The Looters (19 page)

I listened to her grievance that she was the one who got busted instead of the john. “There’s no justice in this fuckin’ world.”

“Amen,” I said. “What’s subway treatment?”

“This is the third station you’ve been booked in tonight, right, honey? They’re moving you from station to station to keep your lawyer from catching up. That way they can keep questioning you until your lawyer finds out where they’re holding you and springs you.”

“You don’t have to talk to the cops,” I said. I knew that from television.

She howled and leaned back on the cot, kicking her legs in the air before she came back up. “Buuullshiiit. You clam up and demand to see your lawyer and they just keep fuckin’ with you. Better to talk and just keep denying it, honey. They’ll get tired of fuckin’ with you.”

This woman must have gotten her legal tactics from Neal
, I thought.

I talked to Neal briefly on the phone at the first station where they booked me. Just enough to tell him I’d been arrested for murder and needed a lawyer. After that, I got on the “subway.”

Fifteen minutes later I was taken out of the holding tank and put into a room with Nunes and an NYPD homicide detective named Elena Rodriguez.

I was glad Nunes was there—Rodriguez looked mean enough to break my thumbs for jaywalking. The woman just sat there and stared at me as if she’d like nothing better than to turn off the secret camera and give me an attitude adjustment. Someone at a cocktail party claimed female cops were meaner and more vicious than male ones. He gave me a list of reasons, none of which I remembered as I kept Detective Rodriguez in the corner of my eye and worried that she was going to beat the shit out of me.

“This is an NYPD case,” Nunes said. “It hasn’t gone federal yet. Detective Rodriguez is permitting me to participate because it’s likely this case will overlap with my investigation.”

“I didn’t harm that poor man.”

“We know you didn’t kill him. You didn’t have a weapon on you. We found nothing in the building. He was stabbed in the apartment and had bled for a minute or two before you found him on the landing.”

“Then why am I here?”

“The victim said the fifty-five-million-dollar mask you bought for the museum was part of the Baghdad museum loot.”

“I didn’t have anything to do with hurting him.”

“We already established that.”

“So why are you holding me?”

“Because you’re mixed up in what got him killed. You’ve been buying Mesopotamian art engineered by the same auction house, the same London dealer, and the same Swiss provenance agent, culminating in a piece worth a king’s ransom. In fact, every major piece of art you acquired fits that scenario. Where did you deposit your cut?”

“My cut? I’m a curator, not a salesperson. I get paid a salary, not a commission.”

“You’re saying you weren’t paid to steer Piedmont into purchases that totaled nearly seventy million dollars in about a year?”

“I only got my salary.”

“If you have an account somewhere, Switzerland, the Grand Caymans, Luxembourg, we’ll find it. When we do, we’ll nail you for murder.”

“I didn’t—”

“You’re not getting it, Dupre.” That from Detective Rodriquez. “You don’t have to pull the trigger, shove the knife, or throw the match to get charged with murder. If the group you’re involved with is killing people to cover their tracks, you’re as guilty as they are.”

“I don’t know why people are getting hurt.”

“People?” Nunes’s eyes shot up. “Who else besides the Iraqi has been killed?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t mean that.” I meant Bensky, but I was probably a bit premature about claims he was dead.

Nunes leaned forward, drilling me with his beady eyes. “Then why’d you say it? We’ve only been talking about Abdullah. Do you know about another body?”

“No, I don’t know anything.”

“You hired a man named Bensky to examine the provenance. Bensky’s house was burned down. Were you aware of that?”

“No. Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“I went out to see him because he didn’t answer my phone calls. I saw police there. Some woman said his house had been burned.”

“Why did you want to talk to him?”

“He examined the provenance on the mask for me.” I knew I was going deeper and deeper.

Nunes stood up and glared down on me. Righteous. An avenging angel about to swoop down on a sinner.

“We know Bensky’s house was torched, obviously to cover up evidence. He’s missing. At this point, I’m pretty sure he won’t be found anytime soon. That leaves two conclusions.”

I didn’t want to hear either of them.

“Either Bensky was in on the scam with you and your pals and cut and run or he had evidence against you and had to be gotten rid of.”

“I don’t know anything about his disappearance.”

My voice had dropped almost to a whisper. Earlier, when I was arrested, I was in a state of shock. Later I wanted to cry. Now I was so tired and drained I just wanted to lie down and sleep.

“Why did you lie about Bensky’s report?”

“I-I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Jesus, my stammering was a dead giveaway.

Rodriguez suddenly was at my side, staring down at me. Another avenging angel. “It will go easier on you if you tell us the truth. What did you do with the report from Bensky?”

I was about to fess up, but something in her tone and Nunes’s body language caused me to keep quiet.

I realized they were asking me because they didn’t know. They suspected a report but wanted me to confirm it. Once I did, I’d never see the light of day until I was in a prison yard.

“I want to see my lawyer.”

***

They let me stay in the holding tank most of the night with drunks, drugged-out party girls, and agitated whores cursing the world’s injustices.

The lawyer Neal sent finally got me out and walked me down the steps of the jail. Dawn was breaking.

I was so tired, I could have curled upon the steps and gone to sleep. The holding tank didn’t have enough room to lie down even on the floor, not to mention there were no beds—and no seat on the toilet.

“I spoke to the homicide detective handling the case. She wants to get rid of it fast. She figures the feds will make her do all the footwork and then take over the case and get the glory when it’s filed. She’s willing to cut you a deal if you roll over.”

“Roll over?”

“Tell them about your accomplices.”

“Accomplices?” I heard what he said, but none of it was making sense right now.

“Ms. Dupre, the police believe you’ve been buying stolen art as part of a ring. They say they know of three other people involved. If you testify against them, the police will recommend a lighter sentence.”

I stopped and stared at him, trying to see whether he was really on my side. “Mr. Spellman. Listen to me. I have no accomplices. I have done nothing wrong. And I certainly haven’t killed anyone. I’m innocent. Completely, totally innocent.”

He checked his watch. “I have to get home, get ready for the office, and drop my kid at day care pretty soon. I came out as a favor to Neal. He said he’d get me a deal on a piece, but I’m not a criminal lawyer. I’ll get you one later today. I know enough about the law to advise you to give some thought to the idea of turning state’s evidence. You could be arrested again at any moment.”

“But they just released me.”

“They’re still working on this Bensky thing. If they have evidence to connect you up to the arson or his disappearance, they’ll bring you in. Rodriguez says the locals out in Westchester have film taken by a TV news chopper. Nunes is going to examine it, see if you’re on it.”

“They filmed the fire being set?”

“Of course not. Arson investigators believe a firebug loves to come back and gawk at the flames. It’s a sexual thing.”

“I just told you I’m innocent.” But even as I said it, I knew they’d spot me on that tape, even though the place was probably cool to lukewarm by the time I got there.

“Lawyers have a different definition of guilt than laypeople. We’re not concerned with whether you actually committed a crime or not. We have to deal strictly with the evidence. If they can prove you’re guilty, believing you’re innocent… even being innocent… doesn’t mean you won’t get convicted.”

“I don’t get it.”

“You know that DNA can get people out of prison who were wrongfully convicted? They were innocent, too, but they were still convicted because the
evidence
made them appear guilty. If the police can link you to the market in looted antiquities and people connected to the transactions start dying… if you look guilty, a jury will find you guilty.”

I shook my head. “This is insane. I’ve done nothing.”

“The other thing lawyers know is that nobody ever admits to being guilty, even if they are. Better think about cutting a deal. You might get eight or ten years. If you go to trial and you’re found guilty, you could be looking at life or even the death penalty.”

Chapter 29

I barricaded my apartment door and crawled under the covers. I slept three hours and woke up feeling anxious and scared. And angry. Fury snapped me out of depression. I jumped into the shower, washing the stench of jail off.

I felt betrayal and abandonment from Hiram and that worm Eric. Even from Neal. He had given me advice and referral to a lawyer, but I no longer trusted him.

My father always said there were people in this world who were money oriented and people who weren’t: “If you took all the money in the world and passed it around evenly, in five years the same people would have what they had before.”

I didn’t know how true that was, but Hiram, Eric, and Neal were much better at the money game than me. They had carefully avoided getting their hands dirty. It was beginning to dawn on me that Bensky’s document actually worked in their favor: They had a patsy for the police to go after if everything went to hell.

Neal wasn’t on my side, even though he acted like it. He certainly wouldn’t risk anything for me. Sure, he’d called a lawyer for me, but where was Neal now? He was too fluid for me. He seemed to be able to pour in and fill any need I had… before he pulled the plug. I kept thinking about how he had shredded Bensky’s report. He said he did it for me. But did he really do it for himself?

Rolling over on my co-conspirators was a joke:
I didn’t know enough to throw anyone to the police
.

I had to trace the Semiramis back to the source—do my own “provenance” and follow the chain of custody of the mask from the time it was taken from the Iraqi museum to Rutgers’s auction table.

What I needed was information on the dirty work of Viktor Milan, Lipton, and whoever else was involved to feed to the FBI so they would get off my back.

The only way I could prove my innocence was by finding out who was guilty.

Sir Henri Lipton, the world’s foremost dealer in antiquities, had sent some dirt my way. He was the man with the answers.

London was where I needed to go.

I made an airline reservation for the next flight, leaving in three hours. That gave me just enough time to get to the airport, clear security, and get to the gate.

And hope it threw the feds off my trail.

***

Agent Steiner pulled in behind the taxi that picked up Madison in front of her apartment building. As soon as he saw the carry-on, he knew she was headed for the airport.

As he followed the taxi, he called Nunes, knowing he would still be asleep after the long session with Dupre and an NYPD homicide detective that lasted into the wee hours of the morning.

“You’re right again, partner,” Steiner told Nunes. “She’s headed for the airport. What else do you have in your crystal ball?”

“I’ll give you ten-to-one her destination is London.”

“Why London?”

“Mr. Big. Sir Henri Lipton. A mega-buck art dealer. He’s the source for her purchases. I looked at her cell phone records. She’s been trying to call him and he hasn’t answered her calls.”

“Why do you think Lipton’s not returning her calls?”

“No honor among thieves.”

“You’re sure she’s involved in this?”

“You want odds?”

“Nah, you know what I want? A ten percent finder’s fee for the fifty-five-million-dollar mask when it goes back to Iraq. That’s five and a half mil.”

“Don’t be so sure it’s going back to Iraq. Unless we find that commendation the Iraqi curator got killed for, it’s going to be tough to prove the mask was part of the loot. And you know how finder’s fees work: Thieves steal a famous painting, they can’t do anything with it because it’s too well-known, so an ‘innocent’ person steps forward and arranges its return for a finder’s fee.”

“Which goes to the thieves.”

“You know how many banks you have to rob before it adds up to a million bucks? Probably a hundred.”

The taxi that Steiner was following turned onto the Van Wick Expressway. “Okay, she’s definitely flying out of JFK.”

“When you get there, confirm the London trip. It’s a six or seven-hour flight. The art theft detail at Scotland Yard is already watching Lipton. I’ll give a heads-up to our embassy people there. They can add her to the watch list.”

“Why are we letting her have a get-out-of-jail-free card?”

“She’s going to lead us to her accomplices, Lipton and Milan. And, more important, to the rest of the pieces. When she does, we’ll have the British police and Interpol grab them.”

Chapter 30

London

A gray, cold, liquid day greeted my flight from New York. London drizzle and chill, perfect for the way I felt. The Lanesborough hotel usually sent a car and driver to meet me, but this time I took a taxi from the airport to a smaller, cheaper place that I used to stay at before my job as a curator.

I took a quick shower, hoping it would ease the weariness of travel, then crashed in bed, falling into a deep sleep to make up for the last few days of troubled sleep.

The following morning, after a breakfast of coffee and toast, I took a taxi to Sir Henri Lipton’s gallery to cold-call him. I hadn’t phoned ahead because I wasn’t sure what kind of reception was waiting for me. Maybe Scotland Yard. I had no idea what trouble I had left behind in New York or how much of it had followed me across the Atlantic. Or even if anyone knew I had gone.