“I’m listening.”
He unwrapped the elastic band from his black Moleskine. “In spite of his misplaced
enmity for me that I just don’t get, Eugene Summers gave up some really useful
intel on Tyler Wynn at our lunch. He’s a perfect source. Summers not only spied for
Wynn all those years, he’s a butler—a combo of observant plus oriented to detail.
The man gave me an incredibly complete list of Tyler’s personal buying preferences.
” Rook opened to a page he had bookmarked with the notebook’s black ribbon. “For
instance, did you know Wynn wears custom shoes? Six-thousand-dollar bespoke loafers
from John Lobb boot maker in Paris.”
That got her attention. Not just the self-indulgence; the price served as a red flag
for anyone doing a background check on a government employee. Tyler Wynn’s treason
clearly supported his expensive tastes. He looked up from his notebook. “Maybe it’
s just I, but if a shoe costs six grand, can it really be called a loafer?”
“Agreed. And superb use of that personal pronoun.” She habitually needled Rook for
being the writer boy, but seeing him riffling through interview notes, she respected
his journalistic chops. All the more, if they led her to capture Wynn. Hell, it
might even keep her alive.
“Let’s see what else. Outerwear, only Barbour, only from Harrods. Briefcases from
Alfred Dunhill, sweaters from Peter Millar, shirts from Haupt of Germany, and
athletic socks from South Africa—Balegas, if you must know. His booze habits are
also quite particular. His white Burgundy of choice is Domaine Leflaive Puligny-
Montrachet. His red is a Mil-Mar Estates Cabernet Sauvignon from Napa. He goes for
WhistlePig rye and Vya sweet vermouth. His Irish whiskey brand is Michael Collins.”
“What,” she said, “Jameson’s not good enough for him?”
“Nikki Heat, it’s like you’re reading my mind.”
Personal habits had a way of becoming a trail, and reality TV’s premier butler had
given them a trove of leads. So much to go on that Heat pulled in Detective Rhymer
to pair with Rook and start making contact with the retailers and distributors who
supplied Tyler Wynn with his unique brands of consumer products. “Your
investigative journalist’s gut is doing the job, Rook,” she told him. “Now take
it to the next step and find out if Uncle Tyler’s been buying himself any goodies
lately, and where they’ve been delivered.”
“You can’t have specific tastes like his and fall completely off the grid.”
“Prove it,” she said. And he and Rhymer got to work.
Raley called in from the Roach Coach. “Miguel and I are just now wheels-up from
Sotheby’s on the East Side,” he said.
“Do you think they can ID the painting for us?”
“Already have. It took them five seconds. The hand on that slip of paper was
clipped from a work by Paul Cézanne. It’s called Boy in a Red Waistcoat. The
appraiser e-mailed me a digital image of the whole painting. I’ll forward it to you
or you can pull it up online if you don’t want to wait.”
“Thanks, I will. That was fast, Rales.”
“Yeah, well, turns out the painting is not only well known, it’s on everyone’s
radar these days.”
“How come?”
“It’s hot. It got stolen in 2008 from the… hang on, I can’t read my own writing.
The painting got jacked along with a couple others from the Bührle Collection. That
’s in Zurich, Switzerland.” After a pause he said, “I lose you?”
“No,” said Nikki, “I’m with you, just thinking I’ve got a call to make. Good
work.”