Quick & Dirty

24

Stone was thinking about leaving his desk early when Joan buzzed him and said Art Masi wanted to see him.

“All right, send him in,” Stone replied.

Masi came in and sat down.

“Art, after your interview with Farina and Kusch, what are your feelings about the case?”

“Well, they’re lying, and I don’t know why, except that they’re hiding something incriminating.”

“Which crime do you think they may have committed?”

“Either one, or possibly both.”

“They came to see me after your interview. I’m now representing them.”

“But, Stone, the last thing you said to me was that you were glad you weren’t representing them.”

“I’m still not crazy about the idea, Art, but after speaking with them at some length, I don’t believe they committed either crime.”

“Well, that’s a pretty fast turnaround,” Masi said.

“No, I’ve never said I believed they were involved, and now I feel more strongly than ever that they’re not.”

“Explain to me why, please.”

“Let me tell you what they told me this afternoon.”

“I’m all ears.”

“They admit having been present in Tillman’s apartment on the afternoon of his death.”

“Well, that’s hardly exculpatory, is it?”

“They say that Tillman knew they were going to be in town, and he invited them for a drink at two-thirty. They showed up, had their drink, then made to leave. Tillman asked them to drop off a box at the FedEx store on Second Avenue. It was on their way to the tunnel. They agreed. The box was on the hall table, and they took it and deposited it in the receptacle outside the FedEx store.”

“Who was it addressed to?”

“They didn’t bother looking to see — they had no interest.” Stone picked up the large FedEx box beside his desk. “This was the kind of box. They identified it. Does that give you any ideas?”

“You think the van Gogh was in the box?”

Stone tossed him the box. “Wouldn’t it fit easily into that?”

“I suppose so,” Masi said. “But why would Tillman FedEx it to somebody?”

“Maybe he had an accomplice.”

“An accomplice in what?”

“In the theft of a valuable piece of art. You’ve searched his apartment twice and his beach house once, and you haven’t found it.”

“Who would he choose as an accomplice?”

“Well, on the available evidence, now that these kids have told the truth, he sent it to somebody. Is there a likely suspect among the people involved in the case?”

“Perhaps his wife?”

“He lived with her. He could have just handed her the package.”

“A friend?”

“What friend? He didn’t seem to have many. From what we’ve heard, he worked all the time.”

“A business partner?”

“His hedge fund had lost a lot of money. That’s not the sort of event to seal a friendship among partners.”

“He left his wife half a billion dollars,” Art said. “What would he need with another sixty million?”

“His estate was almost entirely in trusts, so that his executor could avoid probate. He wouldn’t have had access to those funds, and if he were a little short of money, sixty million might have been very welcome.”

“So he stole the painting from himself?”

“No, he stole it from his insurance company, then he sent it to somebody for safekeeping. Fortunately, Federal Express keeps records.”

“Then I’d better get over to that FedEx store and find out what packages were collected in their deposit box that Saturday afternoon,” Art said, rising.

“Good idea,” Stone said, and Masi turned to go. “Art?”

Masi turned. “I think I may know who he sent it to, but I don’t want to prejudice you.” Stone took a sheet of paper, wrote something on it, sealed it into an envelope, and handed it to Masi. “That’s my best guess. See if I’m right after you’ve traced the package.”

Art tucked the envelope into an inside pocket of his jacket. “I’ll call you when I know something,” he said.

Masi drove uptown and found the FedEx store, with its outside deposit box. He went inside, where a young woman was behind the desk. “May I speak to the manager, please?” She looked far too young to be the manager.

“Who shall I say wants him?” she asked.

Masi produced his badge. “Lieutenant Masi of the NYPD. Tell him not to worry, he’s not in any trouble.”

She disappeared into the rear of the store and came back with a young man who appeared to be even younger than his staffer. “I’m Rich Mann,” he said.

“Congratulations,” Masi said. “About eighteen months ago” — he gave him the date — “a Saturday afternoon, someone deposited a large FedEx box in your outside receptacle. I’d like to know to whom it was addressed.”

“You got a tracking number?”

“No.”

“An address?”

“No, but it was sent by a Mr. Mark Tillman of 740 Park Avenue.”

The boy went to a computer and began typing. “Mr. Tillman has two accounts with us — one at his office, one at his home, at 740 Park.”

“Good.”

“Nothing was shipped from either address on that date.”

That brought Masi up short. “Suppose he used a blank waybill that he picked up at this shop, or one like it, and suppose he used another name as the sender.”

“And what name would that be?”

“I don’t know,” Masi replied.

“That’s not very helpful,” the boy said.

“Somewhere in your computer, don’t you have a record of what was sent from this shop on that date?”

“Yes, but that could be hundreds of packages.”

“Is there a separate list of what was put into the deposit box?”

“No, those packages would be sent with all the others. There were, let’s see” — he tapped some more keys — “two hundred and eight packages dispatched from this store on that date.”

“And none of them sent by Mark Tillman?”

“No, sir.”

“Thank you,” Masi said, and turned to go.

“Just a sec,” the boy said. He was staring at his screen.

“What?” Masi asked.

“We got one package that was sent to Mr. Mark Tillman, at 740 Park.”

“You mean that on the waybill Tillman was listed as the addressee?”

“That’s right. It was sent for third-day delivery, and it was delivered to 740 Park on the following Wednesday at ten fifty-four AM and signed for by a doorman.”

“Can you print me a copy of your screen, please?”

“Sure,” the boy said. He pressed a key, and a moment later a printer spat out a sheet.

“Thank you very much for your help,” Masi said, and walked out of the shop, tucking the page into an inside pocket, where he ran into an obstruction. He removed an envelope from his pocket, the one Stone Barrington had given him. He opened it and found a single sheet of paper with a name written on it: