The Hypnotist (7 page)

Nicolas Olshling, the head of security, was holding a crowbar as if he needed a weapon against this violence. It was probably what he’d used to open the crate that lay in pieces on the floor.

“Why would anyone do this?” Weil asked. He didn’t really expect a response and wasn’t surprised when he didn’t get one.

To Olshling and the other employees in the room, it appeared as if the square-jawed man was completely in control, taking in the situation, assessing the damaged painting and making a decision about how to proceed. What no one could see was that the current head of New York City’s great and glorious museum, who was in charge of a six-hundred-person security force and over one thousand employees, was crying.

“Can someone ask Marie Grimshaw to come down?” he said, without turning around. Weil wanted the curator of the European art department here to identify the painting. “Tell her it’s urgent.”

As Weil returned his attention to the canvas he was vaguely aware of Olshling making a first and then a second call, this last to the FBI Art Crime Team.
Exactly right,
Weil thought, pleased Olshling was being proactive and not waiting for orders. There
was a protocol to follow. The authorities needed to be brought in on this right away.

Weil thought of the Met like a great fortress protected by an army of soldiers with Olshling as their general. His was a job that required constant ingenuity, secrecy and cooperation, and he’d been doing it for over fifteen years without incident. This was one area of the museum Weil had felt confident he could let run without his interference while he got up to speed, and so far he’d been right. The Met’s security department operated as a fully functional independent entity.

Inside each of the entrances, uniformed men and women inspected the briefcases, pocketbooks and shopping bags of the four million people who visited the cultural Mecca yearly. Hundreds more guards patrolled the high-ceilinged exhibition rooms, keeping watch over the treasures and softly warning visitors to step back when they ventured too close to an object. There was also a phalanx of plainclothes men and women disguised as museumgoers, all trained to be on the lookout for any suspicious activity and avert any potential disasters. Behind the scenes there were hundreds more employees who protected the art in other ways, from conservation to temperature control to running security systems. And since September 11, there were more of these vigilant soldiers employed than there had been before. But nothing criminal or suspect had ever occurred at the Met to make headlines. For such a large institution, one that served so many, the museum remained a calm shelter in the storm of one of the most frenetic cities in the world.

Until today.

Even though Weil was sure this violence to the Matisse had been done off-site and the Met was simply the recipient of the atrocity, he felt as if he’d failed. The museum had been violated on his watch. His new watch. Weil thought he’d been prepared
for how difficult it was going to be to follow in Philippe de Montebello’s footsteps, but he’d been wrong. After three decades that man and the institution he ran had merged, and the museum was still in shock at having a new leader—especially one with such a controversial background and conflict of interest.

No one had expected the trustees to agree on the president of Sotheby’s as the Met’s next director. Dissenters complained that Weil didn’t have the scholarship needed, while those lobbying for him successfully argued that a twenty-first-century museum was not only about the wall hangings. Managing endowments and understanding legal issues—especially those concerning cultural heritage conflicts—were areas in which Weil had extensive knowledge. Overseeing and guiding educational programs, publications, community development and fundraising were all of equal importance, especially in the economic downturn the country was experiencing. There, too, Weil excelled. Sotheby’s was a for-profit corporation, and Weil had been credited with its considerable success under his aegis. On behalf of his choice, the president of the Met’s board argued that while scholarship had flourished under the previous director, income building had languished and the museum’s corporate mission had lost focus.

In the end, Weil had been elected by a small majority. Now, the very last thing he wanted, while he and the Met were still getting acclimated, was a trial by fire, and he feared this urgent situation was about to escalate into one.

“My God.” Marie Grimshaw had arrived and was trying to absorb the monstrosity. The much-beloved elder statesperson of the staff, she was an indomitable scholar who’d authored half-a-dozen books on nineteenth- and early twentieth-century artists. Usually she was the one who helped everyone else through their crises, but now the seventy-two-year-old woman
looked pale. Weil guessed that this time she was going to be in need of some support.

“I’m sorry, Marie,” he said. “I should have asked them to warn you.”

She waved away his concern. “I’ll survive. This hasn’t.”

“I wanted you to see it right away.”

She turned her gaze on him. “Do you know what you have here, Tyler?”

“It’s obviously a Matisse, or done in his style. With all that damage, it’s not easy to be certain.”

“But which Matisse?”

“I don’t recognize it. He did hundreds of seascapes, Marie.” Tyler resented the inquisition.

Like a schoolteacher, she shook her head, admonishing him, and Weil guessed she was pleased with the opportunity to lecture him. Unhappy, like many of the Met’s old guard, that the reins of the museum hadn’t gone to someone who was more of a scholar, she’d been vocal about her concerns over his appointment.

“It’s Matisse’s
View of St. Tropez.
”

She was watching him with her light blue, inscrutable eyes, waiting, he thought, for some sign of recognition, but the title of the painting didn’t mean anything to him.

“I’d like to know what I’m facing before the FBI shows up. That’s why I asked you to come down here. Would you fill me in on the painting’s background? What’s its significance to us?”

“This Matisse was bequeathed to us in the late 1960s by its owner, who died in 2003. We weren’t able to take possession because it was stolen before its owner died. The robbery was in the news for weeks all around the world, Tyler.”

He wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of reacting to the dig. “Thank you, Marie.”

“How did it get here?” Grimshaw asked.

“I haven’t been briefed yet.” Weil turned to Olshling. “Who unpacked this?” he asked, not accusatory but inquisitive. “Do we know who sent it?”

“Joe McBurney, here, unpacked it.” Olshling nodded at a young man in a white smock who shuffled nervously from foot to foot under the director’s scrutiny. “And yes,” he said, pointing to an ordinary white envelope taped to the inside of the crate, “there’s a letter. It’s addressed to you, Mr. Weil.”

Weil bent over and read his name, typed, with no other identifying marks. He reached out for it.

“Mr. Weil, could you just wait a moment?” Olshling reached behind him, pulled a pair of nitrile gloves out of a dispenser and offered them to the director.

Like most professionals who worked around artwork, Weil knew he should wear gloves while examining a work of art to protect the precious objects from the oils on his skin—and in a situation like this, to protect himself from any hazardous materials—but he’d forgotten. From the look in the chief of security’s eyes, Weil knew that Philippe de Montebello wouldn’t have needed to be reminded not to contaminate the evidence.

Hands encased in synthetic rubber, Weil slit open the envelope and pulled out a sheet of paper folded around four photographs. He examined each one slowly and carefully before handing the pile to Marie, who had also donned gloves. “I’m guessing these have something in common with the Matisse.”

“You’re right,” she said in a low voice as she looked through the photos a second time. “Every one of these belongs to the museum. All were bequeathed to us, by different donors. And each one was stolen before we were able to take possession.” She handed the pile back to Weil. “What’s going on?” Her voice trembled like a crystal chandelier reacting to a door being slammed shut.

Lucian pulled his 1988 Mustang into a restricted spot on East Seventy-Ninth Street and, because of his government plates, ignored the meter. He’d bought the car at a police auction, and had restored it to pristine condition. Forgoing an umbrella despite the drizzle, he hurried west. A strong wind blew young leaves off tree branches, and a sheet of the
Daily News
plastered Lucian’s leg. Pulling it off, he glimpsed the headline, C
ENTRAL
P
ARK
H
IT-AND
-R
UN
, and hurried on toward his destination, the New York Society Library.

The library had been housed in this classic limestone building designed by Trowbridge and Livingston since 1937 but had originally opened its doors in 1754 at old City Hall, on Wall Street facing Broad Street. For more than one hundred and fifty years it had been known as the “city library” until the public library system was founded and it became a treasured landmark.

Lucian had passed the building often, but this was his first time inside. He was struck by the quiet after the noisy street. Standing in the entryway for a moment, he looked around, feeling the same grace he experienced whenever he stepped inside a museum. Once he’d read that one of the ways a society’s
humanity could be measured was by how well it treasured its artwork, literature and music, how much it revered the work of the soul. In a place like this, he thought, you could almost be optimistic. He’d have to share that insight with Matt; his partner would appreciate it.

Following instructions from the elderly woman at the front desk, Lucian climbed a wide marble staircase, took a right, then a left, and found the director’s office.

William Hawkes, a venerable man whose skin was so thin Lucian could read his veins like a map, greeted him in a surprisingly youthful voice, gave him a firm handshake and offered him a seat.

The office was richly decorated with a fine Louis XIV partners desk, a large bay window enclosed by ruby damask curtains, an Oriental carpet and three walls of carved walnut shelves with rows of leather-bound, gilt-edged books. The ceiling was paneled, and the crossbeams were feathered with gold inlay.

“It’s not often that I get a visit from my friends at the bureau. So how can I help you, Agent Glass?” Hawkes asked after they’d exchanged pleasantries.

“It’s about Dr. Malachai Samuels. I know you’re close to his aunt, so you might be aware we’ve had him under suspicion for quite some time.”

“Yes, I am.”

“He’s still the prime suspect in several crimes, including a recent robbery that resulted in a brutal death.”

Hawkes put both his hands on his desk and used them to propel himself up. He clasped them behind his back, walked over to the window and looked down to the street below. With his back still to Lucian he said, “Beryl is convinced of her nephew’s innocence. She has MS, do you know that?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Stress is terrible for her,” Hawkes said and turned back to face Lucian. “And the past eighteen months have been very stressful.” He shook his head, and a lock of his thick white hair fell across his forehead.

“We have a lot of circumstantial evidence but no hard proof. That’s why I’m here, to ask for your help.”

“At my age there are so many people I’ve cared about whom I’ve lost to age, illness, accidents… I know the toll that loss takes on the spirit, and I just can’t imagine what something like this will do to my dear friend Beryl.” The news had shaken him, and as he walked back to his desk he seemed more feeble and fragile. “Have you ever lost anyone you cared about, Detective?”

Lucian had come to in the hospital days after Solange’s death, too doped up with painkillers to miss her or mourn her. In the months following, when he should have confronted the pain of her death, he focused instead on the physical pain of learning to work the muscles the knife had cut through and the doctors had sewn back together. Loss? It was a tight, impossible knot inside of him that he’d long since given up hoping to unravel.

“I’ve known Malachai since he was a graduate student…an incredibly bright man. Did you know he studied at Oxford?” Hawkes asked.

Lucian nodded.

“He’s a scientist and a well-respected therapist. He works with children, Agent Glass.” He shook his head. “He works with
children.
” The
shame on you
was unsaid but implicit.

“Yes, I know, but none of those things preclude him from being a suspect.”

Hawkes splayed his hands on his desk and looked down at the age-spotted skin as if he’d find an answer to his dilemma there. “You’re putting me in a difficult position. I’ve known
Beryl Talmage longer than I’ve known your boss. You’re asking me to choose between two people I care about. I’m sorry, I don’t know how to do that.”

Lucian wasn’t ready to give up. Comley had told him about this man who’d won a Purple Heart, taught history at Harvard, had twenty-three honorary degrees, had written several books—including two volumes on the life of Albert Einstein—and had then become the director of the Library of Congress. He’d retired six years ago to travel with his wife, but after she died he’d agreed to take on the directorship of this small private library. What would convince him?

“Do you pay attention to coincidences?” Lucian asked.

“Einstein said, ‘Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.’ But he didn’t really believe in God. He said coincidence was unthinkable in physics, once calling it a weakness of the theory. I’m sorry, you didn’t come here for a lecture. What does this have to do with Malachai Samuels?”

“I am trained to pay attention to coincidences. And they’re piled up around this case like a major accident on the FDR Drive. Can I tell you about some of them before I leave?”

“Certainly.”

Outside, either the clouds had become denser or the rain had intensified, because there was now noticeably less light coming through the sheer curtains, and the atmosphere in the room was suddenly oppressive. “Last year when the ancient stones believed to be Memory Tools were stolen, Dr. Samuels was in Rome.”

“I know that. But you couldn’t find any evidence tying him to the crime. One would have to read the news without glasses not to have been aware of that.”

Lucian nodded. “Last week, while Dr. Samuels was in Vienna, a document was stolen from a library he had—”

“What library?”

“The private library at the Memorist Society, an organization that dates back to the early 1800s.”

“What kind of document?”

“It was a partial list of ancient Memory Tools. A coincidence? Two robberies less than twelve months apart but both dealing with the Memory Tools. Two robberies occurring in cities Malachai Samuels just happened to be visiting.”

Hawkes took a deep breath. It was a few moments before he responded. “What does this have to do with me?”

“Yesterday, Dr. Samuels called and asked you to recommend a librarian he could hire part-time to help him do some research.”

“How do you know that?”

“I regret I’m not at liberty to say.”

The elderly man’s hands knotted into fists on his desk. “Do you have just cause to invade my privacy like this?”

“Not your privacy, Malachai Samuels’s. People have been killed, Dr. Hawkes. You were on the other end of a call, and we’re sorry about that, but that call has put you in a position to help us.”

ACT was anxious to break the case before Malachai could do any more harm. Lucian’s appointments with Dr. Bellmer might or might not yield the kind of infiltration the FBI needed, but this solution could.

“How can I do that?”

“We want you to allow us to supply you with the name of the librarian to suggest to Dr. Samuels.”

“And that man will be an agent?”

“He’ll be a librarian. I’d be happy to show you his CV. I don’t want to impose on you to recommend someone you don’t feel comfortable with.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can accommodate you, Agent Glass.”

“Several people have died. We’re afraid more will die if we can’t put this man in jail. Will you at least give it some serious thought?”

“Yes, that I will do.”

“There’s one other coincidence.”

“What’s that?”

“During his call, Malachai told you he’s anxious to hire a librarian because he recently obtained new information suggesting that his foundation’s own library might contain clues to the location of other Memory Tools, isn’t that correct? What information do you think that is? Where did he get it? Vienna?”

Dr. Hawkes glared at Lucian. “I don’t like how you do business, Agent Glass.”

“I don’t always like it, either. But I like murder less.”

As Lucian rose to leave he felt his cell phone vibrate for the third time since he’d been there. Once outside the office he finally pulled it out, looked down at the caller ID and checked the two previous calls. All three were from Nicolas Olshling at the Metropolitan Museum. Lucian hit Reply and listened to the phone ringing as he walked out of the library and into the unremitting rain and buffeting wind.