Artist's Proof (12 page)

“His feet?” Buchanan objected, through the laughter. “His teeth—when they're in.”

This got the required hoots of derision. That was the way the guys did it; I had been out of touch, and I had to be folded back in. Slowly. After more ragging and some general catching up they were satisfied, and Cooper and I were waved to the next two places at the table.

She was feeling the martini and she ran her eye hungrily down the menu, not that easy to read through the stains. Finally she murmured, “I have an itch for linguini with clam sauce, but I can't find it.”

“It's called linguini
il salvatore
here, because it once saved someone's life, but if you ask me how, you may not order it.” I turned to Rocky, sitting next to me. “How's the ziti?”

“The same. Try the osso bucco.”

A guy down the table called, “I've got the osso bucco. Have the ziti.” And so it went.

I had been giving Tom Ohlmayer eye signals, and after I grabbed one of the overworked Muccio cousins waiting table and Cooper and I ordered, I excused myself to pull up a chair next to him at the head of the table. Tom and I hadn't worked together in years and rarely saw each other anymore, but when we did it was as though the last time was yesterday.

I asked about his kids, he asked about mine, and I said, “You heard about the homicide out at Mikhael Sharanov's beach house?”

“Yeah. Doesn't that scumbag live near you?”

“My good neighbor. Do you know what he's up to these days?”

“Aside from milking his cash cow in Brooklyn?” Tom had once given me a pop-eyed description of a drunken evening at the Tundra with his wife and some friends. “I have no idea.”

“Wasn't a rackets team put on his ass a couple of years ago?”

“That's over. Couple of damn good detectives. They've been reassigned.”

“How come?”

“In the first place, after two years they couldn't even find a way to ticket him for spitting on the sidewalk. Do you need a second place? The order to knock off came from the commissioner's office, no explanation.”

I said, “The Department's wrong to give up on Sharanov. He's smart, but he'll make a mistake. Don't his kind always?”

“Has he already made his, Sid? Did he do that young girl out there?” He raised his thumbs prayerfully. “Wouldn't it be sweet to tag him for murder?”

I had gone over this ground before. “A killing in his own home? Would he take that chance?”

“He would if he had to. Remember that homicide at the Tundra three years ago?”

“The body in the coatroom. They never touched Sharanov with that one.”

“Or anyone else. There were five hundred Russians in the place. Half of them owed the victim money, every one of them was juiced to the scalp. The suspect list read like the Brooklyn telephone book.”

I said, “You mean, whereas at his beach house Sharanov is the only suspect?”

“Who better? Suppose the girl was dusting the furniture or vacuuming the drapes, and she found the gizmo that could put him away forever? Could he avoid cutting her throat? Or having it cut for him?”

“What is this gizmo you're talking about?”

“Who the hell knows? Not our problem. Suffolk County will have to sort it out.”

Cooper was signaling. They were delivering our dinner. Time to face the ziti.

*   *   *

C
OOPER PASSED ALL
tests as a dinner companion. She gave the guys as good as she got, and she managed to choke down most of her linguini
il salvatore.
We were on coffee and cannoli when I spotted a wide-eyed Enzo beckoning me from the entrance to the bar. I mimed that if he wanted me he would have to come to me, and he did, dragging his feet. His body language was, This is entirely on your head.

He bent to my ear and breathed, “In the bar.” And waited.

“What, in the bar?”

“A lady.”

“For me?” I said stupidly.

“She would have come in here but I told her I would bring you out.” He spoke in a respectful whisper. To invite a lady to Muccio's was something; to follow with a second was awesome.

Enzo was glancing at Cooper, who pretended not to listen. He went on, “I figured you wouldn't, you know, want this one to see…”

Too late; the second lady was in the doorway. Tess Turkinton. Her eyes swept the room like a prison yard searchlight, and she made right for me.

I murmured to Cooper, “Excuse me a minute?” and went to head her off.

We met midroom. “Hello, Tess, what a surprise.”

She was still taking in the place. “What a dump,” she said in a try at a Bette Davis reading that was spoiled by her Texas drawl. “And you turned down a steak at Gallagher's for this?”

“Didn't I tell you I was meeting friends?”

She was focused on the cops' table. “I noticed. Isn't that Olivia Whatever?”

“Cooper.”

“Whatever. She does get around. I suppose you know her from the beach…”

I had her by the elbow and was steering her to an empty table near the door. It wasn't easy; I had met less resistance from suspects reluctant to enter a police car.

I said, “What's on your mind, Tess?” Lonnie must have told her where to find me. I was hip deep in women tonight, not necessarily a plus.

We sat down and Tess snapped her fingers at a passing waiter, Angelina's son Benno. She may have planned on linking up with me for some after-dinner pub crawling—she had, after all, shown up without her father—but since I appeared to be here with a date, she was regrouping.

“I have to talk to you,” she said. And to Benno, “Do you serve any wines by the glass?”

Benno looked confused. I said to Tess, “Not many people here order the entire two-gallon jug. Benno, a glass of red. On my tab.”

He nodded and took off. This woman's father had bought my painting, so I tried to sound politely regretful. I said, “Tess, I'm afraid you'll have to drink that either fast or alone. I can only give you five minutes.”

“You're not going to introduce me to your friends?”

“It's a sort of club, and they've got an ironclad rule. You're allowed to introduce a woman once a year. Two women, never.”

“They're policemen, aren't they?”

I nodded.

She nodded back. “That's what Leona said. And you're a policeman too? A detective?”

“Used to be.”

“That's what Leona said.” She was testing to see if my story matched Lonnie's; she must have laid on the power of a tornado to get Lonnie to admit that she was peddling the oeuvre of an ex-flatfoot. She said, “How long are you off the force?”

“Going on two years.” Why the question? Was she looking to renegotiate my price downward on the theory that I had painted
Seated Girl
on the taxpayer's dime? “Painting is my day job,” I said firmly.

She got my drift. “Oh, I'm not here about your painting,” she said. “That's a done deal.” That was a relief. “I came to ask about a possible police matter.”

The upward slant at the end of that sentence invited me to inquire further. I didn't.

Okay, she would have to do it herself. She said, “The thing is, the business my father's engaged in with Mikhael Sharanov? Where Daddy's going to have to invest a great deal—I mean, a
great
deal—of money?” She was searching my face for a clue to I wasn't sure what.

She said, “I mean, you're a policeman…”

“Was.”

“But you'd know.”

“What?”

“Whether this Sharanov is some kind of crook. Whether the police are investigating him. Because Daddy is starting to hear rumors that are … well, they're just a little bit
unnerving.
”

It was hard to tell whether she was worried or merely trying to appear worried. She and her old man, a pair of big winds out of big
D,
were almost too good to be true.

I quickly reviewed the bidding, not for the first time. These two could be naive straight shooters. But if they were pulling a confidence stunt, they hadn't done enough research and they were zeroing in on the wrong mark; Mikhael Sharanov would eat them for lunch and feed their bones to his dog. Then again, they were buying my painting to give to Sharanov, and I couldn't afford to alarm them into stopping their check to the Leona Morgenstern Gallery, the check that represented an investment in my daughter's future. I had a fine ethical line to walk.

I said slowly, “Since I'm no longer on the police…”

“Not at all? No connection?”

“The NYPD doesn't have part-time employees.”

“Are you telling me you don't know anything about Misha?”

“I've been out to his club in Brooklyn…”

“The Tundra.” Impatiently, “So have we, of course.” Benno had set down her wine and she pulled it close to her.

“It looked to me like a good business,” I said. “But your father would be a better judge of that than me.”

Even more impatiently, “Daddy says it's a gold mine. So you think, as a cop—okay, an ex-cop—that he's legit? We can do business with him?”

“Your father must have checked his credit standing and so forth. He'll have to go with his best assessment.” And then I felt honor bound to say it. “But watch your back.”

Her eyes widened in alarm. Or, again, was she faking it? “Damnation,” she said and took a long pull on her wine.

I said, “I'm sorry, Tess, I don't see how I can help. And now I'm afraid I am going to have to get back to my table.” I stood up.

I could see her eyes boring in on Cooper. Her mouth was set in a grim line. “Let me give you tit for tat,” she said. “Watch
your
back.”

She put down her half-finished drink, pushed back from the table, and strode out of the room. Trailing smoke.

I counted to ten, in case she decided to come back. Then I draped the napkin loosely over her glass and picked it up carefully by the stem. As I started back toward my table with it, Benno appeared at my shoulder and shuffled along beside me.

“Here, let me have that,” he said, reaching for the glass. “No way can you get lipstick off with a napkin. I'll put the wine in a fresh glass for you.”

I had to switch hands to keep the glass from his eager grasp. “I don't want the wine, Benno, I want the glass.”

“Why?” He looked astonished.

I couldn't think of a reasonable explanation. I shrugged. “Sentimental reasons.”

I left the bewildered Benno behind and delivered the glass to Ohlmayer. I was pretty sure the prints were unsmudged.

E
LEVEN

B
Y
11:25
P.M
. eastbound traffic on the Long Island Expressway moves at a good clip, even on a Friday. I would be home in near record time, if I could keep my eyes open. There is no sleeping pill half as effective after a few drinks as two hours behind the wheel on a limited-access highway.

Olivia Cooper hadn't invited me up for a nightcap when I dropped her off at her Gramercy Park address. Thank God; one more Scotch would have nodded me off by Syosset. Of course, if Cooper had invited me up not for a nightcap but for the night, the possibility of a road accident would have been avoided. But there was no hint from her that she was interested in playing house, and after Tess Turkinton's dark “watch your back,” my guard had gone up again.

What was there about Cooper that stirred bitchiness in other women? I had gotten barbs about her from two in one evening. Cooper, for her part, had almost nothing to say about Tess Turkinton's pushy visit to Muccio's. She had looked mildly amused but asked no questions when I returned to our table with the boosted wineglass. She murmured, “Ms. Turkinton does get around, doesn't she?” and never mentioned her again.

My trick for staying awake on that drive home was to dwell on thoughts angry enough to keep blood pumping to my brain. I thought of Lonnie nudging me into a one-on-one with Tess Turkinton: Lonnie the sales pimp. I thought of Misha Sharanov—unscrupulous and so far unindictable—and how Cassie's death had left him totally unmoved. And when I felt my eyelids pressing like paperweights, I began to think back a couple of years to Ray Drummit, that piece of dirt who more than likely put a bullet in my father's brain and might now collect a king's ransom from New York's taxpayers because my single outraged punch to his mouth had knocked out a couple of teeth.

And as I neared home I thought of Cassie Brennan, cut down in full flower, her blood crying out for justice in a long arc on Sharanov's bedroom wall.

*   *   *

I
DIDN'T EXPECT
lights on Beach Drive at one-thirty in the morning at this time of year, but I did spy one in a distant window. A moment later I realized that the window was mine. I had gone to the city in daylight; I wasn't likely to have left a light on. I floored the gas pedal and gravel flew.

A police car, its lights out, was pulled up at my front door beside my found-object sculpture. The light spilling from the house made
Flotsam
look like a weird sci-fi take on an Easter Island statue.

I peered through the windshield of the police car. Walter, the chubby village cop, was slumped over in the driver's seat, his hat on the dash, his cheek mashed against the side window. For a moment I thought he might be dead, but he was only asleep. I couldn't blame the poor blimp for cooping, he was running up hefty overtime. In aid of what?

My front door was unlocked. That didn't trouble me; I leave it unlocked about half the time. But as soon as I walked in I saw that person or persons had laid heavy hands on the place. Furniture and painting supplies had been moved, boxes unstacked, drawers opened, canvases spread.

Houses in summer resorts are routinely burglarized out of season, but the houses of year-round residents usually are not: The family might show up to surprise the burglar. And it was widely known around here that I owned nothing worth stealing but my paintings. Local thieves would find those more of a headache to sell than their time was worth. Ask my dealer.