Quick & Dirty

47

Dino answered. “Bacchetti.”

“It’s Stone. You know a guy named Rocco Maggio?”

“I know a Pietro Maggio, a Jersey don.”

“Pietro’s son.”

“I haven’t had the pleasure.”

“I think he’s mixed up in the fencing of our van Gogh.”

“You think he has possession?”

“It’s a possibility. I went to the Eisl Gallery on Madison this morning and made noises about wanting something special. Eisl himself bit and said he had something by a famous artist, but with a dicey provenance. It was at his warehouse, come back in half an hour. When I came back, he got a call from Rocco Maggio, and when he heard what Maggio had to say, he went all white and said the picture was unavailable, to come back tomorrow. Art Masi and I are at Eisl’s warehouse now.”

“I haven’t heard any probable cause for a warrant,” Dino said.

“I know. What we need, in a hurry, is an arrest warrant for Rocco Maggio for a hundred grand’s worth of unpaid parking tickets.”

Dino snorted. “That shouldn’t be much of a problem. You’re at the warehouse now?”

“Parked across the street. It might be nice if you could get his car towed, too.”

“Go get some lunch. I’ll call a judge and send a detective up there with your arrest warrant. Where will you be?”

“Ah, Caravaggio, on the East Side. Call me when he’s on his way,” Stone said, then hung up.

“I like the restaurant,” Art said.

“So do I.” Stone gave Fred the address, and when they arrived, he told Fred to go home and have some lunch and to be back in an hour and a half.

They ordered pasta and some wine.

“I have an idea,” Stone said, “that Rocco Maggio is where Eisl got the cash to buy the painting. Not many people have a few million in cash lying around. Do you think Maggio could unload the thing overnight? I mean, Eisl thought it was at the warehouse, until Maggio broke the news to him on the phone.”

“If stolen art is the business Maggio is in,” Art said, “then he’ll have a number of clients with a taste for rare art and no scruples about provenance. And he’s got shipping at his fingertips, so the answer is yes.”

“And it’s possible that it could already have left the country.”

“Absolutely. Maggio’s shipping company website has a Boeing 737 on the title page. That could go almost anywhere with a fuel stop or two. Transatlantic would be no problem.”

“That would cost a lot of fuel to transport something that weighs less than five pounds.”

“Maybe he had a horse or two to ship, as well.”

They were on espressos when Dino called.

“Are you still at Caravaggio?”

“Yes.”

“Lucky sonofabitch,” Dino replied. “I’m having a salami sandwich at my desk.”

“Did you get us the warrant?”

“My guy’s leaving the court now. He’ll be there in half an hour.” He hung up.

The detective dropped off the warrant. “You want some backup? I’m free.”

“We don’t anticipate any trouble,” Stone said. “Still... what’s your name?”

“Andy Farina.”

“Any relation to Angelo Farina, the painter?”

“He’s my first cousin.”

“Small world. Are you in a car?”

“Yep.”

“Follow us. We’re in the Bentley outside.”

They went out, got the cars, and headed back to the West Side. “Andy,” Stone said, “give me your cell number and wait here for us.”

“What if I hear shooting?”

“Assume it’s at us, and get in there,” Stone replied.

He and Art got out of the Bentley and walked into the warehouse. A man sat in a glass booth, reading a Racing Form. Stone tapped on the glass. “Rocco Maggio, please?”

The man looked them up and down. “What’s your business?”

“The kind you’d rather not know about,” Stone replied.

The man picked up the phone and pressed a button. “Mr. Maggio? Two gents down here to see you.” He covered the phone. “What’s your names?”

“Mr. Barrington and Mr. Masi.”

He relayed that information and listened, then hung up. “Third floor. Elevator’s over there. His office is at the rear of the building.”

It was a freight elevator, but it beat climbing stairs. They got off and started walking toward the end of the building; there were stairs up half a floor, and a man stood at a window, watching them come.

Stone rapped at the door, then let Masi precede him.

“Rocco Maggio?” Masi asked.

Maggio pointed at a nameplate on his desk. “Who else?”

“Mr. Maggio,” Masi said, flashing his badge and tossing the warrant onto his desk, “you’re under arrest for the non-payment of a hundred and twenty-two thousand, three hundred and twenty dollars in unpaid parking tickets.” He walked around the desk and produced handcuffs. “Stand up.”

Maggio gaped at him. “You’re kidding,” he said.

“I said stand up. You want me to help you?”

Maggio stood up. “Listen, gentlemen, this is unnecessary. I’ll write you a check right now.” He reached for a desk drawer, but Masi clapped a cuff on that hand, spun him around, and cuffed the other hand, then he frisked the man thoroughly and came up with a small 9mm pistol.

“I’ve got a permit for that,” Maggio said. “It’s in my wallet. You can get it out for me, inside jacket pocket, left.”

“Are you attempting to bribe me, Mr. Maggio?”

“No, no, listen, we don’t have to go through all this.”

“Let’s go,” Masi said. He marched the man to the elevator, then they rode down to street level, with Maggio protesting all the way.

Outside, Stone said, “Would you prefer the Ford or the Bentley?”

“Are you kidding me?” Maggio asked. He looked around. “Hey, my car is gone — it’s been stolen!”

“I would imagine,” Stone said, “that given your history as a scofflaw, the NYPD finally got around to towing it.”

“Oh, shit!” Maggio yelled as he got into the Bentley.

Stone put him in the rear seat, then got in beside him. “I thought we’d have a little chat on the way downtown,” he said.

“About what?” Maggio asked.

“Art,” Stone replied.