Quick & Dirty

50

As soon as they were back in the car, Stone told Fred to drive them home, then he called Dino.

“Bacchetti.”

“It’s Stone.”

“How’d you do at the garage?”

“The car had been broken into. The picture was gone.”

“Oh, shit. Any idea who took it?”

“Our chief suspect is Sol Fineman.”

“The invisible man? That Sol Fineman?”

“One and the same. Of course, that’s per Rocco Maggio. He says only André Eisl and Fineman saw him put the picture into his trunk.”

“Well, if that’s all you’ve got.”

“Have you had any reports of Fineman? Anything at all?”

“Hang on, I’ll see.” Dino put him on hold.

“Dino’s checking,” Stone said to Masi.

“I’m praying,” Art replied.

Dino came back. “Not a fucking trace,” he said. “It’s like the guy just vaporized.”

“We need him bad,” Stone said.

“Sorry, pal.” Dino hung up.

“Now what?” Masi asked.

“We’ve still got our list of possible buyers, and we’ve visited only two of them. What’s our next one?”

Art consulted the lists. “First Lot Auctions,” he said.

Stone gave Fred the address.

First lot auctions occupied a double-wide gallery space on Madison Avenue in the Nineties. Fred double-parked out front so they could see the car, and they went inside. A young blond woman in a tight black dress and chewing gum was dusting pictures and sculptures displayed for the next auction.

She stopped chewing. “Something you wanted to bid on?” she asked. “The sale is tomorrow morning at ten.” She resumed chewing.

“No,” Stone said, “we’d like to speak to the owner of the place.”

“That would be Mr. Marx. He’s in London at the moment.”

“Who’s in charge?”

“Mr. Michaels,” she replied. “I’ll see if he’s available.” She disappeared into a back room.

“Why do I think this is futile?” Art asked.

“If you have a better idea...”

“No.”

The young woman reappeared and resumed her dusting. “He’ll be just a moment,” she said.

Ten minutes passed. “Let’s go,” Stone said, heading for the back door, with Masi right behind. The door opened into a hallway, with rooms on each side. In the last one they found a man packing papers into a cardboard box. He seemed startled to see them.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Mr. Michaels?”

He looked them over. “No, he’s gone for the day.”

Stone walked over and looked into the cardboard box. He picked up a letter on top of a stack of papers; it was addressed to Mr. Warren Michaels.

“Okay, Warren,” Stone said, “what’s the rush?”

“Who are you?”

“We represent Sam Spain.”

Michaels went a little pale. “Sam Spain is dead. I read it in the Post.”

“We represent Mr. Spain’s estate,” Stone said, “and we have reason to believe that you are in possession of some property of Mr. Spain’s.”

“I’m not. I don’t know anything about it.”

“About what?”

“Ah...”

“It’s a picture,” Stone said. “A very rare one.”

“I don’t know.”

“You haven’t even asked what sort of picture,” Stone said.

“I don’t need to ask — I don’t have anything belonging to Sam Spain.”

“Actually, it belongs to Mrs. Mark Tillman,” Stone said. “Am I getting through to you?”

Michaels opened a desk drawer, retrieved a sheet of paper, and handed it to Stone. It was the police flyer with a reproduction of the van Gogh. “This is the only thing I know about belonging to a Tillman.”

“Then where is it?”

“How should I know?”

“Perhaps you’d rather talk to Sol Fineman about this?” Stone asked.

That had an effect. “Now, wait a minute, I don’t want that guy in here again.”

“Do you find Mr. Fineman frightening?”

“Yes, I do. The man carries a blackjack.”

“Not anymore,” Stone said. “We relieved him of that. Still, Mr. Fineman has other methods.”

“Please, I don’t know anything about this.”

“Then how did you become acquainted with Mr. Fineman?”

Michaels’s shoulders slumped. “He came to see me.”

“And what passed between you?”

“He showed me a picture and asked if I wanted to buy it. Not auction it — he was very clear about that — buy it, for five million dollars. I don’t have that kind of cash, and my boss is in a country inn somewhere in England. He wouldn’t say where. I knew what it was, of course, from the flyer.”

“And you reported this incident to the police?”

“Mr. Fineman made it very clear to me what would happen if I did that. He hit me with the blackjack.”

“And then what?”

“When I came to, he was gone.” Michaels rubbed a spot behind his ear.

Stone believed him. “Let’s get out of here and leave Mr. Michaels alone with his conscience,” he said to Masi.

They spent the remainder of the day visiting the rest of Masi’s list. Everybody denied everything.

“I’m at my wit’s end,” Stone said.

“I can think of one more place Fineman might have taken the picture,” Masi said.

“And where is that?”

“The insurance company.”

“Arthur Steele already told Sam Spain to go fuck himself,” Stone pointed out. “Why would Fineman go to him?”

“Steele has had time to reconsider. Paying Sol Fineman five million is a lot better than paying Morgan Tillman sixty million.”

“No, Arthur hasn’t bought it back.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because he would have called me, to gloat.”

“Gloat?”

“I know Arthur. He’s a poor winner.”