The Collection

by Lance Charnes

  I come out of each place trembling from the adrenaline overload. Carson’s massaging her thumbs in the car. After the last one, I have the driver stop at a hole-in-the-wall grocer where I buy three one-liter bottles of acqua naturale. We park on a side street and drink while the driver steps out for a smoke.

  Carson says, “Got it figured out yet?”

  All during the gallery crawl, I’ve been trying to work out what to do about Belknap’s place. I sure as hell can’t go inside while he’s there—not yet, at least. The same solution keeps coming up. I don’t like it, but I don’t have a lot to choose from.

  I check my phone: almost six. The galleries close at seven and stay closed through Sunday and Monday. We need to get a look at Belknap tonight. I wave the driver back into the car, and we set off.

  I finally say, “You’re going in without me.”

  “What?” Her screech rattles the windows. “You fucking crazy?”

  I put up my non-water hand. “Just listen. We just need an idea of the place and a read on the character Belknap’s playing. Make sure it’s really him. We can do like we did at the lawyer’s office—keep an open phone connection so I can hear what he’s saying and feed you lines if I need to. You won’t have to do anything complicated.”

  Carson’s leaning her head back on her headrest, glaring at the roof. “Yeah, right. What do I tell him about you?”

  I have to think a few moments. Yes, I’m making this up as I go along. “I was called away on a business emergency. I had to go to… Geneva.” At least I’ve been there. “I’ll be back early next week. You’re scouting to see if I should come here myself. You saw what I’ve been looking at, right? Just go for more of that. Take pictures of whatever he shows you. Can you handle it?”

  Carson aims the glare at me. “I can handle it.” She settles in her seat, arms folded, and scalds me for a while. She finally turns to watch the boring postwar midrises scroll by.

  My gut gets smaller and tighter with every block we pass. I’m not even going to get near Belknap, but it’s still freaking me out. I feel meerkat-me racing toward the hyena. And he’s laughing.

  Chapter 15

  Galleria Diciannove—Gallery Nineteen, I guess in honor of the century—is in Brera, on the ground floor of a 1960s concrete-fronted apartment building with protruding square frames covering its windows. Only the cornice is still lit by the early-evening sun. There’s another gallery next door, design stores up and down the street, and the ultra-luxe Visionnaire art and design studio is in the curved-facade, concrete-and-glass monstrosity across the street.

  The driver slides the Mercedes into a space next to a Lago housewares shop full of candy-colored kitchen toys. I know the car’s windows are tinted too dark to let anybody see in, but it still takes an extra dose of will to force myself to lean forward and check the view through the gallery’s floor-to-ceiling windows across the street.

  The usual track-mounted spotlights are lit inside. A half-dozen eight-foot, L-shaped partitions break up the black-and-white chessboard tile floor. One to three canvases hang against each leg of each L. Everything vertical is white, of course, the universal gallery color. No visible people. I can’t tell if I’m disappointed or relieved.

  Carson rams something hard into my elbow. “Here.”

  It’s a pint-sized pair of binoculars in a vinyl case. “Thanks. Ready?”

  She’s already screwed her Bluetooth into her ear. Carson doesn’t answer, just ejects herself from the car and slams the door behind her. A moment later, my business phone rings. “Comm check.” She’s such a chatterbox.

  “I hear you. Be careful.” I dig my Bluetooth out of my shirt pocket and fidget it in place. The traffic noise comes through loud and clear. While Carson jogs across the street, I bring up the gallery’s website on my phone. Clever—they have a mobile version. I just love buying art off a five-inch screen.

  A moment later I hear the “bong” of an electronic door chime. Carson whispers, “Camera at the door.” Wonderful—another problem. At the far right side of the storefront, I catch a glimpse of her white shirt before it disappears behind a partition.

  A distant female voice says, “Buona sera.”

  “Hello.” Carson, using her corporate-smooth voice. “I’m so glad you’re still open.”

  “Welcome to Galleria Diciannove.” A man’s voice. A very familiar one.

  Belknap had a great voice. I remember hearing something about him doing voiceovers before he turned to the dark side. I don’t register what else he says to Carson, just the sound. No attempt at an accent. It’s him.

  “…Lorenzoni, but please, call me Fredo. What should I call you?”

  “Carson’s fine, thank you. As I said, I’m Mr. Hoskins’ assistant. He was called away on a business emergency? But he’s very interested in your gallery and he asked me to come have a peek. I hope that’s all right.” She’s good. I almost believe her.

  “Of course, of course.” His voice is louder and stronger than I expect. How close is he to Carson? “Perhaps you can tell me what Mr. Hoskins is interested in, and I can show you something he may like.”

  I whisper, “Landscapes and cityscapes, Realists and the early Impressionists.” Why am I whispering?

  “He’s partial to the Realists and early Impressionists.” Carson says it like she knows what it means. “Especially landscapes and cityscapes.”

  I think of Albert Brooks in Broadcast News: “I say it here, it comes out there.”

  “Of course,” Belknap says. “I have just the thing over here.”

  He leads her to a couple pieces, a mid-career Hodler (I tell Carson “meh”) and a Bresnard (I didn’t know he did landscapes—I look him up and tell her “hell, no”). All this time, Belknap is laying it on thick and deep, not so much about the art as about Carson, what she does, where she’s from. It sounds like first-date Q&A. She dishes right back and gets a highly sanitized version of Belknap’s story. “Good work, you’re doing fine,” I say to her.

  “You know,” Carson says, “I think Mr. Hoskins might like the ocean painting in the window.”

  The what? I grab the binoculars and scan the canvases facing the windows until I come across a seascape with a lateen-sailed boat in the center. “The one that looks like a Dupré,” I say out loud.

  “It reminded me of a Dupré when I saw it?” she says.

  “Sure,” Belknap says. “Let’s have a look.”

  Before I can wonder what Carson’s up to, they both stroll into view. I get it: this is so I can see him. I partly tune out Belknap’s spiel and focus the binoculars on him.

  He looks older than he should—maybe life on the run ages you in dog years—but he’s still a decent-enough-looking guy. His hair’s gone, more than likely shaved. He still has the goatee and moustache from the ID photo. Since there’s no gray, they’re probably dyed. He’s a good six inches taller than Carson, broad-shouldered and wide-chested, though the flowing dove-gray sportshirt hides some of his mass. He’s standing way closer to Carson than I figured she’d ever let anybody get. It’s weird to see her seem small next to somebody else.

  The last time I saw him was in a bar five days before the raid on Heibrück. Belknap was crowing about a deal he’d put together in Bahrain for some Iranians, selling looted Parthian Empire antiquities to rich Saudis and rolling the profits into an offshore account the Revolutionary Guard could use to buy parts for their centrifuges. By that time I’d started recording all these visits. I just knew he was going down sooner rather than later (didn’t know yet I’d do it to him) and I thought having Belknap bury himself would be a riot.

  Anyway, he threw an arm around Gar’s shoulders—Gar hated that—and said, “You men have your escape hatches ready? ‘Cause this is a fuckload of fun, but when it goes south, it’s gonna go fast. You covered?”

  “Are you?” Gar asked, probably hoping to hear “no.”

  A big smile from Belknap made me wonder if he sharpen
ed his teeth. “Oh yes, my friend. I am so ready. When I go, no one’s ever gonna find me. That’s the name of that tune.”

  I found you, asshole.

  “It’s him,” I tell the phone.

  “Well, even if he doesn’t like it, I certainly do,” Carson says. She brushes his closest forearm with her fingertips as she raises her phone. “Do you mind if I take a picture of this? I’d like to send it to Mr. Hoskins.”

  My phone dings a minute later: email from Carson, a picture of the canvas and an on-the-fly shot of Belknap. By that time, she and Belknap have disappeared and he’s trying to sell her what he claims is a Francisco Oller landscape. Those are thin on the ground, and I wouldn’t believe it if he says Sherwin-Williams is on his gallery walls, but I can’t see the piece, so I can’t warn Carson if he’s messing with her.

  We can’t keep doing this. He’ll see through it.

  The next twenty minutes are complete torture. I try looking up the works he mentions on the gallery’s “online showcase,” but it’s uselessly heavy on post-Impressionists and early Cubists. Emails roll in from Carson. I throw her a couple lines, but I’m blind. The longer we go through this charade, the more wound up I get. I might as well be on the moon for all the good I’m doing her. Not to mention that Carson’s freelancing, Belknap’s kinda flirting with her… and she’s flirting back? I remember the picture before they left the window: Carson’s ankles crossed, her head cocked, that I’m-probably-gonna-sleep-with-this-guy-if-he-doesn’t-say-something-stupid look you see in bars after a few drinks. Is she really that great an actress?

  Belknap used to like tall, leggy blondes. Is he trying to get past Carson’s guard, blow her cover? If he does, what’ll he do to her?

  While they make wrapping-up chat, the front doors slide open and a chick in a black dress steps out with a broom. I turn the binoculars her way. Very Audrey Hepburn-Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Maybe late twenties, dark-but-not-black hair piled in a beehive bun, oval face, big eyes, and the kind of mouth you pick for a kissing marathon. Her LBD is a sleeveless, knee-length sheath with a scoop neckline and short, black fringe at the hem. Good legs. Tasty.

  She’s sweeping but not sweeping, making a show of it without accomplishing much. Her outfit makes me think she’s the gallery assistant. Why the janitor act?

  “Thanks so much for all your time, Fredo,” Carson purrs. Yes, purrs. Hearing that in my ear jolts me away from ogling the assistant. Damn, girl, you got that in you? “I’m sure Mr. Hoskins will be anxious to visit with you next week.”

  “Of course. Thank you for thinking of us.” Belknap’s tone is the kind that goes with ear nibbling. It was always so damn easy for him. Once at an opening party, I watched him seduce some dude’s wife right in front of him. No joke; after hubby went off for drinks, Belknap and the wife disappeared for almost half an hour. Chloe once told me, “If a girl talked to me like that? I’d do her right there.”

  Is he seriously making a play for Carson? Is she buying it?

  “Come by next Wednesday,” Belknap says. “I’m here all day. I’ll look forward to seeing you again… and Mr. Hoskins, of course.” Bastard!

  The last thing I hear on the phone is the door chime, then the connection dies.

  Carson steps through the double sliding doors and takes a deep breath. Italian Audrey turns toward her. They say a few words back and forth, then the girl hands Carson what looks like a business card. Carson nods and picks her way across the street; the assistant goes back to pretending to sweep. Anybody not paying a lot of attention would’ve only seen two women say “good evening” to each other. Well played, both of you.

  Belknap steps into the gallery window and watches Carson go. I give him the finger.

  Chapter 16

  Carson takes her time getting back in the car. Once she does, I slip the driver a piece of hotel notepaper with an address on it. He checks it, nods, and starts us rolling.

  I watch her sit there with a weird little smile on her face. Finally I say, “Well?”

  “He’s not what I expected.” She’s still using her corporate voice. Jesus.

  “I got that part.”

  Her eyes swivel toward me and go slitty. “What’s that mean?” Normal voice.

  “Well, the good news is, you know how to flirt. The bad news is, you were doing it with that scumbag.”

  “Jealous?”

  “No.” Well… “What was that with the chick in the little black dress?”

  “Well, Fredo—”

  “That’s a fake name.”

  “So’s ‘Hoskins’.”

  “That’s different.”

  She snorts. “Fredo wants me to bring you in Wednesday. She–” Carson snaps the business card on the seat between us “—wants you to come Tuesday. Boss’ out all day.”

  Smart girl, and cute. This is getting interesting. The card’s on plain white stock with the gallery’s “G19” logo in burgundy. It reads Gianna Comici, Associata. “Thank God for ambitious gallery assistants. I guess we know what we’re doing Tuesday.”

  “Where are we going now?” Carson growls. “Thought the galleries close at seven.”

  “Hungry?”

  “Fucking starving.” Her eyes get small and hard. “Why?”

  “Buy you a pizza.”

  Ristorante Maruzzella is maybe ten minutes away from Belknap’s place. It’s next to a McDonald’s in the bottom of a nineteenth-century apartment building, across the street from an asphalt square studded with closed book stalls and a couple Roman columns. The Internet says it’s got the best Neapolitan pizza in Milan.

  The restaurant’s already half-full ten minutes after opening. We sit in a well-lit corner at the back under a high wood-beam ceiling, surrounded by a lot of rough whitewashed plasterwork and framed black-and-white photos of what’s probably old Milan. I can’t remember if I’ve ever been to a pizza joint with white tablecloths.

  Carson slumps in her chair. Her eyes examine every inch of the place and everyone in it. You don’t need a security camera with her around.

  The harassed, white-shirted waiter hustles back the bottle of red wine I’d ordered. I pour two glasses and slide one across the table to Carson.

  “This a date?” she grumbles after a sip.

  “This is dinner. Want it to be a date?” The look she gives me leaves scorch marks on my shirt. I put down my glass and lean in with my elbows on the table. “Look, you did great today. I put you in a tough place at Belknap’s and you owned it. And it’s not just today—when we’re working, you’re golden. You see things I don’t see, you do things I can’t do. But when we’re not working? We’re busting each other’s balls, and I’m tired of that. I can tell…” I flash back to the counseling sessions I had with Janine and try to think of a non-inflammatory way to say this “…I feel that you’re unhappy. You’re working for half-pay, I get it, it’s unfair. I don’t like it either. The thing is, that’s on Allyson. Be pissed at her.”

  “Oh, I am.”

  “Sweet, you go there. Meanwhile, you and me? I think we’re both trying to do the same thing here. And I’d really like us to work together and not…” I’m about to say make each other crazy, but that’ll just set her off “…make this an ordeal for each other. How’s that sound?”

  She leans back and sighs. “What do you want from me?”

  “You were a cop, right? You had partners? Can I be your partner?”

  Carson holds up a hand. “Don’t go there. You got no idea—”

  “No, I don’t. Tell me what I need to know about Carson so I can stop saying and doing things that make her unhappy.”

  She swirls her wine a few times, then drains the glass and refills. Next she leans on the table and grinds her fingertips into her eyebrows. Then her chin goes on her folded hands and she stares down the aisle for a while. When she finally starts watching me out of the corner of her eyes, I figure we’re making progress.

  “All right, tell you abo
ut partners.” The hostility’s gone, replaced by resignation. “After probation, I didn’t have partners. TPS only runs two-man patrols on night shifts. Know what? Loved it. Could do my thing and how it turned out was all down to me. First thing I ever did that was all mine. Know what else? Road time was the best way to keep the tools at Division from hitting on me.” She must’ve seen my surprise because she laughs an unhappy laugh. “Yeah. With this face. Didn’t matter. I had the right plumbing.”

  “The PD lets that kind of thing happen?”

  She rolls her eyes at me. “Somebody’d have to report it to somebody who’d give a shit. I’d be ‘the snitch’ for the rest of my career.” She lets out a bitter little laugh. “Anyway, I lost all that freedom when I went detective. Got it back when Allyson hired me. She’s let me work alone ‘til now. Can do what I need to do, my own schedule, my own way. Don’t have to wonder what numb-nuts—” she points at me “—is doing or thinking or saying. I win, all mine. Fuck up, I own it, I fix it. Don’t have to deal with someone trying to be my bestie or get in my pants or tell me about his kid’s runs or his wife’s snoring.

  “Now do you get why you don’t want to be my partner?”

  It’s like she’s stored up all her talking from the past week and let it out right now. It’s also totally not what I’d expected, though I can’t say what I had expected. “Wow. Get you started… I gotta ask. Are you an only kid? Because the onlies I’ve met have been self-contained—”

  She leans in to me, her eyes hard. “Had four brothers. Lived in trailers or little houses ‘til I was in Grade Ten. No privacy at all before then.” Her finger stabs the top of my breastbone. “Wanna get along? Don’t head-shrink me. People with lots of letters after their names have tried it. Don’t like it.”

  I lean back and raise my hands. “Okay. Got it. So, how do you want to do this?”

  Carson peers into her wine glass, maybe looking for answers. “Don’t know. Can we wait for the pizza? ‘Cause right now, I’m all about food.”