The Hypnotist

FIFTY-FIVE

A French maid wearing a simple black-and-white uniform escorted the two agents through the front hall of the apartment on avenue de New York, as if they had come to tea, and brought them into the living room. The purpose of this visit cast all the beauty of the high-ceilinged room with its ornate gilded moldings and floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the river Seine in a harsh, ironic light. Under his dirty shoes was a yellow, cream and blue Aubusson rug worth more, Lucian knew, than he made in a year. None of the antique furnishings or paintings would have been out of place in a museum.

Darius Shabaz stood when the agents walked in, but it was the overweight, balding man wearing thick glasses who waddled over to them and introduced himself as Eliot Waxman, Mr. Shabaz’s lawyer.

There was no preamble, and any pretense that this was an afternoon tea disappeared as soon as all four men were seated in the club chairs set up around a coffee table. Lucian leaned back as if he were relaxed, as if Darius were just another suspect, not the man who might actually give him the information he needed to solve the crime that had changed the trajectory of so many lives-including his own-and was changing them still.

“Mr. Shabaz and I appreciate your coming all this way,” Waxman said. “I assure you we have every intention of cooperating and having this move as swiftly as possible to a conclusion we can all live with.”

Shabaz, who still had not spoken, nodded in agreement. He appeared concerned but wasn’t exhibiting any of the body language of a guilty man.

“You understand that according to French law, Mr. Shabaz can remain here forever without any worry of extradition. But he’d prefer to return home to California and resume his life,” Waxman offered.

“I’m sure he would,” Richmond said with only a hint of sarcasm.

“And he’s prepared to help you in any way he can in order to make that a reality,” Waxman continued, as if he hadn’t heard Richmond’s retort.

“You understand that we are doing you a favor, not the other way around?” Richmond said, this time with more than a hint of sarcasm.

“Mr. Shabaz,” Lucian said, directing his next words to the fugitive, not his lawyer, “you’re going to have to help us a whole lot if you don’t want to come home to a very stiff prison sentence.”

“I bought those paintings completely legally,” Shabaz said adamantly. “All within the past four years and all of them had-”

Waxman put his hand on his client’s arm, interrupting and stopping him from saying anything else.

“Would it be possible for me to get some water?” Richmond asked. He and Lucian had discussed which of them would make the request beforehand.

“Yes, of course,” Shabaz said. “Let me call Suzanne.”

“Just point me in the direction of the kitchen, that would be fine.”

Shabaz reacted at first as if he was going to argue but then seemed to change his mind and gave Richmond instructions.

“What do you want to know, Agent Glass?” Waxman asked.

Lucian noticed that Shabaz seemed distracted. Maybe he didn’t like the idea of the FBI agent wandering through his apartment. Well, good; that was the point. He answered the lawyer’s question, but looked at Shabaz. “This is very simple. We want to know why you wanted the sculpture so badly. Why go to so much trouble? Why destroy the paintings? Why not just make a clean trade? And we want the names of the people you bought the paintings from. Plus all of your paperwork relating to those sales.”

Waxman looked visibly relieved. “And all charges will be dropped if we comply with your requests?”

“Once your client has answered all our questions and we can ascertain that we’ve been given authentic documents we will discuss leniency.”

“No. We need to know what you are offering now,” Waxman said.

Every muscle in his body fought back as Lucian stood up. The last thing he wanted to do was leave without answers, but he had no choice. He wouldn’t be held hostage to his own personal demons or to this officious lawyer. “My partner and I are staying at the Lenox Hotel if you change your mind.”

Lucian had taken only a few steps when Shabaz said, “I’ll talk to you now.”

He walked back to his seat.

“I’ll tell you what you want to know-but I bought the paintings legally,” Shabaz insisted.

“It’s illegal to buy stolen artwork.”

“I didn’t know they were stolen when I bought them.”

“Do not lie to me. Don’t do it,” Lucian said, and turned to Waxman. “If you want a deal for your client you’d better tell him that nothing but a one-hundred-percent honest and full disclosure is going to work.”

Richmond returned carrying a crystal glass filled with water, and Lucian was annoyed that he hadn’t brought him one, too. His head had been pounding since the plane had reached altitude. He resisted putting his hand up to rub his temple. Not only would the gesture make him look weak, he knew by now it was futile. Nothing helped. Not a damn thing.

“I don’t have anything to hide,” Shabaz said. “I acted in good faith.”

“Who did you buy the paintings from?”

“I bought three of the paintings from one man, and two from another,” he said and then named them.

Lucian wrote down the names of the two dealers, both of whom had decent reputations. They were now one giant step closer. “And the bills of sale.”

“All of the paperwork is in L.A.”

“Can you arrange to have it overnighted to our New York office today?”

Waxman looked at his client, who nodded. “We can,” the lawyer responded.

“Why destroy the Matisse? Why not just offer the paintings in exchange?” Richmond asked.

“I needed the Met to know how serious I was.”

“Why was that?” Lucian asked. “What is so important about Hypnos?”

“I didn’t want it going to Iran or to Greece. Its value is so much greater than anyone realizes.”

“What right do you have to it?”

Shabaz looked at Lucian as if he was stupid. “It’s mine. Hypnos is legally mine. It’s my inheritance. It belonged to my ancestors.”

Lucian hesitated for just a second, rocked by the implications of the revelation. He saw Richmond glance at his partner as if asking why he hadn’t followed up yet. Quickly he threw out the next question.

“Can you explain that?”

“My ancestors were Jewish and lived in Persia. The sculpture, along with two dozen other treasures, was buried under their house until the late 1800s when a French archaeologist stole it. Looted it. Sold it to an American industrialist. Took what belonged to my great-great-grandparents and destroyed everyone’s lives.”

“Hosh and Bibi?” Lucian’s voice came from far away and as he heard the names he was as surprised as everyone else was.

“Yes,” Shabaz said, astounded. “How do you know?”

Richmond was staring at his partner.

The words had just slipped out. What had he done? Lucian struggled for a plausible explanation. “The museum’s compiled a history of the sculpture,” Lucian said, hoping his rationale would pass muster. “Who it belonged to, what its provenance was, that sort of thing.” His mouth had gone dry. Without thinking, he reached out and took Richmond’s glass and drank half the water down. No one seemed to notice, least of all his partner, who’d never wanted it in the first place. Lucian was almost positive the Met’s history only contained the name of the archaeologist who’d sold the piece to Frederick L. Lennox, but he didn’t have time to worry about his egregious error now.

“Do you know a man named Malachai Samuels?” Richmond asked.

“I don’t think so, no,” Shabaz answered.

“You seem pretty sure.”

“I don’t know the name.”

“What about the other objects in the crypt?” Lucian asked. “What about them? Are you trying to get them back, too?”

“The other objects? Four clay pots, two gold bracelets, one pair of gold and rough ruby earrings, two elaborate pearl and gold necklaces, three large oil jugs and a gold pitcher. Every one of them predated Christianity, all from either ancient Rome or Greece and all of them hidden in the ancient crypt under their house in the Persian ghetto. Over the past twenty years I’ve spent whatever I had to buy them back.”

“To what end?” Lucian asked.

“I grew up listening to my grandfather’s story of exile from his homeland and his struggle to begin again. At first they were a series of adventures, myths to inspire a young boy to push himself, to fight whatever came his way and never fear the unknown. Over time I became obsessed with the carnage and loss my family suffered, which changed their destiny and ruined them.”

“And you wanted to rewrite the story’s ending?” Lucian asked.

“I wanted justice.”

“And the destruction and carnage you inflicted on the Matisse? Who gave you the right to decide what should be sacrificed and what should be saved?”

“If the Metropolitan Museum returned the statue of Hypnos to Iran or Greece, that would be a travesty far more terrible than the loss of one Impressionist painting. You still don’t understand how important Hypnos is. I do.”

Lucian stood up. It didn’t matter how important Shabaz believed it was. Not now.

The knot that had been coiled deep inside of him for so long tugged. Lucian couldn’t think about anything except the names he had written down. Two art dealers. One who might lead him to Solange’s killer.