‘That’s all?’
‘They’re busy. But if they get interested, they’ll probably extend.’
‘They’ll be on the record, right?’
‘They will. If they want to go off, they’ll tell you so.’
‘Sounds fair.’
‘We always play fair, Joan,’ she told me. ‘Just be sure you play fair with us.’
‘Understood.’
‘Good. We’ll meet you in the company conference room. Tuesday, two p.m. sharp. I’ll leave your name at reception.’
The Cobb Industries building is an impressive structure, designed by Nils Lindstrøm, the Swedish-American architect who designed Calista’s heroic twin structures, Tower of the Great Lakes and Tower of the Great Plains. It was a bold brutalist-style multi-storied building made of raw reinforced concrete, signifying strength and power. There were similar signifiers on the lobby floor, a large mural that couldn’t have been more different from the murals in the cupola on Locust. It depicted workers mining ore and forging steel, attending to huge turbines and dams, against backgrounds of factories and mills belching smoke. This was a leftover from the company’s early days when it was known as Cobb Steel. I winced when I saw it, for it struck me as an in-your-face retort to those who accused CI of environmental crimes.
Staring at it, I had a thought: Gallagher had mentioned that two homes had been torched in Danzig Heights, the connection being that both home-owners were environmental activists. Hmmm … could the Cobbs have used the summer fires as a cover to punish their enemies? That, I decided, might well be worth looking into.
A sign directed visitors to a security desk where my name was checked against a list. A uniformed guy with sidearm and shoulder patch instructed me to stand still and gaze at a lens. My picture was snapped and seconds later a computer spat out a visitor’s ID card which he attached to a necklace.
‘Wear this at all times while you’re in the building,’ he ordered. ‘It expires at the close of business. Turn it in when you leave. It’s not a souvenir.’
He grinned as he hung it around my neck. ‘Very becoming,’ he said.
The elevator bank was outlined in stainless steel. Since I was ascending to the executive floor, I was required to take a car with a uniformed attendant. He was also armed and wore the same shoulder patch as the man at the lobby desk.
‘Security here’s pretty tight,’ I commented as the door closed.
‘Has to be,’ he said. ‘Lotsa flakes come in here to make trouble.’
‘What kind of trouble?’ I asked, as the elevator picked up speed.
‘One came in last week, yelled and splashed around a bucket of animal blood.’ He bared his teeth. ‘We know how to handle folks like that.’
Folks! ‘Rough them up?’
He shrugged. ‘Folks want to make trouble, then trouble’s what they’re going to get. And once their biometric data’s stored, they never get in this building again.’
The elevator came to a hushed stop. A quiet disembodied female voice announced, ‘Penthouse floor. Please check in at reception.’
Evelyn Maw had the lined face of an aging model who’d spent too much time in the sun. I figured her for late forties. Her dyed blond hair was precision-cut and her cheekbones were sharp, but the flesh of her neck and the skin around her eyes showed signs of distress. She was short and perhaps as compensation wore stiletto heels. Her most prominent feature was a pair of dark eyes that cut at mine like lasers.
‘Hi, I’m Evelyn,’ she said, extending her hand. ‘Thanks for being prompt.’
‘I strive to be obedient,’ I said lightly.
She was not amused.
‘I’m sure I needn’t remind you of the ground rules,’ she said as she walked me down a hushed corridor, her heels clicking on the terrazzo floor. ‘You may record only while we’re on the record. If we go off, you’re to turn off your device. Another thing – we’re informal here. Address the guys as Jack and Kevin. They hate being called “sir.”’
‘Got it.’
She led me to a glassed-in conference room at the end of the hall. There was a wide wooden table with steel edges and perfectly aligned molded metal chairs. Aside from a huge etching of the CI logo, there was no art on the walls.
Evelyn pointed to the ceiling. ‘Camera,’ she explained. ‘Everything in here is video-recorded. Of course, you’ll be making your own recording.’ She gestured to a chair. ‘Can I get you something? Water, soda, coffee?’ I told her no thanks. ‘I’ll be back shortly with the guys.’ She left me alone.
I peered up at the ceiling camera, winced slightly, then pulled out a New Yorker magazine from my bag. Figuring I was being watched, I hoped to make it clear I was not intimidated.
I saw them approach through the glass wall. They were talking and gesturing, but I couldn’t hear a word. The conference room was soundproof.
Suddenly, they were there, the much-feared Cobb brothers, sporting nearly identical preppy-style haircuts and matching painted-on smiles. They were dressed informally – no suits or ties, just really well-tailored sports jackets, black loafers and mottled designer jeans. The message was clear: We’re real nice guys.
‘Thanks for coming,’ Jack told me, his voice whispery, just as Nate Silver had described. ‘Evelyn thinks highly of your work. It’ll be a pleasure to talk about art for a change.’
‘Not what journalists usually ask us about,’ Kevin added. His manner was more aggressive than his brother’s. ‘Everyone thinks we’re ogres.’ He made a mock-scary face and bugged out his eyes. ‘You know – “The Cobb Brothers, those right-wing nuts despoiling our pristine environment.”’ He grinned. ‘In truth, we’re just a couple of average guys trying to make an honest buck.’
Oh, the irony!
After we all had a good chuckle, Evelyn glanced at her watch, then at me. ‘So, shall we get down to it?’
I watched them closely as I tossed out a series of innocuous questions about their family and its generations-long support of the fine arts: How did that start? Was there much talk of art around the family dinner table? Any particular art works in the house they remember from the time when they were growing up? I noted that their grandfather, Alfred Cobb, gave the CMA several important old master paintings, while their parents gave works by the impressionists. What kind of art were they interested in? And were their own kids interested in carrying on the family philanthropic tradition?
I could see they were bored. This was my intention, to lull them with blandness before I pounced. They were polite, affable, feigned enthusiasm, but their responses were robotic. As they were similar in appearance, I looked for ways to differentiate them. Both had athletic builds. Jack was stouter than his brother, and his hair was starting to gray. Kevin was lean and struck me as edgy. They both displayed a country-club bonhomie.
Evelyn, I noticed, sat very still, in a posture of obsequious obedience, her lipsticked mouth a thin red slash across her face. But as we talked, her eyes darted from brother to brother, and then to me. I got the impression the men frightened her, not because she feared they’d say something impolitic, but because of how they might reproach her after I left.
‘We have so much respect for artists,’ Jack was saying. ‘We always wonder at their ability to create such remarkable works. Where do they get their insights? We love the ways they show us how to see.’
‘For us it’s all about the seeing,’ Kevin added. ‘We’re business guys. We view the world a certain way. Artists have their own angles on things. You might say our support of artists is a way to bask in their reflected glory. We BIRG, as they say.’ He smiled, ‘And, I should add, we also CORF.’
‘Excuse me. I’m not sure …’
Evelyn broke in. ‘BIRG means bask-in-reflected-glory and CORF means cut-off-reflected-failure.’
‘Does that mean you cut off artists whose work no longer interests you?’
‘We like winners. Doesn’t everyone?’ Kevin snapped.
This rejoinder was the
first break in their feigned joviality.
Time now to rattle them. Go get ’em, girl!
‘Actually, there’s quite an accomplished artist in your family,’ I said casually.
They showed me blank looks.
‘Your sister, Courtney. Her ragdolls, as I’m sure you know, sell for tens of thousands of dollars. But I don’t believe the CMA has so far acquired any of her work.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Kevin demanded.
Evelyn, I noticed, immediately tensed up.
‘Courtney Cobb. She’s quite secretive, but people I know have identified her as the famous Ragdoll Artist.’
‘We do have a sister named Courtney,’ Jack said. He enunciated slowly, trying to keep his whisper steady. ‘She’s been institutionalized for many years. It’s a great sadness in our family, something painful we don’t really like to talk about. Frankly, I’m surprised you’d bring up her name.’
‘Well, I didn’t mean to tread into forbidden territory. I only mention her because she’s an important contemporary artist. And this interview is about your family’s long-standing connection to art.’
‘Perhaps—’ Evelyn, leaning forward, clearly wanted to call a halt to the interview. But Kevin hushed her with a wave of his hand.
‘What is this?’ he demanded. ‘Court’s a sick woman. Mentally ill. We don’t know anything about some “ragdoll artist.” I think you’d better explain yourself.’
‘I believe it’s getting time—’ Again Evelyn tried to intervene.
‘Shut up, Evelyn!’ Kevin snapped. ‘We’ll handle this.’
‘I don’t know what you mean by “explain myself,”’ I said. ‘I know for a fact that your sister is the Ragdoll Artist. Images of her work are all over the internet. If you don’t want to talk about her – fine, I understand. Why don’t you tell me more about your BIRGing and CORFing? Who, for example, have you CORFed of late?’
‘You’re here under false pretenses. Who put you up to this?’
‘I’m here to talk about art. Your sister’s an important artist, something of which you seem unaware.’ I glanced over at Evelyn, busy now working her iPhone. I guessed she was accessing images of Courtney’s ragdolls, because she went over to Jack, knelt beside him and showed him her screen.
‘You’re claiming our sister made these?’ Jack demanded.
‘Let me see!’ Kevin said, snatching the phone out of his brother’s hand. He gave a quick glance to the screen, then handed the phone back to Jack. Sweat had broken out on his forehead. He gave me a hard stare. ‘What is this shit?’
‘Are you saying you don’t think much of it?’ I asked.
‘Calm down, Kev.’ Jack turned to me. ‘You’re telling us Court made these?’
I nodded. ‘She’s in residence at the Privatklinik DeJonghe in Switzerland. Dr DeJonghe sells her dolls through Galerie Susanne Weber in Lucerne. Her old friend, Penny Dawson, recently visited her there. She found your sister in good spirits.’
‘Why don’t we know about this?’ Jack asked Kevin.
‘Because someone isn’t keeping us fucking informed,’ Kevin said.
Jack turned back to me. ‘Why are you so sure our sister made these dolls?’
‘You know art. You’ve got a good eye. All you have to do is look at them, then compare them to the murals she and Penny painted twenty-five years ago in A Caring Place on Locust Street.’
‘Caring Place – what the fuck is that?’ Kevin demanded.
‘It’s that East Calista shithouse where she holed up after she ran,’ Jack explained.
‘Actually, it was a licensed refuge for runaway teens. Cops busted it the night they took your sister away.’
‘There’re paintings there?’
‘Powerful ones. I’ve seen them. I hoped to ask you about them. Because they include portraits of both of you. Your parents and grandparents, too. And they’re done in the same two-faced style as the ragdolls, but with similar, shall we say, “expressive” faces hovering above. Quite extraordinary really.’
They went silent, stared at me, gaped, then nodded at one another.
‘Evelyn, please show this person out,’ Jack said. ‘Then come right back.’
Evelyn nodded, turned to me. ‘Come along,’ she said.
I rose. ‘It’s been a pleasure.’ As I moved toward the brothers, they turned away as if repulsed even by the notion of shaking my hand.
‘What the hell did you think you were doing in there?’ Evelyn demanded, as she briskly walked me to the elevator, stiletto heels stabbing at the terrazzo.
‘Just what I said I would do – conducting an interview. I’m sorry if the guys got upset.’
‘They were furious. You misrepresented yourself. They’ll never forgive you for that, and neither will I.’
‘Believe me, Evelyn, I don’t need anyone’s forgiveness.’
She glared at me. ‘Don’t you dare quote anything they said.’
‘No one said anything about going off the record. Everything they said is usable. You know that, too.’
We stopped at the elevator. Her eyes steamed with hate. ‘You used me for a fool.’
‘Oh, really, Evelyn! Please!’
‘Is that true about their sister? I didn’t even know they had a sister.’
‘It’s true. And it’s an awful story. You should ask them about it.’
‘I wouldn’t dare.’ She shook her head. ‘They’ll probably fire me for letting you in.’
‘It was their decision, wasn’t it?’
She sniffed. ‘I doubt they’ll remember it that way.’
‘I hope you don’t lose your job over this.’
‘Thanks, sweetie! So kind of you to say so!’ The elevator door opened. ‘Turn in your badge at the desk. And don’t try coming in here again. You won’t be welcome.’
Holy shit!
Somehow in the conference room I’d managed to stay calm. Now, walking away from the building, I began to shake. I paused on a corner, leaned against a store front, held out my trembling hands. I took some deep breaths to steady myself, then went into a bookstore, walked around looking at books on meditation, all the while telling myself I was out and safe and had no reason to be scared.
Good for you, girl! You brought it off! All of it recorded, too!
I walked back to the Times-Dispatch, went up to the newsroom, hurried to my cubicle, sat back in my chair, closed my eyes, took some more deep breaths and tried to regain my calm.
I phoned Gallagher, left him a message: ‘Want to talk to you about those environmental guys, the ones whose houses were torched. Please get back to me on this, Nick. It’s important.’
Then I phoned Jason, left a message on his voicemail: ‘Just left the Cobbs. I’ll be over at six to play my recording. So, Jase – I know you’re wondering how it went? Let’s just say it wasn’t pretty.’
When I arrived at the Capehart, Hannah and Tally were waiting in Jase’s loft. We sat down at his dining table, I turned on my phone, then we all listened to the interview.
‘Oh, you rattled them!’ Tally said when it was finished. ‘You’ve got some kind of balls, girl.’
I took that as a high compliment.
Jason gazed at me with admiration. ‘Soon as you mentioned Courtney, they knew they were being ambushed. Then they totally lost it. Couldn’t help themselves. You, on the other hand, kept your cool. Terrific job!’
I have to admit I was impressed myself. I liked my meek start, so different from the approaches I’d taken with Walter Loetz and Nate Silver.
‘They won’t take this lightly,’ Hannah said.
‘What can they do?’ Tally asked.
‘Call the clinic. Check out your story. I hope they don’t take it out on Courtney.’
‘They could pull her out of there. If they do, maybe Noah can make a case for guardianship. More likely they’d give DeJonghe hell for letting Penny in to see her.’
‘Which he didn’t do.’
‘Yeah, s
o DeJonghe’ll take it out on the nurse.’
Jase shook his head. ‘If I were them, I’d take pride in the fact that my little sister has become such an important artist.’
‘Thank God you’re not them, Jase,’ I told him. ‘Those guys are real slimeballs. It was awful to sit with them. They wore these smug smiles, faking modesty while reeking of entitlement and self-importance.’ I shook my head. ‘Poor Evelyn probably got fired, escorted out of the building by a pair of swarthy security guys, humiliated in front of her co-workers, carrying her personal stuff in a crappy cardboard box.’
‘They won’t let this go, I’m sure of that,’ Hannah said again.
Gallagher got back to me that evening.
‘I was planning to call you even before I got your message. You’re free to go with the firebug zero story. Norm Hicks will be indicted tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Great!’
I told him I’d been over at the Cobb Industries building to interview the Cobbs, and was struck by the murals in the lobby.
‘There’re images of smokestacks belching smoke, like a big “Fuck you!” to CI’s detractors. I was thinking about that, and the fire at Watomi Lake, then I remembered the environmentalists whose houses were torched. Could there be a connection?’
‘You mean the environmentalists started the lake fire, and Cobb Industries retaliated by burning down their homes?’
‘No, Nick, that’s not what I was thinking. More like, CI took advantage of the “random” fires, to do a couple of things at once: burn out the lakeside neighborhood to expand their paint complex, as we discussed, and also punish a couple of their enemies.’
There was a long pause before he replied. When he did, it was in a respectful tone. ‘You’re not only good, Joan. You’re very good. That’s all I can tell you now. Off the record, we’re closing in. Can’t reveal the target yet, but I’m sure you can figure it out. When we’re ready to go for the kill, you’ll be the first to know.’
I put down the phone, pumped my fist. Everything was coming together.
Late that night, trying to sleep, I suddenly had a fearsome thought:
The Murals Page 25
