Quick & Dirty

13

Stone took the transparency of Tillman’s van Gogh from his briefcase and handed it to Art Masi. “There’s a light box right behind you.”

Masi turned and, without leaving his chair, placed the transparency on the light box and switched it on. He gazed at it for perhaps half a minute. “Do you have a loupe or a magnifying glass?” he asked.

Stone opened a desk drawer, retrieved both items, and placed them on his desk. “Take your pick,” he said.

Masi picked up the magnifying glass, wiped it with a tissue from the box on Stone’s desk, and slowly looked at the transparency from top to bottom, side to side. He placed the magnifying glass on Stone’s desk, then repeated the process with the loupe. “What are its dimensions?” he asked.

“About fourteen by sixteen,” Stone replied.

“Has it ever been thoroughly cleaned?”

“Only with mineral spirits, not with acetone.”

Masi handed the transparency back to Stone, holding it delicately by its corners. “This is the most gorgeous piece of art I have ever seen,” he said. “And I’ve seen everything.”

“Is it a forgery?” Stone asked.

“A forgery of what?” Masi asked. “That term would imply that an original exists. I’ve heard the story of this, and it’s entirely plausible. It could have happened exactly the way Tillman said it did.”

“If it’s not a forgery, then is it an original work by Vincent van Gogh?”

“On the basis of a photographic examination, I could not say that it is not an original. I understand that three world-class experts, one from the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, have pronounced it as the real thing. Is that the case?”

“Yes.”

“And they were allowed to perform whatever tests they wanted to?”

“Yes, except Tillman would not allow it to be cleaned with acetone, only with mineral spirits.”

“That’s a red flag, but a very small one. If I owned the painting, I wouldn’t allow it to be cleaned with acetone, either. I mean, even if it had been painted on July twenty-ninth, 1890, there would still be the possibility of damaging it. What we’re talking about here is the last thing van Gogh ever painted, and on the day he was mortally wounded.”

“Did you search the Tillman apartment for the painting?” Stone asked.

“No. I was told that it had been stolen.”

“Did it not occur to you that the report might be false, and that it might have been hidden in the apartment?”

“Yes, but I reasoned that if Mrs. Tillman had hidden it, she would not have permitted a search of the apartment without a warrant, and the process of obtaining that would have given her time to remove the painting from the apartment and hide it God-knows-where. After all, it’s not very big, it would fit in a small suitcase or a large briefcase, or even a large envelope, if it were out of the frame. I assume it was framed.”

“I assume so, too. I don’t know, but I can find out. Art, do you have any vacation time coming from the NYPD?”

“About five weeks, I think.”

“If you can take two weeks off and find the painting in that time, I’ll pay you a million dollars.”

Masi blinked. “I assume the insurance company has offered you considerably more than that.”

“You may assume anything you like. There are conditions. You may not break any laws during your search, and that includes harming anyone.”

“I’m going to need it in writing,” Masi said.

Stone took a sheet of his personal notepaper, picked up a fountain pen, and wrote, after the date: I, Stone Barrington, agree to pay Arturo Masi the sum of one million dollars if he can recover, undamaged, a lost painting, ostensibly by Vincent van Gogh, formerly the property of Mark Tillman, deceased, by noon two weeks from today, as long as Mr. Masi does not violate any law in his search or harm any person. The painting is to be authenticated by comparing it to an 8x10-inch transparency of the work, which is in my possession. He buzzed Joan.

“Yes, sir?”

“Joan, will you please come in here and bring your notary’s stamp?”

“Right away.” She came in, he signed the document, and she notarized it. Stone handed it to Masi, along with an envelope.

Masi read it carefully, then he folded the document and tucked it into an inside pocket of his jacket. “The clock is ticking,” Masi said. “I’d better get going.”

“Don’t bother trying to gain access to the Tillman apartment,” Stone said. “I’ll take care of that myself.”

“As you wish,” Masi said, handing Stone a card. “That has all my contact information.” The two men shook hands, and he left.

Joan buzzed.

“Yes?”

“A Mrs. Tillman on one for you.”

Stone picked up the phone. “Hello there.”

“I trust you’re having a good day,” she said.

“It’s easy to have a good day after a good night.”

“I must agree. Have you any plans for the weekend?”

“Not yet.”

“Would you like to come out to my place in the Hamptons today?”

“I’d love to. May I drive you? You’re still short of a car, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but that won’t be necessary. My husband thoughtfully left me a helicopter. May we meet at the East Side heliport at four o’clock?”

“Certainly.”

“Bring a coat, it’s cold out there this time of year.”

“I’ll do that. I won’t bring a swimsuit, either,” he said.

“You wouldn’t need one, even if it were a hot day.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“I’m having some people over for dinner tomorrow evening, but it will be casual. You won’t need a suit or a dinner jacket.”

“I’ll see you at four.”

“I’ll look forward to it.” They both hung up.

Stone picked up Art Masi’s card from his desk and called his cell number.

“Yes, Mr. Barrington?”

“Change of plans,” Stone said. “Mrs. Tillman will be out of her apartment for the weekend. That should give you time to obtain a search warrant.”

“The whole weekend?”

Stone gave him his own cell number. “Leaving today, not returning before Sunday. Ring me before you go in. If I say you got a wrong number, she won’t disturb you. If I say I’ll have to call you back, it won’t be safe.”

“Got it.”

Stone hung up and went upstairs to pack.