by Stuart Woods
“I’m too young to go blind,” Dino said. “Why don’t you unlock the office door?”
“Is that door locked?” Spain asked with a smirk.
Dino turned around, walked to the door, and delivered a kick just above the doorknob. There was a splintering sound as the jamb gave way, and the door flew open. He walked in, looked around, then opened another door that led to the alley beside the bar.
Stone ran outside and checked the alley from the other end; nothing but garbage cans. He came back inside, looked at Dino, and shook his head. “It was there a minute ago,” he said, “now it’s not.”
• • •
BACK IN DINO’S CAR, he turned toward Stone, who was in the rear seat with Masi. “Did you actually see it?”
“For just a second, when the guy came out. It was hanging over the desk in a cheap frame.”
“Have you ever even seen the picture?” Dino asked.
“I have an eight-by-ten transparency of it,” Stone replied. “It makes an impression that stays with you.”
“Masi, did you see it?” Dino asked.
“No,” Art replied, “I was looking for blades.”
“Dino,” Stone said, “check your computer and see if you can find a record and an address for Ralph Weede, with an e at the end.”
Dino pulled the car’s computer around on its supporting arm and did some typing. “He has a conviction for assault and battery twelve years ago,” Dino said. “Suspended sentence. I wonder how he got the job at 740 with a record for violence?”
“I wonder, too,” Stone said.
“Oh, and we just passed the building where he lives, sixth floor.”
“That’s the building where Manolo Fernandez took a swan dive off the roof,” Stone pointed out.
Dino did some more typing. “We’ll get him in for questioning,” he said.
“I can put him at Sam Spain’s half an hour after the murder.”
“I’ll mention that to Homicide,” Dino said.
34
IT WAS TOO LATE to call Morgan when he got home; he’d call her in the morning.
Bright and early, Morgan called him. “Are you enjoying your scrambled eggs?” she asked.
“Speaking of scrambled eggs,” Stone said, “Margaretta is unlikely to come to work this morning.”
“Funny you should mention that—she’s half an hour late. What do you know that I don’t know?”
“Yesterday somebody threw her son, Manolo, off a roof in Harlem, six stories to the sidewalk.”
Morgan made a moaning noise. “Poor Margaretta, she’s been expecting something like this for a couple of years. I’m sorry it finally happened to her.”
“There’s more. Manolo went off the roof of the building where one of your doormen, Ralph Weede, lives.”
“What makes you think Ralph is mixed up in this?”
“He’s mixed up with Margaretta,” Stone said. “He’s the guy who’s been shtuping her for a while, and he’s the genius who suggested a van Gogh would look nice in her living room.”
“Ralph wouldn’t know it was a van Gogh.”
“Those doormen know everything that goes on in your building. You think they would miss the theft of a sixty-million-dollar painting? Ralph wanted the picture stashed somewhere quiet, where nobody would look for it, until he could figure out how to unload it. He didn’t count on a strung-out junkie lifting it and selling it.”
“Manolo sold the painting? How?”
“Well, he didn’t take it to Christie’s and auction it. I think he sold it for a hundred dollars to a neighborhood bar owner named Sam Spain, who fancies himself something of an art collector.”
“Does he know it’s a van Gogh?”
“If he didn’t then, he does now. I saw Ralph Weede go into his bar yesterday, and I’m sure their chat included a brief lecture on art history.”
“How would a bar owner in Harlem dispose of a sixty-million-dollar painting?”
“Do you know what a fence is?”
“Like a garden fence?”
“No. A fence is sort of a freelance broker who buys and sells stolen goods—in your Limey parlance, things that fell off the back of a truck.”
“Lorry.”
“Sorry, lorry. You get the picture, so to speak.”
“Yes, but surely he’s a small-timer who’s never dealt with something like this.”
“Just as fences know their neighborhood thieves, like Manolo, they know other fences, who know still other fences, including some who may be way out of their neighborhood league. There are so-called ‘reputable’ art galleries on the Upper East Side where you could walk in with that van Gogh in a shopping bag and walk out with a million bucks in cash.”
“Which galleries?”
“That’s the trick, knowing which ones, and Sam Spain knows people who know people who know people who have a good eye for art, a greedy heart, and a lot of untaxed cash. In a week, that van Gogh could be hanging in a very private collection in Hong Kong or Macau, and a man in New York named Arthur Steele would be crying his eyes out.”
“Who’s Arthur Steele?”
“He’s the guy who insured your painting.”
“You’re right,” she said, “I’m beginning to get the picture.”
“No, you’re beginning to lose the picture, unless I can find a way to short-circuit the sales process before the painting leaves Sam Spain’s hands.”
“And how are you going to do that?”
“I’m going to pay Mr. Spain a visit,” Stone said.
“Stone, wouldn’t that be dangerous?”
“Possibly, but I will arrive bearing gifts that may turn Mr. Spain’s head.”
“I don’t want you to lose yours in the process.”
“Neither do I. If you haven’t heard from me in, say”—he consulted his wristwatch—“two hours, call Dino and tell him I’ve got my tit caught in a wringer in Harlem.” Without another word, Stone hung up.
• • •
AN HOUR LATER Stone arrived at Sam Spain’s Bar, just as Sam himself was turning the CLOSED sign to OPEN. He walked in and set his briefcase on the bar; Sam was already behind the bar at an adding machine, counting last night’s take.
“Good morning, Sam,” Stone said.
“Sez who?” Sam grumbled.
“My name is Barrington,” Stone said.
“Ah, you’re the ex-cop, now a civilian.”
“Today I’m in the business of buying art.”
Sam swept a hand toward the junk on his walls. “Take your pick—five hundred bucks.”
“I want to pay more than that.”
“Okay, a thousand bucks.”
“Even more, Sam. I want to buy the picture you bought from Manolo Fernandez, and I’m willing to give you a handsome profit on the transaction.”
“Now, listen—”
“No, you listen. I’ll make this easy for you. If you hang on to that picture or try to move it, the earth is going to fall on you. You’ll be hounded by the NYPD, the FBI, and the state police forces of a dozen countries. There will be so many cops in here, from so many places, there won’t be room for the people who buy your booze, let alone fence their goods, and you’ll end up doing some very serious time. That’s not a good prospect for somebody your age, Sam. Think about it.”
“Okay, I’m thinking. How much should I be thinking about?”
“I’m authorized by the insurance company to offer you one million dollars in cash for the return of the picture—today.”
Sam looked surprised. “Is there a million bucks in that briefcase, or are you packing something else?”
“There’s a substantial down payment in the briefcase,” Stone said. “I can have the rest of the cash here in a couple of hours.”
“How substantial?”
“Thirty-five thousand dollars.”
“Show me half a million, then we’ll talk about the other half.”
“I don’t walk around with that kind of money,” Stone said, “and I’m not going to. The rest of the money will be delivered to your back door by a security company.”
“Listen,” Sam said, “I know what that picture is worth. If your insurance company wants it back, they’re going to have to cough up half its value, and we both know how much that is.”
“Sam, there’s something you don’t know about that painting.”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“It’s a fake. It wasn’t painted in France in 1890, it was painted by a guy out on Long Island last year. If you try to sell it, the prospective buyer is going to have it subjected to every possible test, and it’s going to fail one or more of them. Then the picture will be worth about three thousand dollars.”
“I don’t believe you,” Sam said.
Stone heard the sound of the front door opening and closing, but Sam didn’t even glance at it. Stone started to turn, and then something hit him on the side of the head, hard.
He didn’t even feel the floor rising to greet him.
35
ART MASI WALKED into Stone’s outer office.
“Good morning, Lieutenant Masi,” Joan said.
“Good morning, Joan. Is he in?”
“I’m afraid not,” she said. “He left about forty minutes ago, and he didn’t say when he’d be back.”
Art stared at her. “Was he carrying anything?” he asked.
“Just a briefcase.”
“Joan, not to pry, but does he keep much in the way of cash around the office?”
She looked at him. “He has a safe,” she said.
“Oh, shit,” Art muttered.
• • •
STONE WOKE UP, slowly and painfully, in the office at the back of Sam Spain’s Bar. He was alone in the room, but he wasn’t going anywhere. His hands and feet were duct-taped to a heavy wooden armchair; there was a ball of something cottony in his mouth and a strip of tape around his head to keep it there.
He took a few deep breaths through his nose to clear his head and, he hoped, help the pain in his head go away. That didn’t work. He looked at a clock on the wall and did some arithmetic: he’d been out for twenty minutes or so. He felt nauseated, but he couldn’t afford to vomit—he could easily strangle to death.
The office door opened and a man walked in: short, dark, mustached, carrying something in his hand. Stone closed his eyes and prepared to be hit again. Instead, something cold was pressed over and around his left ear.
“It’s just some ice,” the man said. “It’ll make you feel better.”
It did. The nausea backed off, and so did the pain, a good bit.
“It was an old-fashioned cosh,” the man said. “A couple of pounds of lead shot in a leather bag. My wife sewed it.”
Stone tried to thank him, but all he could produce was a grunt through his nose.
“I’ll take off the gag if you promise not to yell. Then I’d have to cosh you again.”
Stone nodded.
The man snatched off the tape.
Stone took a deep breath and blew the wad out of his mouth. “Ow,” he said, if a little late.
“That’s better, isn’t it?”
“Much better, thanks. How about my hands and feet?”
“Not just yet,” the man said. “Sam’s gonna come in here and talk to you in a minute, and my advice is to be nice. If you cooperate, you might get out of here under your own steam. If not, well, there’s a little river under this place that runs pretty fast all the way to the East River. It would be something like getting flushed down a really big toilet. You getting the picture?”
“That’s the question I came here to ask,” Stone said.
The door opened and Sam Spain walked in. “And I’m ready to answer it,” he said. “I want five million.”
“I’ll have to ask,” Stone said.
“Ask who?”
“The CEO of the insurance company.”
“So call him.”
“Hard to do,” Stone said, “in the circumstances.”
“Free up his left hand,” Sam said to his man.
The man did so.
Stone flexed his fingers to get rid of the numbness. “Give me a minute,” he said.
“Take your time,” Sam said.
• • •
“JOAN,” ART MASI SAID, “can you get Dino Bacchetti on the phone for me? If he’s tied up, tell whoever answers it’s an emergency.”
“Sure,” Joan said, and made the call.
• • •
“OKAY, I THINK the hand’s working now,” Stone said.
Sam picked up Stone’s iPhone from his desk, where it rested near his little Colt Government .380, and placed it in Stone’s hand.
“It has to read my right thumb,” Stone said, “or it won’t turn on.”
Sam nodded to his man, who cut loose Stone’s other hand.
Stone pressed his thumb against the phone and it opened. He went to his contacts and selected Arthur Steele’s private line.
Arthur answered immediately. “Yes?”
“It’s Stone. A man who says he has the picture wants five million for it.”
“Have you seen it?”
“Hang on.” Stone looked up at Sam Spain. “I have to see the picture,” he said. He watched very carefully as Spain walked to a large safe and tapped in a code.
Spain reached into the safe and extracted a laundry bag. He opened it, produced a picture, sans frame, and held it in front of Stone.
“It’s upside down,” Stone said.
Sam turned it 180 degrees. “Well?”
“In my briefcase there’s an envelope containing a photograph of the painting. I’ll have to compare the two.”
“Go get his briefcase,” Sam said to his man.
“Hang on, Arthur,” Stone said.
• • •
“COMMISSIONER, THIS IS ART MASI.”
“Be quick, Masi.”
“I think Stone Barrington has gone up to Harlem to try and buy the van Gogh from Sam Spain. He took . . .” He looked at Joan and raised his eyebrows questioningly.
“Thirty-five thousand dollars,” she replied. “It was all the cash we had.”
“Thirty-five thousand dollars,” Art said into the phone.
“And a gun,” Joan said. “His .380.”
“And he’s carrying.”
“How long ago?”
“Maybe three-quarters of an hour.”
“Have you called his phone?”
“Just a minute, Commissioner.” He turned to Joan. “Please call his cell phone.”
Joan did so. “It’s busy,” she said.
“The line is busy, Commissioner.”
• • •
STONE HELD UP the transparency to the overhead light and compared it to the picture, then he picked up his phone. “Arthur, the picture matches the transparency.”
“Are you there with the guy with the picture?” Arthur asked.
“Yes.”
“Ask him why I should pay five million dollars for a fake.”
Stone sighed. “Sam,” he said, “he wants to know why he should pay five million dollars for a fake van Gogh.” Stone held up the phone so Arthur could hear the reply.
Sam sort of smiled. “Tell him he’ll get the picture, plus you without any extra holes in your head.”
36
THERE WAS SILENCE on the other end of the phone. “Arthur?” Stone said.
“I’m here.”
“What do you want to do?” Stone asked.
“I’m thinking it over.”
“I don
’t think that’s the answer he wanted,” Stone said, “and it doesn’t sound very good to me, either.”
“I’m not sure how long it will take me to get the cash,” Arthur said. “Call me back in ten minutes.” He hung up.
“Well, Sam,” Stone said, “nobody has five million dollars in his bottom desk drawer, but he knows how to come up with it.”
“I’m feeling impatient,” Sam said.
“Relax, have a drink.”
“It’s a little early,” Sam said, “even for me.”
“Let’s see what’s on TV,” Stone said, pointing a thumb at the set on the office wall.
“Soap operas and Fox News. Neither one of ’em appeals.”
“Five more minutes, and we’ll have an answer.”
Stone’s phone rang.
“Answer it,” Sam said.
“Hello?”
“It’s Arthur. Hold the phone so he can hear me.”
Stone held up the phone.
“Go fuck yourself!” Arthur yelled, and he ended the call.
“I tried, Sam,” Stone said. “You bit off more than you could chew.”
Sam put the picture back into the laundry bag and held it out to his cohort. “Deliver it,” he said. The man took the laundry bag and left by the back door.
“Is the million bucks starting to sound any better, Sam?” Stone asked.
“No,” Sam replied, and he reached around behind him as if to draw a weapon from the small of his back.
Stone looked at his .380; the magazine was lying beside it, and he didn’t carry with one in the chamber. The cosh, however, was there, too. As Sam was halfway to his feet, Stone grabbed the cosh and swung it as hard as he could at Sam’s head. It connected at the temple with a loud thud, and Sam collapsed into a heap, a short-barreled .38 revolver lying beside him.
Stone tried to get up, but his feet were still taped to the chair at the ankles. He saw a coffee mug on the desk with assorted implements in it, including a box cutter. He grabbed it and sawed his feet loose, then got up and kicked the .38 aside, grabbed his .380 from the desk, shoved the magazine into it, worked the slide, and pointed the weapon at the head of the inert Sam Spain. He prodded at the man with his toe. “Get up,” he said.
