by S. J. Rozan
“If you’re right he’s already found them.”
“Don’t split hairs! I mean, to get his hands on them! I want to steal them out from under him.”
“For our clients, you mean.”
“Yes. Absolutely. For our clients. And also, as part of my plan to reduce Doug Haig to a grease spot on his own gallery floor.”
“Remind me,” Jack said thoughtfully, “not to get in your way.”
“Don’t worry, I will. Besides,” I said, starting to calm down, “my client’s whole point in hiring me was to get to these paintings first. Not to have to bid in public against some crazy Russian.”
“Bill’s not really a Russian, you know. And are you sure that’s what your client’s after?”
I looked at him. “What?”
“Phony name, prepaid cell, thin cover story—it must have occurred to you he was hiding something.”
“Yes, and we told you—”
“What you told me isn’t worth hiding. That’s a lot of trouble to go to just so his own PI doesn’t find out his name.”
“We—”
“Look, I know you’re smart because Bill’s smart and he says you are. No way you guys haven’t been wondering about Dunbar’s angle. He wants something else, not just the paintings. Most likely, it’s the painter.”
In the setting sun the spring breeze was chilly. I zipped my jacket. “Yes,” I admitted. “That’s how we figured it.”
“I wish you’d just told me.”
“Does it matter? To the investigation?”
“Maybe not. But to me. ‘All for one, one for all’? ”
“I’m sorry. Really.” I looked off down the street, then back to Jack. “But I didn’t know you. I wasn’t sure…”
“How far you could trust me?”
“I guess so, yes.”
Surprisingly, he grinned. “Well, that’s good.”
“It is? Why?”
“Bill must have told you you could trust me. In fact, you said he said I was stand-up.”
“He did.”
“But you still had reservations.”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I—”
“Au contraire, it’s excellent. Because what that means is, you and Bill aren’t quite as tight as I thought. And that means maybe there’s room for someone else to slip in there.”
I felt my cheeks grow hot. “Jack—”
“Okay, never mind, I was out of line, sorry.” He spoke briskly but he was still grinning. “I’m all about business. So what’s our next move?”
“Our next—I—” Oh, stop stammering, Lydia! You’d think a smart good-looking ABC PI had never come on to you before! “We—” While I was collecting myself so I could be all about business, too, Jack’s cell phone rang.
He checked it, told me, “Dr. Yang.”
I said, “Don’t tell him yet.”
Jack made a face at me while he said, “Professor. How are you?” Then his tone changed. “I don’t … No, we’re…” Dr. Yang was obviously talking, Jack trying to get a word in sideways. “What are you … I think … That’s … No.” He raised his voice. “I’m sorry, it’s just not acceptable.” The volume seemed to have an effect; Jack got to say a whole sentence. “I think you owe me a real explanation. A few hours ago we … No, I … Wait, I’m … Hello? Dr. Yang?”
Jack lowered the phone. He stared at it for a moment, then looked at me. “He fired me.”
“Fired you?” I was momentarily wordless, too. “Did he say why?”
“He changed his mind.”
“That’s it? Changed his mind?”
“So he says.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“You think?” Jack rubbed the back of his neck and breathed, “Damn! You know, I was already thinking you guys weren’t good for my health. Now I’m not sure you’re good for business.”
“Did he say it was because of us?”
“I didn’t mean specifically, I meant in a jinxy sort of way. Dr. Yang didn’t say anything. He changed his mind.”
I shook my head. “Something’s going on.”
“I know. Two hours ago he was so mad he’d have ripped the stripes off my sleeves if I’d had any, but he didn’t fire me. But just now he was perfectly calm. He didn’t say it was my fault, or your fault, or anybody’s fault. He just said he didn’t want this looked into anymore and he didn’t need my services.” Jack frowned. “I have half a mind to go down there and make him tell me what the hell is up.”
“And the other half?”
“Is smarter than that. It wants to think.”
“Is that the half that has Doug Haig’s cell phone number?”
He looked at me. “Both halves do. How’d you know?”
“You didn’t help at all when I was trying to pry it out of Nick Greenbank.”
“I may have to rethink.” Jack took out his phone. “You might be good for business after all.”
I tried not to notice the little glow I felt when he said that.
10
As it turned out, Doug Haig wasn’t available, at least not to us, not right then. While Jack was leaving a message I had another thought.
“If I bought you a martini,” I said, “would you mind drinking it by yourself?”
“That’s got to be the most ridiculous offer anyone’s ever made me. Or maybe, the most oblique brush-off.”
“You don’t get oblique from me. I’m not that clever. What I was thinking was, I have a date with Jeff Dunbar. At six, at this bar on West Street. I’d be very interested to find out if he’s someone you know from the art world. You obviously can’t come to the meeting, but there’s no reason you couldn’t be sitting at the bar.”
“Keeping an eye on things! Observing without being observed! Like Bill did in Dr. Yang’s office.”
“You caught that?”
“Did Mao wear a jacket? You guys do that all the time?”
“Whenever we can.”
“Hmm. I guess a partner can come in handy.”
“Come on,” I said, starting down the sidewalk.
“Where are we going?” He didn’t move.
“This bar,” I stated the obvious. “On West Street.”
“The Fraying Rope?”
“You know it?” I stopped. “Is it famous?”
“Among certain people. It’s a bogus waterfront dive in a new condo building down there. Cheap beer, plywood paneling, and a stuffed fish on the wall, but no danger of running into any actual longshoremen.”
“I think I hear a faint a note of disdain. You’re a fan of longshoremen?”
“I don’t know any. Neither does anyone at The Fraying Rope. A pretentious crowd that plays it safe, that’s all I’m saying.”
“Look at you, moralizing.”
Jack grinned. “Wow, I am, aren’t I? Sorry. They do make a good martini, I’ll give them that.”
Leaving aside the question of how many trips to The Fraying Rope his assessment of the crowd and the martini was based on, I asked something else. “How did you know that was where Jeff Dunbar said to meet?”
“The area’s changing but it hasn’t changed yet. Most of the West Street bars are the real thing, genuinely sleazy. Your man Dunbar doesn’t sound like the sleazy bar type.”
“No, you’re right, he’s more the new condo type. Not particularly pretentious, though. But plays it safe, definitely that.”
“Okay, you’re on,” Jack said. “Just one thing.”
“What?”
“The subway’s four blocks east. When it gets us downtown The Fraying Rope will be four blocks west again. Your date is in fifteen minutes. Let’s take a cab.”
In order to maintain a harmonious working relationship I gave in. Anyway, it was a lovely afternoon for a cab ride down by the river, with the trees freshly green and the water sparkling. We left the cab a block north and Jack strode on ahead of me. By the time I pushed through the door of The Fraying Rope, he was already leaning over a martini, as relaxed as if he’d
been hanging out here all his life and actually liked the place.
From what I could see, Jack had nailed it. Cheesy ersatz-nautical. Actually, ersatz-cheesy, too. Not just the stuffed fish, but the linoleum floor, the plaid lamps with ship’s wheels, and a variety of thick, looped, fraying ropes. The jukebox played Jimmy Buffett over a noise level loud but bearable. Glossy-haired blondes sipped pink drinks, and frat boys in suits or polo shirts swigged from beer bottles with lime slices in them. Chrome stools lined the bar, and cane chairs surrounded coffee tables. One of the stools was under Jack, and one of the chairs held Jeff Dunbar.
I spotted him right away, but lingered in the doorway as though I hadn’t to give Jack a chance to notice me. Jeff Dunbar waved, discreetly. I waved back and crossed the room to his table, though Jack had shown no sign he knew I was there.
“Mr. Dunbar,” I said as I sat. “How are you? Interesting place. Is it your local?”
“Friends brought me here, and I liked it.” Neatly sidestepping the question of whether he lived nearby. “I’m hoping you have good news for me.”
A waiter drifted over and I ordered cranberry juice. Dunbar was drinking one of those lime beers.
“I have news,” I said. “I don’t know if it’s good. For one thing, I thought you ought to know that someone else had the same idea you did.”
“What idea?”
“There’s another PI on the case.”
A pause. “Searching for the Chaus?”
“Yes.”
“For another collector?”
“No. For Kah Ching.” To his blank look, I said, “The Columbia professor?”
“Oh. Oh, right, of course.”
“He wants to debunk them. He thinks they’re phonies. I also thought you should know that someone took a shot at him.”
Dunbar’s beer stopped halfway to his mouth. “Took a— What are you talking about? At who? The professor?”
“At the other PI. Through his office window. Made a mess, but didn’t hit him.”
“Who? Who shot at him?”
“I don’t know. And a couple of other things I don’t know. For example: Who are you?”
“I—wait, what’s going on here?”
My cranberry juice arrived, perfectly timed. I steered the straw to my mouth, gave my client another moment to stew. “Jeff Dunbar’s not your name and you’re not a collector. There’s no such person as Jeff Dunbar. For your information there’s no Professor Kah Ching, either. There is another PI on the case, though, and if you knew anything about the art world you’d have hired him, not me. I don’t know what your real interest is, whether it’s the paintings, because they’re worth a fortune, or something else.” I sipped again, gave him just enough time to open his mouth, and went on before he could speak. “Now, that doesn’t necessarily matter. You’re not required to tell me the truth. But I’m also not required to tell you anything. I’ve picked up a few leads. Since people are shooting guns around, though, and since someone came to my office and tried to buy me off, and threatened me when I refused—”
“Threatened you?”
“Yes. So you can understand that I’m reluctant to take this any further until I know what’s really going on.”
Jeff Dunbar looked at me with a steady gaze. “You took my money. Anything you learned, you learned on my dime.”
“And the man who came to my office and told me I’d be sorry if I didn’t stop? He was on your dime, too.”
A slight pause. “Who was he?”
“I don’t know. A Chinese gent calling himself Samuel Wing, though I have a feeling that’s as phony as ‘Jeff Dunbar.’” I met his eyes and I shut up.
After a few long moments, Dunbar nodded. He drank some beer and said, “You’re right.” His tone was conciliatory. “Jeff Dunbar’s an alias. For reasons I don’t want to go into I’d rather keep my name out of this. My interest in the paintings is legitimate. I don’t know anyone named Wing, I don’t know why someone would threaten you, and I certainly have no idea who’d shoot at some other detective. I’m absolutely sure, in fact, that that has nothing to do with me.”
“You could be right.” I softened, too, to show that while we may not be on the same page, we might be able to arrive there. “But that doesn’t mean it has nothing to do with the paintings.”
“But it does mean I can’t be held responsible for it.”
“Maybe you can’t, but it did happen. In view of that, and of Mr. Wing’s visit and his threats, your blamelessness doesn’t necessarily make me feel secure. And ‘legitimate’ is a nice-sounding word but I’m not sure what it means in this context.”
Dunbar looked to the windows. Cars whizzed by on the highway; beyond them, the river gleamed in the late sun. “The other investigator. Do you know who hired him?”
“Yes, but I’m not sure why. And I’m not going to tell you.” He started to object, so I added, “Any more than I told him who you are.”
“He knows I exist?”
“He knows I have a client interested in the same thing he is. His PI told him. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to get together with you. To even up the flow of information.”
We sat in our own cone of silence in the noisy bar. Finally, Dunbar said, “You say you’ve picked up some leads. Information about where the paintings are?”
“Possibly. I haven’t checked them out yet.”
“Why don’t you give them to me? That can be the end. I’ll follow through. You’ll be out of it, and no one will have any reason to threaten you. It’s only been one day, but you can keep the whole retainer. To compensate for the trouble this has caused you.”
From the corner of my eye I saw Jack take out his phone, slip off his barstool, and thread his unhurried way to the door. I wondered what was up. He’d gotten a call and it was too noisy to talk in here? With my back to the door I couldn’t see him leave, but I did see a brightening in the bar when the door opened. Whatever. He was a grown-up. I turned my focus back to my client. “That’s a generous offer.”
“No more than deserved, I’d say.”
“Samuel Wing, before he tried very elegantly to bully me, offered me ten times what you’d paid.”
“I see.” Jeff Dunbar took a long pull on his beer. “All right, point taken. You can’t be bought.”
“Yes, I can. Just not with money. I want to know what’s going on. Why you want me to find these paintings, why Samuel Wing doesn’t, what the other PI’s client wants.” Or wanted. And doesn’t now. “Who you are. Whether Ghost Hero Chau is still alive.”
He gave a small smile. “That last question, that’s the big one, isn’t it? The rest, I know some of those answers, and I don’t know others. But I’m not going to tell you any of them until you tell me what you know about where the paintings are.”
“I don’t know anything. I have some leads. They might turn out to be total dead ends.”
“Still, I want them.”
“And I want to know who I’m giving them to.”
“The client who’s paid for them.”
After a stand-off moment I slung my bag up from the floor. “I’ll return your money.” I ran the zipper. It was one heck of a bluff; of course I wasn’t carrying his thousand dollars around.
“No,” he said quickly. “No, don’t do that.”
Slowly, I zipped the bag again. “What, then?”
He looked across the room, across the highway. “Samuel Wing. I may know who that is.”
“You just said you didn’t.”
“I said I don’t know anyone by that name. But I might know who’s using it. If I’m right, I promise you he’s not dangerous.”
From the ineptitude of Samuel Wing’s menace I’d come to the same conclusion, but I didn’t see why I should share that. “Maybe he’s not. But maybe he is. And maybe he’s not who you think. Tell me about him.”
“No. But I’ll find out. If I’m wrong I’ll let you know.”
“And if you’re right?”
“I
’d like you to continue your investigation.”
“Just like that? I’m supposed to believe you that Samuel Whoever’s not a threat, and the guy who is, who’s spraying bullets around, isn’t going to come for me? And that you’re the good guys and this whole investigation’s ‘legitimate’?”
Jeff Dunbar sighed. “Ms. Chin, it’s important those paintings be found. Not just to me. There are other … interested parties. I can’t tell you why, not right now. I can tell you, it’s not about money.”
“No?”
“No.”
“What is it about?”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
I considered digging in, but the set of his mouth told me that would go nowhere. “All right,” I said. “Maybe I believe that: It’s not about money to you. Or your interested parties. But Samuel Wing claimed to be representing interested parties, too. And the guy with the bullets? Or the other PI’s client? It could be about money to them, couldn’t it?”
And speaking of the other PI, where had Jack gone?
“I don’t know,” Jeff Dunbar said. “But I’ll try to find out.”
“You can find out what those people want, but you can’t find the Chaus?”
He shook his head. “No. What I can try to find out is whether any of my interested parties are any of those people. Wing, or the shooter, or the other client.”
“Well,” I said after a long pause, “you do that. And here’s what I’ll do. I’ll keep looking. As long as no one shoots at me.” Not that that’s ever stopped me before, but that was another thing I felt no need to share. “But if I find the Chaus, I’ll need more than ‘it’s important’ before I give the information to someone whose name I don’t even know. Is that a deal?”
He nodded. “For now.”
He took a last swig of his beer, dropped a twenty on the table—from a money clip, not a wallet, which was just as well, because I might have swiped it to get at the driver’s license—and stood. “Why don’t you stay and finish your drink? Instead of following me.” He smiled. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Fine,” I said. “But one more thing.”
