Murder at the National Gallery (16 page)

“Feel up to it?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose so. Meet you there? What time?”

“Six, he said.”

“I can make it by six-thirty.”

A lingering embrace was a needed balm for both of them.

The noon meeting at the National Gallery accomplished little, in Annabel’s view. The topic was, as expected, how Carlo Giliberti’s murder might “impact” the Caravaggio exhibition. Not seeing Luther Mason there triggered a reminder that she was supposed to have continued to try reaching him. “Where’s Luther?” she asked Court Whitney as attendees trickled into the conference room.

“He won’t be here,” the gallery director said abruptly. “Went home sick. Last night’s tragic event upset him. Understandable. He and Giliberti were pretty close.”

“I understand that he wants to—”

One of two trustees who would attend the meeting motioned Whitney from the room. They’d no sooner left than three Secret Service agents entered, followed by Carole Aprile. She came directly to Annabel. “Thanks for showing up,” she said. “Anything wrong? You sounded …”

Annabel gave her a thirty-second sound bite of what had happened at her gallery.

“What are you even doing here?” Carole asked.

“Trying to be helpful. I didn’t reach Luther. Time got away from me.”

“I don’t wonder. I spoke with him just before coming here. He’s calmed down, although he’s talking about canceling the exhibition.”

Whitney and the trustee returned and called the meeting to order. It lasted only a half hour. “I understand Luther Mason thinks we should call off the show,” Carole said.

“That’s correct,” Whitney affirmed. “Luther is upset—and he’s wrong. The show must go on, as they say.”

“Any word on Mr. Giliberti’s murderer?” Annabel asked.

There wasn’t. Whitney said, “The faster they find who killed him, the better off we’ll be. The press is already trying to link up his murder with the exhibition and the
Grottesca
. I got a call from a tabloid reporter this morning. He’s doing a piece he’s calling ‘The Caravaggio Curse Threatens Washington.’ Unbelievable. The sooner they pick up the druggie who killed Giliberti, the sooner this kind of stupid speculation will stop.”

“It could heighten interest in the exhibition,” a representative from the public information office offered. She was ignored.

Carole Aprile had the last word. “I’m relieved that this dreadful wanton act won’t derail the exhibition. The administration remains fully committed to it. If problems arise with the Italian government over this, let me know.” She whispered to Annabel, “A minute?”

They stood in a corner of the reception area, watched by the Secret Service agents. “I’m so sorry about what happened to you this morning, Annabel.”

“Lucky, actually. Guess he could have killed me.”

“Bad time to ask more of you, maybe, but I will. Court is very concerned about Luther’s mental stability.”

“Really? It sounds to me like he’s simply distraught over his friend’s death.”

“I agree. But Court seems sincerely troubled by Luther’s behavior. His reputation as a curator might be more secure than his psyche. I wondered if you’d make it a point to get, and stay, close to him until the exhibition opens. You know, keep in touch with him, read his moods, and let me know if in your judgment there’s anything to worry about—including
his
judgment.”

“I’ll do my best. We’re not close friends but—”

“Your best is more than sufficient, Annabel. You weren’t hurt at all?”

“Bruised a little. Nothing a little liniment and a good night’s sleep won’t cure.”

Carole kissed Annabel on the cheek. “You’re a trouper. Keep in touch.”

At five-thirty that afternoon, Annabel turned the last page of the mug-shot book placed before her by Steve Jordan. “Sorry,” she said, “but I see nothing that even resembles the man who came into my gallery this morning. As I said, all I really remember were his hat and coat.”

“A long shot, Annabel, but worth taking. We put out a bulletin on what the guy was wearing. Every cop in town will be looking for him. Not that that’s much consolation. Maybe he was a nut case, smashing it as an act of protest.”

“Against what?”

“Against art, or pre-Columbians, or beautiful gallery owners. Hungry?”

“Surprisingly, yes. Mac said he’d join us at six-thirty.”

“I might have to bail out before he arrives. One of the kids is sick, and I promised Ruth I’d get home early to spell her. It’s her class night. She’s studying calligraphy. But we can at least have a drink and appetizer together.”

“Time enough to proposition me?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way.” His grin was pleasingly boyish. “To make you a proposition you can’t refuse. Besides, I try never to hit on women taller than me.”

Bill Wooby’s Collector Gallery and Restaurant, located on the ground floor of the Dupont Plaza Hotel, had become the gathering spot of choice for Washington’s artists, a place where the gossip was as juicy as the steaks, backs were bitten, and useful information was occasionally exchanged. Washington’s artist population was America’s fourth largest, according to Washington artists.

Wooby, whose grandmother had been a bareback rider, knife thrower, and tattooed lady in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show, was a prime influence on what went on artistically in the city, his restaurant a rallying point for social, charitable, and artistic causes dear to his heart. The art featured on The Collector’s walls was rotated on a monthly basis. This month it
featured the black-and-white works of photographer Kathleen Bober.

As Steve Jordan and Annabel entered, Wooby was winding down a cocktail party honoring students of the Corcoran Gallery’s art school. He spotted them and led them to a table, saying to Jordan as they passed through the bar area, “I still intend to get your name on my ceiling one of these days.”

They stopped and looked up. The ceiling was covered with signatures and salutations from artists, politicians, and other regulars.

“Not until I retire from the force,” Jordan said. “It wouldn’t do the career any good to end up next to an art forger or thief on your ceiling.”

Wooby sat with them. “What’s new on the murder?”

Jordan shrugged. “Nothing you haven’t heard on television. Did you know Carlo Giliberti?”

“As a customer. I wouldn’t call him a regular, but he did come in now and then. He had a thing going with a local artist and used to bring her here.”

“We’re still trying to figure out what he was doing in Rock Creek Park at that hour,” said Jordan. “As far as we can piece together, he wasn’t the kind of guy to be prowling a park after midnight. He’s married, got a couple of young adult children. No sign of drug use. Hard to figure.”

“So, Steve, what is this mysterious proposal you wish to make?” Annabel asked after Wooby had gone in search of a waiter.

He grimaced against what he was thinking, then said, “I may be way out of line in asking this favor of you, Annabel. But I’ll end up kicking myself for not trying.”

“I’m listening.”

“You can tell me to back off any time.”

“All right.”

“Are you aware that there was a theft at Dumbarton Oaks six months ago?”

Dumbarton Oaks’s original mansion and added wings occupied sixteen acres of lush gardens on the crest of a wooded valley in Georgetown. The Dumbarton Oaks Research Library
and Collection, incorporated in the District of Columbia and administered by the Trustees for Harvard, contained outstanding collections of Byzantine and pre-Columbian art.

“No,” Annabel said. “I’d heard something about a ‘problem’ with the pre-Columbian collection, but not about a theft. I can’t believe something like that could happen and escape the gossips.”

“I’ve been waiting for M. Scott Pims to report it ever since,” said Jordan.

“What was stolen?”

“Three things. A were-jaguar, a black basalt serpent, and a gold monkey.”

“And they’ve managed to keep it quiet for six months?”

“Yeah. Their call. They figure that if enough time passes, whoever took the pieces would get around to trying to sell them through the underground. Looks like enough time has passed. The word is they are for sale, right here in D.C.”

“By the person who stole them?”

“Probably not. I’m convinced it was an inside job. The pieces had been taken off display during a renovation. They disappeared from a storeroom. I figure someone with access lifted them and sold them to a middleman. The middleman now wants to unload.”

“Shouldn’t be hard to do,” said Annabel. “There are plenty of crooked collectors always looking for good pieces at bargain prices, no questions asked.”

“And that’s where you come in.”

“Me?” She laughed. “I’m not a crooked collector.”

“But you could become one.”

“I could?”

“Sure.”

“I think I know what you’re getting at, Steve, and I’m not sure I like it.”

“I won’t say another word.”

Their white wine and a shared order of smoked-duck ravioli were served.

“Steve,” Annabel said after tasting her wine.

“Yes?”

“Tell me more.”

His smile said much. “Not a lot more to tell, Annabel. Word is that the three pieces are for sale here in Washington. My concern is that if I don’t act quickly, they’ll end up in Europe. South America.”

“What would I have to do if I—?”

“You don’t
have
to do anything.”

“I know that. But if I did agree? What then?”

He replied casually after a taste of ravioli, “I’d put the word out underground that a local pre-Columbian collector was in the market for gold monkeys and were-jaguars. No questions asked. I’d set you up with a studio, probably in the Atlas Building. We’ve used it before in these kinds of stings. Give you a phone, answering machine, a special number. The seller calls—if he does—and you convince him you’re ready to buy. You arrange a meet. We’re there. He’s arrested. The pieces end up back at Dumbarton.”

“Just like that.”

“Just like that.”

“Would I actually have to meet with the seller?”

“No. We’d be there in your place. What do you think?”

“I don’t know.”

“I thought of you because you’ve already got heavy credentials in pre-Columbian. I think it would work.”

“I—”

“You’d be doing a real nice thing for Dumbarton, Annabel. Shame to have those important pieces end up in the collection of some slob who’ll stash them away purely for their monetary value. They’d never be on display again for millions to enjoy.”

Annabel laughed softly and tasted the ravioli. “You’re very persuasive, Steve. I’d have to ask Mac.”

“You know lawyers. They always find a reason to say no.”

“I was a lawyer.”

“But now you’re a gallery owner.” He checked his watch. “I have to run. Think about it overnight. Give me a call tomorrow.”

“All right.”

“Before I go, tell me about your trip to Italy with Giliberti. I
was reading the other day about the upcoming Caravaggio exhibition and that you represent the White House.”

“That’s right. Mac and I were with Carlo last night at the black-tie dinner. I liked him very much.”

“He say anything, do anything, that might have indicated he was in some sort of trouble?”

“Absolutely not. He was happy and gregarious. He played the perfect host for me in Rome. No sign of trouble.”

“Mess things up for the exhibition?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What’s the skinny on
Grottesca
? Almost too good to be true.”

“A remarkable find by Luther Mason.”

“You think it’s legit?”

“Of course. And if it isn’t, the Gallery experts will find out quickly enough. That particular Caravaggio will be scrutinized like no other painting in history. Every scientist at the Gallery and every Caravaggio expert will pore over it. Frankly, I don’t think they’ll find anything amiss. Luther Mason’s connoisseurship and honor are too great for him to have the wool pulled over his eyes. He stakes his reputation on it. That’s good enough for me.”

“I hope you’re right. There’s Mac.”

The men exchanged greetings and the detective left.

“Anything come out of staring at mug shots?” Mac asked after settling in with a single-barrel bourbon on the rocks.

“Afraid not.”

She told him of the noon meeting at the National Gallery. “They’re concerned about the impact of Carlo’s murder on the exhibit. I don’t see where it will have any, except in a macabre way. More intrigue about the artist and his works.” She also told him about the tabloid reporter’s piece, “The Caravaggio Curse Threatens Washington.” They both laughed and agreed that there were worse threats in Congress.

After a dinner of Maryland crab cakes seasoned with Old Bay served with a lemon-chive sauce, and salads tossed with raspberry-and-toasted-almond vinaigrette, he said, “Well, Annabel, it’s been quite a day for you. Ready to go home?”

“Yes. I’m exhausted. Emotionally drained.”

“That’s obvious from the look on your lovely face. Your eyelids are at half-mast.”

She smiled. “Maybe in memory of Carlo.”

They stood. “Mac, let me give you a tip.”

“You have me confused with the waiter.”

“I love you.”

“Oh, that,” he said in a mock brush-off. “I love you, too—more. My week hasn’t included a masterpiece, a murder, a smashed and beloved figure, and a madman swinging a hammer in the gallery. You wanted me to retire. Now, it’s you who’s keeping life interesting.”

“Steve? It’s Annabel.”

“Hi. Did you sleep on my proposition?”

“Fitfully. I’ll do it.”

“Terrific. What did Mac have to say about it?”

“I didn’t tell him. He has enough on his plate these days with students, deans, a dog as big as a horse, a house, and being out of the criminal loop, without having this to worry about.”

“Mr. Whitney, Luther Mason on line two.”

The director picked up the phone in his office. “Feeling better?” he asked.

“I wish I could say I did, Court. The fact is I think I’m about to unravel.”

“I understand,” Whitney said, continuing to read an article from
The New York Times
about the Caravaggio exhibition.