by Stuart Woods
“Nellie!” he shouted.
The whistling stopped. “Yes, dearie?”
“Come in here, please.”
She walked into the living room, untying her apron. “What’s up, Sol?”
“Have a seat, honey, I’ve got important news.”
She sat down in one of the chairs in front of the fireplace. “You look serious.”
“This is serious, but it’s also good for us.”
“Okay, so tell me.”
“Sam Spain is dead.”
She sucked in a little breath. “Dead? How?”
“Not that it’s important, but he took a shot to the head with that cosh you ran up for me.”
“You hit Sam in the head?”
“No, no, I didn’t do it. A guy I had already hit in the head came to, and I guess, right after I left, he got hold of the cosh and used it on Sam. That was yesterday. They took him to Bellevue, and he died this morning.”
“Sol, you’ve made a good living out of Sam. What are you going to do now?”
“You remember I told you the day would come when we drop everything and go up the river?”
“Yes.”
“This is the day. There are a lot of packing materials out in the hall. We’ll take everything that’s dear to us, and I’ll rent a truck. You’ll follow in the car.”
“How much time do we have?”
“I’m not sure, but we should act like it’s an emergency. The whole place has to be wiped down with Windex, too. I’ll start on that while you pack your bric-a-brac and your favorite clothes. Everything else that doesn’t belong to the landlord goes into black garbage bags, which we’ll dump on the way.”
“Do I have to keep on pretending to be Nellie Fineman?”
“Once you’re in the car, no. We’ll burn our fake licenses. I got the real ones and our passports out of the safe-deposit box, along with your good jewelry.”
“I can wear it again?”
“You can once we’re out of here.”
“Sol, you didn’t tell me how you’re going to make a living.”
“We’ve got what we saved, and I’ve got five million that would have been Sam’s.”
Her jaw dropped. “Say that number again?”
“Five million,” Sol repeated. “Dollars. Cash.”
“How?”
“It’s a long story. We’ll stop at that diner on the way for dinner, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
They went to work.
• • •
IN THE AFTERNOON, Sol rented a truck downtown, using a fake license, and drove it to their apartment building. There were only a dozen boxes and as many garbage bags to load, then Sol took care of the super, then dropped a check to the landlord into a mailbox for the four months remaining on their lease. Nellie got the car from the garage down the street, and Sol followed her to the West Side Highway, then turned north, along the Hudson.
• • •
LESS THAN AN HOUR LATER, two detectives knocked on the door of Sol’s apartment but got no answer. One of them tried the knob, and it was unlocked. “Police!” he called out. “Sol Fineman?” They walked into the apartment and found it empty of people and neat as a pin; the keys were on the coffee table. “The Finemans have legged it,” the other detective said.
They went downstairs and knocked on the super’s door.
A man in an undershirt holding a cigar opened the door. “Yeah?”
“I’m looking for the Finemans,” the detective said.
“Apartment 2A,” the man said, and made to close the door. It was stopped by the detective’s foot.
“We’ve been there. The Finemans appear to have moved out.”
“Today?”
“When was the last time you saw them?”
“This morning, when I was on the way to work. We said hello. I got back half an hour ago. They’re gone?”
“They’re gone.”
“Well, that’s between them and the landlord. Is the furniture still there?”
“Yes. You live here alone?”
“Yeah, super is a part-time thing. I get my rent and a few bucks. Rest of the time I drive a cab.”
“Who’s the landlord?”
The super gave him a name and address.
“Some policemen are going to come tomorrow and have a look around the apartment,” the detective said. “I’ve already taped the door. Stay out of there until they’re done.”
“Okay,” the man said. “Can I finish eating my supper now?”
“Knock yourself out,” the detective said, and he and his partner left.
The super took another look at the two one-hundred-dollar bills Fineman had given him. Easily earned, he thought.
• • •
SOL AND NELLIE Fineman had driven north. Carl and Cindy Blankenship got out of their vehicles, went into the diner, took a booth, and ordered drinks and dinner.
“All right,” Cindy said, “tell me, and don’t leave anything out.”
“It’s like this—Sam bought a picture from a junkie for a hundred bucks. He thought it might be worth more than that, and he looked into it. First, the cops came looking for it, but I got it out of the building. Next, a guy came with a briefcase full of cash and told Sam the insurance company would give him a million for it. Sam knew better, and he said he wanted five million. The insurance company wouldn’t bite, but Sam knew somebody who would, and he sent me to see the guy with the picture. He took one look and told me to come back later. I drove around in Sam’s car with the picture for a couple of hours, being sure not to get a ticket for anything, then I went back to see the guy and he gave me a suitcase full of hundred-dollar bills.
“I drove back to the bar, and it’s crawling with cops. I saw an ambulance drive away, but I didn’t know who was in it. I got a call this morning from a nurse at the hospital telling me Sam had bought it.”
“And the suitcase?”
“It’s in the truck. What else was I supposed to do with it?”
Cindy smiled. “You did the right thing, sweetheart.”
They finished their dinner and continued their drive up the Hudson and to the house they had bought three years before, where they unloaded the boxes and the suitcases.
“Carl,” Cindy said when they had finished, “how are we going to handle the money?”
“We’re going to hide it in the basement and dip into it from time to time. We’ll pay cash for everything. Later, when the heat is off, we’ll drive down to Florida and get a charter flight to the Cayman Islands, where we’ll open a numbered bank account. They’ll issue us credit cards, and we’ll spend the money that way. Maybe we’ll buy a condo in Florida. Nobody will ever touch us. Sol and Nellie Fineman are no more.”
“I like it,” she said.
“Let’s unpack our stuff and break down the boxes. I’ll get rid of the empty boxes and the garbage bags and our cell phones, and tomorrow morning I’ll drive the truck back to the rental place, then take the train back here.”
“And we’ll start our new life?”
“That’s the idea. The few people who know us around here know us as the Blankenships.”
Cindy found a bottle of scotch, and they toasted the Blankenships.
43
STONE LET DINO into the house. “Sorry, I didn’t feel up to a restaurant. Helene is making us dinner.”
“I hope you didn’t get out of the hospital too soon,” Dino replied, following Stone upstairs.
“I called the doctor, and he says it’s normal for me to feel tired for a day or two.” He sat Dino down in the study and poured them both a drink. “How’d you do on the phone numbers from Sam Spain’s cell?”
“Art Masi is running them down. He could have something for us tomorrow. This is not going to be easy, you know. If Sam laid
it off on some buyer, nobody’s going to admit buying it, and if they did, it will be with cash from a mattress—there won’t be any bank records.”
“Don’t depress me any further.”
“Why are you depressed?”
“The doctor said a blow to the head can do that. Also, I’ll get a very nice finder’s fee if I recover the thing.”
“And you’re depressed about that?”
“I’m depressed because it looks like it’s not happening.”
“What if Art recovers it?”
“I’ve made a deal with Art.”
“So this search is off the books?”
“It just never happened. If it’s found, I’ll return it to its rightful owner, Arthur Steele can cancel payment on the theft, and you can take the picture off your computer so people will stop looking for it.”
“Okay.”
“If all that happens fairly quickly, there will be a nice gift in it for you, too.”
“Are you trying to bribe me, you sonofabitch?”
“Certainly not, I’m trying to reward you.”
“Oh, I guess that’s okay.”
“Where’s Viv this time?”
“In Cincinnati, I think. I’ve stopped trying to keep track. How come you’re not seeing Morgan tonight, instead of me?”
“Well, she’s prettier, I’ll give you that, but she demands a certain energy level that I can’t meet in my reduced state.”
“Oh, did I mention that Sol Fineman has disappeared? Two detectives went to his apartment and it had been cleaned out—and I mean cleaned. Not even a print in the place. Nobody knows nothing, of course.”
“Somehow I don’t think he ran from the attempted-murder charge.”
“You think he’s sold the painting and scampered?”
“I heard Sam tell him to deliver it. That meant he would have gotten paid for it, and Sam wanted five million for it. He may even have gotten that much. No, I think Sol has, shall we say, relocated?”
“That’s a good word.”
“And with Sam’s money.”
“Certainly.”
“Ten to one, his cell phone is no longer in service,” Stone said.
“I won’t take that bet. He’s probably on the road somewhere between here and Key West. Maybe I should put out an APB.”
“Don’t bother. If Sol is careful enough for Sam to trust him with a lot of cash, he’s careful enough to have an identity ready to fall back on.”
Stone’s cell phone buzzed, and he answered.
“Hey, it’s Art Masi.”
“Good evening, Art. You find something?”
“I’ve got a couple of good possibilities, but all these gallery people know me. You want to help me out in the morning? We need somebody who looks and sounds like a credible buyer.”
“Sure.”
“I’ll give you a call around ten AM.”
“See you then.” He hung up.
“What’s up?” Dino asked.
“Art wants me to do a couple of walk-ins at galleries tomorrow morning. He thinks they’ll think I’m a credible buyer.”
“Makes sense.”
Helene brought dinner, and Stone opened a bottle of wine. They dined silently for a few minutes.
“Do you have anything new about the people attacking cars with sledgehammers?”
“We’ve had no new reports of that activity. My guys on the case think they’ve crawled back into their shells and we won’t hear from them again.”
“That’s okay with me,” Stone said. “I have a thought about something else.”
“Okay, spill it,” Dino said. “I don’t want to have to guess.”
“I think it’s just possible that Angelo Farina’s son, Pio, and his girlfriend, Ann Kusch, are credible suspects in Mark Tillman’s murder.”
“You have any evidence of either, or just a wild hair up your ass?”
“Probably more of the latter than the former.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Couple of things. Ann told me that Pio always dresses in black, and at the time she told me that, she was dressed in black, too. They’re both mountain and rock climbers and would have the skills to rappel down the side of a building.”
“And that’s all you’ve got?”
“Sort of.”
“How about a motive for either crime?” Dino asked.
“Art theft—they would have the necessary contacts for unloading the picture.”
“True enough, but by their own account, they took the picture to FedEx and shipped it back to Mark Tillman.”
“Maybe they planned to steal it later, when a few days had passed between the murder and the picture being delivered. Or maybe it wasn’t a murder, but an accident during the attempted theft.”
“Stone, your theory is so full of holes as to be unworthy of consideration.”
Stone sighed. “I know.”
“You know,” Dino said, “it’s a good thing you’re not a cop anymore. I’d have to fire you.”
“And I couldn’t give you an argument,” Stone replied. “I like those kids, and I don’t want them to be involved in this.”
“But you felt you had to bring up the black clothes and the rock climbing?”
“I think that was just a way of clearing my head. I knew you’d shoot me down.”
“I’m always happy to do that,” Dino said.
44
STONE MET ART MASI at a coffee shop uptown. “Okay, Art, what have we got?”
“The calls on Sam’s phone are a mishmash—a trucking company, a liquor distributor, a glassware supplier, mostly people he’d legitimately be in touch with for the running of his business, the bar.”
“Anything else?”
“Two art galleries and a small auction house. One of the galleries is new, open about four months. The other is an old-line place, going back to the twenties, a third generation in charge.”
“And the auction house?”
“A year and a half old, the sort of place that operates out of a gallery-like premises and rents hotel ballrooms for their auctions. They deal in everything from jewelry and wristwatches to high-end paintings and sculptures, most of them not the artist’s best work.”
“Sounds a little seedy. I like that.”
“The galleries are closer, in the Sixties and Seventies. The auctioneer is up in the Nineties, so let’s do the galleries first. Did you bring your car?”
“It’s outside.”
“Okay, the Haynesfield Gallery is around the corner on Madison, on your right. I’ll work the other side of the street. Whistle if you need me.”
Stone got into the Bentley and gave Fred his instructions. “Slowly,” he said, “we’re window-shopping. The Haynesfield Gallery, on your right.”
“Yes, sir,” Fred replied. He drew to a slow halt outside. Stone got out of the car and checked out what was in the window. An abused Picasso print, not very large but with a matting and a heavy rococo frame, was the central exhibit. He went inside.
A tall, thin young man wearing a skinny-cut black suit with stovepipe legs and a short jacket was leaning against the rear wall, working on a puzzle in a folded newspaper. “Just a sec, be right with you,” he called out.
Stone circumnavigated the small room, not finding a thing worth hanging in a powder room. Two words—cheap and nasty—characterized the place.
The young man finished his puzzle, tossed it on a counter, and came forward. “Now,” he said, “what can I do you for?”
“I don’t see anything good enough to buy,” Stone replied.
“Well, what are you looking for?”
“Something special, something that will knock my girlfriend’s eye out when she sees it.”
“I gotcha. How about a Jackson Pollock?”
“She doesn’t like abstracts, she likes a landscape, especially of the post-impressionist period.”
“And when was that?”
“Right after the impressionist period.”
“Like a Matisse?”
“More like, what’s his name, who cut off his ear?”
“Ah, van Gogh. I might be able to find you something, but I warn you, it’s going to be expensive.”
“Money is not a problem—not that I don’t want a good price. Show me what you’ve got.”
“Let me root around in the back,” the young man said.
“Go right ahead.” He disappeared through a rear door.
Stone found a wobbly chair and sat down. Ten minutes passed before the young man returned.
“My colleague is looking for the van Gogh,” he said. “In the meantime, I thought you might enjoy seeing this.” He held up a very good Matisse.
Stone waved him closer. He was no expert, but the picture seemed authentic. He immediately thought of Angelo Farina. “How much?” he asked.
“Ninety thousand,” the young man said. “I might be able to do a little better, but not much.”
That wasn’t much for a Matisse, Stone thought; if it wasn’t Angelo’s, it was hot. “Show me some provenance,” he said.
“Of course.” He handed Stone the picture, went to his desk, and leafed through a three-ring binder. He unsnapped the rings, removed a sheet in a plastic sleeve, and brought it over to Stone. He took back the picture and handed Stone the sheet.
“Purchased from the artist in 1899 by Eli Cornfield, a Paris gallery owner. Purchased from him in 1907 by Baron Nathan Rothschild, from Cornfield’s London gallery. Bequeathed to Baron Jacob Rothschild in 1936. Removed from England in 1939 and given to Baron Edmond Rothschild, who hid it with many other works. Auctioned from the estate of Hermann Göring, 1948, purchased by a descendant of Eli Cornfield.”
“What then?” Stone asked.
“We believe the second Cornfield gave it to an American nephew, who sold it to a private owner in the 1990s. After that, we assume that his estate disposed of it, either as a bequest or in a sale to a private collector. We purchased it from that collector’s estate.”
