Carson feels her way onto a pew, sitting sideways so she can see both the transept and the altar. I settle behind her, not wanting to startle her out of her thoughts.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispers. “Had no idea.”
I just nod. Sometimes I wish I could be an architect again, but seeing this makes me glad I’m not. I’d compare whatever I did to this.
Carson leans her elbows on her knees and sighs. “Hate to talk about this sh… stuff here, but I got the dope on the ‘Ndrangheta locale leadership. Morrone family from Rovito. Salvatore’s the chief, the capo bastone. His brother Lucca runs the business end—he’s the capo società—and Salvatore’s son Angelo is kinda Dad’s PA. Want pictures?”
“Yeah, send them to me.” She’s right—it seems wrong to talk about this in front of a pack of saints. “Come on, let’s walk.”
We circle the transept until we reach a bronze of a man holding a book, standing on a marble plinth. Carson frowns. “What’s this?”
“It’s Saint Bartholomew. He was flayed alive. That’s his skin slung around him. The work dates from 1562. Check out the detail on his muscles.”
“Nasty.” She cocks her head. “Kinda cool, though.”
We follow the ambulatory as it curves around the apse. Carson keeps close to the carved stone wall ringing the choir so she can take in the lush stained glass on the outside wall. “Taking your new girlfriend to the party?”
“She’s not my girlfriend. We had a nice conversation—”
“With condoms?”
“You use that mouth in a church? She’s going with Belknap.”
“They a thing?”
“I don’t think so. It sounded like ‘it’s work and I have to go with the boss.’” At least, that’s how I wanted to hear it. I’d hate to see her hooked up with that slime. “Gianna’s going to point out Rossi to me. I’ll meet her there, see—”
“No way you’re walking into a Mob party alone.”
The heat in her voice stops me. “Why? What’s—”
“I know these people. They’re animals. You gotta finish your job so I can finish mine, remember? You’re not going in a trash compactor on my watch.”
Her face is as serious as I’ve seen it. I step closer so we can argue about this without the tourists (or God) listening in. “What’re they going to do? Rub me out in public? I’m just meeting this Rossi dude, start a conversation, maybe find out—”
“And if he’s an ‘Ndrangheta heavy? Think he’s gonna like some dart asking about his stolen paintings? You’re with a woman, he’ll figure you’re showing off for her. I can help if things turn to… go sideways. You’re not going alone. Understand?”
Once I get past her talking to me like I’m a child, I can see she has a point. But… “Why would Hoskins take his assistant to a party?”
That stops her. “I’ll think of something.”
“You do that. Look, I want to spend more time here, you don’t have to stay. Send me what you found, I’ll look it over later.” I stroll down the ambulatory.
“Matt?”
Did she just call me “Matt”? For the first time? I turn to see her drifting toward me.
Her mouth’s all twisted up. “Mind if I stick around? I kinda like it here.”
Well, I’ll be damned.
We take another ninety minutes doing the whole circuit inside, including the crypt and the Roman-era ruins under the cathedral. Then we go up to the forest of spires, stone cherubs, demons and saints on the roof.
“Why do this?” Carson asks. “Nobody can see it.”
“They figured God can.”
“No wonder it took six hundred years.”
We perch on the ridge at the roof’s west end and get an incredible panorama of Milan and the distant mountains fading behind the smog. At almost two hundred feet up, we catch the breeze that gets lost down on the streets. The late afternoon sun blushes the cathedral’s pale-pink Candoglia marble cladding.
“Know why Hoskins takes me to the party?” Carson asks out of the blue. She’s been in intense listening mode since the apse.
After playing tour guide for over two hours, I’m talked out. “Why?”
She gazes out at the silver shard of the Pirelli Building. “I’m his girlfriend, too.”
Chapter 29
Tuesday night and Wednesday morning turn into marathon homework sessions. Carson digs up everything she can on the Morrones, and I take the art end of things.
Rossi has twenty-one pieces in storage. Between Google, the various specialist online collections, Evan’s Artprice subscription, Blouin’s, and the major auction houses, I’m able to get sales dates and prices for sixteen pieces. It’s slow going, but I can also make reasonable guesses at valuations for the rest.
“Fourteen million euros or so at the gallery, give or take,” I tell Carson. We’re in and out of each other’s rooms almost hourly; hers is surprisingly neat. I don’t mention the €30,000 reward on one of the stolen canvases. It’s a nice little something to keep in my back pocket. “That’s using low auction estimates for the ones I can’t get real prices on.”
“That a lot?” Carson doesn’t look up from her laptop.
“It’d buy you a couple nice late Picassos. Whoever picked these was going for the kinds of pieces that’ll fly under the radar when they sell. Basically, they’re commodities.”
“So?”
“So I wonder if Rossi ever sees these things. Maybe Belknap’s churning the art to bury the money trail. The original stolen piece, or one bought with dirty money, was four or five trades ago. It’d be impossible to trace.”
“So?”
“Maybe Allyson’s client picked up on the trading activity. Maybe there’s only thirty or forty pieces, but Belknap’s always selling them and buying replacements.”
“The client’s wrong? Still drilling that well?” Carson swivels her laptop on the desk so I can see the screen. “Read.”
It’s a Google translation of a two-year-old article in Corriere della Sera, Milan’s biggest newspaper. The Engtalian says the Carabinieri busted two local ‘Ndrangheta players with a transit van carrying twelve stolen paintings supposedly worth over €19 million. The police mouthpiece says they think the art was part of “un affare narcotici”—a drug deal.
“Well?” Carson looks too pleased with herself.
“The Mob’s been using art to shift money around since the cash controls came on in the ‘90s. It doesn’t mean that’s what we’ve found, though.”
She snorts and rolls out her shoulders. “Think about it.”
Okay. The local Mob had enough inventory to pull twelve pieces at one time with an average value of a million and a half. Assume there’s nothing unusual about that deal except that somebody forgot to pay off the right cops. “What’s a kilo of coke go for wholesale?”
Carson purses her lips. “‘Ndrangheta buys its coke portside in Colombia, so six to eight grand Canadian. Forty-seven hundred to sixty-three hundred or so U.S. Why?”
I go with $6000 to make the math easier. The cops’ estimate for the art is probably way overblown—they like to use high auction value to make the numbers sound better—so I figure on a street value of 10%, or roughly $2.1 million. “How long does 350 kilos last?”
She shrugs. “Toronto I can tell you, not here. Too many variables. Why?”
I’m trying to figure out how much stolen art the local Mob needs to keep itself in dope. It’s pretty hopeless since they have so many ways to pay. “Well… if they’re doing this regularly, they’ve gotta be moving a whole lot of hot art. So they need to—”
“Store it someplace.”
Shit. “Don’t sound so smug. They’d have to be if that load the cops busted wasn’t just a one-off. But I’m pretty sure Belknap doesn’t have it. He gets pieces of it, maybe, but somebody else has the whole haul.”
“Rossi?”
“Maybe. Whoever he is.” I don’t w
ant to keep thinking out loud in front of Carson. She’s been unusually cooperative today, which worries me. “I need to work this out some more.”
Back in my room, I flop on my bed and try to think like a criminal mastermind. On this scale, I’d need a network of fences pulling in everything they can—paintings, works on paper, plastic arts (sculpture, ceramics, assemblage, all that), decorative arts, rare books, antiquities. It doesn’t matter if I like it because this isn’t art anymore, it’s just another store of value, like copper or oil. I’d need someplace secure and climate-controlled to put it all. Somebody to keep inventory and watch valuations (big weak spot—what if somebody gets to him?). Sales go through fences with a good knowledge of their markets and channels, which vary for different types of art. Make arrangements with sketchy shipping companies.
Jesus. This would be huge.
So what’s Belknap’s part in all this? One of the fences, sure; one of the dealers, too, probably the nineteenth-century painting-and-drawing specialist. Gianna mentioned that Belknap advises clients. Maybe our version of Blofeld also collects.
I turn this scheme back and forth to see where the ugly parts are. Lots of holes need filling, but it could work.
But how in hell do we figure out if I’m right?
Wednesday morning. I’m pretty beat when I go on my run, but not so much that I can’t manage to follow Carson again. Even if I hadn’t seen her pass by, I’d recognize her plain gray sweats and her charging-bull running style. The Corso Vittorio Emanuele pedestrian mall east of the Duomo is a lot of newish construction, upmarket stores with their lights off, sidewalk café seating areas without the tables or chairs, delivery trucks, Expo banners. She’s got up a full head of steam and soon she’s a good block ahead of me. I won’t be able to keep up for long.
I bust past an H&M into the Piazza San Babila. It’s got a fountain and reflecting pool and a piece of plop art that looks like a rooftop finial without the roof. No Carson.
A silver AMG G63 lurches away from the curb, cuts around an orange city bus, and growls south into the early-morning traffic.
When I get back to the hotel, I find an email from Olivia on my laptop. The trace of Carson’s AMG from Monday came back with a name that’s clearly a shell company. “No further information,” she says. The hot-rod SUV’s a dead end.
Salvatore Morrone calls himself an “event planner.” He sets up big parties and conferences… like the one at Expo 15 tonight. A great way to make and keep contact with the city’s power brokers.
But it’s not all going his way.
“Russians started moving in about three years ago,” Carson tells me after breakfast. Once again, I squash the urge to ask how she likes the AMG’s leather upholstery. “They hit fast and hard and they’re winning.”
“That’s what the hit Monday night was about?”
“Yeah. ‘Ndrangheta and the Russians’ve been killing each other for two years plus. Morrone’s out of meth, money exchanges and rubbish, and he’s lost over half the sex trade. Those women Monday night? Maybe replacements. Cocaine market’s getting crowded. Russians, Africans, Balkan gangs, everyone’s piling in.” She shrugs. “Morrone’s in the shit. Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy, eh?”
“I can tell your heart bleeds for him. Is he having money problems?”
Carson smirks. “Costs a lot to fight a war.”
Wednesday night. What do I wear to celebrate summer with gangsters? Black is probably out. I go for a white button-front shirt and taupe Brioni slacks. It’ll look like I’m glowing, which isn’t a bad thing. What’ll Carson come up with? The woman has only three outfits: her suit, her sweats, and her jeans and long-sleeved tees. I’m not sure which would be worse.
A few minutes shy of late, Carson pounds on the suite’s door. I open up… and freeze.
She’s wearing a jersey dress the color of water reflecting a summer sky. Choker collar. Sleeveless. Did I mention it’s knit? Yeah, it clings. It also ends not very far down her chiseled thighs. Way above her strong, well-shaped calves.
Oh. My. God. Carson has legs. Fantastic legs.
“Gonna let me in, or do I stand in the hall?”
I snap out of it (sort of), haul my chin off the carpet, and move aside. As she charges in, I discover the dress has no back. Correction: the collar goes all the way around, there’s a strip of material across the top of her shoulders, then an inverted-teardrop cutout that starts at the top of her spine and ends at the small of her sculpted back.
I know Carson’s some kind of athlete, and not the gymnast-ballet dancer-runner kind. Her bare arms and legs and back tell me she got her muscles by doing things, not just messing around in a gym. The rest of her tells me whatever body fat she’s got is in all the right places.
“Stop fucking drooling,” she barks.
“Um… sorry… it’s just that you… look…”
“Stupid, I know. I—”
“No. Not that. Just… wow.”
She sighs. “Really? We’re doing this now?”
I finally get my eyes far enough up to catch her glare. She’s spiked her hair, dusted on a little blush, some highlighter to pop her cheekbones, and some subtle, warm eyeshadow. Nobody’s ever going to call Carson pretty, but, well… day-om.
“You look great.” I manage to close the door without fumbling.
“Feel like I’m fucking naked.” She flings her pleated black-satin clutch on the table—it clanks, and not because of the thin, silver shoulder chain—tugs down her hem, then starts stalking in a tight circle, arms crossed. “Went to buy something to wear tonight, eh? It—”
“So you didn’t just happen to have that with you?”
Another scowl. “I don’t wear this shit.”
What a shame.
“Anyway, believe it or not?” She sweeps her hands down her body. “This’ the least-slutty party dress I could find in my size. Now I’m sure men run this place.”
There’s very little I can say right now that isn’t totally wrong, so I just nod. She needs to vent, I get that. Better here than at the party.
She makes a face, then wrestles with the fabric hugging her hips. “Okay, rules?” She grabs her clutch and waits for me to nod. “Any physical stuff, like touching or kissing? I start it. Your hands don’t go above here—” she knife-edges her free hand across the middle of her thigh “—or below here.” She twists her back toward me and slices her hand across the bottom of her rib cage. “Got it?”
“Got it. And, seriously? No shit? You look great.”
Carson sucks on her virtual lemon a few moments, but that goes away. “Thanks. You look okay, too.” She marches toward the door. “Let’s go find Rossi.”
Chapter 30
Rent-a-cops wave our town car through a series of roadblocks to a VIP lot across an artificial river from the northernmost tip of the Expo grounds. Being in the 1% means never having to find your own parking.
“Can you walk in those shoes?” I ask Carson. It’s not an unreasonable question. She usually wears gym shoes or pumps with one-inch heels, but tonight she’s on black mid-heeled sandals with ankle straps.
“Dance shoes. I can run in them.” She gives me an accusing look. “Still faster than you.”
She knows I’ve been following her? Just wonderful.
Carson manages to slide out of the car without splitting her dress or flashing the crowd. She wraps her hand around the crook of my arm like she’s been doing it for years. I lead her across the footbridge to Expoland.
After a few minutes we’re in the Lake Arena, a huge concrete plaza surrounding a circular lake dominated by the Tomorrowland-ish Tree of Life. Bright colored lights embedded in the metal lattice turn purple, then blue, white and pink, while dozens of uplit geysers turn different colors in time to movie-dramatic music. The cool spray feels nice in the sticky evening.
Then we get a clear view of the Palazzo Italia.
I’d expected Italy—the home of Gio
Ponti and Pininfarina—to do better for its national pavilion at its own world expo than a top-heavy collection of blocky, disjointed masses clad in an over-busy articulated skin.
“Looks like a footstool covered with Silly String,” Carson says.
It’s like she read my mind. “Everybody’s a critic.”
White floods uplight the exterior, while various colored interior lights make the voids in the building’s skin look like pieces from a kaleidoscope. The bass line from whatever’s playing inside swallows the fountain music as we get closer. We reach the red-velvet rope surrounding the pavilion and wait with other happy partygoers as no-neck dudes in suits check the invites and wand everyone with metal detectors.
“Anything in the purse I should worry about?” I ask Carson.
She shrugs. “Basics. Phone, mini-baton, lockpicks, pepper spray, zip ties.”
Basics. I don’t know if I should feel doomed or totally safe.
We make it past the guards without setting off any alarms. Nineties guitars and rhythm machines chase the bass line out from under the pavilion. There’s a Depeche Mode vibe to it, even though the words are Italian. I guess we know how old the guests are.
We enter the Palazzo Italia’s atrium through the northeast corner. It’s a surprisingly fragmented space for its height. An undulating glass skylight swoops over a light concrete floor. There’s tons more Silly String—um, pre-cast concrete panels mimicking tree branches—sweeping, shallow platform stairs leading to a wide landing, then a long, unsupported staircase climbing from there to the exhibit spaces above. Lights everywhere, fixed spots and moving Vari-Lites, in patriotic reds, whites and greens.
Plus a hundred-some of Milan’s youngish and middle-aged urban professionals, and that many more people who want a piece of them.
Carson pulls me to a stop when we get a couple yards inside. She sweeps the place like an alpha lioness looking for prey. Watching her gives me another “wow” flash. Once that moment slips away, I turn to check out the crowd.
The Collection Page 16
