“So, Steve, what is this mysterious proposal you wish to make?” Annabel asked after Wooby had gone in search of a waiter.
He grimaced against what he was thinking, then said, “I may be way out of line in asking this favor of you, Annabel. But I’ll end up kicking myself for not trying.”
“I’m listening.”
“You can tell me to back off any time.”
“All right.”
“Are you aware that there was a theft at Dumbarton Oaks six months ago?”
Dumbarton Oaks’s original mansion and added wings occupied sixteen acres of lush gardens on the crest of a wooded valley in Georgetown. The Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, incorporated in the District of Columbia and administered by the Trustees for Harvard, contained outstanding collections of Byzantine and pre-Columbian art.
“No,” Annabel said. “I’d heard something about a ‘problem’ with the pre-Columbian collection, but not about a theft. I can’t believe something like that could happen and escape the gossips.”
“I’ve been waiting for M. Scott Pims to report it ever since,” said Jordan.
“What was stolen?”
“Three things. A were-jaguar, a black basalt serpent, and a gold monkey.”
“And they’ve managed to keep it quiet for six months?”
“Yeah. Their call. They figure that if enough time passes, whoever took the pieces would get around to trying to sell them through the underground. Looks like enough time has passed. The word is they are for sale, right here in D.C.”
“By the person who stole them?”
“Probably not. I’m convinced it was an inside job. The pieces had been taken off display during a renovation. They disappeared from a storeroom. I figure someone with access lifted them and sold them to a middleman. The middleman now wants to unload.”
“Shouldn’t be hard to do,” said Annabel. “There are plenty of crooked collectors always looking for good pieces at bargain prices, no questions asked.”
“And that’s where you come in.”
“Me?” She laughed. “I’m not a crooked collector.”
“But you could become one.”
“I could?”
“Sure.”
“I think I know what you’re getting at, Steve, and I’m not sure I like it.”
“I won’t say another word.”
Their white wine and a shared order of smoked-duck ravioli were served.
“Steve,” Annabel said after tasting her wine.
“Yes?”
“Tell me more.”
His smile said much. “Not a lot more to tell, Annabel. Word is that the three pieces are for sale here in Washington. My concern is that if I don’t act quickly, they’ll end up in Europe. South America.”
“What would I have to do if I—?”
“You don’t have to do anything.”
“I know that. But if I did agree? What then?”
He replied casually after a taste of ravioli, “I’d put the word out underground that a local pre-Columbian collector was in the market for gold monkeys and were-jaguars. No questions asked. I’d set you up with a studio, probably in the Atlas Building. We’ve used it before in these kinds of stings. Give you a phone, answering machine, a special number. The seller calls—if he does—and you convince him you’re ready to buy. You arrange a meet. We’re there. He’s arrested. The pieces end up back at Dumbarton.”
“Just like that.”
“Just like that.”
“Would I actually have to meet with the seller?”
“No. We’d be there in your place. What do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
“I thought of you because you’ve already got heavy credentials in pre-Columbian. I think it would work.”
“I—”
“You’d be doing a real nice thing for Dumbarton, Annabel. Shame to have those important pieces end up in the collection of some slob who’ll stash them away purely for their monetary value. They’d never be on display again for millions to enjoy.”
Annabel laughed softly and tasted the ravioli. “You’re very persuasive, Steve. I’d have to ask Mac.”
“You know lawyers. They always find a reason to say no.”
“I was a lawyer.”
“But now you’re a gallery owner.” He checked his watch. “I have to run. Think about it overnight. Give me a call tomorrow.”
“All right.”
“Before I go, tell me about your trip to Italy with Giliberti. I was reading the other day about the upcoming Caravaggio exhibition and that you represent the White House.”
“That’s right. Mac and I were with Carlo last night at the black-tie dinner. I liked him very much.”
“He say anything, do anything, that might have indicated he was in some sort of trouble?”
“Absolutely not. He was happy and gregarious. He played the perfect host for me in Rome. No sign of trouble.”
“Mess things up for the exhibition?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What’s the skinny on Grottesca? Almost too good to be true.”
“A remarkable find by Luther Mason.”
“You think it’s legit?”
“Of course. And if it isn’t, the Gallery experts will find out quickly enough. That particular Caravaggio will be scrutinized like no other painting in history. Every scientist at the Gallery and every Caravaggio expert will pore over it. Frankly, I don’t think they’ll find anything amiss. Luther Mason’s connoisseurship and honor are too great for him to have the wool pulled over his eyes. He stakes his reputation on it. That’s good enough for me.”
“I hope you’re right. There’s Mac.”
The men exchanged greetings and the detective left.
“Anything come out of staring at mug shots?” Mac asked after settling in with a single-barrel bourbon on the rocks.
“Afraid not.”
She told him of the noon meeting at the National Gallery. “They’re concerned about the impact of Carlo’s murder on the exhibit. I don’t see where it will have any, except in a macabre way. More intrigue about the artist and his works.” She also told him about the tabloid reporter’s piece, “The Caravaggio Curse Threatens Washington.” They both laughed and agreed that there were worse threats in Congress.
After a dinner of Maryland crab cakes seasoned with Old Bay served with a lemon-chive sauce, and salads tossed with raspberry-and-toasted-almond vinaigrette, he said, “Well, Annabel, it’s been quite a day for you. Ready to go home?”
“Yes. I’m exhausted. Emotionally drained.”
“That’s obvious from the look on your lovely face. Your eyelids are at half-mast.”
She smiled. “Maybe in memory of Carlo.”
They stood. “Mac, let me give you a tip.”
“You have me confused with the waiter.”
“I love you.”
“Oh, that,” he said in a mock brush-off. “I love you, too—more. My week hasn’t included a masterpiece, a murder, a smashed and beloved figure, and a madman swinging a hammer in the gallery. You wanted me to retire. Now, it’s you who’s keeping life interesting.”
15
“Steve? It’s Annabel.”
“Hi. Did you sleep on my proposition?”
“Fitfully. I’ll do it.”
“Terrific. What did Mac have to say about it?”
“I didn’t tell him. He has enough on his plate these days with students, deans, a dog as big as a horse, a house, and being out of the criminal loop, without having this to worry about.”
16
LATER THAT DAY
“Mr. Whitney, Luther Mason on line two.”
The director picked up the phone in his office. “Feeling better?” he asked.
“I wish I could say I did, Court. The fact is I think I’m about to unravel.”
“I understand,” Whitney said, continuing to read an article from The New York Times about the Caravaggio exhibition.
“Of course.” Whitney wedged the phone between his ear and shoulder and kept reading.
“I thought I’d visit my mother in Indiana. Maybe go on to Italy.”
“Odd itinerary. Any reason to go there?” Whitney asked, thinking budget.
“There are always loose ends to tie up. Maybe drop in on Alberto Betti, the minister of culture. He’s a loose end himself, capable of undoing everything.”
“Frankly, Luther, you’d be better served going to a spa. If you’re in as bad shape as you say you are—and I don’t doubt you for a moment—solid rest in one place would do you more good than globe-trotting.”
“Maybe I’ll do just that, Court. Can you spare me for a week?”
Whitney had spent much of the day being questioned by law-enforcement officials about Giliberti’s murder. The list of press people to call back had grown taller. His wife, Sue, was angry that their plans for a weekend away had to be scrapped because of what had happened. And WJLA, a local television station, was putting together a three-part investigative series on the physical condition of the National Gallery’s West Building, based upon a report compiled earlier in the year by a group of consultants Whitney had hired. The report, which had been leaked—no surprise in a town of leaks, wet and dry—concluded that many masterpieces on the gallery’s walls were at risk of serious damage due to faulty skylights, malfunctioning humidifiers, and an antiquated climate-control system. Some problems did exist, Whitney knew, but he was on top of it. Congress had already authorized funds to modernize the skylights and to install a monitoring system for the building’s climate-control protocols.
“I think we can spare you for a week, Luther,” Whitney said. The edge in his voice had nothing to do with Mason. The writer of the Times piece had ended by questioning the authenticity of Grottesca. Whitney scribbled a note to prod Don Fechter to complete his scientific evaluations ASAP.
“Court? Are you still there?” Mason asked.
“Yes. Go rest, Luther. Feel better. Call in once or twice.” Not having to ride Mason’s emotional roller coaster for a week would be a welcome respite.
“Of course. You know I always do.”
Mason was poised to make another call from his apartment when the phone rang.
“Luther, it’s Annabel Reed-Smith. I just wanted to say how sorry I am about your friend Carlo. I didn’t know him well, of course, but I liked him very much.”
“He was a dear friend, Annabel. He’ll be missed.”
“How are you holding up?”
“All right. Well, perhaps not. I just got off the phone with Court. I’m getting away for a few days.”
“Sounds like a good idea. I heard there was talk of delaying or canceling the exhibition.”
“I want to but Court won’t hear of it. You do understand my feelings on it, don’t you?”
“Of course. But I think—”
“I’ll talk to him again when I get back. Maybe you could put in a word of reason. Yes. Of course. He might listen to you, speaking for the White House as you do.”
“I—when are you leaving?”
“Soon.”
“A pleasant destination I hope.”
“Yes. Not quite sure where.” He injected a single laugh. “Play it by ear.”
“The best way. Well, Luther, again my condolences at losing your Mend. We’ll speak when you get back.”
“Yes. Thank you, Annabel.”
As Annabel left a message with Carole Aprile’s office—she wanted to brief her about her conversation with Luther and the fact that he’d be away at some unknown destination for a week—Mason dialed a number in San Francisco.
“Who’s calling?” a man asked.
“Luther Mason. From Washington, D.C.”
It seemed to take an inordinate amount of time for del Brasco to come to the phone. “Yes,” he said. “What’s going on?”
Franco del Brasco’s loud, gruff voice caused Mason to hold the phone away from his ear. “Mr. del Brasco, I’m sorry to disturb you.”
“Is there a problem?”
“As a matter of fact, there is. It’s important that we talk.”
“Go ahead.”
“Not on the phone. I’m flying to San Francisco tonight. Can we meet?”
Mason heard a series of grunts. The sound of thinking? “Tomorrow. Noon. At my house.”
Del Brasco wasn’t suggesting a time and place. It was a command.
“That will be fine,” Luther said. “Noon. Your house.”
The phone rang almost immediately after Mason had concluded his conversation. He hoped it wasn’t the police again. They’d been at his apartment to interview him only a few minutes after he’d returned home from work. The plainclothes officers were pleasant enough, and Mason was confident his case of nerves had not been too obvious.
He let the phone ring six times before picking it up.
“Luther. Scott here.”
“I can’t talk now, Scott.”
“I called you at the Gallery. They said you’d gone home sick. The flu? I hear it’s going around. A rare Asian strain. Like Imelda Marcos.”
“Scott, please, I’m very busy. I’m leaving tonight for—”
“Another trip to Italy?”
“I’m going to California.”
Scott laughed. “Disneyland?”
“I’ll call you later.”
“Need a ride to the airport?”
“No.”
“What time shall I pick you up?”
Mason sighed, “Sometime after dinner. I’ll call you.”
“Why don’t we have dinner together?”
“Scott—”
“No arguments. My treat. Talk to me later this afternoon.”
Luther pulled a suitcase from the closet and opened it on his bed. He’d packed the plaid boxer shorts he was fond of wearing when the phone rang again. It was his son.
“What is it, Julian?” he asked.
“I’m in jail.”
It wasn’t the first time he’d heard that from his only child.
“Did you hear me?” Julian asked, his voice surly. “I’m in goddamn jail.”
“Why?”
“Because I was arrested. I got into a fight at a bar.”
“Good Lord,” Luther muttered.
“I need bail money.”
“Where are you?”
Julian told him. Bail was five hundred dollars. Luther said he would be there as soon as possible.
He realized he’d forgotten to check flight availability that night to San Francisco. He considered calling SATO, the travel group servicing many federal institutions, including the National Gallery of Art, but thought better of it. He dialed an airline directly and was told there was a flight to San Francisco, via Dallas, leaving National Airport at nine. He booked a first-class seat using his American Express card, then reserved a room at his favorite hotel, the Westin St. Francis on Union Square.
He didn’t return home from bailing out Julian until almost five. Pims was waiting in the lobby of his apartment building. “You don’t get rid of me that easily,” Pims said, pushing his bulk up from the chair.
“I forgot to call,” Luther said. “Julian was in trouble. I had to get him out of jail.”
Pims’s laugh was loose and gutteral. “More like Caravaggio every day.”
“I’d rather not talk about it.”
“All packed for your trip?”
“Yes.”
“Get your bag and let us proceed to dinner. I’m famished. You can hear my stomach growl. Sounds like the zoo.”
They went upstairs, where a flickering light on Luther’s answering machine indicated three messages. The first was from Lynn Marshall, a young assistant curator on his staff. “They told me you’d gone home because you were sick,” she said through the speaker. “You must be feeling better because you’re not there. I’m calling to say I’m sorry about what happened between us the other night. I shouldn’
t have said what I did, and I can understand why you become so upset. I think we should talk.”
Mason looked over his shoulder at Pims; the expression on the rotund critic’s round, pink face said he’d found the message interesting.
The second message played: “Luther, it’s Annabel Reed-Smith. It occurred to me and Mrs. Aprile that something could come up while you’re away that might necessitate speaking with you. If you get a moment, please give me a call and let me know how to reach you. Leave it on my machine if I’m not here. Not trying to intrude on your much-needed R-and-R. Just being compulsively pragmatic. Have a wonderful trip.” She left her number.
The third call was from a man introducing himself as an attorney for Luther’s second former wife, Cynthia. He asked in a bored voice for Luther to call him concerning certain works of art in Luther’s possession and left his number.
“Sounds like the vultures are circling lower,” Pims said.
Mason didn’t respond. He watered a few plants, prompting Pims to question how long he would be gone.
“Just a week,” Mason said, adjusting blinds in the living room and bedroom, turning on a radio so there would be sound in the apartment in his absence, and taking a final look around. He never traveled without consulting a printed list of things to do, and to take. Satisfied everything had been crossed off, he picked up his bag and asked, “Where are we eating?”
“Since you’ll be dining on that dreadful California cuisine of sprouts and skinless chicken, I’ve made reservations at La Colline. I’ve been thinking about breasts all day—duck breasts with cassis, that is.”
17
The virtually empty first-class cabin of Luther’s flight to Dallas provided welcome solitude. There was much to think about. He settled back and mentally rewound the video that was his life up until a year ago, when this dramatic new leaf in it had sprouted and begun to take shape.
The audacious adventure started as nothing more than a whimsical notion. A flight of fancy. Mason and his colleagues at the National Gallery often reflected over coffee in the Refectory, the employee dining room, how it was to lead a modest life economically, with all the priceless art surrounding them. And how one could profit from the proximity. Playful conversations, plotting murder mysteries set against the scrim of the esteemed National Gallery of Art.
Murder at the National Gallery Page 13
