by Thomson, Lh
She’d always had that effect on me; that voodoo that caught my gaze and held it suspended, elevated, like a kite in an updraft. Nora was pure class: smart, beautiful, refined and graceful, a tall drink of water with high cheekbones and a higher IQ. The idea of her liking a guy like me – slightly crooked nose from boxing, the little scars on my chin and my eyebrow, and the obvious-but-less-visible scars on the inside – seemed about as remote as a career as a painter.
Oh sure, you keep your hair neat, dress nice, flash the baby blues at some women. Hey... I did okay. But Nora was no average woman. She was grace and poise; she was the smooth arc of a perfect curve.
So naturally, I’d never even asked her on a date, and probably never would. We were just friends. We did, however, get to work on the odd case together. She was a great resource, both on local artists and on the business. And if we were both honest, we just liked sitting around shooting the bull.
Ramon continued. “Pair of heavies hit Pace’s gallery yesterday, during a limited showing of a painting by the Dutch master Johannes Vermeer.”
“Heavy hitter himself. Big name for a small gallery. Anything new from him on the market would be in the tens of millions.”
“There were a few other artists in the show. They fleshed it out with some theme, a bunch of local talents.”
“Vermeer’s specialty was impressionist interiors, although he had some fine portraits, as well. The other workers were probably something on those lines. But he was a real master, so they won’t have held the same allure.”
He looked at me quickly sideways. “Yeah… whatever. Anyway, two guys, dark bomber jackets, stockings over their heads, blue jeans, black boots, shotguns.”
“Professionals?”
“Such as they are.”
“They took the Vermeer?”
“And only.”
“Gallery had security?”
“Couple of old guys, rent-a-cops. They hit the floor like they had rocks in their pockets.”
“So they weren’t expecting any problems. The thieves didn’t grab anything else, not even stuff near the door?”
“No. And the gallery had never had any problems that I know of. The Vermeer had already been on display for most of the week.”
“Guard was down. Makes sense. What’s the exposure?”
“They’re covered for up to $10 million in theft, so the Vermeer would be full-value. You’re going to be able to handle this?”
It meant my cut for a recovery could be huge, going a long way to paying off my quarter-million dollars in outstanding court penalties.
“Twist my rubber arm, boss,” I said, heading out of the office. “And hey, throw in that missing booze case at the same time.”
Mikey looked over, both hands clasped together in front of himself as if praising my name.
“Quinn, you magnificent bastard! Thank you, thank you, thank you for not subjecting me to that piece of garbage soccer club of yours.”
For free Union tickets, I could live with the insult. I loved it down at the park, just across the Barry Bridge from Jersey. Besides, the way the Union had been playing, I’d get the last word.
And now Mike owed me a favor.
The gallery was downtown on Chestnut, an intermittently trendy one-way shopping street that was increasingly having a tough time holding down tenants, more a victim of the national economic scene than anything.
It wasn’t that the landlords weren’t trying. People just weren’t willing to be adventurous with their capital. So the street’s identity was pockmarked, shell-shocked. For every neat little gallery or dance studio there was a franchise restaurant or copy shop taking advantage of the cheap rent.
The gallery was in an old red-brick building, across from a Five Guys Burger and Fries, a point of reference I bring up for no reason other than liking their burgers. The sign was in silver, but was understated, with a blend of two squared-off sans serif fonts: “DeGoey Fine Art.”
Inside, the floors were honey maple and the walls were whitewashed; a variety of paintings graced them, each lit bright by a small overhead fixture, contributing to the room’s natural gleam: impressionist, modernist, pop art, some surreal cubist work, some nuts-and-bolts realism; some large, some small, most framed tastefully. A handful of small sculptures helped divide the room with abstract poise.
A few years earlier, I could have spent hours there, just studying the heart and brilliance, all in such a confined area. When I was a little kid, my parents thought my art fascination was cute; they’d take me to the museum and show me off, have me identify each painting’s artist without looking, then have me announce the answers loudly to the surprise of people passing by. Until I hit my teens and started boxing, I think even my old man kind of enjoyed that.
A greeting board by the entrance desk confirmed my earlier guess: “Interiors: A retrospective across four hundred years,” it read. I picked up the brochure that sat on the nearby table. Most of the artists showing were modern, but along with the Vermeer there had been a handful of standard bearers from the seventeenth- and eighteenth-century English school: Cranch, Thomas Phillips, a lesser-regarded Beechey.
There was no sign of any police presence, which meant the forensic team had either been quick and thorough or quick and sloppy. Hopefully the former; for all the heat they take in the papers, the boys in blue usually had the right intentions. By the end of the day, they’d probably know what shoes the guys who hit the place were wearing; people would be surprised to know how much information they can get off a security tape once they’ve had it enhanced and studied by a keen-eyed investigator.
“May I help you?”
“I certainly hope so.”
The question came from a short blonde woman in a grey flannel skirt and red-striped white shirt. It worked about as poorly as that sounds, although the horned-rim glasses were a nice touch. She looked like a secretary who’d swallowed a candy striper.
She smiled back and looked down at her shoes for a quick second. “We’re having sort of a couple of tough days, actually.”
“I heard.”
“Ah. Look, I can’t talk to the press…”
“Not a reporter. I’m looking for Alison Pace. I’m with Philadelphia Mutual.”
Her eyes scanned me from top to bottom. “You don’t look like an insurance guy.”
“I’m not. I’m an investigator. The company likes to check out any potentially large claim as early as it can after an incident, to make sure we get the facts as consistent as possible.”
I’d used the line enough times in the last year to make it second-nature, like ordering a favorite pizza.
“Oh. Okay, Mr…”
“It’s Liam,” I said, offering a hand. “Liam Quinn. Ms…?”
She shook my hand quickly and held it there for a moment. “Oh. Stephanie. Stephanie Smith.”
I smiled at her again but said nothing. After a moment, she realized she was staring at me without speaking and released my hand.
She said, “Why do I feel like I should be saying or doing something right now?”
Women are strange sometimes. Maybe she recognized me from somewhere.
I said, “Alison Pace? You were going to find her…?”
She pulled her papers close to her chest for a moment. “Yes! Exactly, yes. Just…wait here for a moment, Mr. Liam…. Quinn. Mr. Quinn.”
Like I said, they’re strange sometimes.
She came back with Pace a few moments later. Alison’s picture hadn’t done her justice; she was stunning in a cream business suit, offset with small and tasteful gold jewelry accents. She offered a hand and shook perfunctorily. No wedding ring, I noticed.
“I hope this isn’t going to take too long, Mr. Quinn. I understand Nora’s father wants to help…”
“It’s not just that,” I said. “We’re a coverage holder on your theft policy. So if the police can’t figure this out, we’re out a whole bunch of money and your premiums go up.”
“But mainl
y, our premiums go up. That painting was one of the oldest of the fully established Vermeers. Do you know what that could go for at auction?”
“I’m guessing seven figures.”
“Try eight.”
“Ouch.”
“Of course, I don’t suppose they could sell it for ten million or more stolen, Mr. Quinn. But they had plenty of motive. So the insurance hit on this would be huge for both of us.”
“Mainly.”
“Well, like I said, I don’t know what I can add that wasn’t in the police report.”
“Yeah … but there’s not much chance I’m going to see that this decade.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well, the police don’t have to share their report with the victim or the victim’s insurance company. And I have some history with them that doesn’t improve the odds.”
She thought about it for a moment. “I have a list of the people there that day who the police interviewed, including the two guards; but frankly, I’m not sure what good it’s going to do you: as soon as they came in with the shotguns and told everybody to get down, we were all flat on our faces in a moment. Nobody was real brave.”
“Understandable. Someone waved a shotgun at me I’d get down, too.”
She studied me again. “Really?”
I smiled. “I can handle myself in a pinch, but there’s a certain lack of respect for physics and biology when you ignore the power of a firearm.”
“You make it sound less cowardly than it felt.”
“Our motto: making you feel less lousy about your losses.”
She frowned. “Really?”
“No. Joke.”
“Ah.”
The look said my timing was poor, which was nothing new. The joke, too. Also nothing new.
I got back to the point. “So they came in, fired that shot…” I pointed at the damage to the plaster above, “… then got everyone down on the ground?”
“Yeah,” she said. Her gaze was a little distant, and she was obviously upset at the memory. “The smaller guy told everyone to keep their eyes ahead. He said ‘If anyone looks up, I’ll blow their head off.”
“Scary.”
“One guy was short, one tall. The short one seemed to be in charge because he told the other guy to hurry up.”
“And the other guy?”
“Tall, stocky. Didn’t say anything at all that I recall.”
“So he went to the front?”
“No, the back. The short one went to the front of the room, where the Vermeer was.”
“The other guy?
“I couldn’t see him, but he was doing something.”
“You’ve got security cameras?”
“Police have asked us to hang onto the files until their investigator can go through copies. I can send them to you if you’d like.”
“That would help a lot.” I nodded her way. “How are you? This must have been pretty traumatic.” Nora was good people, and if she was Nora’s friend, Alison probably was, too.
“It’s all been happening so fast, to tell you the truth. I haven’t even really thought about it,” she said. “I suppose I’ll probably collapse in a heap of stress at some point, but right now my boss wants me to deal with all of this, so I don’t really get a choice.”
“Your boss?”
“John DeGoey.”
I knew the name. “Why is that familiar?”
“Made a bundle betting against the complex derivatives crew during the economic collapse. Papers covered it.”
“Against? That was lucky.”
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s call it that.”
“So this is a hobby?”
“Something like that.”
“But he doesn’t clean up his own messes?”
She whistled low and rolled her eyes. “Something like that.”
“So he’s pretty upset?”
She shrugged. “Wouldn’t you be? Even if you guys cover us, our premiums will go through the roof. And the gallery’s not exactly what you’d call profitable.”
“What’s the worst that could happen? He’s rich, right?”
“Might close the place, I don’t know. He’s talked about it before, a lot. DeGoey’s a wealthy guy but no one gets that way by hanging onto investments that aren’t working.”
That was true. “What about you?”
“Excuse me?” It caught her off guard.
“What happens to you if this place closes?”
“I look for work, I guess. If you’re asking if I have retirement money, you must have already forgotten how much college cost.”
“Does that worry you?”
“Sure. But I have good credentials, good references. Good friends like Nora. So what’s in this for you, Liam?”
“I work on commission. If I find your painting, I make a lot of dough. That’s a fine incentive to fix problems.”
I wasn’t going to tell her but I had a little penance of my own to work out still, too; I wasn’t sure how I’d managed to con art lovers while displaying such a lack of remorse, and that still frightened me a little bit. When you’re worried about the limits of your own poor behavior, life doesn’t feel so secure.
“That’s not much reassurance, but thanks for trying.”
“It’s not every day we get a case like this.”
“Really?”
I smiled. “You’d be surprised how rarely small art galleries are robbed at shotgun point.”
A chuckle. She has a sense of humor.
“So did you know everyone else at the show?”
Her dark eyes were tired, stressed. “Not really. It’s an open exhibition, with entry by donation, and most people came earlier in the week. My boyfriend Leo was with me. He’s a law student, articling at Walter Beck’s firm,” Alison said, disappointing the hell out of me and referencing the city’s biggest criminal defence lawyer in the same breath. Walter and I went back a ways.
“The owner of the Vermeer, Paul Dibartolo, was standing by it, talking about it with a local artist, Clinton Dufresne.”
I’d seen his name in the trades, the kind of effusive praise that elicited envy and critical interest from other artists, all in one go. “He’s a real up-and-comer, I understand.”
She gestured at the far wall. “We’ve had one of his earliest pieces on display, Autumn Mist, for about six months. He came by to ask about a full showing of his other works.”
The piece was crooked. “Whoever hung it needs a level,” I said.
She frowned. “That’s strange. I suppose it must have happened during the excitement yesterday. Maybe one of the officers brushed against it?” She called over to her assistant. “Stephanie, would you…?”
The younger woman hustled over. “Right away, Alison.”
Pace looked over my shoulder for a moment then smiled. “Better. Anyway, Dufresne was talking to Dibartolo at the front of the room. Leo and I were standing just over there by the wall, parallel to the doors. Stephanie was at the front-of-house by the reception desk. DeGoey was by the doors with his girlfriend. He’d been talking to Carl Hecht, who owns the building next door.”
“What’s his story?”
“Hmm… kind of creepy. Schmoozer. Quite obviously wants this building – he’s been trying to get DeGoey to sell for years. I know they’ve dealt with one another before financially, as John doesn’t really like him.”
“What’s Hecht’s business?”
“Not sure. Some ‘import/export’ thing. And he has a couple of other buildings with his brother, so I guess he’s into real estate as well.”
I took notes and she waited for me to say something, before adding, “Like I said, I imagine everyone will just tell you what they told the police.”
“We find it’s often helpful to interview witnesses more than once. Brings up inconsistencies and patterns, things that might help, items they forgot the first time around. That sort of thing.”
“And have you noticed anything yet?�
�
“Not really. But maybe the security recordings will give me a better idea of what they were up to.”
Alison held out a hand again to shake. My time was obviously up. “Thank you, Mr. Quinn, for your help. I wish I could chat.” Her hand was warm.
“Please,” I said. “It’s Liam. Or just Quinn. Mr. Quinn is my father.”
She smiled. “Duly noted, Quinn.”
Damn. I was hoping she’d go with Liam.
Alison forwarded everything they’d given the police to the office, along with the security files. But before I headed back to my desk to go through it, I drove south to Chester, a working-class suburb and home to PPL Park, along with the soccer club’s offices.
I figured Mike had a point: it was pretty small potatoes to waste our time chasing a booze heist around. But the file had been opened, which meant someone had to close it.
The club’s security director, a friendly former military guy named Terence Bryson, said there had been three young guys working up until about an hour before the robbery. They were in the storage area late, preparing for the game the next day.
“You want a coffee?” He grabbed us each a cup as we stood in the backroom staff area of the faux-yellow-brick office. “Let’s get out of the staff’s hair,” he said.
PMI wasn’t the club’s biggest insurer, just a subsidiary policy holder. But Ramon’s family was of Spanish extraction, and he loved the sport, too. He called it football, like my dad. They both moved over in the ‘60s from Europe, so they had that in common. They’d worked in precincts on opposite sides of the city and rarely met in the neighborhood, even though Nora and I went to school together for years.
“Why so hot on this? I understand it’s a simple theft, a dozen kegs taken?”
“One of our business partners was short the next day for beer, for one, which sets a bad example with the fans,” said Bryson. “Beyond that, we figured since our premiums paid for your investigation, we might as well take advantage and make sure none of the young guys working for us that night were involved.”
