Trophy Widow (11 page)

Jacki frowned. “Why?”

“Because someone was paying Millennium every time one of those paintings sold. That means that Millennium was acting as either the artist's agent or the buyer's agent.”

“Or maybe the gallery's agent.”

“If so, then the buyer or the artist ought to know that.” I paused, mulling over an idea that Jacki's comment had triggered. “Jacki, while you're over at Brod's office, see if he's got a roster of Michael Green's clients. Maybe in the billing files. If so, make a copy for us. Let's see if there are any matches between his clients and the buyers of those paintings.”

“Why do you think there might be?”

“Just a hunch. Look at the chronologies. Two things happened shortly after Michael Green died. First, Gateway Trust stopped paying a service fee to Millennium. Second, Samantha's gallery stopped paying commissions to Millennium. Maybe there's no connection to Green's death, but he's the only link we know between Gateway and the gallery. Jonathan told me to follow the money. So far, this is the only money trail I've found.”

***

“Brought us some goodies, counselor.”

I looked up from the appellate opinion I was reading. Charlie Ross stood in the doorway holding aloft a white bakery bag.

I smiled. “From World's Fair Donuts?”

“Where else? Got us some glazed and some cherry filled.”

I placed my hand over my heart. “You're my hero, Charlie.”

“Just don't tell the wife, huh? She got me on a new diet. Wants me to lose thirty pounds. Got a whole list of things I can eat—rice cakes, raw carrots, chicken bouillon, lettuce without salad dressing. I don't recall glazed doughnuts on that list.”

“My lips are sealed.”

He came in and sat down in the chair facing my desk. “Some diet. Lots of fiber and a grapefruit before every meal.” He grimaced. “The wife's got me eating this cereal—looks like rabbit droppings. Gives me terrible gas. I'm thinking maybe the folks at Maalox are behind this diet.”

“No fiber in doughnuts, Charlie.”

“Not a trace,” he said, with a contented grin.

“I'll get us some coffee. You like black, right?”

“That'd be fine.”

Charlie Ross was an ex-FBI special agent who'd worked as a private investigator since his retirement from the government. He was good with records and even better with people, who tended to tell him far more than you'd expect, which was probably because he reminded them, like he reminded me, of the plump neighborhood butcher instead of the square-jawed G-man of crime-fighting lore. Although his jawline had long since softened into jowls, he was a resourceful investigator who'd proved his mettle during his FBI days in a twelve-hour hostage crisis at Boatmen's Bank downtown and a four-day manhunt through the Ozarks.

As we ate our doughnuts and sipped our coffee, he filled me in.

“Plenty of court files on Billy Berger,” he said, checking his notes. “Been divorced two times—looked through those files, talked to one of his ex-wives. Nothing special there. He never told her much about his financial affairs when they were married, and she's happy with the alimony arrangement.”

“Why'd they get divorced?”

“The usual. Billy's got a zipper problem. Big time.” He glanced at his notes. “Let's see. Got sued a few times during his days in the insurance business—disputes with policy holders. Two cases settled, another got dismissed. Been a plaintiff himself three times. Sued the contractor that built his last house, complaining about structural defects. Settled that one for one hundred twenty-three thousand dollars. In another case, he and three other investors sued the general partner of a real estate limited partnership when that deal went south. Some sort of condo development down in Branson, Missouri. Case settled last year, but the court file didn't have the settlement agreement in it. At present, he's got a suit pending against the company he bought his private jet from. Breach-of-warranty claim. Case is pending in St. Louis County.” He closed his notepad. “Pretty much what you'd expect to find for one of those rich entrepreneur types.”

“I had a meeting with him this morning.”

“What'd you think?”

“Very smooth. Very slick. Very smart.”

“That's why he did so well selling cars and insurance.”

“What about the other two people?”

Charlie glanced down at his notes as he sipped his coffee. “Plenty of court files on Millie Robinson—what with the divorce, the cocaine problems, the custody battle with her ex.” He looked up. “That's the one where Michael represented her ex-husband—that ballplayer.”

“Larry Robinson.”

“Right. He's living in Detroit with the kids. Here's an interesting one,” he said, reading his notes. “She sued Gateway Trust Company a year ago.”

“Really. Over what?”

“Can't tell. File is sealed.”

“Which court?”

“City.”

“Which division?”

He studied his notes. “Three.”

“Three is equity. Could be a dispute over management of a trust. Could you tell from the other files whether she had a trust with Gateway?”

He paged through his notes. “Here we are—good thinking, Rachel. When she had her cocaine problem, the court ordered that her assets and all future alimony payments be deposited into a trust. The order appointed Gateway as the trustee.”

“Think it's worth talking to her?”

Charlie scratched his neck. “Might be. I'll look her up.”

“How about the Dingdong Man?”

Charlie chuckled. “That's really something, isn't it? Poor bastard.” He flipped through his notes. “Feckler moved to Kansas City last year. He's working as a paralegal at the firm that represents all those tobacco companies. No court records on him over there. Must be keeping his nose clean. But here's something interesting from before he moved. Samantha Cummings swore out a complaint against him two years after Michael Green's murder.”

“For what?”

“She claimed he was harassing her.”

“How so?”

“Nasty phone calls, creepy letters. About her and Michael. Some pretty sick stuff. Like who missed his penis the most—her or Michael.”

“Oh, God.”

“The guy is one sick puppy. She swore out a complaint and the cops arrested him. Judge gave him six months' probation and ordered him to keep away from her. The arresting officer is a vice squad detective named Vic Riganti. I talked to him this morning. He remembered the case. Said he thought Feckler was your basic harmless wacko.”

“Do you agree?”

Charlie frowned as he scratched his neck. “Hard to say. Those types usually are.”

“But aren't their phone calls and letters usually anonymous?”

“Usually.”

“But not here.”

“That's true.”

I sighed in frustration. “The police never even talked to him after Michael Green's murder.”

Charlie nodded. “That trail's pretty cold by now.”

“They all are.”

He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “You're better off following the money.”

“That's what Jonathan told me, too.”

“He's right, Rachel. I worked the Hornig car bombing for Jonathan back when he was at the U.S. attorney. We followed the money trail right to the brother-in-law's door.”

I leaned back in my chair. “I wish I could talk to Samantha.”

“Why can't you?”

“We're on opposite sides of this lawsuit. I can't talk to her without her lawyer present. I doubt whether he'd let me talk to her anyway—especially with all the other defendants and lawyers involved. He'll tell me to take her deposition. That way he can keep it all on the record and avoid inconsistent statements.”

“Maybe,” Charlie said, removing a second glazed doughnut from the bag. “But what if you had a topic she didn't want to have on the record?” He took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. He washed it down with a sip of coffee. “What if it was a subject her lawyer didn't want the other lawyers to know about? Maybe he'd let you have a private session.”

“Maybe so, but I don't have anything like that here.”

“Not yet.”

I looked at Charlie. “What's that mean?”

He shrugged. “No promises, Rachel, but let me do a little poking around. You do this kind of work for thirty-five years and you learn to spot patterns. Pretty gal like that, coming out of nowhere, suddenly running her own business, moving in fancy circles, getting romanced by rich lawyers—gal like that often has something in her past she don't want the whole world talking about. You find out what that is, you'll get yourself a private audience with her.”

“You really think there's something like that out there?”

“Can't guarantee it, but like I say, you learn to spot patterns.”

Chapter Eleven

“Fifteen thousand dollars?”

“Not just one time, either,” I said.

“How many?”

“I counted twenty-three.”

“For Sebastian Curry?” Ellen McNeil shook her head in disbelief. “That's ridiculous.”

We were in the back office at Unique Expressions, Ellen's art gallery in the University City Loop. Ellen was tall and thin with intense dark eyes and long curly black hair. She was wearing a black turtleneck, a Navajo silver-and-turquoise necklace with matching dangly earrings, wheat-colored drawstring cotton woven pants, and clogs. Hard to believe that just four years ago, Ellen McNeil had been dressed in conservative business suits and earning tens of thousands of frequent flyer miles as a financial consultant for one of the big accounting firms.

Ellen had graduated from Vassar with a degree in art history twenty-three years ago and moved to Greenwich Village to live the artist's life, which turned out to be three lonely years of waiting tables and scrounging tips to pay the outrageous rent on a roach-infested studio with a panoramic view of a gray airshaft. That experience shocked her into the M.B.A. program at Wharton and a huge starting salary in a Boston merchant banking house. She talked the corporate talk and walked the corporate walk for fifteen years—in Boston and then Chicago and then St. Louis—before quitting to return to her real passion. In just three years she'd become one of the movers and shakers in the St. Louis art community, serving on the boards of the St. Louis Art Museum and the Regional Arts Council while running one of the most successful art galleries in the Midwest.

We'd met when we'd worked together on an Arts Council committee. Since then, I'd represented her on an insurance claim, she'd sold me a piece of sculpture, and we'd been guests at each other's house—she'd come to my house with her Jewish boyfriend Gabe for the second night of Passover this year, and I'd taken Benny to her funky Halloween party last year (we went dressed as Beauty and the Beast, with Benny in drag as Beauty).

“So you know Sebastian Curry's work?” I asked.

“Oh, yes.” She shook her head derisively. “Strictly third-rate. I'm embarrassed to say that I actually sold a piece of his work two years ago. He'd been begging me to show his paintings, and I finally gave in. I listed it for twelve hundred dollars. It sat here for almost a year before I unloaded it for eight hundred on a social-climbing bimbo who said it was a perfect match for the wallpaper in her dining room.”

“All of these sales,” I said, holding up the list Jacki had compiled from the files at Stanley Brod's office, “are from several years back. Was he worth more back then?”

“I doubt it.” She paused, gesturing toward the list in disbelief. “You're telling me that Samantha sold almost two dozen of Sebastian's paintings at an average price of fifteen thousand dollars each?”

“According to these records.”

“She must be the greatest hustler since P. T. Barnum.”

“Do you know her?”

“I don't think so. I may have run into her at a few functions back then—art shows, opening nights, that sort of thing—but her gallery was closed by the time I opened mine. She hasn't been in the business since then.”

“What do you know about Millennium Management Services?”

“Millennium?” Ellen frowned. “Never heard of them. What is it?”

“Some sort of agency, I think.”

“For who?”

“I don't know. It received a fee on each painting.”

“How much?”

“Six thousand dollars.”

“Really?” She seemed puzzled. “Six grand on a fifteen-thousand-dollar painting? What's that—forty percent? That's a huge commission. Do you happen to know what Curry got paid?”

“Seven thousand.”

She frowned as she mulled it over. “Ordinarily, I'd say the artist got screwed, but the sales prices for those paintings are so outrageous that it's hard to feel sorry for him.”

“Maybe Millennium wasn't
his
agent,” I said. “Maybe they were somehow responsible for finding buyers for the paintings. Maybe they were the gallery's agent.”

“And the payments were finder's fees?” She tilted her head as she thought it over. “I guess that's possible. Some galleries, especially in New York and Chicago, pay finder's fees to interior design firms that get hired to decorate corporate headquarters and big law firms. You don't hear of it down here, though. Still, I suppose it's possible. Are you able to tell from the records who Millennium was working for?”

“The gallery paid the fee.”

“That doesn't mean that they were working for the gallery. A lot of agents for artists insist that the galleries pay their fees direct. That way they avoid fee squabbles with their clients.” She glanced at the list. “Samantha ought to know who Millennium was working for. Ask her.”

“I can't, at least not without her lawyer present.”

“Well, Sebastian should know. Ask him.”

“I plan to,” I said. “What's he like?”

She smiled. “He's big and he's dumb and he's totally gorgeous.”

“Gorgeous?”

“Beyond gorgeous, honey. Imagine the African warrior of your hottest sexual fantasy. We're talking total eye candy—tall, great bod, cool dreadlocks, perfect teeth, a smile to die for. He should be the artist's model, not the artist. In fact, I hear that's how he makes some of his money these days. Wait until you see him in tight pants.” Ellen gave me a leer as she fanned herself with her hand. “I can understand why Samantha would be willing to carry his work. I can understand why any woman would. That's probably why I agreed to carry one for him. Carrying it's one thing—but selling it is an entirely different proposition.”

“Speaking of which,” I said, handing her the list that Jacki had put together from the gallery's records. “These are the people that bought his paintings. Do you recognize any of the names?”

She leaned against the edge of her desk, put on her reading glasses, and studied the names, moving down the list one by one. When she reached the bottom she skimmed through the names again and then looked up. “I've sold pieces to six of the buyers. Two of the six are real surprises.”

“Why?”

“Because they actually have taste. I can't imagine either one of them hanging anything by Sebastian Curry in their homes, much less paying fifteen thousand dollars for the privilege. The other four—well, I'm not shocked. They couldn't tell quality from crap. If Sebastian Curry happened to be the artist of the hour—and who knows? Maybe he was back then—they wouldn't blink at paying fifteen grand. But as for these two,” she said, pointing at the names with her finger, “how Samantha got them to pay those prices is beyond me.”

“You interested in talking to them?” I asked.

She nodded. “Actually, yes. I'd like to see their paintings and find out what the fuss was all about.”

“You want to visit some of them with me?”

She gave me a curious look. “Rachel, you don't just call these people out of the blue and ask to come over to see their paintings. You'd have to have a good reason.”

“I have one.”

“Oh?”

“Sure. You and I are putting together a special showing of St. Louis artists. We're thinking of including a few representative works by Sebastian Curry. We'd like to see their paintings for possible inclusion in the exhibition.”

“We are, are we?” She was grinning. “And who exactly are we?”

“We're representatives of the Art Guild of Metropolitan St. Louis.”

“Which is what?”

I shrugged. “A new group. Brand-new, in fact. This will be our inaugural event. That's why you're helping them put this show together. You've agreed to consult with the group in the selection of artists to include. I handle their legal work, which is why I need to go with you.” I winked. “I have to make sure everything is kosher.”

She laughed. “You're terrible.”

“Come with me for two visits. Once I see how you handle the art part, I can visit a few others on my own and fake it. You choose which two you want to see. I'll buy you dinner afterward.”

She considered it for all of two seconds. “It's a deal. But we'll have to meet them today 'cause I'm off to New York tomorrow.”

“Then toss me that phone book and let's start calling. I have a court hearing right after lunch, but the rest of the afternoon belongs to you.”