by Stuart Woods
“I know. What we need, in a hurry, is an arrest warrant for Rocco Maggio for a hundred grand’s worth of unpaid parking tickets.”
Dino snorted. “That shouldn’t be much of a problem. You’re at the warehouse now?”
“Parked across the street. It might be nice if you could get his car towed, too.”
“Go get some lunch. I’ll call a judge and send a detective up there with your arrest warrant. Where will you be?”
“Ah, Caravaggio, on the East Side. Call me when he’s on his way,” Stone said, then hung up.
“I like the restaurant,” Art said.
“So do I.” Stone gave Fred the address, and when they arrived, he told Fred to go home and have some lunch and to be back in an hour and a half.
They ordered pasta and some wine.
“I have an idea,” Stone said, “that Rocco Maggio is where Eisl got the cash to buy the painting. Not many people have a few million in cash lying around. Do you think Maggio could unload the thing overnight? I mean, Eisl thought it was at the warehouse, until Maggio broke the news to him on the phone.”
“If stolen art is the business Maggio is in,” Art said, “then he’ll have a number of clients with a taste for rare art and no scruples about provenance. And he’s got shipping at his fingertips, so the answer is yes.”
“And it’s possible that it could already have left the country.”
“Absolutely. Maggio’s shipping company website has a Boeing 737 on the title page. That could go almost anywhere with a fuel stop or two. Transatlantic would be no problem.”
“That would cost a lot of fuel to transport something that weighs less than five pounds.”
“Maybe he had a horse or two to ship, as well.”
• • •
THEY WERE ON ESPRESSOS when Dino called.
“Are you still at Caravaggio?”
“Yes.”
“Lucky sonofabitch,” Dino replied. “I’m having a salami sandwich at my desk.”
“Did you get us the warrant?”
“My guy’s leaving the court now. He’ll be there in half an hour.” He hung up.
• • •
THE DETECTIVE dropped off the warrant. “You want some backup? I’m free.”
“We don’t anticipate any trouble,” Stone said. “Still . . . what’s your name?”
“Andy Farina.”
“Any relation to Angelo Farina, the painter?”
“He’s my first cousin.”
“Small world. Are you in a car?”
“Yep.”
“Follow us. We’re in the Bentley outside.”
They went out, got the cars, and headed back to the West Side. “Andy,” Stone said, “give me your cell number and wait here for us.”
“What if I hear shooting?”
“Assume it’s at us, and get in there,” Stone replied.
He and Art got out of the Bentley and walked into the warehouse. A man sat in a glass booth, reading a Racing Form. Stone tapped on the glass. “Rocco Maggio, please?”
The man looked them up and down. “What’s your business?”
“The kind you’d rather not know about,” Stone replied.
The man picked up the phone and pressed a button. “Mr. Maggio? Two gents down here to see you.” He covered the phone. “What’s your names?”
“Mr. Barrington and Mr. Masi.”
He relayed that information and listened, then hung up. “Third floor. Elevator’s over there. His office is at the rear of the building.”
It was a freight elevator, but it beat climbing stairs. They got off and started walking toward the end of the building; there were stairs up half a floor, and a man stood at a window, watching them come.
Stone rapped at the door, then let Masi precede him.
“Rocco Maggio?” Masi asked.
Maggio pointed at a nameplate on his desk. “Who else?”
“Mr. Maggio,” Masi said, flashing his badge and tossing the warrant onto his desk, “you’re under arrest for the non-payment of a hundred and twenty-two thousand, three hundred and twenty dollars in unpaid parking tickets.” He walked around the desk and produced handcuffs. “Stand up.”
Maggio gaped at him. “You’re kidding,” he said.
“I said stand up. You want me to help you?”
Maggio stood up. “Listen, gentlemen, this is unnecessary. I’ll write you a check right now.” He reached for a desk drawer, but Masi clapped a cuff on that hand, spun him around, and cuffed the other hand, then he frisked the man thoroughly and came up with a small 9mm pistol.
“I’ve got a permit for that,” Maggio said. “It’s in my wallet. You can get it out for me, inside jacket pocket, left.”
“Are you attempting to bribe me, Mr. Maggio?”
“No, no, listen, we don’t have to go through all this.”
“Let’s go,” Masi said. He marched the man to the elevator, then they rode down to street level, with Maggio protesting all the way.
Outside, Stone said, “Would you prefer the Ford or the Bentley?”
“Are you kidding me?” Maggio asked. He looked around. “Hey, my car is gone—it’s been stolen!”
“I would imagine,” Stone said, “that given your history as a scofflaw, the NYPD finally got around to towing it.”
“Oh, shit!” Maggio yelled as he got into the Bentley.
Stone put him in the rear seat, then got in beside him. “I thought we’d have a little chat on the way downtown,” he said.
“About what?” Maggio asked.
“Art,” Stone replied.
48
FRED HEADED THEM DOWNTOWN. Nobody said anything for a few minutes. Finally, Rocco Maggio did. “This can’t be about parking tickets,” he said. “I’ve gotta get my car back. Can we run by the towing place so I can do that now?”
“That’s not the procedure,” Masi said. “Your car is safe. You can get it out when you’re out. It will still be there.”
“C’mon, guys, how can I fix this? My kid’s got a soccer game in Jersey later, and if I miss another one my wife will kill me, then divorce me.”
“In that order?” Stone asked.
“Are you married?” Maggio demanded.
“No.”
“Then you wouldn’t have a clue what I’m up against here. Can’t you empathize, just a little bit?”
“I don’t remember them covering empathy at the academy, do you, Art?”
“Nope.”
“Look,” Maggio said, pleading in his voice, “I’m not trying to bribe anybody, I’m just asking, sincerely, what can I do to fix this?”
“Well, paying your parking tickets is a start,” Stone said.
“I’ve got a checkbook in my pocket,” Maggio replied.
“But that alone won’t do it.”
“What else, then?”
Stone and Masi exchanged a glance. “You could return some stolen goods,” Masi said.
Maggio’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of goods?”
“I don’t know,” Masi said, “what kind of stolen goods have you handled lately?”
“C’mon, give me a hint. I’ll help if I can.”
“Oh, you can,” Stone said. “Here’s a hint—it’s a painting by a famous artist, but with a dicey provenance.”
Masi looked out the window but said nothing.
“Doesn’t that sound just a little bit familiar?” Stone asked.
Still nothing.
“Okay, try this—you loaned André Eisl the money to buy it.”
“Doesn’t sound familiar,” Maggio said.
“You’re not trying hard enough, Rocco,” Masi said.
“I don’t know how I can help you. Anything else?”
“Well, a few days at Rikers Island while
we sort out the tickets might improve your memory.”
“That would make you a no-show at your son’s soccer match,” Stone chimed in. “Maybe several matches.”
Maggio flinched, as if something had bitten him. “You want me to incriminate myself.”
“Well, Rocco,” Masi said, “give us what we want, and maybe you’ll make the soccer match, and maybe you’ll walk—if you give us all the information we need.”
“This is screwy,” Maggio said. “You walk into my place of business wearing really expensive suits, and tell me you’re cops.”
“I showed you my badge,” Masi said.
“How about him?” Maggio asked, jerking his head toward Stone.
Stone produced his own badge.
“And you’re riding around in a Bentley?”
“The department doesn’t own that,” Stone said.
“I’m in the shipping business, not the art business.”
“Describe your relationship to André Eisl,” Stone said.
“He’s an old friend. I help him out once in a while.”
“Help him out at, say, ten points a week?” Masi asked.
Maggio shrugged. “I do what I can to help my friends.”
“You’re a prince of a guy, Rocco,” Stone said.
“Yeah,” Masi chimed in, “and listen to this. We’re going to find that picture, one way or another, with your help or without it. If we find it without your help, we’re going to nail you for fencing it and transporting it, and you’re going to miss all your son’s soccer matches until he’s in his forties.”
“On the other hand . . .” Stone said, letting Maggio finish the sentence in his head.
“I’ll walk? If I tell you where the picture is, you’ll guarantee it?”
“We’ve made our best offer, Rocco,” Masi said. “You can pick it up or just let it lie there.”
“It’s not as simple as that—it’s complicated.”
“Explain it to us,” Stone said. “We’ll do our best to follow.”
“If I give up the picture, two people are going to die.”
“Which two?” Stone asked.
“Eisl and me.”
“Tell us why, Rocco.”
“Eisl, because he can’t pay back the money I loaned him. Me, because I loaned it to him.”
“So you’re telling us that there are people above you who control all your actions?” Masi asked.
“Not all my actions, but I hardly ever have five million lying around the office.”
“Okay,” Masi said, “let’s start with whose safe the money came from.”
“Come on, if I wander that far astray my family dies, too.”
“Okay, we’ll leave out that part of the story,” Masi said. “Let’s start with Eisl’s first phone call to you about the picture.”
Maggio sighed. “Okay, he calls me and says he can lay his hands on an honest-to-God van Gogh for five mil.”
“And you bought that, sight unseen?”
“Not exactly. I got a good look at it. This guy brought it to the gallery.”
“Are you an art expert, with a specialty in van Goghs?” Stone asked.
“No, but I’ve got my ear to the ground. If something big turns up stolen, I’ll hear about it. Sometimes.”
“And you heard about the van Gogh?”
“Everybody in town heard about the van Gogh a year and a half ago. Lately, things went quiet, then this guy Sam Spain, up in Harlem, says he’s got his hands on it.”
“Yeah, we know about Sam Spain. We want to know about you and Eisl.”
“Well, Eisl makes an appointment with Spain, and he sends his guy over with a picture in a garbage bag.”
“This would be Sol Fineman?”
“Listen, if you know all this, why do I have to tell you?”
“Go on with your story.”
“Okay, we look at it, we compare it to the notice on the Internet that went out when it was stolen from this guy Tillman. I ask Eisl if it’s the real thing.”
“And you have faith in his opinion?”
“André is a third- or fourth-generation art dealer,” Maggio said. “His grandfather, I think, started in Vienna, then Hitler comes along and his father beats it out of Europe with a shipment of art and makes his way to New York.”
“How does one get from Vienna to New York with a shipment of art in, what, 1938?”
“He chartered an airplane and flew to Lisbon, then to the Azores, then to Newfoundland, then to New York. He had Swiss francs and gold, and he spread it around on his long flight.”
“So you took Eisl’s word for the authenticity of the picture?” Stone asked.
“Yeah, I did. André said he could turn it in twenty-four hours for twenty mil.”
“And?”
“And I made a phone call,” Maggio said. “The money was there in an hour.”
“Okay, Rocco,” Masi said, “let’s get to the point. Where’s the picture now?”
Maggio heaved a large sigh. “In the trunk of my car.”
49
STONE JABBED MAGGIO in the ribs. “The car that was towed?”
“That’s the one,” Maggio replied.
“How did it get in the trunk of your car?”
“I gave Sol Fineman a suitcase with five mil in it, then I put the picture back in the laundry bag and put it in the trunk of my car. André Eisl didn’t want it in the gallery, and I didn’t want it in my office. The trunk seemed a safe enough place.”
“And now it’s in the police garage,” Masi said. “I’d say the trunk is safe enough there.”
“Fred,” Stone asked, “do you know where the police garage is?”
“Ah, er, yessir,” Fred said hesitantly.
“And how do you happen to have that information?”
“Well, Mr. Barrington, I had occasion to visit that place—once before.”
“What occasion was that?”
“The occasion when this car was towed. I’m terribly sorry, sir, I just ran into a deli to get a sandwich, and when I came out it was gone.”
“And when was this?”
“About a month ago.”
“That was when I couldn’t find you for a couple of hours, wasn’t it?”
“It could very well have been, sir.”
“All right, forget it, Fred, just take us to the garage.”
“Yes, sir.”
Stone leaned back in the seat. “What kind of car is it, Rocco?”
“It’s a Maybach,” Rocco replied. He pronounced it “My-bach.”
“What is that?” Masi asked.
“It’s a sort of super-Mercedes,” Stone replied. “They made it for only a few years. At around three hundred and fifty thousand, they weren’t selling enough, so they stopped making them. I believe they’re doing very well in the used market.”
“Business has been good, huh, Rocco?” Masi said.
“Good enough. I got a good deal, it was a repo.”
“Let me guess,” Stone said. “You gave somebody a very big car loan, and he fell behind on the payments?”
“Something like that,” Rocco said.
“Art,” Stone said, “call the garage and have them root out the Maybach and have it ready when we get there.”
Masi got on the phone, then hung up. “It just arrived. They haven’t even put it in the garage yet. They said there had been some damage.”
“Damage?” Rocco spat. “Those bastards damaged my Maybach?”
“They didn’t damage it, Rocco, it arrived that way. They make a note of any damage every time a car comes in.”
“I’ll bet the sonsofbitches did it on purpose,” Rocco said. “Some people are just envious.”
“Oh, stop your whining,” Stone said. “You’re goin
g to get it back, aren’t you?”
“And then you’re going to let me go to my kid’s soccer match?”
“After we see the painting, Rocco. Not until then.”
• • •
THEY ARRIVED AT the police garage, and there the Maybach was, staring them in the face with its big eyes.
“Thank God,” Rocco said, getting out of the car. “Will you take these cuffs off so I can pay the guy?”
Stone uncuffed him, and Rocco started toward the car.
“Hey!” the cop in charge yelled. “Don’t you touch that car until you’ve paid the tow bill and the ticket.”
Rocco reached in his coat pocket for his checkbook. “Sure, how much?”
The cop stared at the sheet on his clipboard. “Seven hundred and eighty dollars,” he replied.
“Seven hundred and eighty dollars? Are you kidding me?”
“Ticket is five hundred, plus the tow.”
Rocco swore under his breath. “Who do I make the check to?”
“No checks,” the cop replied.
Rocco swore again and produced a black American Express card from his wallet.
“We don’t take American Express,” the cop said. “Visa, MasterCard, or Discover.”
“This is the only credit card I use,” Rocco said, shaking it in the cop’s face.
“Like I give a shit,” the cop said. “So you’ll have to pay cash.”
Rocco put away his wallet and dug into a pocket. He counted bills. “I’ve only got six hundred and ten dollars,” he said.
“We’ll try and be patient while you go and get the cash,” the cop said.
Rocco dug into his pocket and came up with an iPhone, then pressed a button. “You got any cash in the till? Bring me three hundred.” He gave the address.
“Okay, now,” Stone said to the cop, “we need to look in the car. It’s a stolen-property thing.”
“Knock yourself out,” the cop said.
“Okay, Rocco,” Masi said, “unlock the trunk.”
Rocco got out his keys, and the three of them walked around the car and looked at the trunk. There was a hole the size of a half-dollar in the lid. Masi stuck a finger in the hole and opened the trunk. It was empty.
