The trouble was that he was getting absolutely nowhere. No one had heard of any Kirchners being on the market. As one art dealer told him, all the world’s great paintings were accounted for. When one changed hands, everyone knew. He’d had a hunch he might pick up a trail in Philadelphia, because of the letter “P” on that crate, because the town was full of Germans and nuts about art, but no one had seen a Kirchner on the market there in years.
He reached the small parking lot at the end of the road and sat a moment before turning around, looking at the lake with the car’s lights off.
Zany was missing something. Whatever it was, he felt it looming large and obvious, something he should have figured out immediately, but had overlooked.
It suddenly hit him, and it was obvious, indeed.
If someone was knowingly buying stolen art under the table, Zany shouldn’t be looking for purchasers who were actively collecting Expressionist paintings on the open market. He should be looking for someone who had been doing that but had suddenly stopped.
He clicked on his headlights and ground his car into reverse, scattering dry sand. There was no traffic on the road going back, and he stepped up his speed, slowing only for the long curve around the dune.
Just as he came out of it, he heard a muffled bang, followed almost simultaneously by a thwack.
He kept driving, hearing nothing more. The obvious explanation was a backfiring car; the thwack a rock kicked up by his tires.
But this was a sandy area, not a gravelly one. And there were no cars around to backfire. It wasn’t his own automobile. His engine hadn’t faltered for an instant.
Zany increased his speed further, not easing it until he was back in the bright lights of the town’s main street. Then he pulled off into the parking lot of the bank. Leaving the engine running, he got out.
There was a hole in the trunk. Whatever had made it had entered diagonally, making a much larger hole when it emerged from the right fender just forward of the right rear wheel.
He backed into the shadows, looking around. There were some parked cars and loitering teenagers over by the Dairy Queen down the street; otherwise, nothing moved.
So there it was. A shot had been fired into his car. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before, though many of the burglary cases he’d caught had taken him into some of the worst neighborhoods in Chicago.
It wasn’t a random shot. He couldn’t think of anyone ever firing off a gun in Grand Pier, except for the armed robbers who had just cost him his job. It was a very deliberate shot. A single shot.
He’d been traveling fairly slowly around that curve. If whoever had been waiting there in the sand had wanted to kill him, it would have been easy. They had plenty of time to set up the shot. He’d been fully exposed to the patch of darkness from which it had come. Yet it hadn’t even been a near miss. It had been fired low, and to the right, and in the rear. The aim was at the car, not him. There had been no follow-up shots, no attempt to correct the aim and get him.
The truth of it was plain and simple. He’d been given a message. They wanted their painting back. And Matthias Curland could have nothing to do with it, because he had the painting.
Zany hustled back to the car and, with tires screeching, spun it onto the street. He was home in five minutes.
Judy was back. She’d been down at the store, locking up. Zany tried to remember if he’d thought to turn off his computer. It wouldn’t do to have her see the names of all those art dealers.
She seemed normal enough. “Want a beer, Zane? I was just going to get one.”
He took her by the shoulders and gently eased her into a chair, leaning over her intently, his eyes on hers.
“We’ve got a serious problem,” he said. “Remember how you threatened to go back to your mother in Wyoming? I want you to do that. Pack a couple of bags right now. I’m going to drive you to O’Hare. Tonight.”
“Are you crazy, Zane?”
“Judy. I was out for a drive. On the beach road. Someone fired a bullet into the trunk of my car. I don’t think it was an accident or someone fooling around. I don’t know what it means, but it must have something to do with the Langley case. I know it means this: You’ve got to get out of here, and stay out until I think it’s safe to come back.”
“Zane. You said you’d get off this case.”
“I did. All my cases.”
“But what about the store?”
“I’ll take care of the store. I’ll get some kid to help me.”
“What about you?”
He stood up straight. “I can take care of myself. I used to be a cop, remember?”
CHAPTER 20
The headlines this time around were bigger and better—not only in the Chicago papers but on real estate section front pages in New York, Philadelphia, Washington, all over the country: “POE GOES FOR THE TOP,” “CHICAGO DEVELOPER TO BUILD WORLD’S HIGHEST,” “MONSTER SAILBOAT LAUNCHED IN CHICAGO.”
As promised, the mayor had joined Poe for the “world’s tallest” announcement. Like Poe, he was drawfed by the huge scale model that Cudahy, Brown had worked up in a rush from Matthias’s drawings. The mayor, of course, got most of the ink and air time. The stories concentrated on the rivalry with New York, whose mayor, a Republican, capitulated immediately: “If they think they can afford it, let them do it. But I think they’re crazy.”
Despite all the news coverage, the Japanese and the money men at Inland Empire didn’t budge from their original position. Not a cent without city authorization for the lakefront site—and Poe had better hurry the hell up about it.
He went hunting for Bill Yeats by phone, tracking him down eventually at his health club and summoning him forth from a squash game.
“Were you winning?” Poe asked.
“Yes. I was.”
“It’s only a game, William. I just got an idea. Call me back instanter from a safe phone.”
Yeats was back to him in exactly four minutes.
“What is it, Peter?” he said, letting some impatience creep into his voice.
“How soon am I going to be issued that building permit for Cabrini Green?”
“Any day now. What difference does it make? You’re not going to actually build the thing there.”
“I want you to get another one, a blank one. I want it signed, sealed, all that shit, but with the location blank. Can do?”
“If you’re thinking of doing what I think you are, there’s a word for it. Forgery. Falsification of official documents.”
“We’re not going to do anything official with it. I just want it to circulate it in certain quarters—like maybe a bank on LaSalle Street and an office building in Tokyo.”
“This is crazy, Peter.”
“Just do what I say. Get a signed permit. Fill in the blank with the words ‘Solidarity Drive.’ Make a Xerox copy of it, and get it over to Inland Empire. Emphasize that it’s for their eyes only—just to show them that City Hall is with us.”
“What the hell is Solidarity Drive?”
“I’m ashamed of you, William. A lifelong Chicagoan, the best-connected lawyer in town, and you don’t know Solidarity Drive?”
Yeats replied with silence.
“It’s the roadway that goes out to the Planetarium and Meigs Field,” Poe said. “They renamed it to honor Poland’s Solidarity Movement a long time ago. It’ll be the address of the new building. I kinda like that, don’t you? Since we’re going to have all those ethnic museums.”
“Maybe we should rename it Holocaust Drive.”
“Don’t be a wiseass, Bill. Get it done.”
“They still won’t want to go ahead until you get approval from the Park District for building on the lakefront.”
“Maybe they won’t. But they might be willing to come up with a few million in up-front money. I’m getting a little close to Tap City.”
“You’re knocking on the gates, in fact.”
“So get moving. You want your fees paid, don’
t you? Now, how are we coming on airport closure?”
“I’ve made discreet inquiries with our friends in the Transportation Department in Washington. They’re neutral on Meigs, as long as general aviation is accommodated at one of the other fields.”
“Anything else?”
“They tell me you should have no problem getting approval for a helicopter shuttle service.”
“Have you figured out where this ‘save Meigs Field’ crap is coming from? Is it just the mayor’s whim, or does he have some pilot friends?”
“He has friends with corporate jets. But there’s some pressure coming from the commuter airline that serves Springfield. A lot of pols use it.”
“So why can’t they fly out of O’Hare or the new South Side airport?”
“They like Meigs.”
“Is there anything we can do for that airline? To change their minds?”
“No.”
“Is there anything we can do to them?”
“No.”
“Yes, there is. The F.A.A. has application forms, right? That we’d have to submit for a helicopter shuttle?”
“Yes. I’ve got one at the office.”
“Well, fill it out. Not for a helicopter shuttle, but for a commuter air service—to Springfield. Poe Airways. Direct competition.”
“This is no time to go into the airline business, Peter.”
“I’ve no more intention of doing that than I did of buying the White Sox. But I want them to think it’s something I’m serious about. Make sure they see a copy. When they come back at you, tell them there’s one thing that could make me back off—a transfer of their operations to another airport. Tell them I think it would be good for the city.”
“I don’t think it’s going to work.”
“Give it a try. Airlines are in a lot of trouble these days, especially the little guys. I don’t think they’d want to go up against a billionaire with money to burn, do you?”
“Ha-ha-ha.”
“No laughing matter, William.”
“I read you loud and clear.”
“Okay. You coming to Christian Curland’s art show at Train’s gallery?”
“I’m kind of busy, Peter. Especially with all these things you want me to get to work on.”
“You’ve got time for fucking squash games, don’t you? Be there. I want a big turnout.”
“Yes, Peter.”
“And bring your new girlfriend. What’s her name?”
“You know her name. She works for you.”
“That’s right. Sally Phillips. Good-lookin’ broad. Real class. I don’t understand how Matthias Curland could pass her up.”
“He’s been distracted lately.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing, Peter. He’s just working hard, like all of us.”
“Make sure you show up at Train’s. With the money you’re going to get out of this, you can afford to buy a few paintings.”
Christian Curland’s gallery show was to run a week. It began with an evening cocktail reception. Train had invited most of the city’s notable art collectors. Few showed up, but, with all the people Poe had pressed into coming—and not a few of Christian’s lady friends in attendance—the gallery was fairly crowded. Bitsie Symms was quite audibly present, her high-pitched laughter cutting through the jumbled noise of simultaneous conversations, reaching into every room.
Matthias came with Diandra. They had been working on his painting of her all afternoon. She was beginning to tire of these sessions. Their lovemaking made it all worthwhile, but prolonged the process, as did the frequent breaks they took—going for walks, visiting museums, taking time out for the occasional movie. She had a wonderful mind. In his company, her intelligence and intellectual curiosity about things had come forth like a prisoner being allowed out of some dungeon. Everything he had hoped and imagined about her was proving to be true. There were other revelations, some disturbing, like her passionate fondness for exquisite, beautiful, but painfully expensive objects—clothes, glass sculptures, pieces of jewelry. He couldn’t imagine this woman the wife of a poor painter.
But maybe he was wrong. Perhaps it was just her habit, from having been married so long to Peter Poe. Matthias had underestimated her before, mistakenly. He put such worries from his mind. He lived totally in the present now. The building and his intimate hours with Diandra were about all there was to it.
They were close to being finished. Matthias wanted to do more work on the face and the body shadowing, but otherwise only the background remained undone, and that he could attend to in his little studio. The penthouse arrangement was making Matthias nervous. Diandra told him she’d discovered Poe had been at home on two occasions when they’d been making love. It bothered Matthias that Poe had so blithely accepted the situation, that he had never once come up to check on them. It was as if he had no objection to their intimacy, that he might even be encouraging it.
In any event, Matthias was miserable when apart from her, edgy and disconsolate when a day went by without her naked in his arms.
He was satisfied with the painting—or at least, confident that Poe would be satisfied with the final result. Were he doing it for himself, it would be quite different, but Poe wouldn’t like it. That’s why Matthias wanted to do more work on the face. He needed to take the love out of the eyes. Poe would know it wasn’t for him.
In no way was the nude as accomplished a creation as the magical portraits by Christian of a variety of Chicago society ladies that now hung so glitteringly along one wall of the gallery. In the brochure for the show, Train had proclaimed Christian “the John Singer Sargent of our time,” and it was true. Christian’s portraits were the equal of that nineteenth-century master’s commission work. Christian had imbued each woman subject, no matter of frumpy or aging in real life, with extraordinary grace and glamour and poise. He’d made each one of the women seem regal.
“I’m impressed,” Diandra said.
“They’re magnificent. I don’t suppose he was paid anything like what they’re worth.”
“Maybe that doesn’t matter to him.”
“You don’t know Christian.”
“Who doesn’t know me?” Christian had come up behind them, putting his arms around their waists. “Good evening, big brother. Delighted to see you, Mrs. Poe. Have you been gossiping about me?”
“Only in the most complimentary fashion,” Matthias said. “These are truly fine, Chris. Extraordinary.”
“Just like your building design.”
“I’ve not seen them before.”
“As I told you, I’ve been doing a lot of work at the museum.”
“I see ‘sold’ stickers on quite a few of them,” Diandra said.
“Of course they’re sold,” said Christian. “They were commissioned—sold before I started them. I just borrowed a few to flesh out the show. The stickers are an artifice—an inducement for people to buy the unsold ones, like salting the audience at an opera with clacques. When you think about it, the art business isn’t really any different from the used car business.”
“I’m sure they’ll all sell,” Diandra said.
“I hope so,” Christian replied. “This is my finale, my farewell to Chicago—at least for a while.”
“What do you mean?” asked Matthias.
“I’m going to move down to the Bahamas. I would have told you earlier, but I didn’t make up my mind until tonight. Larry Train has a house down there and he’s going to let me use it. Tropical breezes, tropical colors, tropical light. Just like Paul Gauguin in the Marquesas, only I think I’ll skip the opium.”
“Then you won’t be doing any more portraits.”
“Oh, yes. There’s a resort nearby. I’ll be doing portraits of guests and conducting a painting class.”
“How on earth did you line that up?”
“Our mutual benefactor, big brother. Your charming companion’s husband. Mr. Poe owns a piece of the resort.”
; Poe reached everywhere—even to the Caribbean.
“You’re leaving soon?”
“By the end of summer; perhaps sooner. Don’t begrudge me this, Matt. You had your years in the south of France. It’s your turn to look after the noble Curland clan of Chicago. And I don’t suppose you’ll mind having the Schiller Street house all to yourself.”
His wink at Diandra was quick, but she caught it and turned away.
“I’m really pleased you came, Matt,” Christian said. “You’ll have to excuse me now. I need to go flatter the very rich Mrs. Symms. Train said she’s thinking of buying that huge skyline painting of mine. It’s truly terrible, but she wouldn’t know that.”
He squeezed Matthias’s shoulder, then hurried away.
“There’s your friend Sally,” Diandra said.
Matthias looked into the crowd. Sally saw him and nodded curtly, then moved away, a pained expression on her face.
“She’s with your husband’s lawyer,” Matthias said.
“Quite a lot these days. Does that bother you?”
“No, not now. I suppose he’s very rich.”
“Peter helps keep him that way.”
“I wonder if there’s anyone here who isn’t obligated to your husband.”
“This talk is depressing me, Matt.”
Matthias paused uncomfortably. “Sorry. I’ve just got too much Peter Poe in my life.”
“Now you know how it feels.”
“Let’s leave.”
“Can’t. Peter will want to find me here when he arrives. You, too.”
Poe arrived very late, with his buxom secretary in tow, if that was the right word for it. She gave Matthias and Diandra a speculative look, then smiled rather smugly.
“Good turnout,” Poe said.
“I’m sure that doesn’t come as a surprise to you, Peter,” Diandra said.
“You finish the floor plans yet for the museums? They’ll all fit in the building?”
The Big Score Page 38
