Carnal Curiosity (18 page)

“How you feeling?” Dino asked.

“Better and angrier.”

“I want you to know our art investigation team is all over this. They’re checking shippers to stop the pictures from being sent abroad, they’re harassing dealers who’ve been known to handle hot art, they’re doing everything they can.”

“Are you satisfied with what your techs did with your system yesterday?” Mike asked.

“I am. They did a great job, and they’ve switched my monitoring to an Agency office. Mike, did Dino tell you that Dugan bought my monitoring service?”

“No.”

“Not yet,” Dino said.

“And the guy on duty that night ignored the alarm, then left
his job the next morning. How many of your clients use that service?” Stone asked.

“I don’t know, but I’ll find out.”

“I should think you’d be better off with in-house monitoring,” Stone said. “Have you considered that?”

“I’m considering it as we speak.”

“There’s something else, Mike,” Dino said.

“Are you talking about Crane Hart? Your people spent two hours with her yesterday.”

“Yes. Did she talk to you about it?”

“No, she left the office immediately afterward, and she called in sick this morning. What’s going on?”

Stone was glad that he wasn’t conveying this information.

Dino went on. “We suspect that Crane and Dugan may be involved in a series of robberies, of which Stone’s is the third.”

“Go on,” Mike said.

“Turns out Crane had access to a lot of wealthy clients’ records when she was with Steele, and it’s possible she may have helped Dugan select victims. Stone recognized the voice of one of Dugan’s people in the robbery last weekend at the Coulter apartment.”

Stone brought Mike up to date on that.

“Mike, you might give some thought to the work that Crane is doing for you now.”

“Right now, she’s working on planning security for a private jewelry show in a couple of weeks.” Mike took a large sip of his wine.

Dino and Stone exchanged glances.

“Just the sort of thing Dugan might like to know about,” Dino said.

“I just can’t believe Crane would be involved in something like this.”

“Can you believe that Dugan might be?” Stone asked.

Mike drank some more wine and nodded. “Yes, I can.”

“Did you know that they’re back together?” Stone asked.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Immediately after their divorce decree came down.”

Mike looked grim, but he didn’t reply.

“It turns out,” Dino said gently, “that Crane has a history of sleeping with people who can give her the kind of information that Dugan would need to pull off these jobs. Is there someone at Strategic Services who might fit that bill?”

“Yes, there is,” Mike said. “Me.”

Everyone got very quiet.

“Have you talked to her about anything you’re working on that Dugan might be interested in?”

“Yes, the jewelry show she’s working on. A dozen dealers will be exhibiting high-end pieces to an invited audience from the trade. There’ll be more than a hundred million dollars in jewelry there.”

“Where and when is the show to be held?” Dino asked.

Mike gave him the date. “It’s at a new hotel, the Creighton Arms, that’s opening that day. The jewelry dealers have taken the top floor. We’re providing armed guards and a temporary, wireless alarm system. Each dealer will have a remote device with a panic button.”

“And what part of this is Crane working on?” Stone asked.

“Overview. She knows the whole setup.”

A waiter appeared, and they took a moment to order lunch, then they were alone again.

“May I make a suggestion, Mike?” Dino asked.

“I would be very grateful if you would.”

“I suggest you assign someone to work as a kind of shadow to Crane. Change everything about your arrangements—guard numbers and positions, panic codes, everything. But keep Crane in the old loop. Let her think that she still has the whole layout.”

“Good idea,” Mike said.

“I also think you should have plainclothes armed guards with each dealer.”

“Another good idea.”

“My detectives will work with the hotel’s security to handle everything outside the floor they’ve taken—elevators, parking garage, exterior access, and roof, including the helicopter pad, if there is one.”

“There is one. It’s already in service. That would make the most sense for a robbery team to get out fast.”

“Then we’ll have NYPD choppers overflying.”

Their food came, and they ate quietly.

“Who was Crane sleeping with at Steele?” Mike asked finally.

“Jeb Barnes,” Stone replied. “He kept the top client records in his office suite, and they spent nights there. Jeb says he’s a heavy sleeper.”

Mike nodded. “And you?” he asked Stone.

Stone shrugged. “That’s how Crane saw the pictures—four of them were in my bedroom.”

“That woman is something else,” Mike said.

“She certainly is,” Dino agreed. “And you’re going to have to be very careful not to let her know about our conversation. When she comes back to work, ask her about the interrogation. Believe me, she’ll have a plausible story ready.”

“Should I keep sleeping with her?” Mike asked.

“I don’t know,” Dino said. “Can you do that without her sensing that something is wrong?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Mike said. “I’ll have to think about it.”

“If you’re going to break it off, you should have a story ready for her. Tell her you’ve met someone else, something like that.”

“I don’t know how to bring that up,” Mike said.

“Let her take the lead,” Stone suggested. “She’s good at that.”

“That,” Mike said, “is a new high in understatement.”

39

S
tone had hardly gotten back to his desk when Joan buzzed him. “There’s an Alistair Tremont on line one for you.”

“Remind me,” Stone said.

“Tremont Gallery, he says.”

“Oh, yes, I remember.” He pressed the button. “This is Stone Barrington.”

“Mr. Barrington, you may remember that I sold you a picture a few years back? A Matilda Stone?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I didn’t realize you’d sold it.”

“Sold it?”

“If you’d come to me I’m sure I could have gotten you a far better price.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“A young woman came in this morning with some slides. She’s a kind of walking gallery—she buys things at estate sales
and junk shops, then cleans them up and sells them to galleries or at antique shows. I thought perhaps you had engaged her to sell some of your works.”

“Alistair, I’ve never sold any of the art I’ve bought. Are you telling me that the picture I bought from you—the Washington Square Arch scene—was among the things she was trying to sell you?”

“Exactly.”

“Do you have her address and phone number?”

“No, just an e-mail address.”

“Can you give me that, please?”

“Mr. Barrington, if you wish to repurchase the picture, I can do that for you.”

Of course, Stone thought; he wants to make another profit from the picture. “Alistair, that picture and ten other Matilda Stones were stolen from my home the night before last.”

There was a quick intake of breath on the other end of the line. “Good God!”

“Well, yes. And if she’s offering you one stolen item, she may have others in her inventory. This is a matter for the police art theft squad.”

“Well, I certainly don’t want to deal with them,” Tremont said. “I wouldn’t want them in my shop. Word gets around about that sort of thing—it’s not good for business.”

“Stolen art is not good for business, either.”

Tremont seemed indecisive about what to do.

“Alistair, was there anything else in what she showed you that you were interested in buying?”

“There was one other thing: a John Singer Sargent print from around 1910.”

“And if you wanted to buy them from her, how would you proceed?”

“I’d e-mail her that I’d like her to bring the two pictures to my gallery, and if they were in satisfactory condition, I’d make an offer for them.”

“Then do that,” Stone said, “and when you’ve made an appointment with her, call me, and I’ll be there. I won’t bring the police, and there won’t be any trouble.”

“All right, I guess I can do that.”

“Insist on a specific time for the appointment. I don’t want to wait around all day for her to show up. Tell her you’re busy, but you’ll squeeze her in.”

“All right, I’ll e-mail her now.”

“What is her name?”

“Anita Mays.”

“I’ll look forward to hearing from you.” They both hung up, and Stone called Dino, who turned out to be at a meeting at the mayor’s office for the rest of the afternoon. Stone called Detective Jim Connor and got voice mail. He left a message. Then he realized that there was another call he should make. He dialed the Steele company and asked for Jeb Barnes.

“This is Mr. Barnes.”

“It’s Stone Barrington, Jeb.”

“Oh, hello, Stone.” He didn’t sound happy to hear from him.

“There’s been another robbery,” Stone said.

“Oh, dear. Who is it this time?”

“Me.”

“You? What was stolen?”

“Eleven of my mother’s pictures.”

“Your mother is a photographer?”

“No, she was a painter. Her name was Matilda Stone.”

“Oh, yes, indeed. I didn’t know there was a connection. Let me get your file.” He put Stone on hold and came back a couple of minutes later. “Here we are: those pictures are insured for a total of one-point-eight million.”

“That’s an old figure—they’ve appreciated greatly over the past few years.”

“I’ll fax you a claims form to fill out, and we’ll get right on it,” Barnes said.

“There’s something else: the dealer who sold me one of the pictures was visited by someone wanting to sell it to him.”

“Well, we’d better get the police involved immediately.”

“The dealer is being very shy about that, so I’m going to look into it myself.”

“Yourself?”

“Perhaps you aren’t aware that I’m a former police officer.”

“No.”

“Here’s my point: we might be able to get this picture back, and perhaps others, too. Would Steele be willing to offer a significant reward for its return?”

“Return from whom?”

“Does it matter?”

“Well, we wouldn’t want to reward a thief.”

“I’m thinking of the dealer who called me about this.”

“Oh, well, surely. What sort of reward, do you think?”

“Well, the picture is probably worth something over two million dollars.”

“Then we’ll offer a reward of a hundred thousand dollars for information leading to the recovery of
all eleven
pictures, or ten thousand dollars for the recovery of this one.”

“That seems rather mean, considering their value.”

“Anything more than that, and I’d have to go to the board, which doesn’t meet until next month.”

“All right, it’s a start. I’ll get back to you.” Stone hung up. Connor still hadn’t called back.

Joan buzzed. “Alistair Tremont on one.”

Stone pressed the button. “Yes, Alistair?”

“She’ll be here in half an hour,” Tremont said.

“I’m on my way. If she arrives before I do, find a way to keep her there.”

“How would I do that?”

“Ask her to show you some more slides—the same ones again, if necessary. Take a while to look them over.”

“All right.” They hung up.

Stone went into Joan’s office. “How much cash do we have in the safe?”

She opened the safe and checked. “Thirty-five thousand.”

“Give me all of it.” He went and got his briefcase and put the money inside, then he went looking for a cab.

40

S
tone arrived at the gallery, a small shop in the East Sixties, went inside, and found Alistair Tremont showing an elderly woman some watercolors. The gallery owner waved him to a chair, and Stone sat down and put his briefcase beside him.

He looked around the gallery as Alistair droned on about color saturation and perspective, and eventually the woman bought two pictures. As they were being rung up, Stone glanced outside and saw a sleek black motorcycle pull up and a woman get off and begin unlashing a portfolio from the rear luggage rack.

The motorcycle was black, and the woman was dressed in black leather and a black helmet; the portfolio in her hands was black, too. As she came through the door she took off the helmet, releasing a cascade of long black hair. She was nothing if not color-coordinated. And she was quite beautiful.

“Be right with you, Anita,” Alistair called.

Stone kept his seat, but she was looking suspiciously at him,
and she hovered near the door, as if to be ready for a quick getaway. Stone rested his head on the back of his chair, as if to appear uninterested.

Finally, Alistair had wrapped his customer’s pictures and escorted her to the door. Then he turned back into the gallery. “Anita, meet my client…”

“Jim,” Stone said, getting to his feet. “Nice to meet you.”

Anita nodded, but still was watching him with suspicion.

“Come on back, Anita,” Alistair said. “I’ve got an easel set up.”

“I like your bike,” Stone said, looking out the window. “What is it, a BMW F-800?”

“Right,” she said.

“Have you put a lot of miles on it?”

“More than a few. It gets me around town.”

“I don’t know how you survive on that thing in this city,” Alistair said as he smoothly took the portfolio from her and set it on his counter.

“I used to ride bikes around town,” Stone said. “I found that other drivers gave me a wide berth, as if they were afraid they might kill me.”

“Except taxi drivers,” Anita said. “They couldn’t care less.”

“I’ll tell you how to handle them,” Stone said. “After one of them has nearly killed you, you sneak up on him from behind, on the driver’s side—they always have their window open—and you scream at them as loud as you can.”

The woman managed a smile; she was relaxing. “That might work, you know.”