Restrike (5 page)

Chick was in his office, pounding away on his computer. His orange-red hair was rumpled and he had ink smudges on his hands and his nose. The fax machine on his credenza whirred away. His office smelled like the peppermints in the bowl on his desk.

When Coleman paused in his doorway, he looked up and grinned. His slightly buck teeth and his freckled face always made her see him as the poster child of the boy next door, or maybe appearing in a TV ad for something wholesome, like Cheerios. How could anyone who looked the way he did be a bad guy?

“How is everything?” Coleman asked.

“Fine, but busy, as you see,” he said, gesturing at the piles of paper and the computer on his desk.

“Too busy to have lunch with me tomorrow?”

“Uh—sorry. I’ve got a date for lunch,” he said.

“Then how about a drink tomorrow after work?” she persisted.

He shook his head. “Can’t. I have to get home early. David and I have company coming for dinner.”

His brow wrinkled in a worried frown, and his tone was evasive. She was sure he was lying, and her heart sank. “Okay,” she said. “We’ll talk now. This is about work, and it can’t wait.”

She sat down in his guest chair and filled him in on Jimmy La Grange’s death, what the police thought, and the tangential relationship with Heyward Bain.

“Whoa. What a story!” he said.

“Yes, it’s fascinating. I hope you’ll write it. If anyone can find out what it’s all about you can. But it has its sordid aspects—the way La Grange died is pretty grim. I wouldn’t normally publish something like this in
ArtSmart
, if it weren’t for the link with the Winslow Homer print and Heyward Bain—that’s big art news. Can you handle the gay bashing, rough sex, whatever it turns out to be?”

“Sure. I want the story. I know I can do it. But why aren’t you writing it?”

“I’m going to concentrate on Heyward Bain, the Print Museum, and this creepy guy, Simon Fanshawe-Davies, who’s helping Bain buy prints. The two stories connect, but each is a big piece by itself. It will take both of us to get them done. I’m looking for background on Bain and his cohort, and making sure everything they buy for the museum is kosher. The lack of provenance of the two prints Bain has so far acquired concerns me. While I’m doing that, you’re going to find out everything you can about La Grange. How’d he get that Homer? He must have had a financial backer. Who? Where did he hang out? Did he have a history of the kind of thing the police think got him killed? Who inherits his money? We’ll stay closely in touch. If I learn anything about La Grange, I’ll pass it on. If you hear anything I should know for the Bain story, tell me. And keep me posted on how you’re doing.”

She could see that Chick was nearly jumping out of his seat with excitement. “I’ll get on it right away,” he said.

“Good. And Chick? This story is our secret. Don’t talk to anybody in the office about it. If it’s as big as I think it is, we don’t want any leaks.” She watched him carefully when she used the toxic word.

Chick nodded. He didn’t seem to think her request was strange. Maybe he’d noticed what was going on with
the
Artful Californian.
Or maybe he was the leak.

Coleman left his office knowing he’d write a great article. No one else at
ArtSmart
came close to having his ability to dig up information. Of course, there was the risk she’d read it in the
Artful Californian
instead of
ArtSmart.
But she didn’t believe it. Only there was no one else. Could she have missed something? She sighed. She’d have to go over everything again—the meetings when ideas were discussed and stories were assigned. Who was present, who could and couldn’t have had the relevant information at the time it was passed on. But not tonight. Tonight she was having dinner with Hayward Bain. She showered and put on the olive green and red outfit Bain hadn’t seen when he didn’t turn up at the auction. “If at first you don’t succeed…” she told Dolly, who jumped into her pouch, happy that she didn’t have to stay home alone.

In the taxi to the restaurant, she thought about Bain. She was ready for a new romance. She’d enjoyed a fabulous summer with a marvelous man—they’d shared his house in Sag Harbor on weekends—sailing, swimming, fireworks, sunshine, moonlight. But after Labor Day, they’d mutually agreed it was time to part. No acrimony, no regrets. But she’d like to meet an autumn companion. Walks in Central Park, while the crimson and golden leaves fell. New plays on Broadway. Fires in the fireplace. Halloween. Thanksgiving. Christmas. Snow. Could Bain be the one?

Bain’s dinner was in a private dining room at Brasserie 8½, famous for its elegant sweeping staircase and stunning modern design, the creation of the eminent architect Hugh Hardy. Like the Red Dragon, the restaurant was below street level and popular with the art crowd, partly because it featured signed Matisse lithographs in the lounge and a stained glass mural by Léger separating the kitchen from the dining room.

Coleman left thoughts of
ArtSmart
, the spy, and Jimmy La Grange outside the door of the dining room. She needed to concentrate on her interview, and on Bain. This was the first time she’d seen Bain up close. She had rarely met a better-looking man—those intense gray eyes, with their heavy fringe of black lashes, the brilliant smile in his tanned face, his high cheekbones. She admired his clothes, too; he was perfectly dressed. Artists tended to wear messy, bohemian clothes, or like Zeke, they were tweedy and academic-looking. Heyward Bain’s suits were a work of art, as were his handmade shoes.

Even his height suited her—she didn’t like big men. They towered over her, reminding her of bears, and bullies she’d encountered as a child. Bain had something else she couldn’t quite define. She hadn’t exchanged a word with him, but she felt a kind of recognition, a sense that she’d met him somewhere, although she knew she hadn’t. Her New Age friends would say she’d known him in another life. Whatever.

She toyed with her veal, nibbled her salad, refused dessert, struggled to take notes—eating and writing at the same time was almost impossible. She exercised all of her charm, hoping to make a connection that would at least lead to a good story, if not a social relationship. But it wasn’t working. Maybe he was distracted by his audience? She wished they were alone instead of in a room full of people, all of whom were listening to every word she and Bain spoke.

Debbi was uncharacteristically silent. Ellen Carswell was also quiet, and seemed to be effacing herself, although with her sumptuous looks and striking clothes she could never be inconspicuous. Tonight she wore an Issey Miyake white silk pantsuit and magnificent pearls. Everything about her screamed money, even the Mont Blanc she used for note-taking. But if a lover were supporting her, Coleman didn’t think it was Bain. Their relationship seemed businesslike, even distant.

The elephantine bodyguards were also trying to be invisible, as if anyone that big could disappear. Why did Bain need those ever-present guards? Lots of rich people—even billionaires—in New York managed without hired muscle. Maybe his size made him feel vulnerable. More likely, he’d made enemies in the world he came from. Was that why he wouldn’t discuss his past?

She tried to persuade him to talk about his background, but he never let the conversation become personal, at least about himself. When she asked him about his family, where he grew up, he shook his head and smiled. “I prefer that your readers evaluate the Print Museum on its merits, not on anything I may have done before I came to New York.”

“Won’t you at least tell me where you went to college?” Any scrap of information might lead to more.

He laughed. “I’m self-taught about art. I’ve never taken a single art history class.”

But if he wouldn’t talk, he sure could listen. He seemed fascinated by everything she said. In response to his interest, she babbled like an idiot about her career, her childhood in North Carolina, college and graduate school.

At the end of dinner he knew a lot about her, but she didn’t know him one bit better. At this rate her article about him would be as bland and colorless as blancmange
,
her least favorite dessert at boarding school. But all that mystery made him even more fascinating. When he offered her a ride home—Debbi had her own car and was driving Carswell—she hoped he’d warm up.

But when Bain’s driver stopped the inconspicuous gray Lincoln Town Car outside her building, and Bain said a pleasant goodnight on the sidewalk, nothing had changed. He remained impenetrable. Still, when she glanced back at him from the lobby, she thought he looked after her longingly. But perhaps he was just watching to make sure she got in safely. She’d have to wait and see. She sighed. She hated waiting. If he didn’t call her, she’d try to get Debbi to set up another appointment with him. She wanted to know this man. She must somehow get through to him, if only for the sake of her article.

Robert Mondelli hung up the phone and read his notes. His contact at the NYPD had asked him to look into a case that might or might not be his kind of thing. It probably wasn’t. Despite Jimmy La Grange’s occupation, the runner’s death almost certainly had nothing to do with art. Still, Mondelli would spend a day or so to prove it either way.

Mondelli was in law school when his dad, a cop, had been shot and killed by a drug addict trying to break into a doctor’s office. Mondelli dropped out of school and joined the NYPD to support his mother. He’d studied law at night and passed the bar exam, and considered joining a friend’s law practice, but art crimes had fascinated him, and he’d stayed on the job and made them his specialty. He took art history courses and haunted museums on weekends—still did. Three years ago, he’d resigned from the Department to set up his own agency specializing in the recovery of stolen art, and other art crimes. He’d been able to use his knowledge of the law and his experience with the NYPD, and he’d never regretted his decision.

The NYPD or City Hall often called Rob in as a consultant, mostly unpaid, but their referrals led to lucrative private-sector cases. He’d become famous in a small way, and the quality of both his life and his finances had improved. He wondered if he’d still be married if he’d left the police force earlier. The NYPD was notoriously tough on marriages, and many cops were divorced, sometimes more than once. After his own brief marriage ended badly, he had decided he wouldn’t try again.

When the faxes on the La Grange case arrived, he flipped through them, looking for art connections. An unconfirmed tip from a guy at the
New York Times
that La Grange was the seller of a high-priced Winslow Homer print at auction. Unlikely. La Grange had less than a thousand dollars in the bank, and the police had found no evidence linking him to big money, or to the fancy art crowd. Except for La Grange’s answering machine containing three voice mails from Coleman Greene at
ArtSmart.
Why was the well-known owner of a successful magazine so anxious to speak to La Grange? There was also a message from Simon, no last name, reachable at the Carlyle Hotel. According to one of the faxes, the police had identified, interviewed, and cleared Simon. Whoever he was, he had a solid alibi.

No paperwork had turned up on the Homer print. In fact, the police hadn’t found any of La Grange’s financial records, except for an invoice for $1,000 from La Grange to the Greene Gallery dated last week, stamped “paid.” The Greene Gallery. Any connection to Coleman Greene? Oh, yeah, Dinah and Coleman were cousins. Uh, oh—that asterisk by Dinah Greene’s name meant “tread carefully.” She was married to Jonathan Hathaway. The Hathaway family had a lot of clout. It was hard to see how Rob could offend the Greene cousins, but he’d keep in mind that he had to tread softly. Unless, of course, they were guilty of something.

Coleman was red-penciling a manuscript when a Robert Mondelli called. He said he was a consultant to the police on the art aspects of the La Grange case, and her name had come up. Could he come to see her? Coleman agreed to see Mondelli in half an hour. That would give her time to run downstairs and pick up an early lunch.

She stood in line at Starbucks—there was
always
a line at Starbucks—and collected and paid for her coffee and a turkey sandwich. But on her way to the elevators she slipped on a wet spot on the marble floor, and careened into a bulky man emerging from a telephone booth. If he hadn’t grabbed her, she would have fallen. She managed to keep her balance, but her coffee spilled all over both of them.

“God, that’s hot,” he said, trying to clean himself up with his handkerchief. Coleman dabbed at him with the paper napkins she’d collected with her coffee. “I’m so sorry—” Oh hell, the napkins were drenched. She was making it worse, and, not only that, she was patting his crotch. She felt as if she were in an episode of
Sex and the City.
She snatched her hand back and fled, calling “Sorry” over her shoulder.

After a futile attempt to remove the coffee stains from her beige silk pants, she collapsed in her desk chair and stared at the soggy sandwich and empty coffee cup. The man she’d run into was worse off. She’d probably ruined him for life. Could a man be sterilized or become impotent after being scalded? Coleman hoped he didn’t work in the building. With luck, she’d never see him again.

She’d barely picked up her pencil when the receptionist called to say Mondelli had arrived. She sighed and went out to greet him, Dolly at her heels.

Good grief! It was the man she’d injured. Well, there was nothing for it but to tough it out.

He’d apparently decided on the same strategy—he didn’t acknowledge their previous encounter by so much as a blink. God, he was even bigger than she remembered. She wouldn’t meet with him in her little office, she’d feel too crowded. Not to mention uncomfortable about their earlier encounter.

Coleman stood aside to let him precede her into the conference room. He reeked of coffee—surprise, surprise—and his gray suit was stained. She probably should have offered him money for the dry cleaners. He was maybe forty-five; six feet, or even taller; and husky, nice-looking, if you liked ex-football types, which she didn’t. But she couldn’t fault his thick dark hair slightly graying at the temples, or his heavy-lidded brown eyes. He had a deep mellow voice and a good smile. Still, Coleman was sure she wouldn’t like Mondelli—he was too big, too much a cop. He’d be bossy and overbearing.

She sat down across the table from him. “How can I help you?” she asked, hoping she sounded cool, not like a clumsy oaf—oafess?—who’d spilled boiling hot coffee on a man trying to prop her up.

He said he was investigating whether La Grange’s death was art-connected, or, as the police thought, a date turned bad. The police had given him her name and number because she’d been trying to reach La Grange. “Why were you so anxious to talk to him? Was he a friend?” he asked.

“No, I never met him. I’m working on a story about a man named Heyward Bain who bought a Winslow Homer print at Killington’s yesterday. Since La Grange was the seller, I wanted to interview him. But I never reached him, and then I heard he was dead.”

Mondelli frowned. “What makes you think La Grange was the seller?”

“I heard it from someone inside Killington’s.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Isn’t that information confidential?” His tone was neutral, but she sensed disapproval. Naturally he’d disapprove: he was a cop.

“Yes, but that kind of information often gets out,” Coleman said.

Mondelli made a note. “But it’s also often inaccurate, isn’t it? Is there anything else you can tell me about La Grange?”

Why should she tell him anything? He’d made it clear that he thought she was wrong about Jimmy La Grange being the seller of the Homer. Arrogant know-it-all. He’d learn soon enough that she was right. She’d like to tell him to get lost, but maybe if she gave him a little more information, she’d learn something.

“I mentioned his death to Simon Fanshawe-Davies—he bought the Homer for the Print Museum—and it seemed to make him angry. I couldn’t understand why. Maybe you can explain?”

“Yes, the police have talked to Mr. Fanshawe-Davies,” Mondelli said, capping his pen and standing up. “I don’t think I need trouble you any further, Ms. Greene.”

Coleman scowled. Not only had he ignored her question, he hadn’t the slightest interest in what she thought. “But you don’t believe there’s an art link to La Grange’s death?”

He looked down at her. “There’s no evidence of an art motive or connection, and lots of indications that his death was something else. I gather you disagree?”

She stood as tall as she could, but he still dwarfed her. This guy was not only a hulk, he was as thick as a plank. “I certainly do, but I can see you wouldn’t be interested. This is the first time I’ve ever had dealings with the New York City Police Department, and I have to tell you, I’m not impressed.”

His face remained impassive. “I’m sorry to hear that. Thanks for your time.”

She walked him to the reception room, but only to make sure he left. First Simon, now this guy. The case was crawling with creeps.

Back in her office, she considered what she should do next. Before talking to Mondelli, she had assumed that when the police learned about Jimmy and the Homer, they’d investigate the connectio, and figure out that there was more going on than the sordid story they’d decided to believe. She’d planned to learn whatever they turned up from Clancy, and pass it on to Chick. But it sounded as if the police were going to bury the art part of La Grange’s story.

That was a problem. She couldn’t publish an article telling readers that Jimmy La Grange, seller of the Homer, newly rich by about half a million dollars, was coincidentally killed almost at the same time he sold the print. Too many questions would remain unanswered. She’d look like an idiot. It was time to check in with Clancy.

“Clancy? I talked to Mondelli, the art cop. He seems sure La Grange’s death isn’t art-related. He’s sticking with the cop theory about the sex thing.”

“He’ll have to reconsider. Not only was Jimmy La Grange the seller of the Homer, he was also the seller of
The Midget.
”

Coleman sat up straight, her eyes wide. “Wow, are you serious? How’d you find out?”

Clancy laughed. “You’re not the only one with contacts. I got it from someone who works at Grendle’s. What did you think of Mondelli?”

“Not much. A lot of muscle and a closed mind.”

“Don’t underestimate him—he’s plenty smart—but so far, the police haven’t found any evidence of an art link to La Grange’s death, except what you and I’ve turned up. They have lots of physical evidence from La Grange’s apartment of what happened. When they pick up the guys who were there, they can nail ’em easily. As far as they’re concerned, even if we’re right, Jimmy somehow found the money—maybe borrowed it—to buy those two prints, and that’s the end of it. His death was something else entirely.”

“But Clancy, there’s no way that poor obscure little dealer could have ‘found’ or ‘borrowed’ the money to buy those two prints. We’re talking hundreds of thousands of dollars here.”

“I know. La Grange must have fronted for somebody who didn’t want anyone to know he was connected to those prints. But why? They can’t be stolen. There’s been so much publicity about them, we’d know it by now.”

“If La Grange was fronting for somebody, the real owner of the print is out of luck. Whoever he is, he’ll never get his money now,” Coleman said.

“Yeah, and if you weren’t on the case, the seller of
Skating Girl
might
not
be out of luck. I bet the auction house checks were supposed to go to a PO Box, where the seller has access. But since you discovered that La Grange consigned
Skating Girl
, and the information got to the police, the check will go to Jimmy’s estate instead. And thanks to me, so will the money for
The Midget.
”

“Somebody’s bound to be furious,” Coleman said, remembering the expression on Simon’s face when she’d told him La Grange was dead.