Lost Children

by Willa Bergman

  The following morning I rise early and begin again. With no idea when I’m going to hear back from Lewisburg I begin my research on the other two. I start with Elizabeth Meyer. From what I can see she’s never really been involved in the family business so some of the bile the internet has thrown at her is perhaps a little misdirected. Hardly a saint but she just seems to have enjoyed living off the fruits of her family’s ill-gotten gains. And by all accounts she really enjoyed it, I find a tabloid news article about her in happier times where she spent over £300,000 on a shopping trip to Harrods, mostly on designer handbags and shoes, and there’s another about how her 21st birthday party in Mustique was rumoured to have cost over a million dollars. There’s something that doesn’t quite fit about her being a client of Isaac Brewer though. A frivolous little party girl isn’t the type of person that deals in stolen art. But if she’s made it onto my list of three then she can’t be written off.

  Meyer hasn’t been seen in public for months so there’s no easy way to know where she is. My best guess is she’s holed up on her family estate in Colorado. The family has properties dotted across the US but if I was in her shoes that’s where I’d be hiding out. Enough space and privacy to bury her head in the sand, forget about the world outside and pretend nothing’s changed, that she’s still just the pampered little rich girl she always was.

  None of my speculation and tabloid surfing is bringing me any closer to finding her though. The one useful piece of information I have about her is that daddy Meyer bought a Renoir from Roth four years ago and there are still some contact details in the system for him. I remember the sale because there were some questions over the authenticity of the piece. It occurs to me that maybe she’s just acting as a front for her daddy, in case any of the deals go sour. If that’s the case then he’s a pretty cold-blooded father if he’s prepared to use his own daughter as a buffer. But then who am I to talk about crappy fathers.

  I don’t feel much further than when I started but just doing these few things takes me past lunchtime. I nervously keep checking my emails for something from Lewisburg but there’s nothing. By two o’clock I’m restless and spend another hour on hold to speak to someone at the penitentiary about my visitor request. When I finally get through I’m as forceful as my British sensibilities will allow but the best I get out of them is to say that they’re reviewing it.

  I push on, but it’s slow work. Wednesday, Thursday, still nothing from Lewisburg. I move on to the last of the three names, Carl Walden. He was born and grew up in Austria, but immigrated to the US in the late seventies. A self-made man, he cut his teeth working on Wall Street in the eighties at Drexel Burnham and Lambert as a junk bond trader, managing to jump ship before it all fell apart. He subsequently founded the Arctura investment group and he’s still its CEO. It arranges financing for mid-tier companies. The Arctura company webpage has nice glossy images and verbiage about all their investments in different sectors: agriculture and food processing, mining, oil and gas extraction, media, technology and real estate. All respectable enough stuff for Walden, even taking into account the two separate bankruptcy filings he’s made (the first after the bursting of the dotcom bubble in 2003 and then again after the 2008 financial crisis).

  But despite the best efforts of the Arctura marketing men, the traces of his other less corporate friendly self are there online for all to see. A public prosecutor in California pressed charges against him in 2004 for fraud and embezzlement for which he accepted a plea-bargain, paying two million dollars and receiving a one-year probation period. He was also charged in 2011 with assaulting his now ex-wife. It’s not much but I’m starting to see a few plays. The threat of three strikes hanging over him, that’s definitely something I can use. I can sniff the smell of financial problems too. There’s more than one recent article alluding to cashflow problems at Arctura, that may be another way in. As I continue to read and find out what I can about the man he starts to feel like he could fit the profile. But fitting the profile and being the single individual that I'm looking for are two very different things.

  There’s still more research to do but by Friday I can’t stand being sat in front of a screen any longer and I decide it’s time for me to pay Detective O’Rourke another visit. I’m not sure yet but this last week has given me some more time to think about how I might get whoever has the painting to part with it. It’s nothing clear yet but the seeds of a plan of are starting to form in my head, and it involves the Detective playing an unwitting part. If by some miracle it somehow all managed to come together it would still be very risky, but what have I got to lose? I call ahead and ask O’Rourke if I can drop in to see him around lunchtime which he begrudgingly agrees to. In fairness to him so far he’s been pretty accommodating with me in that grumpy New Yorker sort of way.

  I arrive at 1 Police Plaza a little after midday. I remember the way to his office and make my way straight there. When I knock on his door he’s there eating a sandwich at his desk. He doesn’t look pleased to see me but I’m starting to get used to that from him now.

  “The intrepid adventurer returns. What exciting and daring exploits have you got in store for us this week?”

  I’ve been stuck in front of a screen for the past three days, my brain doesn’t have any kind of clever response for the man. “I just wanted to reset after our last meeting, I think maybe we got off on the wrong foot.”

  “What was that all about the other day, you calling me about Yuliya Steinberg?”

  I was hoping that wasn’t going to come up.

  “Oh that was nothing, a hunch that didn’t pan out, you were right.”

  “I told you.”

  “But I do feel like I may be getting closer to who has the painting. Nothing concrete yet, and I won’t bother you the details of my research…”

  “Thank you.”

  “…but if I got to a place where I thought I’d found something, I came here to ask you, would you be willing to help me?”

  “Well that would very much depend on what you’d found.”

  “Okay, that’s fair. But if I did really have something, would you help me?”

  “What would you want?”

  “Just like how I was describing before with Yan. A team that can be there to come knocking down doors when I give the call to say I’ve found the painting.”

  He takes a long drink of his lunchtime soda drink and rubs his hand across his face. “Look, I’ve checked you out, asked a few people I know in London and you seem to not be totally delusional, so I’m prepared to give you one pass.”

  “Thank you Detective. I won’t use it lightly.”

  “But you screw me around, and this little experiment or whatever you want to call it, is over before it’s begun.”

  “Can I ask how much warning I need to give you, if I make the call? I don’t know how quickly things might come together? Would you need to get a warrant?”

  “I think if you want us to have a team waiting outside for your call ready to do a door breach I’d be expecting to get a warrant first, but if the opportunity came about at very short notice and there was a risk you’d not get the opportunity again I think we could justify it under an emergency search, or even argue there was a risk of imminent destruction of evidence.”

  “And you can have a team ready at short notice?”

  “This is the NYPD. We get things done when they need to get done.”

  I leave it at that. I don’t want to push him too hard at this point, who knows if I’m even going to be able to take him up on his offer. I show myself out of his office and leave him to his unfinished sandwich. I walk out the building, barely half an hour since I walked in, and head home.

  By the time I’m back home, it’s not even late afternoon. With only the lonely prospect of more research waiting for me I pour myself a large glass of wine. Slumped and alone on the massive living room sofa I open up my laptop all ready to face another evening of trawling through data when I see that there’s an em
ail waiting for me in my inbox. It’s from an Officer Cahill at the Lewisburg Penitentiary, my visit request for Bonucci has been approved. We’re on, I can visit him tomorrow.

  Saturday morning I wake up early, if nothing else there’s a long day of travel ahead of me. The Amtrak leaves from Penn Station shortly after seven and it’s a three and a half hour trip to a place called Harrisburg in Pennsylvania, before another hour and a half on a connecting bus service to Lewisburg.

  I nod in and out of sleep for the first couple of hours, my face pressed indelicately against the window. I don’t seem to be missing much outside, only what seems like a never-ending suburban sprawl.

  The email from Officer Cahill included a very long set of guidelines for visiting and I start to thumb my way through it all to pass the time. It reads like the words of some military drill commander: each visitor is required to establish their identity as the person for whom a visit has been approved; visitors must present a valid form of identification before admission is granted; visits for the General Population inmates take place in the USP Visiting Room; and on it goes.

  Bonucci is too high profile for General Population, he’s in something called the SMU. For SMU inmates visits are even more restricted, but after five years of good behaviour it looks like Bonucci has earnt himself visiting rights in the institution's non-contact visiting room. I can’t say I’m disappointed that’s there’s going to be a glass barrier between us.

  The train passes through Philadelphia but doesn’t stop, it just presses on through the northeast landscape. The towns and houses begin to thin out and give way to Pennsylvanian farmlands.

  By the time we reach Harrisburg it feels like we’re in a different world, a far cry from the dense streets, the crowds and the noise and the life of New York City. In truth Harrisburg feels a little soulless to me; some large government buildings and uninspiring office blocks all surrounded by long, repeating rows of houses.

  Myself and two others wait for our next ride at the bus depot, there’s almost no one walking on the streets outside and cars are few and far between.

  Maybe it’s because of Harrisburg, but I’m expecting even less from Lewisburg, the poor town that’s had the misfortune to have a penitentiary built next to it. But when we finally get there, as the bus drives us through it, the place looks lovely: lots of pretty, well-maintained nineteenth century brick buildings on tree-lined streets.

  Lewisburg Penitentiary is located just north of Lewisburg. There’s no bus service to the penitentiary so a local taxi completes the last part of my small odyssey. As we approach it the first thing I see is its tall red tower rising above the horizon like an Islamic minaret, before revealing the large red monolith underneath it.

  The taxi leaves me outside the main entrance and drives away. A handful of cars are parked in front but there’s no one else around but me. There isn’t a single discernible sound. I check my watch. It’s just after eleven, I made pretty good time. Visitors must report to the Front Tower Officer which I can now see by the main gate. There’s a speaker box where I announce my arrival. I’m buzzed through.

  I walk down a narrow pathway that’s lined either side by tall metal fences. The pathway leads to a small office where I can see the officers waiting to usher me through a walk-through metal detector. I sign a form and show them my passport, one of them runs their finger down a clipboard and confirms I’m on the list.

  One of the officers escorts me through a series of corridors and several control locked gates into a long room with five booths, all facing a two inch thick glass window separating us from five more booths facing us on the other side. I take a seat at the booth second furthest away from the door. As I sit down and wait I do a double take on where I am and what I’m doing here.

  The officer stands by the door we entered from. He’s over four metres away. The papers I read on the train said that the Unit Team are responsible for ensuring all visits are conducted in a quiet, orderly, and dignified manner. I’m pleased he doesn’t seem to be here to monitor what’s being said.

  After a few minutes a door opens on the other side of the glass. Behind it I see Bonucci standing there in his orange institution jumpsuit. He walks in slowly, at his own pace. Even as a prisoner he carries himself with a certain weight and authority. He’s tall and powerfully built. His hair is dark but thinning. He must be itching close to sixty but he still carries himself like a prizefighter.

  I stand to meet him as he approaches. When he gets to the booth he looks at me without any discernible reaction. Up close I can see his face is pocked with acne and there are tell-tale traces on it of a life on the streets that he fought his way to the top of.

  He sits down. There’s a phone on the wall for each of us to speak into. He takes his off the receiver, “Do I know you?”

  “No.”

  “They don’t just let anybody in to see me, what’s so special about you?”

  “I guess I just asked nicely.” I say in a tone far more confident than I feel.

  “So who are you?”

  “My name is Eloise Witcham, I work for the Roth Auction House.”

  “Very nice. And why do you want to see me?”

  I pause here for a second. I want to try and ease into this.

  “Do you like art, Mr Bonucci?”

  “No, no. You don’t get to ask questions yet. I asked you a question, why do you want to see me?”

  So much for the gentle approach.

  “I’m looking for a painting for a client and I was hoping you might be able to help me find it.”

  He looks at me, sizing me up, he’s not sure what to make of me yet.

  “So what’s the painting you’re looking for?”

  “It’s by Albert Polignac.”

  “Oh, you’re a treasure hunter. I figured you for someone smarter than that.”

  “Can you help me?”

  “You still haven’t told me why you’ve come to see me.”

  “I’ve had some success finding out what happened to the painting after it went missing and I was led to a man called Isaac Brewer, an art dealer in New York. He died a few years ago but my understanding was that you were a client of his. He wasn’t the sort of man that kept records, but I thought you might have been someone interested in acquiring the painting.”

  He leans back and smiles at me, “You’ve got some balls lady, I’ll give you that.” He lowers the phone from his ear for a moment, then he comes back to me.

  “Here’s what I know. You seem like you’ve got a little brains in that pretty head of yours, at least you think you do, so you know who I am and what I do. But despite that you’ve still decided to come and see me. An upscale place like Roth doesn’t do that, it doesn’t like to be seen meeting someone like me and asking questions about someone like Isaac Brewer. That means either Roth is desperate, or its you. I’m betting it’s you.”

  I try to be calm and measured in my response.

  “This is just a commission Mr Bonucci, nothing more.”

  “Sure. Well good luck finding someone that wants to talk to you about Isaac Brewer. Seriously, what did you think was going to happen here? If I knew something about that painting did you really think I would just tell you about it? Are you fucking retarded?”

  “I’m not interested in anything else if that’s your concern, this isn’t about who did what or trying to get anyone in trouble. I’m, I’m just looking for information about the painting.” I’m beginning to fumble my words, I’m losing him.

  “Isn’t that nice to hear. Who the fuck do you think you are coming here, bringing me this? I’m going to make myself very clear, I do not and I have never had anything to do with that painting and if by coming here you’ve somehow got me involved in whatever shit it is that you’re messed up in, then believe you me, your troubles are only just getting started.”

  I’ve lost him, there’s nothing I can say to change his mind now.

  “You think I give a fuck about some French aristocrat’s pa
inting? My people are from Italy, that’s my history, that’s my art. Caravaggio, Vecellio, Raphael. You asked me if I’m interested in art. Well I’ll tell you, as it’s a matter of public record, yes I am interested in art, I’ve even bought from your fancy ass place a couple of times. But don’t think for one second that gives you any sort of pass to come here and ask me about this shit.”

  He motions to the officer standing by the door to tell him he wants to leave. Then he looks back at me, with a cold, hard gaze.

  “We’re done here. You come see me again, and we’re going to have a very serious problem.” And with that he gets up and leaves.

  4

  The journey back to New York is as long as it is painful. I keep repeating over in my head every moment in that booth, every misstep I took, every fumbled word, everything I did wrong. Four hours there, four hours back and all for three minutes being threatened by a mobster. I did a shitty job in just about every way, but I don’t have time to beat myself up about it. I have to take from it what I can and in that single regard the meeting with Bonucci was a success. He chose his words carefully, but he told me enough. He wasn’t interested in the painting. He’s not the one I’m looking for.