Mixed Up With Murder
Page 16
His brows contracted and he became very still. “What?”
“How about Roy Lichtenstein?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Artists, I know that.”
“Do you think Lynthorpe is going to receive major works by them? Is it on the list you’ve seen?”
“I don’t remember. Are we supposed to?”
Not believable. Of course he knew. Two major American artists and two extremely expensive pieces of art, and the dean of the college that would get them didn’t know? Give me a break. “Good question. There’s one in storage. The accountant lists it. But it’s not on the master list.”
Coe Anderson looked carefully at me. “You realize there are more than fifty pieces in this gift, and that Vince may not be giving us all of his collection? And, that he has accountants, not curators, in charge? With that set-up, it’s easy to lose track of one, another reason to nail this transaction without more delay.”
I was interested. “Do you think Vince’s accountants have lost a twenty million dollar Roy Lichtenstein? Is that even possible?”
Coe shrugged and continued to stare at me. “Was that one of Larry’s suspicions?”
“I need to talk to Vince Margoletti.”
“That’s a very bad idea,” Coe said.
“I’m not sure I have a choice. We’re talking about extraordinary assets that either are or are not coming to Lynthorpe. Surely you want to know.” Are you baiting a tiger? my inner voice cautioned. No, but it was that or walk away from Larry’s and Gabby’s deaths. I couldn’t turn the issue over to Kirby until I knew enough to help him investigate.
“It sounds as though you have some ideas already,” he said, punctuating his disapproval with a sharp exhale. “If it’s because some of these damned duplicate lists you looked at are inaccurate, I can understand why it may have confused you. That’s one reason I wanted to get all the paperwork into one place.”
In his office, where he could control what I saw? He went on, underscoring every word, his eyes riveted on my face. “But you absolutely cannot speak to Vince. You will be responsible for Lynthorpe losing this once in a lifetime opportunity.” He forced a smile. “Ultimately, we can only go with what Vince’s lawyers provided, right?”
Coe knew there was something fishy. Was he pressuring me on his own behalf, or on Vince’s? I stood up, putting my hands in my pockets so the dean couldn’t see they were shaking. “I have to get back to the report so I can meet my deadline. I’m genuinely sorry the consulting hasn’t been what you all expected.”
“Will you recommend we accept his generous gift?”
I didn’t answer.
Coe looked up at me and I could see him weighing my silence. He escorted me to his outer office door without another word and stayed in the doorway watching me as I walked away. Had my mention of the two paintings set off some kind of alarm with him? I didn’t have much time, and I didn’t like the tone of Coe’s voice. At least, if he was behind all of this, I’d drawn him out.
****
I eased myself into the hotel’s desk chair, feeling a small stab of pain in my neck, the only physical reminder of the hit and run attack. I wanted to get to Vince Margoletti before Coe Anderson did, but as I searched for his business card, my cell phone rang. It was the California lawyer who had called me several times at the Devor, and he got right to the point.
“I’ve been trying to reach you for more than a week,” he said, impatience in his voice. “Geoff Johnson is a friend of mine and he said you needed to hear from me. I thought you’d call me back since it was so important.”
I opened my mouth to explain, maybe apologize, but he wasn’t in a waiting mood. “I’m the lead attorney for Loros and Geoff says you need to know if Vince Margoletti or his firm is currently providing the company with legal services. The answer, Ms. O’Rourke, is no, emphatically no. Loros changed attorneys a few months ago. I’m not in a position to say more, but I promised Geoff I would confirm that for you.”
Loros. The company started by Bart Corliss, the man who went under the train, the man who gave Margoletti a magnificent work of contemporary art he had purchased at a glitzy art auction house. “Can you tell me anything about the decision to change law firms?”
“As I said, I can’t tell you anything more except, perhaps, to say that my firm handled everything to do with the company’s IPO from the moment the board decided to go public. Margoletti had absolutely no role from that date on.” IPOs, or Initial Public Offerings, move companies from private to public, shareholder-owned status. If the company looks strong, investors swarm all over it, running the initial share price up fast at the opening and making the people who owned pre-public shares rich, at least on paper.
“Wasn’t he on the board? Was he at that meeting?”
“He was not at that meeting. The board’s actions regarding his role as an outside director were made in executive session and I cannot comment on that except to say he is not on the board now.”
“Did he profit from the company’s decision to go public?”
“I suppose so. The company bought back his preferred shares at the estimated price per share they would fetch in the IPO.”
“So he would have walked away with…?”
“A few million dollars. That’s more than I should tell you, but Geoff’s a friend. I have no idea why you’re asking, Ms. O’Rourke.”
I wasn’t sure I did either. Not fifteen minutes before she was murdered, Gabby had come across a note Larry Saylor meant to give her, in which he asked her to check out an IPO related to his research. She hadn’t told me then, but it must have been Loros, and Saylor had figured out what connected Loros—or its founder—to one of the donated paintings. Something that tainted Vince Margoletti’s gift enough to distress him deeply.
“I hate bringing this up, but Loros Corporation’s CEO died recently. Geoff may have told you I’m consulting with a small college that will be the beneficiary of Vince Margoletti’s art collection.” I was talking fast because I could sense that the attorney was impatient, probably because he didn’t have a client he could bill for the minutes. I had a vision of a gigantic clock with a bright red arrow clicking off each wasted instant. “I’ve been reviewing the history of some of the pieces he’s donating in order to make sure the assessed value is correct. I came across the Loros founder’s name as the previous owner of a very valuable painting, which he bought through a New York auction house.”
“Of course I know Bart Corliss died. I wouldn’t know anything about his private purchases, however. I am the attorney for the company, not Mr. Corliss’s personal attorney,” he said, cutting me off.
“Yes, but I wonder if he ever said anything about the painting. You see, it looks as though he gave the painting to Mr. Margoletti.”
“Gave?” The lawyer snorted. “I rather doubt that, Ms. O’Rourke. Relations between Mr. Corliss and Mr. Margoletti were strained, shall we say, for the past four months at least. Unless the gift was long ago.”
“No, I think it was recent. It’s worth quite a bit, about twenty million dollars,” I said.
“Twenty million?” Burgess was incredulous. I’d broken through his impenetrable veneer with that number. “And bought at Sotheby’s or Christie’s? Well, you’ve got hold of some bad information there, Ms. O’Rourke. As I said, I’m not Corliss’s personal attorney, but it strains credibility to think that Bart Corliss would buy, much less give away, a major work of art. I seriously doubt he knew more than the names of the art auction places back East.”
“Why?”
“Look, the Loros corporate offices are downscale spaces in a slightly run down building on New Montgomery Street. They’re decorated with framed photographs of their products. Cheaply framed photos. Bart Corliss was a brilliant, intense, ambitious man, but he never showed an ounce of interest in anything cultural in my presence and certainly not to the tune of twenty million dollars. I’ve been to his house, and, believe me, it could use a little up
scaling. He sank every cent he had into the business and didn’t even draw a salary until after the IPO.” He barked a laugh into the phone. “I’d bet real money your information is wrong.”
Puzzled, I tried a few other angles, but Mr. Burgess wasn’t a lawyer for nothing. He had said all he intended to and within a minute (that’s sixty seconds in billable time) he informed me briskly that he had another call waiting, asked me to let Geoff know he had returned my call, and was off the phone.
So now I had the Lichtenstein that Corliss had given to Vince and the O’Keeffe that was lost or not to investigate, and I wasn’t going to get any help from the college. My inner voice pointed out there was a more immediate concern. Had I just stirred up a killer’s instincts?
CHAPTER 21
Ethan had left me a message and he sounded apologetic when I returned his call. “You got me thinking. You know Bart Corliss, the guy who started the software company but committed suicide?”
Timely, since I had been talking to his company’s lawyer of record ten minutes ago. “A board member at the Devor mentioned him to me.”
“Right. Margoletti’s firm handled his start-up, so how come he fired Margoletti weeks before the IPO was announced, and then killed himself?”
“You’re saying Vince Margoletti had something to do with his death?”
“I’m not saying anything other than Margoletti and Corliss intersected, broke up dramatically, and now Corliss is dead.”
“Tell me about his company.”
“Corliss built a beautiful product, one that filled a specific and expanding niche in tech. For the past several years, there were rumors Loros was about to go public, but they always pulled back from the projected IPO dates when the time got close.”
“Any rumors about the back off?”
“Officially, they decided to wait out sluggishness in the economy, or to deal with some internal product issues first. Always a reason, but backing off three times makes you wonder. Then Corliss held a press conference to say they were definitely doing it on a certain date and the market got excited. I placed an order for damn near as many shares as my broker could get his hands on.”
“And?”
“And nothing. Went off as promised, I got a decent piece of the action, the price ran up, I sold half and held onto the rest. Made a little money. Corliss and the rest of the founding team, and the board members, made a pile.”
“Margoletti did too.” Loros’s lawyer had confirmed that for me.
“I heard he didn’t agree with the rest of the board about going public. He and Corliss butted heads on it. The rest of the board sided with Corliss.”
“Why?”
“You got me. Probably a combination of control and money. The fewer shares that exist, the greater percentage you have, right?”
“It doesn’t make sense. Neither does the timing of Corliss’ death. Why, when he’s made a fortune on the new stock, would Corliss kill himself?”
Ethan agreed it didn’t compute.
“This is going to sound like a crazy question, but do you know if Bart Corliss liked modern painting? Did you ever hear about him buying art?”
“Sorry, Dani, I didn’t really know the guy, only bumped into him a few times. Seemed quiet, nerdy, not sociable. That’s about it.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’m trying to connect some dots that refuse to make sense.” I realized I trusted Ethan for the same reason he trusted me, and that was because Suzy trusted us both.
I sat for a few minutes after ending the call, willing my imagination to clue me in as to why someone would kill anyone who knew about the IPO and the gift. Vincent Margoletti was at the heart of it, whatever it was, he wanted me to stop looking at the missing artwork. Did that mean he had hired someone to scare me off? I must be getting close to the heart of the secret.
Dickie had left a couple of messages while I was on the phone, and the house phone had rung too. I didn’t want to get distracted from the task at hand, so I let them go for now. My heart rate was elevated as I punched in the numbers from Margoletti’s business card, but I could have saved myself the stress. A bland assistant’s voice told me firmly that Mr. Margoletti was not available and that she did not know when I might reach him. I could only leave my name and cell phone number and ask him to call at his earliest convenience.
I turned back to my notes. As I sorted through the material, I noticed something I hadn’t seen when I first scanned everything from Saylor’s office. Without context, it hadn’t caught my attention, but now I wondered. It was a photocopy of a computer-generated note on plain paper that was mixed in with some IRS charitable instructions.
Margoletti—It’s been delivered to the warehouse in San Francisco. The papers will be sent directly to you as you instructed. At the top of the paper, a handwritten note: This is what I mentioned. He has no idea what it means. Maybe you’ll have better luck.
The handwritten note wasn’t signed. The paper had fold creases as if it had been inside a business envelope, but there was no date, no address, nothing to help me understand it. I was ready to bet the “it” was a piece of art. No business letterhead, so it wasn’t a communication from an auction house or a gallery. Maybe this was simply the tail end of a much longer conversation. Maybe.
I looked at my watch. I needed to catch Quentin for a minute if only to update him on events. I picked up the room phone to ask for a cab when there was a series of rapid knocks on my door in some kind of rhythm. A frowning face peered at me through the peephole. I opened the door warily.
“There you are,” Dickie said. “I was getting worried. You didn’t answer your room phone or your cell. You shouldn’t scare me like that.”
“How’s the reunion going?” I said, stepping aside to let him in.
“Oh, you know. A lot of bragging about how well they’re doing, and a lot of complaining about taxes and college tuitions for the kids.”
“I can never figure out why you come to these things if you don’t enjoy them.”
He gave me an apologetic look. “They’re the closest I have to brothers. I know that sounds dumb, but an only child sent off to boarding school has to take what he can get.”
In my family, closeness wasn’t hard to find. My memory is of standing at the door of the room I shared with my kid sister and yelling to my mother at the top of my lungs that I wanted privacy and would she please tell my sister to go somewhere else for a while so I could listen to my music. I realize Dickie’s childhood wasn’t perfect, even with a father who loved him dearly. His mother loves him too, I guess, in her way, which is more about preserving his status and his money against people who would sully one and take the other, specifically me with my obvious—to her anyway—goal of “marrying up.”
“Okay, it’s not dumb,” I said, grabbing my bag and ushering him out of the room and toward the elevator. “Even though it’s Saturday, I need to meet with Quentin. Ouch.” I had reached too far for the elevator button and my neck let me know.
“Are you hurt?” Dickie asked, the question I had hoped to avoid.
“No, not really,” I said, relieved that the elevator had been right there and I could beg off talking to him further while we descended in the company of a young guy carrying golf clubs.
“Oh, Ms. O’Rourke,” a voice called as we walked toward the door. It was the bellman, hurrying across the lobby. “I heard about your accident. The hotel manager asked if you needed help with your rental company?”
“Accident?” Dickie looked from one of us to the other.
“No thanks. They’ll send a new car if I need it.”
“What happened to your car?” Dickie was glaring at me as if I had done something wrong, which was grossly unfair. The young bellman nodded unhappily and beat a hasty retreat, something in my face signaling him that maybe he had made a mistake. If I hadn’t been so physically down, if I had had anyone else to turn to, I wouldn’t have caved so quickly. In the moment, however, there were so many questions and so many
threads I was chasing, and I had no friends around or even work colleagues to talk things through with, and Dickie was right here, and, well, I gave in.
“We can’t talk here. I need to see Quentin. If you want to help, you could call his assistant and see if he has a few minutes.”
“It’s Saturday, babe. He’s far, far away.”
“He’s there. I already left a message.”
“Okay, I’ll call right now.” He pulled out his phone. “But what’s this about? Your accident?”
“You can go with me to Quentin’s office and I’ll fill you both in.” I didn’t want to discuss it in the lobby of the hotel. “What about the reunion, though?” And Miss Roman Holiday, I added mentally.
“Nothing I can’t miss this afternoon. Golf, mostly. I don’t play, remember?”
I did. It had been one of his attractions for me in the early days. He didn’t say if Isabella played, but I was guessing not or she would have invited him to caddy. “You have a car, right?”
Dickie gave me a thumb and forefinger sign as he spoke into his phone and went to wait for his car to be brought around. The bellman was still subdued as he handed the car keys to Dickie. I thought he might be feeling bad for his lack of discretion until I saw the car Dickie walked to, a brilliant yellow Ferrari, so low slung that I had to hang onto the car’s roof as I bent to get in. Truth was, the bellman was in awe. “This is your rental car?” I said, gritting my teeth as I tried to get comfortable.
“Yeah, well, sort of. I thought I’d try it out so I…” He got busy with the seat belt.
“Don’t tell me you bought it? You didn’t.”
“I kind of did. I mean,” he said, rushing to get the words out before I could comment. “I can take it back. These things are always on approval. They’re not for everybody, you know?”
You can say that again. I didn’t, mostly because the noise a Ferrari makes as it leaps forward, straining the bounds of gravity, begging to go from zero to one hundred miles an hour in six seconds, precludes normal conversation. When we had made a couple of turns and were cruising along in second gear, attracting every eye we passed on the street, Dickie started asking questions. I had to shout if only to get him to stop. “Hold on. I said I’d tell you everything, but I don’t want to run through it twice. Do I have an appointment with Quentin?”