Quinn Checks In (Liam Quinn 1)

by Thomson, Lh

  She stopped outside the building for a moment and looked around before striding confidently down the street, turning more than a few male heads along the way but not even registering it herself, as accustomed to the attention as to breathing. Then she crossed over to a green Acura, unlocking the door from ten feet away with a remote. A few seconds later, she was gone.

  I waited for a few cars to pass then walked over to the brownstone and up its four front steps to the buzzer board. Leo was in 4A.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Tesser? It’s Liam Quinn, from Philadelphia Mutual.”

  “Hi, yeah, Alison called. Just a second.”

  The door buzzer fired, one of the old ones that you had to catch just in time. Four green linoleum steps led up to the first floor then twisted to the right, parallel to the dirty cracked plaster wall, continuing up three flights to the dimly lit corridor outside Leo’s apartment.

  His place was at the other end of the hall. I was about to knock when the door opened. Leo swung it ajar casually. He only had jeans on, plus a towel draped over his shoulders. “Come on in, Mr. Quinn. Sorry, she didn’t give me much notice and I was just taking a shower.”

  The apartment was as old as the corridors suggested, with narrow-plank hardwood floors, high skirting boards and a small, separate kitchen near the front door. Past the entry corridor was a cramped living room, with big windows that looked out onto the alley behind the building.

  Leo was a good looking young guy, with tousled black locks. He walked over to the couch and grabbed a t-shirt, which he pulled on quickly. He rubbed at his wet hair with the small towel. “I only have a couple of hours before I have to get back to the firm for a meeting.”

  His internship with Walter Beck. Walter and I had run into each other plenty over the years.

  “Yeah, Alison mentioned you were over there. How is old Walter, anyway?” I probably didn’t need to ask. Walter always looked after Walter, first and foremost.

  He threw the towel onto the coffee table and chuckled. “About the same as ever. Never saw a retainer he didn’t like or a guy who didn’t deserve a defense.”

  “Hey, I’ve heard that story before. My old man? He’d have a problem with it.”

  Leo smiled. “Mine too.”

  “You from Philly?”

  “Chicago, northwest of downtown. Tough neighborhood.”

  “Yeah, we got those here.”

  He motioned for us to sit down in the living room. “You want a coffee or a juice or something?”

  “Sure, black with one sugar?”

  He leaned his head out the door while prepping the coffee. “So any particular reason Alison thought I could help?”

  “Nah, I’m just being thorough.”

  “Ah.” He didn’t sound convinced.

  A few moments later he returned with two cups and some sugar in a bowl. Coffee was a luxury inside the joint and I still couldn’t help but take advantage whenever someone offered. He sat down opposite me. “She didn’t take any shots at me, nothing personal?”

  “Why? You two having trouble?”

  He looked down, pursing his fingertips together like a nervous kid. He leaned forward a little, tense. “Yeah. It’s been tough lately.” Then he caught himself moping and straightened up, serious. “You know how it is, relationships.”

  “Been there, man, been there.”

  “So ... she didn’t say anything about me?”

  “Not really, no.”

  “Oh.” He looked embarrassed. “Well, I feel kind of stupid then. So ... how can I help you, Mr. Quinn?”

  I took a sip of my drink then put the cup down on a magazine on his coffee table.

  “I just want to go over the day’s events again, see if you maybe spotted or remember anything helpful.”

  “Sure.” He crossed his legs anxiously.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, it’s ... I’m just still a bit jumpy because of it, you know?” Leo laughed nervously. “I actually slept with the light on last night, if you can believe that stuff. Pretty dumb, right?”

  “Normal. There’s always a little post-traumatic shock after something that stressful and dangerous. So the two guys … tell me what you remember about them.”

  He thought about it for moment. “Not much to tell, really. They were dressed identically, blue bomber jackets, denim jeans, black army boots.”

  “Army? You sure?”

  “No, no. Not, like, actual Army boots. Just black boots with a high ankle. I’m not sure if they were Army, though.”

  “Ok, so who was in charge?”

  “The little guy, I think. I mean short. He wasn’t a dwarf or anything, just shorter. He was the guy who fired the shot into the ceiling when they came in. He went to the front of the room. We were all face down, so I couldn’t see exactly what he was doing, but I assume that’s when the Vermeer was grabbed.”

  He’d used the artist’s name. “You enjoy Vermeer?”

  “He’s okay, I guess. To be honest, I can’t really tell them apart without Alison whispering crap in my ear about them. Paintings pretty much look alike to me, you know? I think most people buy them for status.”

  The generic ignorance pissed me off, but I let it go.

  “And the other guy?”

  Leo shook his head. “Don’t know. Like I said, I was pretty far forward in the room and he was somewhere behind us, I think maybe guarding the door.”

  The story was basically the same as Alison’s. I needed to check out that security footage.

  I asked him how long they’d been dating.

  “About fifteen months, I guess.”

  “But it’s going badly now?”

  He looked ambivalent “Not even sure really. I mean, I don’t know. We still like each other, I guess.”

  “But you never saw it as any big serious thing.”

  “No, not really. Look, does this have anything to do with the robbery?”

  I held up both palms. “Just covering all the bases. I mean, that’s why you were there … right?”

  He looked guilty for asking the question. “Yeah... sorry. I know you’re just doing your job. This whole thing is just, well, it’s pretty stressful, you know?”

  “If you think I’m tough, you’re going to face a lot more scrutiny if you go to work for Walter,” I said. “Some of the doozy defenses he’s come up with over the years are legendary.”

  Leo laughed at that. “Yeah, Walter’s no friend to the average lawman. I don’t think there’s a crook left in Philly he hasn’t represented.”

  “So... you going down that path?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know yet. Everybody deserves a good defence.”

  “Everybody?”

  “Only way the system works.”

  “I guess.” I wouldn’t have wanted him to repeat that around my old man.

  He shrugged. “It’s true. For now, it’s just a great place to article. Big cases, plenty of research, plenty of chance to make a name – I mean, he’s been on the front page three times in the last nine months, and I’ve been standing behind him twice. That can help a career. He does a lot of civil cases, too, so there’s choice.”

  I finished my coffee then got out a business card and handed it to him. “Do me a favor: you think of anything else, you call me on that number. Also good for the odd favor.”

  He smiled and extended a hand to shake. “Careful: I might take you up on that.”

  Paul Dibartolo’s mansion was in Chestnut Hill, a greenery-laden elderly neighborhood in northwest Philly. People around here had money as old as the giant oaks and ash. With that money came the kind of power that backed candidates all the way to Washington, or made problems disappear without attracting attention and notoriety; they were robber barons of the online age, mixed with the grandchildren of their turn-of-the-century equivalents, all packed in next door to crooked venture capitalists and big corporate dreamers.

  Everything in the zip code cost a mint. Some of the homes
were understated; but others here were monstrous, foreboding concrete monuments with wrought iron fences, circular driveways that could accommodate the limousines of heads of state, and clocks that chimed like Big Ben.

  Somber house staff members were always nearby, dinner came in five or more courses, and the familiar crackle of a parking lot’s perfect gravel under tires was a reminder of the sheer opulence of it, of owning a home with a lot bigger than a city block, of marble floors and chandeliered ballrooms.

  I could practically hear the Handel score kicking in as I found a parking spot for my piece of crap Firebird, eight feet away from a silver-grey Aston Martin that cost more than my parents’ house.

  At the top of the concrete steps, a butler in long tails was waiting to greet me. “Mr. Dibartolo will see you in his study, sir. If you would follow me...”

  He led me down a long marble hallway. To the left were a series of enormous rooms, each exposed through giant double doors, towering ceiling mouldings above over the kind of antique furniture you only saw in museums – and joints like Paul Dibartolo’s house.

  At the end was a large oaken door. He knocked twice gently then listened attentively with one ear to it.

  “Enter,” said a voice I assumed belonged to Dibartolo.

  He opened the door and held it for me. “Mr. Liam Quinn, sir, of the Philadelphia Mutual Insurance Company.”

  The man behind the desk was rotund, with messy silver-grey hair and a pair of half-glasses perched low on his nose. “Thank you, Ripley. If you could bring some tea and coffee for our guest...”

  Ripley bowed and exited, closing the door behind him. The study fit the rest of the house. At one end, a gigantic black onyx fireplace dominated, and in front of the three large bay windows Dibartolo sat behind an oversized Rosewood desk. The walls were lined with tall bookcases, and the carpet was thick shag, plush under my feet like an uncut lawn.

  “Mr. Quinn.”

  “Sir.”

  “I understand you’ve been charged with the task of trying to recover my painting.” He was tough to read, dispassionate.

  “I’m investigating the theft, yes. I was hoping you might be able to give me some insight, as one of the people there at the time.”

  His voice had an edge of fatigue. “I’m not easily intimidated, but I have to admit the whole thing put me on edge.”

  “Ms. Pace at the gallery indicated you’d extended the loan of the picture to save on the insurance costs.”

  “Right to the point, Mr. Quinn. Admirable.”

  “It saves everyone time.”

  He tilted his head back slightly as if pondering his answer. “Sure, I can appreciate that. As you can see,” he motioned around us, “it’s not a case of needing the money.”

  “But you like the painting. You’d have kept it here if you didn’t loan it to the gallery?”

  “Sure, maybe. I don’t know really, Mr. Quinn. To be truthful I didn’t think that much about it at all. Let’s just say it was mutually beneficial.”

  “Your accountant’s idea?”

  “Mine.”

  “You get that involved in the day-to-day?”

  “I wouldn’t be rich if I didn’t. That painting cost me $2.3 million more than two decades ago. You can imagine what it might be worth now.”

  The butler re-entered with a silver serving tray and set about preparing us each a cup. I said, “I noticed you don’t seem to have any other staff working. This is a pretty huge place for just one extra set of hands.”

  He nodded but didn’t say anything. After a moment, he added, “Was there a question in there, Mr. Quinn? Perhaps an implication?”

  “So the economy’s not hitting you?”

  “It’s hitting everybody.”

  “But you’re not trying to find extra sources of cash? Ways to save?”

  He licked his lips tensely. “Okay, sure, things have been a bit tough at the office lately. We’ve consolidated a little.”

  “Tough enough to warrant hiring a crew to rip off your own painting? The gallery takes the insurance hit, you’d still get to sell the painting, get paid twice.”

  He gave me a surprised stare that suggested the idea was ridiculous. “Really? For a few million you think I’d risk everything I have?”

  I’d been looking around his office as we spoke, trying to get a picture of the guy beyond the obvious preconceptions and stereotypes about wealth. He had a couple of university degrees on the wall; the books verged towards non-fiction, a few from the cult-of-personality end of the spectrum. On the fireplace mantle was a picture of his wife and kids.

  “You’ve got two boys?” They both looked around high school age.

  He nodded. “Picture’s a few years old. They’re both grown now.”

  Alison had mentioned his date to the gallery show. “Divorced?”

  Another nod. “Yeah, for about a decade.”

  “Paying alimony?”

  Dibartolo snorted. “Through the nose. Price of freedom, I guess. Look, I have a lot of work to do, Mr. Quinn. I’m not sure I can add anything to help you. I can tell you I didn’t have anything to do with this, since that’s what you seem to be getting at.”

  “If I’m in your spot, Mr. Dibartolo, I’m not sure how helpful I’d be. You’re going to do pretty well off this settlement.”

  He shrugged. “I usually do.”

  “What about the two men? Anything you remember about them?”

  He thought it over. “The big one, who walked behind us towards the back of the room – I think he removed one of the paintings. It sounded like it, anyway.”

  “Sounded like it?”

  “A scratching noise followed by the sound of him putting something on the floor, then a scratching noise again, maybe the clatter of the frame against the wall.”

  “You weren’t paying attention to the guy at the front of the room?”

  “The shotgun blast seemed designed to focus attention on him.”

  “And everyone else did. Why not you?”

  Dibartolo smiled. “When you work in finance, Mr. Quinn, you learn to look out for sleight-of-hand.”

  “Anything else strike you?”

  He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “DeGoey. John ... he was calm, calmer than I would have expected.”

  “That stood out for you?”

  “Well... yeah, I mean, he’s been having troubles, you know? It’s really no secret in the local real estate community. I only know him from the club, really. If I’m honest about it, I thought loaning the painting to his gallery might help his reputation a little.”

  “You sure that couldn’t be affecting how you remember it, thinking he’s already a good suspect because you got burned while doing him a favor?”

  He looked annoyed. “My time, as you say, is quite valuable, Mr. Quinn...”

  I hit the office one more time before going home for the night. Everyone had left at least a half-hour earlier and I had to flick on the bank of neon lights to get around.

  At my desk I checked my e-mail and sure enough, the video files from the gallery’s security cameras were there, along with a note from Alison Pace.

  “Hope this speeds things up.”

  I downloaded the files then hit play. The angle was from the back corner of the room and clearly displayed about ninety percent of the gallery space. I paused the video when the two guys burst into the room, slamming open the glass front door; between boxing and forgery I got to know my share of local wise guys and it occurred to me that if I was lucky, I might just recognize the clowns responsible.

  No such luck. Both were as nondescript as the various witnesses had described. The camera shook a little when the first guy let off the shotgun blast. Sure enough, the small guy barked a couple of commands to the prone patrons, then moved quickly to the front of the room and grabbed the Vermeer, placing it in a small knapsack. The big guy went to the back of the room … and disappeared from view, obviously standing in the ten percent or so of the room that the cam
era couldn’t pick up.

  Damn.

  I checked the file from the camera in the opposite corner of the room. It gave me the reverse angle. The big guy stopped in front of the back wall for a few moments; then he took the painting off the back wall, the one that had been crooked when I’d visited. He crouched down for a moment, but his body size obscured what he was up to. Then he hung the picture back up again.

  That was a head-scratcher.

  A split-second later the guy at the front of the room finished up. They exited together and, after a few appropriately fearful minutes, the gallery manager got up and called the police.

  Within a few more moments everyone else had also risen to their feet, their movements full of stress and exhilaration. It took DeGoey, the owner of the gallery who’d been standing nearest the doors, a little longer than most to get up. The woman with him looked familiar, even on the grainy security film.

  The stunning blonde, coming out of Leo Tesser’s building. Couldn’t have been a coincidence. Well … it could have been. But I’m not a big believer.

  I wasn’t sure what to make of it as I drove over to my apartment. My building was on Ranstead and was nothing special from the outside, just mottled cement and windows that went up for floor after floor. But the apartment itself was nice, a proper loft, with a kitchen cubicle in one area, a living room, and a murphy bed that popped out of a hidden cubby hole in the red-brick wall. In the back corner I’d hung my heavy bag and speed bag. The large windows on the front of the building provided a nice view while jumping rope or doing push-ups and crunches; and they slid open in summer to keep the heat from building up too much.

  The only separate room in the place was the small, functional bathroom, with a shower cubicle in one corner, a sink across the middle of one wall and a toilet in another corner. Not fancy, but it suited my purposes. It wasn’t supposed to be permanent.

  But before I could get home, put my feet up and relax a little, I had to park the beast in the building’s underground lot. I’d pulled it into its regular slot and was walking to the elevator when a voice behind me called out.