Restrike (13 page)

Jonathan’s first call of the day was to the Hathaway law firm in New York. He spoke to one of the young lawyers assigned to look after his family’s interests, and outlined the facts as he knew them: the deaths of Jimmy La Grange and Chick O’Reilly; the notes Coleman had found in Chick’s office; the possibility that Chick’s murder might have been related to his investigation for
ArtSmart
, a magazine owned and run by his wife’s cousin. He added that Jimmy La Grange might be connected to a possible art fraud involving a Rembrandt print bought for the Print Museum. “What should we do? Tell the police? And if so, which police?”

“As I understand it, you have no proof that this Rembrandt is not what it’s supposed to be?” the lawyer said.

“No, we’re trying to get more information, but we don’t have anything yet.”

“I’m not sure you have anything that will interest the police, and they might resent your interference. I think you should talk to Robert Mondelli, an attorney who specializes in art crime. Why don’t I telephone him, and tell him who you are, and that you’ll be calling him?”

“I don’t understand why I should talk to this Mondelli. Explain how he can help us.”

“He can evaluate what you and your wife and her cousin have discovered and tell you the likely police response to your information. He’ll know what you’d need to build a stronger case, and he can help find missing information, if that’s what you want. He can be your liaison with the police—find out what they’re doing, what they think. And he’ll be able to provide the three of you with protection around any legal issue, should that become necessary. The situation sounds as if it could get nasty. I’d advise you to try to avoid becoming directly—or publicly—involved.”

“I agree with
that.
Okay, call Mondelli, and tell him I’ll be in touch later today or tomorrow.”

It was time for Jonathan’s daily call on the researcher working on the Bain question. She was a bespectacled waif-like little creature, and one of the best fact-finders he’d ever met. When he walked into the library, she looked up and smiled. “I was just going to phone you. I’ve checked everywhere, done everything I can think of, but this is all I can find. It’s not much.” She handed him a flimsy piece of paper covered in faded print.

“What does it say?” he asked, squinting at it.

“It’s a copy made from microfilm of an article in an education magazine about child prodigies who studied at MIT about thirty years ago. One of the children mentioned is a Heyward Bain. I can’t be sure this is your man, but the age is right and it’s an uncommon name. The professor cited in the article is a Dr. William Laramie. He’s still at MIT, and probably worth talking to.”

“Great! You may have uncovered the only thing in print about Bain.” Jonathan rushed off, resolving to send the researcher flowers and to write Human Resources a note about her good work.

A few minutes later, he spoke to a Hathaway lawyer in Boston, explaining that he wanted an appointment with Laramie today. “Make up a reason if you have to. I don’t care what you say, but don’t take ‘no’ for an answer. We’ll pay for his time. Call me back as soon as it’s arranged.”

Jonathan leaned back in his chair and smiled. At last, a clue to Heyward Bain’s past. Jonathan was certain that Bain and his activities lay at the heart of everything wrong that had happened in the print world since October. Even his marital problems began with Dinah’s attitude towards Bain. If he could unmask Bain, all of the other pieces of the puzzle would fall into place, and Dinah would come home and be herself again.

The phone rang, and Jonathan grabbed it. “Yes?”

“You have an appointment with Professor Laramie at four o’clock this afternoon, Mr. Hathaway. No excuse was necessary, nor any compensation. Laramie is a garrulous chap. He’ll talk your ear off. The Hathaway name is well known in Boston. He sounded flattered that you want to meet with him.”

Dinah, digging away in the little library in the apartment on Cornelia Street, had learned that many of Rembrandt’s plates survived, and Rembrandt restrikes had been published as early as 1785, a hundred years or so after the artist’s death. The quality of the impressions was poor.

In 1957, a Rembrandt expert, W. R. Valentiner—not Valentine, as she’d thought—had examined all of the surviving plates he could locate, but the plates that interested Dinah weren’t among them. A 1983 article by Walter Strauss declared that only about a third of Rembrandt’s plates had been accounted for.

Finally, in a piece written by Dr. Jane Parker, chief curator at the Harnett College Museum in Myrtle, Virginia, Dinah struck gold. Parker described the discovery of a group of previously lost plates by Rembrandt, including not only the plate
Sleeping Kitten
, but also
Shells
and
Winter Landscape
, the other two Rembrandt prints on Simon’s list. The plates, a recent legacy to the Harnett, were in excellent condition.

Dinah phoned Coleman to bring her up to date. “Do you think I should call the Harnett and ask if the plate is where it should be?”

“We’ll go there,” Coleman decided. “I’m afraid we won’t learn anything if we try to do it by phone. If the plate is missing, they might not admit it. I’ll call Dr. Parker, and we’ll fly down tomorrow, if she’ll see us. I’ll make the plane reservations and call you back as soon as we’re set.”

When Dinah went downstairs to the gallery, Bethany gave her a message from Jonathan: he’d gone to Boston, and would phone her tonight, but probably not until eight or later. Good. Maybe she and Coleman could have dinner without Jonathan turning up and scaring them half to death. She was still furious with him. She needed more time to cool off.

Zeke and Bethany peered through the window of the Spy Shop on West Fourth Street. The space was small, and the glass cabinets were crammed with unfamiliar-looking equipment. A short gray-haired man, red-faced and fat, stood behind the counter, looking at catalogs.

A bell rang when Zeke opened the door, and they could see themselves on a television set on the wall. Zeke thought the security seemed excessive, until he looked at the price tags. Wow. Expensive.

“We’re interested in checking an office for listening devices,” he said to the fat man, who wore a “My name is Pete” tag.

“I can do that for you,” Pete said. “My minimum fee is twenty-five hundred dollars.”

“We were thinkin’ of doin’ it ourselves,” Bethany said.

“Who d’ya think is bugging you? The Feds or the state?”

“Uh—private,” Zeke said.

Pete shook his head. “I wouldn’t advise doing it yourself. To get the job done right, you need a pro.”

“Can we rent equipment?” Bethany asked.

“No, ma’am, we don’t rent. The equipment’s valuable, and people would ruin it.”

“How much is the cheapest device?” Zeke asked.

“The best one is seven fifty. It vibrates so you can tell when someone you’re talking to is wearing a wire without him knowing it.”

“I just want to check an office,” Zeke repeated.

“We got something here for five hundred,” Pete said. He took an instrument that looked like a cell phone out of the case. “It don’t vibrate—lights up when you get near a bug. It’ll do okay, but I don’t advise it.”

“I’ll take it,” Zeke said, and pulled out his wallet. He could hardly wait to get out of the place. The Spy Shop was hot and claustrophobic, and Pete reeked of alcohol. Maybe being a spy or spy detector drove a person to drink. Zeke was pretty sure today’s spying would be a one-time thing, thank goodness.

Jonathan, seething, sat in a chair by Laramie’s cluttered desk. Laramie was a talker, and while he talked, he chain-smoked. The window was closed, and the air was nearly unbreathable. Jonathan had rarely been so uncomfortable. Worse, he couldn’t get the man to focus on Heyward Bain. Laramie had told him in great detail a lot about child prodigies, but nothing about Bain. Finally, Jonathan interrupted, speaking loudly. Laramie was forced to either shut up, or shout.

“That’s fascinating, Dr. Laramie, but I have to get back to New York,” Jonathan said, looking at his watch. “I want to hear about Heyward Bain. He
was
a student of yours, wasn’t he?”

“Oh, yes, he certainly was.” Laramie lit another cigarette, and stared at the papers on his desk. Now that the topic that interested Jonathan had been broached, the man had nothing to say.

“What can you tell me about him?” Jonathan asked.

“He was one of the most brilliant kids I’ve ever encountered, but he didn’t remain in the program long.” Laramie stared at his cigarette, tapping it against the side of the overflowing ashtray on his desk.

Getting information out of Laramie was like pulling teeth. “Why was that?”

“As you see, I’m a smoker, and Heyward Bain was phobic on the topic of smoking. He said he couldn’t stay around anyone who smoked the way I did.”

“Oh, I see,” Jonathan said. He could identify with that. He was suffocating after less than an hour in Laramie’s company. Now he knew why Laramie was so unforthcoming about Bain: his addiction to tobacco had cost MIT a promising student. “What else can you tell me about him?”

“None of us knew what his real name was. He might have been an orphan—at least, when he came here, he didn’t come with his parents, or any relative. He’s white, as you probably know, but he lived with an African American couple. The man drove him here every day, and I exchanged a few words with him. I saw the woman from a distance. The man told someone they’d been living in Washington—”

Jonathan leaned forward. Maybe this was it. Washington was a cesspool. The roots of almost everything wrong in the USA were in Washington. “Washington, DC?”

“Yes, but I never believed it. Bain had an English accent, but when I asked about it, he said he’d had an English tutor. The black driver came from the deep South. The way he spoke was unmistakable.”

Jonathan leaned back, frowning. “Didn’t Bain have to fill in applications of some kind? Didn’t they tell you anything?” Surely a student at MIT had left a paper trail.

Laramie shook his head and took another drag on his cigarette. Ash fell on his chest, and sparks added two burn marks to the old ones on his ancient gray sweater. “I thought he might be a mafia child or something of the kind, given the total blackout on his family. But then I learned that his application came in through Daniel Winthrop.”

Jonathan eyes widened. “
Daniel
Winthrop?” Daniel Winthrop, one of the most prominent men in Boston, and one of the city’s greatest philanthropists, attached to all the city’s great institutions as a trustee or advisor. Revered by all who knew him. Could Winthrop, like Dinah, have been deceived by Bain?

“Exactly. Winthrop’s name was all Admissions needed, especially after seeing Bain’s test scores—they ran off the charts. If there were applications or other papers with the facts in them, I never saw them.” Laramie put out his cigarette and emptied the ashtray in the wastebasket by his desk. “After he left we never heard any more about him, but someone said Bain turned up in New York recently. Is that right?”

Jonathan was staring at the wastebasket, hoping it wouldn’t catch fire. He forced his attention back to Laramie. “Yes. He’s supposed to be extremely well off. Do you know where his money came from?”

Laramie nodded. “Oh, yes, he was already rich when he got here. Inherited wealth, and by the time he was twelve, he’d invented a number of anti-smoking devices—super-sensitive smoke detectors, anti-nicotine chemicals to put in gum or lozenges to help people quit smoking. An ashtray that sucked up smoke. Filters that clean the air. I’m telling you, he was obsessed with smoking, or rather
not
smoking. He’d already donated millions to groups working to strengthen the anti-smoking laws. In fact, I was told one of the reasons he lived in such secrecy was threats from smokers’ rights groups, and there was a rumor Big Tobacco had him on a hit list. Guards accompanied him everywhere.”

“Are you kidding? That sounds fantastic.” Everything about Bain sounded like a fairy tale. Could Laramie be jerking his chain?

Laramie lit another cigarette. “Not so fantastic. Did you see that film
The Insider
about Jeffrey Wigand, a former Brown & Williamson employee? He tried to go on TV and expose some of the stuff his employers were doing. According to the film, the tobacco people pulled out all the stops to get Wigand, and people I talked to said they’d do worse to get Bain. I’m surprised he’s surfaced.”

Jonathan frowned. “Did he ever explain why he was so anti-tobacco?”

Laramie shook his head. “He wouldn’t talk about his inventions or about why he hated smoking, but when he told me why he was leaving the program, he said his grandfather and mother had both died of lung cancer.”

The Mexican Garden was warm, dark, and at this early hour, deserted. The room smelled of coriander and chilis, onions and garlic. Dinah’s mouth watered. “What’ll we have?” she said, looking at the menu.

“Lots of comforting fat and cholesterol,” Coleman said. “How about cheese enchiladas and bean burritos, with some greasy nachos while we wait?”

“Sounds good. Me, too. I’ll have a frozen margarita with salt,” she said to the hovering waiter.

“Make mine a Diet Pepsi,” Coleman said.

“Well,” Dinah began, and at the same time Coleman said, “Dinah, I—” They both laughed. “You go first,” Dinah said.

Coleman took a deep breath. “I’ve kept secrets from you, and I feel really bad about it. The first one has to do with the magazine. A few months ago I became convinced one of the writers was selling my ideas to the
Artful Californian.
”

Dinah’s eyes widened. “No! I can’t believe it. All your staff love you and
ArtSmart
.”

The waiter brought their drinks, the nachos, chips, and salsa. Coleman gulped her Diet Pepsi. “I didn’t want to believe it, either, but there was no other explanation. So I asked Zeke to help me figure out who it was. We’d narrowed it down to Chick, although it seemed impossible, and then Chick was killed. I guess I’ll never know now if he did it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Dinah said, picking at a piece of cheese on a nacho.

Coleman twisted a paper napkin in her fingers and tore a bit off the corner. “I have this financial agreement with Jonathan—he can take over the magazine if profits fall, and while they haven’t fallen much yet, they could. The leaks have hurt the magazine—the numbers are a little off for the first time. I thought he might want to take over, and I didn’t want him to know I was having problems.”

“I see,” Dinah said, sipping her margarita. She was furious with Jonathan, but she couldn’t believe he’d take Coleman’s magazine away from her. If he had any such idea—well, it would never happen. She wouldn’t let it.

Coleman looked up from the shreds of her napkin. “I didn’t want to ask you not to tell him. I thought I’d be putting you on the spot.”

“Let’s forget about it for now. What else is bothering you?”

The waiter came with their food, and Coleman was silent while he served. Then, “I’m embarrassed to tell you what else. I had this crush on Heyward Bain, mostly because he’s so good-looking, but I also think he’s interesting, and, I don’t know, the mystery of him appeals to me, and—I can’t explain it—I hardly know him. Anyway, at first I didn’t tell you because I was so humiliated when he didn’t call me. And when I realized he liked you—”

Dinah looked up from her enchiladas. “Hold on. What do you mean ‘he liked me’?”

“I heard him ask you out to lunch at the Rist opening. He said he wanted to see you alone. You didn’t tell me about the lunch, so I thought you liked him, too. You don’t have to tell me about it—why are you laughing?”

“Because—” Dinah sputtered, choking on her margarita. When she could speak, she said, “He invited me to lunch to talk about you. He asked me all kinds of questions about you. He knows a lot about us, Coleman. About when we were children—things I didn’t think anybody knew. But this is the really astonishing part: he knows about what happened to you at Duke with Maxwell Arnold and his homeboys.”

Coleman’s eyes widened. “How could he know? Nobody knows. I’ve never told anybody but you.”

“Neither have I—not even Jonathan. Bain told me he heard it ‘indirectly’ from one of the boys,” Dinah said.

Coleman leaned forward, frowning. “Wait a minute. Dinah, are you saying he likes
me
? Did he
tell
you he likes me?”

Dinah smiled. “Well, he didn’t come out and say ‘I’m in love with Coleman,’ but he must be. He’s so curious about you, and when he talks about you, he’s intense. There’s no other explanation. I pressed him as to why he hasn’t asked you out, but he was evasive. He wouldn’t answer any of
my
questions, but he sure asked plenty.”

“I had the same experience with him—he doesn’t give away a thing. But why didn’t you tell me? What else did he say?”

“I meant to talk to you about it, but the moment never seemed right. We haven’t had any private time, and I’ve been away, and I’ve been so worried about Jonathan and the gallery. I’m sorry, Coleman. I’m not going to let anything get in the way of talking to you again.”

“Me, either,” Coleman said.

After a short silence, Dinah said, “Did you know Judy, Jonathan’s ex-wife, was at the opening last night?”

“No! Did you see her?”

“Yes, she’s gorgeous. I’m going to have another margarita.” Dinah signaled the waiter.

“Speaking of Judy, what do you know about Jonathan’s marriage to her?” Coleman asked.

“Nothing. He won’t talk about her. I don’t even know why they split up.”

“Well, at the Rist opening, Marise told me that Judy trapped Jonathan into marrying her. She’d lied, said she was pregnant. And then he caught her in bed with somebody, and that’s why they got divorced.”

“No! Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t Marise tell me?”

“As you said, there hasn’t been much time, and I haven’t seen you alone. And Marise wasn’t sure you’d want to know,” Coleman said.

Dinah sighed. “I guess that explains Jonathan’s jealousy and possessiveness, but knowing
why
he’s the way he is doesn’t make him any easier to live with.”

“What else did Bain say?”

“He offered to put me in business in a bigger gallery—to finance me. He thought the reason I’m in a small offbeat space is lack of capital—”

“No! Doesn’t he know Jonathan is rich?”

“Apparently not. I explained that Jonathan is my backer, and that I wanted to move and expand. I said that if Jonathan doesn’t finance me, I’d be in touch. But as you know, I got the loan from Zeke.”

Coleman frowned. “I think Jonathan would have an apoplectic fit if you took Bain’s money.”

“I agree. But Jonathan and I might not be together. He’s too controlling. I can’t stand it anymore. This baby thing was the final straw. If we can’t straighten things out, I’m going to divorce him. I’ll give it another try on the phone tonight—lay it out for him, tell him about everything, including my lunch with Bain, and Bain’s offer, and that I borrowed money from Zeke. If I can’t make him see sense, I’ll hire a lawyer.”

Dinah looked at her watch and groaned. “It’s nearly nine o’clock, and we have an early start to Virginia tomorrow. I’ll probably be up half the night talking to Jonathan—he said he’d call when he gets back from Boston.” She called for the check.

A few minutes later, outside on the sidewalk, Coleman said, “Why don’t we take a look at Blackbeard’s? It’s around the corner. It’s a gay bar. We should be safe.”

Dinah looked at her watch again and sighed. “Oh, all right. In for a penny, in for a pound.”

The exterior of Blackbeard’s was undistinguished. The name was painted in small letters on a dark glass window, and they couldn’t see inside.

“Let’s go in,” Coleman said. “We won’t ask about Jimmy or Chick, but let’s see what it’s like.”

“Jonathan would be furious. He told us not to do anything like this. But—oh, all right! Let’s do it, as long as we’re here.”

The nearly empty bar stank of stale beer and cigarette smoke and a dirty men’s room. Two men in business suits sat in a booth at the back, and a young man in jeans nursed a beer at the bar. The bartender was maybe six five, and his black sleeveless tank top revealed huge tattooed biceps. His shaved head looked like polished mahogany. All four men glared at the women.

“You’re in the wrong place, girlies,” the bartender said. “Why don’t you run along before you get in trouble?”

“I’m with a magazine,” Coleman improvised, “and I’m looking for a couple of good body types—twins if possible—to pose for some pictures. I heard this was the place to come.”

“Somebody’ll call you,” the bartender said. “It’ll be after midnight. Write your number here.” He handed her a pad and the stub of a pencil, and Coleman scribbled her home number.

When they were outside again, Dinah said, “Coleman, you’re crazy! What if they call?”

“I hope they will. I’m going home to change the message on my answering machine. I’m sure that bartender didn’t believe I was with a magazine. I bet he thinks I want them for a date—can you imagine? Yuck. I bet that’s how you book the hulks, through that bar. Maybe Chick came here and asked about them just like I did, and their connection with La Grange, and that’s all it took to get him killed. I’m going to nail these creeps, I swear I am.” Coleman signaled a passing taxi. “Let’s go. I have to get ready for their call.”

It was after five when Jonathan left Laramie’s office. Could he be totally wrong about Bain? The source of his wealth was definitely not from money laundering or drug transactions as Jonathan had suspected. Unless Bain had used his original fortune to expand into less righteous activities.

He wished he knew Daniel Winthrop, a friend of his parents, well enough to call him. He was thinking how to approach Winthrop when his cell phone rang.

It was his secretary in New York. Daniel Winthrop had called, knew Jonathan was in Boston, wanted to see Jonathan right away, and made it clear Jonathan’s convenience didn’t concern him. Jonathan was to come to Winthrop’s house on Beacon Hill immediately.

What in Heaven’s name—? How did Winthrop know he was in Boston? What could he want? Jonathan sighed. He was tired, and he wanted to go home. But a summons from Daniel Winthrop could not be ignored. And Jonathan would have a chance to ask him about Bain.

In the mahogany-paneled library at Winthrop House on Beacon Hill, Daniel Winthrop gave Jonathan a scotch on the rocks, seated him in a chair opposite his desk, and sat back down behind it. His normally friendly face was angry.

“I’ve known your family all my life, went to school with your father, and I attended your christening. I’ve followed your career with interest, and I used to think you were pretty smart, but you’ve made a fool of yourself with your suspicions of Heyward Bain. Our lawyers told me you were inquiring about Bain, and I instructed them not to give you any information. Bain’s background is none of your business. But you stumbled on the MIT connection, and I let the lawyers set up that appointment, since I’m convinced you won’t give up.

“Because you’re obsessed with Bain, I’m going to tell you a little of his history. My information comes through The Firm. The Firm administers Heyward’s trust funds, and we’ve known him since he was a child. I’m one of his trustees.”

The Firm. Winthrop, Winthrop and Cabot, the prestigious law firm where generations of Winthrops had worked. “The Firm” was always mentioned as if it were capitalized, and as if everyone should know which firm was meant. Most people did. To invoke The Firm’s name on the side of an issue or as the source of information was to settle the matter.

“Bain never knew his mother, and his father despised him. He inherited enormous wealth from his grandfather, but he was banished as a small child to a remote estate he’d inherited from his maternal grandparents, with only servants and lawyers to take care of him.

“He was a prodigy with wide interests, and he was given every kind of tutor, book, learning device, hobby kit, and lesson known to man. But he had no playmates, no friends, no social associations of any kind. He did nothing but work and study, although his physical needs, including riding, tennis, swimming lessons, trainers, and the like were provided.”

Winthrop walked to the fireplace and stood with his back to the fire, his hands clasped behind him. “The name of the owners of the estate where he grew up was different from his name, which, incidentally, is not the name you know him by. And the name his tutors knew him by is different from the name of any relative or connection of his. His fortune, which is far larger than the press has suggested, is managed through trusts, and his many inventions—which have paid him far more than his inherited fortune—have been patented in corporate names. The Firm became involved with him through the estate in South Carolina he inherited. I share his hatred for tobacco, and I became interested in his inventions, his activities, and his future.

“As you’ve learned, when he was twelve he spent some time at MIT, but he was unhappy there, and in any case I thought Boston might be dangerous for him. He has many enemies, all connected to the tobacco industry. Since he came of age, he’s lived in states where other recluses have hidden. He’s had everything in the world that money can buy, but he’s the loneliest person I’ve ever met. He’s generous—he’s given major gifts to colleges, including Harvard, where he had no connection except that he knew me. He has never wanted recognition. His gifts are always anonymous.”

Winthrop paced the area in front of the fireplace. “I was astonished when I heard he’d become a public figure in New York. He must have a compelling reason to emerge from his anonymity, and he must believe it’s less risky than it once was. I haven’t talked to him in the last year or two, but you have my word that in all the time I’ve known him, he’s never done anything illegal or dishonorable.” Winthrop sat down at his desk again.

Jonathan was speechless, stunned by Daniel Winthrop’s anger, and even more by what he’d said about Heyward Bain. That settled that, if all of this was true. And how could it be otherwise, given that the source of the information was Winthrop, Winthrop and Cabot, and that Daniel Winthrop vouched for Bain? Jonathan didn’t like being wrong, and he’d had enough lecturing and disapproval for one day. He thanked Winthrop, put down his glass, and stood up. He excused himself, and Winthrop rang the butler to show him out.

Jonathan felt as low as he’d ever been, even during the months before and after his divorce. He had plenty of time to think about his behavior on the way back to New York: the drive to Logan Airport, the wait for the shuttle, the plane ride, and the seemingly interminable trip to Greenwich Village.

He’d made a terrible mistake in his assessment of Heyward Bain. He’d clung to the idea that Bain was evil when he’d had absolutely no evidence to back up his opinion. He’d been blinded by prejudice and jealousy. The prejudice was an infamous Hathaway characteristic. The jealousy he’d developed on his own, a result of his experience with Judy.