the strictest degree of confidentiality. Agreed?”
“Arthur, you are already my client, so agreed.”
“We—I, at least—feel that the stolen van Gogh may be a fake.”
“Arthur, surely you took steps to authenticate the painting before you insured it for sixty million dollars.”
There was a knock at the door and a waiter entered, pushing a cart. He served them a cold soup.
“Just leave the cart,” Steele said to him. “We’ll deal with the main course.” The man departed, closing the door behind him.
“We did take steps,” Steele replied, pouring them both a glass of Mersault. “Mark Tillman insisted that it be inspected at his apartment. For security reasons, he did not want it to leave the premises.”
“I don’t blame him,” Stone said.
“We had three experts—one from the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam representing Lloyd’s, one from the Metropolitan Museum, which expected to acquire the painting as a gift from Tillman’s estate upon his death, and an eminent authority on van Gogh, representing us.”
“And did they render their opinions?”
“They all agreed that it was genuine.”
“Then why do you believe that it might not be?”
“This is rather a long story, so drink your soup and listen.”
Stone picked up his soup spoon and began.
“Are you aware of the circumstances of Vincent van Gogh’s death?”