by Stuart Woods
“Are we in any trouble?” Ann asked.
“Did either of you have anything to do with Mark Tillman’s death or the theft of the painting?”
Neither of them answered.
“Is there something you’d like to tell me about that day?” Stone asked.
They looked at each other and Pio nodded, then Ann spoke up. “Mark knew that we would be in the city that day, and he invited us for a drink.”
“What time of day?”
“At two-thirty,” she replied.
“And what ensued?”
“Not much. We had a drink, chatted, then excused ourselves, saying that we had to drive back to East Hampton. Then, on the way out, Mark asked us if we’d drop off a package at a FedEx store on Second Avenue. It was on our way, so I said sure.”
“And did you?”
“Yes. There’s a drop box outside the store.”
“How big a package was it?”
“It was a standard-size FedEx box, about yea big,” she said, showing how big with her hands.
Stone buzzed Joan. “Will you please bring me a small and a large FedEx box?”
A moment later she entered with the boxes.
Stone sealed one end of each and held them up. “Which one?”
“The larger one,” Ann said.
“Did you have any idea what was inside?”
“No. It didn’t weigh a lot, though.”
“Did you notice to whom it was addressed?”
“I never gave it a thought,” Ann said. “We dropped it in the box and drove home.”
“And what time did you get home?”
“I’m not sure, but the game was still on, and we watched the last quarter.”
“There are two ways to address a FedEx box,” Stone said. “One is with the multi-copy form that you fill out by hand. The other is one that you print out on a computer. Which way was the package labeled?”
“I honestly don’t remember,” Ann said.
“Do you remember how you both were dressed that day?”
“Well, Pio wears mostly black, no matter what the occasion. I think I was wearing a black denim suit—pants, not skirt.”
“Blouse?”
“I wear either white or black with that outfit,” Ann said. “I don’t remember which that day.”
“Where did you have your drinks?”
“On the terrace,” Ann said. “It was an unseasonably warm day.”
“When you left, did Mark see you to the door?”
“Now that you mention it, no,” Ann replied. “He said he was going to enjoy the last of the afternoon and finish his drink.”
“Where was the FedEx package?”
“It was on a table in the front hall. Mark called out and asked us to take it.”
“And he stayed on the terrace?”
“Yes, he never got up. He seemed drowsy and had his feet up on an ottoman.”
“Might he have dozed off out there?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” she said. “He was on his second drink, and the sun was warm.”
“On your way out of the building, did you encounter anyone?”
“There was a man on the front desk, but he barely took notice of us.”
“Did you cross paths with Morgan?”
“No.”
“Where were you parked?”
“Outside the building on Seventy-eighth Street.”
“Did you see anyone you knew on the way to the car?”
“No.”
“All right,” Stone said, “here’s where we are. You’ve lied to the police about your whereabouts when Mark Tillman was murdered. You may well have been the last people to see him alive, except for Morgan. You removed a package from the apartment that may have contained the van Gogh that Morgan says disappeared.”
“We did so at Mark’s request, and we had no idea what it contained, and we didn’t care.”
“Did you know that Mark owned a van Gogh?”
“Yes, he had shown it to us when we had dinner there a few weeks before. Angelo was there, too, and he saw it.”
“Has either of you ever expropriated a work of art belonging to someone else?”
“Certainly not,” Ann said. “Why would we do that?”
“For money?”
“We earn a decent living from our work,” Pio said. “We don’t need to steal.”
“Tell me, Pio,” Stone said, “suppose you suddenly came into, say, twenty million dollars, tax free. What would you do with it?”
“I’d buy a house,” Pio said.
“Where?”
“Either in East Hampton or in Paris.”
“Ann? How would you spend it?”
“The same way,” she replied.
“All right,” Stone said, “I’m going to have a conversation with Art Masi and tell him what you’ve told me today. Have I your permission to do that?”
“We’re going to look awfully bad to him,” Pio said.
“You already look bad, because he knows you lied to him,” Stone pointed out. “You’re just going to have to live with that and hope, now that you’ve told the truth, that will be enough for him. You can both expect to be questioned again, and next time longer and much more thoroughly. My best advice is to be contrite about lying to them, and don’t do it again.”
“Couldn’t we just refuse to answer any further questions?” Ann asked.
“You could, but the police would see that as a virtual confession of both murder and grand theft, not to mention colluding in insurance fraud. They would investigate you for weeks or months, maybe years. At least half the people you know would believe that you’re guilty, and that would last the rest of your life. It would be mentioned prominently in your obituaries. So unless that’s how you want to live your lives, you’d better be very, very cooperative with the police from now on. When they question you again, don’t ask for a lawyer, and tell the truth. When you’re done, come back to see me.”
“Oh, all right,” Ann said, and Pio nodded; then they left. Stone was disgusted with them.
24
STONE WAS THINKING about leaving his desk early when Joan buzzed him and said Art Masi wanted to see him.
“All right, send him in,” Stone replied.
Masi came in and sat down.
“Art, after your interview with Farina and Kusch, what are your feelings about the case?”
“Well, they’re lying, and I don’t know why, except that they’re hiding something incriminating.”
“Which crime do you think they may have committed?”
“Either one, or possibly both.”
“They came to see me after your interview. I’m now representing them.”
“But, Stone, the last thing you said to me was that you were glad you weren’t representing them.”
“I’m still not crazy about the idea, Art, but after speaking with them at some length, I don’t believe they committed either crime.”
“Well, that’s a pretty fast turnaround,” Masi said.
“No, I’ve never said I believed they were involved, and now I feel more strongly than ever that they’re not.”
“Explain to me why, please.”
“Let me tell you what they told me this afternoon.”
“I’m all ears.”
“They admit having been present in Tillman’s apartment on the afternoon of his death.”
“Well, that’s hardly exculpatory, is it?”
“They say that Tillman knew they were going to be in town, and he invited them for a drink at two-thirty. They showed up, had their drink, then made to leave. Tillman asked them to drop off a box at the FedEx store on Second Avenue. It was on their way to the tunnel. They agreed. The box was on the hall table, and they took it and deposited it in th
e receptacle outside the FedEx store.”
“Who was it addressed to?”
“They didn’t bother looking to see—they had no interest.” Stone picked up the large FedEx box beside his desk. “This was the kind of box. They identified it. Does that give you any ideas?”
“You think the van Gogh was in the box?”
Stone tossed him the box. “Wouldn’t it fit easily into that?”
“I suppose so,” Masi said. “But why would Tillman FedEx it to somebody?”
“Maybe he had an accomplice.”
“An accomplice in what?”
“In the theft of a valuable piece of art. You’ve searched his apartment twice and his beach house once, and you haven’t found it.”
“Who would he choose as an accomplice?”
“Well, on the available evidence, now that these kids have told the truth, he sent it to somebody. Is there a likely suspect among the people involved in the case?”
“Perhaps his wife?”
“He lived with her. He could have just handed her the package.”
“A friend?”
“What friend? He didn’t seem to have many. From what we’ve heard, he worked all the time.”
“A business partner?”
“His hedge fund had lost a lot of money. That’s not the sort of event to seal a friendship among partners.”
“He left his wife half a billion dollars,” Art said. “What would he need with another sixty million?”
“His estate was almost entirely in trusts, so that his executor could avoid probate. He wouldn’t have had access to those funds, and if he were a little short of money, sixty million might have been very welcome.”
“So he stole the painting from himself?”
“No, he stole it from his insurance company, then he sent it to somebody for safekeeping. Fortunately, Federal Express keeps records.”
“Then I’d better get over to that FedEx store and find out what packages were collected in their deposit box that Saturday afternoon,” Art said, rising.
“Good idea,” Stone said, and Masi turned to go. “Art?”
Masi turned. “I think I may know who he sent it to, but I don’t want to prejudice you.” Stone took a sheet of paper, wrote something on it, sealed it into an envelope, and handed it to Masi. “That’s my best guess. See if I’m right after you’ve traced the package.”
Art tucked the envelope into an inside pocket of his jacket. “I’ll call you when I know something,” he said.
Masi drove uptown and found the FedEx store, with its outside deposit box. He went inside, where a young woman was behind the desk. “May I speak to the manager, please?” She looked far too young to be the manager.
“Who shall I say wants him?” she asked.
Masi produced his badge. “Lieutenant Masi of the NYPD. Tell him not to worry, he’s not in any trouble.”
She disappeared into the rear of the store and came back with a young man who appeared to be even younger than his staffer. “I’m Rich Mann,” he said.
“Congratulations,” Masi said. “About eighteen months ago”—he gave him the date—“a Saturday afternoon, someone deposited a large FedEx box in your outside receptacle. I’d like to know to whom it was addressed.”
“You got a tracking number?”
“No.”
“An address?”
“No, but it was sent by a Mr. Mark Tillman of 740 Park Avenue.”
The boy went to a computer and began typing. “Mr. Tillman has two accounts with us—one at his office, one at his home, at 740 Park.”
“Good.”
“Nothing was shipped from either address on that date.”
That brought Masi up short. “Suppose he used a blank waybill that he picked up at this shop, or one like it, and suppose he used another name as the sender.”
“And what name would that be?”
“I don’t know,” Masi replied.
“That’s not very helpful,” the boy said.
“Somewhere in your computer, don’t you have a record of what was sent from this shop on that date?”
“Yes, but that could be hundreds of packages.”
“Is there a separate list of what was put into the deposit box?”
“No, those packages would be sent with all the others. There were, let’s see”—he tapped some more keys—“two hundred and eight packages dispatched from this store on that date.”
“And none of them sent by Mark Tillman?”
“No, sir.”
“Thank you,” Masi said, and turned to go.
“Just a sec,” the boy said. He was staring at his screen.
“What?” Masi asked.
“We got one package that was sent to Mr. Mark Tillman, at 740 Park.”
“You mean that on the waybill Tillman was listed as the addressee?”
“That’s right. It was sent for third-day delivery, and it was delivered to 740 Park on the following Wednesday at ten fifty-four AM and signed for by a doorman.”
“Can you print me a copy of your screen, please?”
“Sure,” the boy said. He pressed a key, and a moment later a printer spat out a sheet.
“Thank you very much for your help,” Masi said, and walked out of the shop, tucking the page into an inside pocket, where he ran into an obstruction. He removed an envelope from his pocket, the one Stone Barrington had given him. He opened it and found a single sheet of paper with a name written on it:
MARK TILLMAN
25
STONE WAS ON HIS WAY uptown in a cab to meet Dino, Viv, and Morgan for dinner when his cell phone rang. “Hello?”
“It’s Art Masi.”
“Hello, Art. How did you do with Federal Express?”
“I did okay. How did you know?”
“Know?”
“Who the package was addressed to.”
“I guessed. Obviously, I was right.”
“You were. Why would Tillman send the painting to himself?”
“He sent it to the only person he trusted,” Stone said. “He didn’t have a lot of friends, and apparently none he would entrust with his art treasure. Did you find out when it was delivered?”
“He sent it for third-day delivery. The following Wednesday a doorman in his building signed for it. The homicide guys missed that.”
“It’s understandable. Why would they be interested in a package that arrived three days after his death? Would you have thought to look for that?”
“No,” Art replied.
“Neither would I,” Stone said. The cab pulled up in front of Rotisserie Georgette. “I’ve gotta run. Let me know if you come up with something else.” He hung up and got out of the cab.
Dino was there, alone. “Hey.”
Stone sat down and immediately a waiter set down a High Rock on the rocks. They didn’t serve Knob Creek. “Where are the girls?”
“Where are they ever?” Dino asked. “Viv wasn’t home when I left to walk down here. She probably went to the apartment to fix her makeup or something. Morgan is your problem.”
“Right,” Stone said, tasting his New York State bourbon. It was lighter than his usual, but flavorful. “I had an interesting day,” he said.
“I wish I could say that,” Dino replied. “Regale me with the events.”
“Well, I learned that Pio Farina and Ann Kusch were at Mark Tillman’s house on the afternoon he died.”
Dino sat up straight. “Why didn’t you tell me that before?” he demanded.
“Because I learned about it only today.” He explained how Art Masi had called them in for questioning. “After that they came to my office and asked me to represent them.”
“Do you think they offed Tillman?”
“No.”
“Why n
ot?”
“Because the evidence doesn’t support a charge. They got there at two-thirty, had a drink, then left.”
“Did you check that with the doormen?”
“No, did your people?”
Dino glowered at him. “Don’t be a smartass.”
“I haven’t been back to the building, or I would have asked, but I would have thought that your people, as a matter of routine, would have inquired if he had any visitors that day.”
Dino whipped out his cell phone and pressed a button; a brief conversation ensued, then he hung up. “They inquired and were told by the doormen that Tillman had no visitors, until his wife went up.”
“Something else,” Stone said. “When they left, Tillman asked them to drop off a package for him at a FedEx office on Second Avenue.”
“How big a package?”
“Not big, but big enough to hold the van Gogh.”
“I’d like to know who he sent it to,” Dino said. “I’ll have somebody check with FedEx.”
“Don’t bother, Art Masi has already done so. Tillman sent it to himself.”
Dino stared at Stone blankly. “What the fuck?”
“That’s pretty much what I thought, until I realized he had sent it to the only person he trusted. He sent it three-day. It arrived on the Wednesday morning after his death.”
“Does Morgan know about this?”
“She would have been the only one home on that Wednesday,” Stone said.
“Have you mentioned it to her?”
“No, but Masi has searched the apartment twice, and it wasn’t there. He searched the East Hampton house, too, and found nothing.”
“He’s an art guy,” Dino said, “not a homicide detective.”
“He knows how to look for a painting,” Stone pointed out.
“Here come the girls,” Dino said. “Keep your mouth shut about this.”
“We bumped into each other on the way in,” Viv said, “and we did a little window-shopping.”
Everybody kissed everybody else.
• • •
AFTER DINNER, Stone took Morgan home and stayed the night. After sex, she always slept like a stone, and she did so that night.
In the middle of the night, Stone crept out of bed and walked downstairs. He switched on the lights in the living room and had a look around. Now, where would somebody put a package that had been delivered? He looked under the furniture, then checked the coat closet in the entry hall. There, he found an empty frame, about the size to have held the van Gogh, but no package.
