by Stuart Woods
“Well,” Stone said, “that’s a start.”
18
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Stone got an invitation to a gallery opening featuring the works of Pio Farina and Ann Kusch. He called Morgan.
“Good morning,” she said.
“Good morning. I got an invitation to an opening for Pio Farina and Ann Kusch.”
“So did I.”
“Would you like to go? We can have dinner afterward.”
“Love to. What would you like to do after dinner?”
Stone laughed.
“So would I,” she said. “The opening starts at six. Pick me up at six-thirty.”
“Certainly.”
• • •
BY THE TIME they arrived the gallery was full of people drinking cheap wine, talking to each other, and ignoring the art.
“Would you like a drink?” Stone asked Morgan.
“Of that stuff? No thanks.”
“Then let’s look at the work. Maybe we’ll start a trend.”
Pio’s abstracts covered the walls, and Ann’s sculptures were scattered about the gallery on pedestals. Stone was only mildly interested in abstract painting, and not on this occasion. The sculptures, however, interested him.
They were small bronzes, and of tools: here, an ax, embedded in a tree trunk; there, a hammer, driving a nail; and over there, a sledgehammer, smashing a rock. “What do you think of the sledgehammer?” he asked Morgan.
“I’ve had enough of sledgehammers,” she said. “I finally got my car back, and I’m afraid to take it out of the garage.”
Stone wasn’t attracted to the sledgehammer, either. He flagged down a gallery worker and bought the ax.
“A good choice,” the young woman said. “It will be available at the end of the show, next week.”
“Please send it,” Stone said, handing her a credit card and his business card.
“Certainly,” she replied.
They went over to where Pio and Ann stood and greeted them.
“Are you enjoying the work?” Ann asked.
“I am. I just bought your ax.”
“A good choice.”
“That’s also what the gallery worker told me, so it must be true.”
They moved on so that others could meet the artists, then Stone looked up and saw Art Masi walk into the gallery.
“Do you know that man?” he asked Morgan.
“He was in my apartment right after Mark’s death,” she replied.
“He was probably there more recently than that,” Stone said.
“Executing a search warrant?”
He nodded. “Let’s go to dinner.”
• • •
ART MASI HAD A LOOK AROUND, and when the crowd began to thin out he walked over to Pio Farina and showed him a badge. “May I speak with you in the manager’s office?” Art said.
“Of course,” Pio replied, and the two of them walked to the rear of the gallery and sat down at the manager’s small conference table.
“What can I do for you?” Pio asked. “I can promise you that none of the art here is stolen.”
“I’m more concerned about another piece of art,” Art said. He mentioned the date of Mark Tillman’s death. “Where were you on that day?”
Pio took an iPhone from his pocket and consulted the calendar app. “Let’s see, that was a Saturday. I was at home in East Hampton, watching a football game. It’s right here, on my schedule.” He held up the phone.
“Who was playing, and who won?”
“The University of Georgia and Alabama. Alabama won. I forget the score, but it was close.”
“Anyone watch it with you?”
“No, Ann was visiting her mother in Connecticut. I watched it alone.”
“Have you ever visited the apartment of Mark and Morgan Tillman?” Art asked.
“Yes, a couple of times. Once for a drink, once for dinner.”
“On what dates?”
Pio consulted his calendar again. “Drinks on July fourth, two years ago. Dinner two nights before Mark died.”
“Did you take any notice of the art in the apartment?”
“Oh, yes. Mark had a very good collection, mostly impressionists and post-impressionists.”
“Do you recall seeing a van Gogh among them?”
“Of course. It would have been impossible to miss. A fabulous work, if a little small for van Gogh.”
“Small enough to put in a backpack?”
“I expect so.”
“Do you own a backpack, Mr. Farina?”
“I do.”
“Can you describe it?”
“Beautiful leather, nut brown, from Ralph Lauren.”
“Mr. Farina,” Art said, “have you ever done any mountain climbing or rock climbing?”
“Once, at a big sporting goods store, I climbed a wall installed there.”
“On any other occasions?”
“No, I didn’t enjoy the experience. I’m afraid of heights, even the twenty or so feet of the store’s wall.”
“Can anyone attest to that?”
“My girlfriend, Ann, can. She was there. Ann is more adventurous than I—she’s fearless.”
“Would that be Ms. Kusch, whose work is being shown?”
“Yes, she was standing next to me when we met.”
“I’d like to speak to her,” Art said.
“Alone?”
“Yes, please. Would you ask her to join me here?”
“Of course. I’ll be right back.”
A moment later, Ann Kusch appeared in the doorway. “You wanted to speak to me?” she said.
Art stood. “Yes, please. My name is Masi, I’m with the art squad of the NYPD. Please have a seat.”
She sat down.
“Ms. Kusch, where were you on the day that Mark Tillman was killed?” Again he cited the date.
“Let me see, I believe I was visiting my mother, in Washington, Connecticut.”
“Can she confirm that?”
“Sadly, no, she died four months ago.”
“Was anyone else present at your meeting with her?”
“We had lunch at the Mayflower Inn, in Washington. Perhaps the maître d’.”
“Did you see any other people who knew you?”
“I’m afraid I don’t remember,” Ann said. “You see, my mother had asked me to come to see her because she wanted to tell me that she was ill and had only a few months to live. That sort of conversation tends to concentrate the mind and shut out everything else.”
“I quite understand,” Art said. “Thank you for speaking to me.” He stood as she left. “Oh, Ms. Kusch,” he said.
“Yes?” she asked, turning.
“May I ask, how tall are you?”
“Five feet ten inches, in my stocking feet,” she replied.
“And forgive me, but your weight?”
“A hundred and forty pounds,” she replied.
“One more question. Have you ever done any mountain or rock climbing?”
“Both,” she replied. “I enjoy risky sports.”
“Thank you. Good day.”
19
JOAN BUZZED STONE. “Art Masi on one.”
Stone pressed the button. “Good morning, Art. Did you enjoy the opening?”
“I like Kusch’s sculptures,” he said. “Pio’s stuff was good, too. You left as I arrived.”
“Yes, we were going to dinner. How long did you stay?”
“Long enough to interview both Pio and Ann.”
“With what result?”
“They’ve both visited the Tillman apartment on a couple of occasions.” He told Stone of their claimed whereabouts on the day of Tillman’s death.
“Do their stories hold up?”
“There was a Georgia–Alabama game on that day, and Alabama won by three. That doesn’t mean he stayed home and watched it, though.”
“Where was Ann?”
“She says her mother invited her to Washington, Connecticut, to tell her that she had only a few months to live.”
“I know the town, I used to have a house there.”
“Do you know the Mayflower Inn?”
“Of course.”
“Ann says they had lunch there, but I spoke to the maître d’ this morning. He knew both mother and daughter, but he has no record of a lunch reservation for them on that date. It’s a busy place, reservations are usually necessary, especially on a weekend, and that was a Saturday. And her mother died four months ago, so she can’t help with her daughter’s alibi.
“Washington is about an hour-and-three-quarters drive from where Tillman lived. Even if she was telling the truth about the lunch, she still could have easily made it to the Upper East Side by late afternoon.”
“What brought Ann Kusch to your attention?” Stone asked.
“She’s five-ten, a hundred and forty pounds, and athletic. She admitted to having done both mountain and rock climbing. She also has rather small breasts, so dressed in something loose, with her hair and face covered, a woman her size could have passed as a man.”
“That’s an interesting theory, Art. What are you going to do with it?”
“I”m going to investigate them both until their pips squeak.”
“Then I’d better let you get on with it,” Stone said, and hung up.
• • •
STONE CALLED DINO and related his conversation with Art Masi. “Looks like the burglar could have been a woman,” Stone said.
“What burglar?” Dino asked. “There was no burglar, just Tillman and his wife—who was, by the way, bigger and probably stronger than he was.”
“Then what is Morgan’s motive?”
“Money—she inherited a ton of it.”
“Then she also inherited the van Gogh, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So what was her motive for stealing it from herself?”
“It was worth sixty million bucks,” Dino pointed out.
“But you’ve just told me she inherited a ton of money from her husband. How much?”
“A little over half a billion dollars.”
“I’m surprised it wasn’t more. Those hedge fund guys are mostly billionaires, aren’t they?”
“Yeah, until they aren’t,” Dino replied. “And Tillman had been through a rough patch. His fund lost a lot of money that year. If he had died the year before, he’d have left her something like three billion.”
“Dino, you still haven’t told me why Morgan would steal the painting from herself. You’ve told me she inherited half a billion dollars. If she had needed money she could have sold it at auction.”
“Maybe she needed money in a hurry?”
“Why? Was the estate slow to complete probate?”
“No, Tillman had arranged his estate planning so as to avoid probate. She was very rich from her first day as a widow.”
“So she had no motive for stealing a painting from herself. And it was a painting that some people think is a forgery.”
“Maybe that’s why she didn’t want to auction it,” Dino said. “An auction would have brought more scrutiny to bear, whereas the insurance company had already accepted that the painting was a real van Gogh, so if the painting disappeared, they wouldn’t have a leg to stand on, they’d have to pay the claim.”
“Okay, I’ll give you that,” Stone said. “It’s the first thing you’ve said that makes any sense.”
“Gee, thanks,” Dino said.
“Of course, they had an eighteen-month delay in paying off on the policy.”
“I’ll bet money that neither of the Tillmans knew that. Who reads an insurance policy?”
“You have a point there, too. I still haven’t read my household policy.”
“And that eighteen months must be about to expire?”
“Very soon,” Stone said.
“That’s interesting,” Dino said. “It puts pressure on everybody, and when people are under pressure, they make mistakes.”
“I agree, but let me ask you another question,” Stone said.
“Do your worst.”
“With regard to motive, why would either Pio Farina or Ann Kusch want to steal the van Gogh? If it’s a fake by Angelo, they might very well have known it. Why risk a murder for a forged painting when they could just ask Angelo to paint another one?”
“I’m surprised that Art Masi hasn’t mentioned this,” Dino said, “but big-time art thieves usually have a buyer waiting. That picture could be hanging on some rich man’s wall in Hong Kong or someplace, and the guy wouldn’t be in a position to question the authenticity of the painting. He can’t call the Hong Kong cops and say, ‘Hey, I paid a guy to steal this painting and murder the owner, and the picture’s a fake!’”
“I guess the guy wouldn’t get a very sympathetic hearing.”
“I think,” Dino said, “that what’s going to happen is, the eighteen months will expire, the insurance company will pay the loss, and we’ll never hear from the painting again, unless the guy in Hong Kong dies and somebody notices that it’s a fake.”
“More likely,” Stone said, “his estate will auction it off, and then the picture is a free-floating objet d’art that will end up on some other rich guy’s wall, or in a museum, which is not going to question its authenticity. I’ve been reading Angelo Farina’s book, and that’s how his work ended up in so many museums—he sold his paintings to schmucks who got tired of them and sold them at auction or donated them and took the tax break.”
“You know what I think?” Dino asked.
“What do you think?”
“I think that neither you nor I will ever solve this one.”
“You could be right,” Stone replied.
20
PIO FARINA AND ANN KUSCH drove back to East Hampton village in separate cars, so they had no time to talk on the way. Once in the house, Pio made them a drink and brought hers to her in her study.
“Okay,” he said, “what did the cop ask you?”
“Probably the same things he asked you,” she said. “Don’t you remember the questions?”
“Like where were you when Mark Tillman died?”
“There you go. I stuck to the plan. It’s not like he can call my mother and ask if I was there. Did you stick to the plan?”
“Georgia–Alabama game. I expect he checked.”
“Isn’t Masi the art squad guy?”
“Yes, he is,” Pio answered. “Dad’s known him for years.”
“Then why is he investigating Mark’s death?”
“Because of the picture, I guess.”
“That was investigated by the regular cops at the time, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, they talked to me, but not to you.”
“Gee, I feel left out,” she said.
“I expect we’ve heard the last of it,” Pio replied. “Drink your drink and forget about it.”
They sat quietly for a while, then the doorbell rang, and a moment later Angelo Farina walked into the room.
“Hi, Dad,” Pio said. “Would you like a drink?”
“Scotch, please,” Angelo replied.
Pio brought it to him.
“How’d your show go?” Angelo asked.
“I sold eight,” Pio replied. “All of Ann’s sculptures went, one of them to Stone Barrington.”
“I’m delighted to hear it,” Angelo replied. “I talked to Abe at the gallery, and he said the police were there.”
“Just one—Art Masi, from the art squad.”
“Is he still looking for the pictu
re?”
“That didn’t come up. He seemed more interested in Mark’s death,” Pio said.
“He talked to me, too,” Ann said, “and on the same subject.”
“Did he give the impression that he had something new to go on?” Angelo asked.
“Not to me,” Pio replied. “They were just routine questions.”
“There was something he asked me that I’ll bet he didn’t ask you,” Ann said.
“What was that?”
“He asked me my height and weight.”
“Ah,” Angelo said, “Art is thinking.”
“Now that I think of it,” Pio said, “he asked me if I had any rock climbing experience. I told him I was afraid of heights.”
“He asked me that, too,” Ann said. “He asked about mountain or rock climbing.”
“And what did you tell him?” Angelo asked.
“I told him yes. He would have found out anyway, and I thought it best not to lie to him.”
“You’re absolutely right,” Angelo said. “If a policeman catches you in a lie, he’ll never believe you again, and I think our credibility is important. Pio, you shouldn’t have told him you’re afraid of heights—that could come back and bite you on the backside.”
“How is he going to disprove that?”
“Suppose he looks up your prep school yearbooks? He’ll find out you were on the rock climbing team.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“If you tell the truth, you don’t have to worry about things like that. Now, if he finds out about the team, he’ll work all the harder to find out about you.”
“He didn’t ask me about the burglaries.”
“I’ve no doubt he already knew,” Angelo said. “That would have required only a few keystrokes. If it ever comes up, admit it immediately—tell him the truth, that you were young and stupid.”
“Please don’t start on that again, Dad,” Pio said.
“I told you at the time that it would come back to haunt you.”
“I know, I know. Please just drop it.”
“I will, if you’ll stop lying to the police.”
“So,” Ann said, “am I a suspect now, because I’m big for a girl?”
