The Deceivers (10 page)

Detective Anthony shook his head with feigned sympathy and sadness. “You know what I think? You can't resist getting your hands on artifacts with dirt on them. It's in your blood. Like a heroin addict, once you've tasted the forbidden fruit, you're hooked.”

“You know what I think, Detective? I think you've been dealing with crooks for so long, you no longer can tell the difference between good and bad people.” I stood up. “I want a lawyer.”

“Sit down and shut up.”

“You have no right—”

“You're going to be given an opportunity assignment.”

That stopped me. “A what?”

“A way to clear yourself.”

“I haven't done anything—”

“And make money.”

He had my attention. I sat down.

The door opened and a man entered. He was Southeast Asian, perhaps Thai, I wasn't sure. Handsome, maybe forties, early fifties. Well moneyed. His Salvatore Ferragamo briefcase rang up in my mind as equivalent to two months' rent on my walk-up studio. His Canali suit was food on my table for a year.

He had a commanding presence, the suave arrogance that comes with culture and money … the kind you were born with. You can't work a job and make big bucks and have the haughtiness that old money conveyed.

“Prince Ranar, Madison Dupre.” Detective Anthony nodded at me and at the prince. “Your salvation. If you play it right,” he said to me.

“Ms. Dupre. I am Deputy Minister for Security of Cultural Heritage for Cambodia. I am well aware of your credentials in the art world. With the permission of you and Detective Anthony”—he gave the detective a nod and turned back to me with a golden smile—“I ask for your help in a matter of great importance to my country.”

I brushed back a piece of hair off my forehead. “Of course.”

Ranar took a seat at the end of the table. “First, I must apologize for the circumstances under which we meet.”

“She's lucky we're not meeting in a cell at Riker's Island.”

Such a charmer. The prince looked a little puzzled at the detective's remark. “The city's most notorious jail,” I said.

I brushed more hair off my forehead and gave the prince a brilliant smile. “I'm not sure what's going on, but you should know up front that I am here because I was at the wrong place at the wrong time, not because I'm a criminal.”

Detective Anthony snickered. “That's only because she hasn't been caught red-handed … yet.”

Prince Ranar held up a hand as if he were calling time out with children. “Please. This is a very serious matter for my country.”

“What do you want from me?” I asked.

“Has Ms. Dupre been informed about the situation?” Ranar asked.

“I hadn't gotten around to that. Go ahead and fill her in. I'm going to get a cup of java. Anyone want one?”

“I'll have water,” I said. “Bottled.”

No sane person drank the stuff from the city taps.

I must have said something funny because he left laughing.

Ranar met my eyes with his warm almond ones. “I understand that you were once … what do you call it? A major player in the city's art scene?”

His voice was soft and soothing. I could get to like this man. He oozed with money, charm, and sex appeal.

“Yes. But I'm afraid I've been in the wrong place and time on at least one other occasion.”

“Let me assure you that you aren't the first curator to buy an artifact with a bad provenance. The collections in museums all over the world contain such items.”

“It was a small museum, a big price tag, and a very high profile heist. Uh, what do you want from me?”

“May I ask you a question first? What is your opinion of the Khmer piece you examined? The Apsarases.”

I hesitated. Having watched cop shows on TV, I knew the conversation was probably being recorded, perhaps even videotaped. And it struck me that Detective Anthony had chosen an unusual moment to walk out. Were they playing good-cop, bad-cop?

“I didn't really
examine
it. I just got a quick glance at it before Sammy, the man who showed it to me, grabbed it back and ran. But it looked like an antiquity, it had the right color of patina and the wear and tear that sandstone gets from a thousand years of sun, rain, and wind … but one thing did strike me.”

“Yes?”

“The artistry was exceptional. I'm sure you know that when an expert examines an antiquity, they're not just gauging how old it is, but looking at the artistic workmanship. A poorly made Khmer piece is worth a hundred times less than one with exceptional workmanship even if both are centuries old. This piece had some very fine details, especially the dancers' jewelry. It was exceptionally well defined.”

I took a deep breath. I was telling the truth. It just sort of burst out of me and I kept going. I paused and locked eyes with him. Not even Bolger had come up with the conclusion I was about to drop on the Cambodian prince.

“It's a fake,” I said. “That's my conclusion without being able to get a more thorough examination and scientific study. And I base that on the eyes in my gut because the ones in my head scream it's genuine.”

“A fake because it's too exquisite?”

I spread my hands on the table. “In a manner of speaking, yes. If this artist had done this fine a piece in ancient times, we would see more of his work because he would have been in great demand. This piece is also broken off a longer relief. If the rest of it was out there, it would be noticeable because it is done so well.” I shrugged. “That's it. The exceptional detail was the tip-off. It's made by a master, there's no more of his work known, so the odds are that it's a fake.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Two experts, a curator from the Met and the head of the largest gallery in the country specializing in Khmer art, examined the piece this afternoon and validated it as authentic. Made about nine hundred years ago.”

I shrugged. “It's not the first time I've been wrong.”

“But you're not wrong.
It is fake
. An exceptional one done by an exceptional artist. We know that for a certainty.”

“Okay … so why quiz me about it?”

“To test you.”

“Test me? I'm being held in a—”

Anthony entered and I shut up. He sat a coffee cup down in front of me. “Sorry. The only water is from the New York City pipes that feed the water cooler out in the corridor. The one with the green slime and ugly brown gook around the spout.”

The beige mug had a red lipstick stain. I smiled at the detective and raised my eyebrows, pointing at the mug. “Your shade?”

Ranar smothered a grin. He took an unopened bottle of water from his briefcase and set it on the table.

I ignored the water and stood up. “I appreciate the courtesy, but I'm finished here.”

Detective Anthony frowned at me. “Where do you think you're going?”

“Home. I'm hungry, thirsty, tired, and angry. I've had it with you and your arrogant attitude and rudeness. You're a policeman, not the Gestapo. And as this nice gentleman said, the piece is a fake—just as I thought. And I don't think there's any law about fakes.” I suppose there was a law for just about everything under the sun, but I was hoping I was right about fakes.

“Please.” Prince Ranar held up his hand again to calm the children in the playground. “My limo is outside. I suggest we all retire to a restaurant of Ms. Dupre's choice and discuss this matter in a civilized manner over a meal and fine wine.”

“Nobu's,” I said.

10

At the restaurant I tried not to appear famished as I devoured a lobster salad. Ah, lobster. Sex on a plate.

I felt like I was back on top with a penthouse, an expense account, and a reputation. I'd done this scene a hundred times, sitting in an upscale restaurant sipping wine and talking art. Though not with a cop and a prince.

On the way over, we chatted about the difference in the weather between New York and Cambodia. Cambodia was tropical year round while New York went from steamy August to frigid January. Not the most fascinating subject, but Prince Ranar brought up the subject, obviously to talk about something entirely neutral.

Sitting close to both of them in the Mercedes limo, Detective Anthony smelled of male aftershave with a tinge of workout sweat while the prince's cologne had the sweet smell of money. Even though the detective annoyed me, his masculine scent was more of a turn-on to me than the prince's expensive fragrance.

While Prince Ranar reeked of money and culture, Anthony was probably the kind of guy who watched football games with his pals at a sports bar, came home with booze on his breath and lipstick on his collar, and made passionate love with his significant other after a knockdown, drag-out fight about what an inconsiderate bastard he was; the kind of guy I'd met too often in my life and had been attracted to. When it came to men, I had beer tastes when it should have been champagne.

I wondered what kind of prince Ranar was. Having dealt with “princes” and “princesses” a couple of times when I worked at a big auction house, I knew that the title oftentimes had only vague connections to royalty. Mostly it was a centuries-old empty title passed down long after the last king had lost his head. I discovered Cambodia still indeed had a king when Ranar mentioned that the king was in town to address the United Nations.

I didn't want to get into a discussion about his country and expose that I knew little about it other than the brief art history lesson—and political horror story—Bolger had told me. With a proposition being hinted at that meant money for me, exposing my ignorance didn't seem too clever. I was curious about the proposition, but didn't press for details because I didn't want to appear too eager.

The chitchat about nothing continued through another glass of wine and a dessert that included coconut sorbet and Jasmine ice cream. Wine and ice cream topped my list of favorite foods … next to chocolate, of course, which I ordered as a second dessert along with what I hoped was a ladylike smile to take the edge off of what they thought of my appetite. I didn't want to leave the impression—the correct impression—that I had been subsisting on fast food and hadn't had a high-end dinner in months.

I had inhaled my first glass of wine and ate as slow and ladylike as I could manage with a growling stomach urging me on. The wine hit me almost immediately, giving me a buzz because I drank it before food came. And I ordered another. One good thing about living in Manhattan even if I didn't have limo service home—I didn't have to worry about driving and drinking because I'd go home in a cab or subway.

Ranar finally broached the subject of Cambodian art over coffee drinks and more wine at the end of the meal.

“As I'm sure you know, Cambodia is one of the areas in the world where antiquities are being looted and destroyed on a daily basis. The pillaging is as blatant and ubiquitous as what happened to Iraq following the American invasion. Organized gangs that Detective Anthony calls a Thai-Cambodian mafia have a network that extends from stealing antiquities to smuggling them out of Cambodia and into the West and Japan, often with a stopover in Hong Kong.”

Detective Anthony said, “Police agencies internationally have banded together to exchange information about the problem. The FBI, Sûreté and Interpol in Paris, the Art Theft unit in London, NYPD, and LAPD are all cooperating.”

“Is that what Sammy is, some kind of mafia?” I asked the detective.

“Sammy's a deliveryman with a gambling problem. He was supposed to take that Apsaras piece to a gallery, but thought about selling it to you because the gamblers he owed money to were going to cut him off at the knees. When he didn't show up at the gallery, a phone call went out from the restaurant to find out what happened to him. He was with you, of course. The gunman in the alley was from the gamblers.”

I gave him one of my brilliant smiles but wanted to stab him in the heart with my fork. “So you knew all the time that he came to my place on impulse, but still put me through the third degree.”

“Actually, I didn't know if you two had conspired about bringing it to you. I'm still working on that angle.”

What a bastard.

He gave me a malicious grin. “Don't think you did us any favors by making us come in to save your ass in that alley. I planned to have a surveillance go for weeks and net some big fish, but we had to break our cover because you blundered in.”

“I'm sure Ms. Dupre's motives were pure,” Prince Ranar said. “The police in my own country are, of course, fully cooperating with the international effort to stop this savage looting of Khmer treasures.”

I had the feeling that Ranar's comment was directed at the detective. I detected friction between the two. From what Bolger said about the chaotic situation in Cambodia, I had a suspicion that the NYPD detective was not happy with the performance of his Cambodian counterparts.

“I'm confused,” I said. “You say the Apsaras piece is a fake, a really good one at that. But there's widespread looting. Why bother making a fake if authentic pieces can be stolen so easily?”

“Money,” Detective Anthony said. “The demand is greater than the supply. The market for Asian art has skyrocketed while the supply is shrinking as the international art community gets more educated about the damage being done to Khmer art. And as you said, the piece was exceptional. It wouldn't be sold as a fake.”

So he had eavesdropped after he stepped out of the room.

The detective grinned, realizing he had slipped up. “The fact there's no meaningful catalog of Khmer art on the market means that an exceptional fake can be passed off as the real thing. The art gallery chosen to move the piece in New York may not have known it was a fake … or wouldn't care if they knew. For sure, the buyer wouldn't know and in some cases also wouldn't care. Because of its artistic appeal, the piece would have sold for many times the average Khmer artifact.”