Tally had gotten along smoothly with all three. He’d tacked nimbly to the prevailing winds, deftly shaping his advice and his formal opinions to get his client of the moment wherever she wanted to go. And in all three cases he’d generally gotten her there without abrading the delicate susceptibilities of heirs, trustees—or courts. That made my job simple: make Tally think Jennifer Stannard Huggens wanted to spend Transoxana’s money to save a painting for the Museum.
I choked back vestigial blue-collar resentment as Huggens entered with a gracious smile and a firm handshake for each of us. Not her fault she’d been born blond and rich. She’d worked full time at real jobs in the twelve years since completing her second degree—not as hard as I had, but not many people outside Chinese sweatshops do. I could tell she charmed Willy right out of his socks. For a second I was afraid he was just going to hand her the goods right then and there.
Once we finally took our seats, Tally spent thirty seconds on the usual thanks-for-coming-and-welcome-to-the-Museum palaver. Then he looked at me.
“It’s your party, Ms. Jakubek. What’s your pleasure?”
I began by passing around a redacted photocopy of a handwritten German bill of sale dated 23 March 1938. It documented Dietrich Heinzen’s purchase of a painting titled Maiden in Apron from Scholeim Himmelfarb for eight thousand marks. Or at least it would have documented that purchase if I hadn’t blacked some stuff out. I had an English translation attached to it, with blanks instead of blackouts. I’d stapled the two-page packets into blue construction-paper backings like lawyers used for Very Important Documents fifty years ago. I hoped that would make them seem more like something worth the kind of money my client wanted.
“Why have you blacked out the names of the seller and buyer and the painting sold?” Huggens asked.
“Because I don’t want to tempt Transoxana to try to track down a duplicate original of this bill of sale instead of buying the one Mr. Szulz is offering.”
“So the painting isn’t the one the Museum owns, Klimt’s Eros Rising?”
“No.”
“Then what good would this document be to us?”
Tally came in right on cue.
“Comparable sale would be my guess.”
“Explain. Please.” Huggens added the “please” as an afterthought, but give her credit: she got it in.
“On the tenth of October, 1937, Gustav Wehring sold Eros Rising to a Swiss industrialist for seven thousand marks. Not chump-change, but it might strike many as a derisory sum for a painting purchased by a generous American benefactor for three million dollars in 1973, appraised at more than twenty million when he donated it to the Museum in 1996, and valued at fifty million today.”
“Comes the dawn.” Huggens gave Tally the kind of smile that high school teachers offer students who combine clever with earnest. “Wehring’s heirs are claiming that he sold Eros Rising for far less than its real worth in 1937 because he was forced to by the Nazis, making that sale illegitimate. But if a comparable painting sold around the same time for something like the same price and without any hint of coercion, that would show that the original sale of Eros Rising was a legitimate, arm’s-length transaction at a fair price.”
“Exactly.”
Huggens turned her plum-colored eyes toward me.
“And you’re saying your client could prove that happened?”
“No.” I wanted to be real clear on this next part. “I’m saying Mr. Szulz can sell you documentation of a roughly contemporaneous sale, in the same price range, of a painting that has gotten appraisals in the same ballpark as appraisals of Eros Rising at around the same time. What that proves will be up to you.”
“Or up to a court.” Huggens’ smile now had Gotcha! written all over it.
“Not exactly,” Shifcos said, shifting her gaze to Huggens. “The statutes of limitation have run on all possible legal theories that could be used to challenge the sales. You have a bulletproof defense to any legal action seeking to recover Eros Rising—unless you choose to waive that defense voluntarily.”
“What about the Washington Convention?” Huggens’ eyes darted back and forth between Shifcos and me, as if we were in the middle of a long rally in a tennis match. “Doesn’t that treaty waive the statute of limitations and other technical defenses? And hasn’t the United States signed it?”
“The United States has signed the Washington Convention, but the Pitt MCM hasn’t,” Shifcos said. “The Convention binds most European museums because they’re essentially government institutions. The Pittsburgh Museum of Twentieth-Century Art is a private entity and therefore not bound by the treaty.”
“Ms. Huggens is aware of that,” Tally said, lying with angelic sincerity. “But ethical private American museums have informally agreed to abide by the Washington Convention’s waiver of technical defenses as a moral obligation in cases where they feel that a claim for a particular work of art is valid on the merits.”
Shifcos gave Tally and Huggens a cocked eyebrow, which I roughly translated as: Transoxana Insurance Company isn’t in the moral obligation business. You blow off a killer defense, we don’t write a check. Save your souls on your own dime. This struck me as a good time to jump back into the conversation.
“I agree with Mr. Rand. Especially the ‘on the merits’ part. If the Museum decides that the claim for Eros Rising is meritorious, it may feel morally compelled to waive technical defenses. But if the Museum itself reaches the opposite conclusion, there’d be no reason for any waiver and therefore no basis for a judge even to look at the bill of sale Mr. Szulz is offering—much less decide what it proves or doesn’t prove. You’re the sole judge of that. All you’ll ever have to say in court is, ‘Statute of limitations, we win.’”
Willy beamed. “Is this a great country or what?”
Chapter Four
Cynthia Jakubek
Tally looked at my client like he was a glass of Ripple at a lobster dinner. Then he smiled at me.
“Fair enough. Even if we’re judge and jury, though, we’re not just going to go through the motions. We’ll take a good faith look at the heirs’ claim—and we can’t verify anything with a redacted photocopy and an interesting story.”
“You won’t have to. For two hundred thousand dollars Mr. Szulz will provide you with an authenticated duplicate original of the 1938 bill of sale for a comparable painting. You can verify it to your heart’s content.”
That answer earned me my second Gotcha! grin from Huggens.
“And how much do we pay Mr. Szulz if we decide that your documentation isn’t enough to validate that 1938 sale?”
Yeah, like THAT’S going to happen. “Good faith look” my ass. All you want is enough paper to cover your fanny and we both know it. Saying that out loud would have been rude, so I said something else.
“In that case, of course, you will feel morally obligated to turn Eros Rising over to the heirs who are demanding it. If you surrender the painting within three months, Mr. Szulz will return seventy-five percent of your payment; within six months, fifty percent; within nine months, twenty-five percent. If you keep the painting for at least two hundred seventy-one days after we give you the original bill of sale, then Mr. Szulz keeps all the money.”
“Two hundred thousand is a lot of money,” Tally said.
“Less than one-half of one percent of fifty million.”
“Sorry.” Shifcos shook her head. “Two hundred is too high. I think it’s out of line, and in any case I don’t have authority for a payment that large.”
Last, best, and final offer. Take it or leave it. I wanted to say that more than I’ve wanted anything in a long time—more than I’d wanted a cigarette after dinner the first day I quit smoking, nine years earlier. But I choked the words back and shrugged at Shifcos.
“I understand. As a goodwill gesture, Mr. Szulz will wait twenty-four hours be
fore transferring the document in question to any other buyer.” I paused to look at Tally and then back at Shifco. “No charge for that accommodation.”
“Ms. Jakubek,” Tally asked, “are you representing to us that there is another prospective buyer in the picture?”
Opening my briefcase, I took out three copies of a four-page contract and passed them around. I hadn’t bothered with blue backings for these.
“This is an agreement spelling out the terms I just offered. As you’ll see, it disclaims all representations and warranties except for the authenticity of the bill of sale.” Then I caught Tally’s eye and held it. “But if you didn’t think there was another buyer in the picture, you wouldn’t have insisted on having this meeting on such short notice.”
Tally, Shifcos, and Huggens eye-fenced for about six seconds before Huggens spoke.
“Would you mind stepping outside for a few minutes? We’d like to caucus.”
Chapter Five
Cynthia Jakubek
“Why didn’t you use that ‘take-it-or-leave-it’ line with them? I love when you do that.”
“Tally might have thought his manhood was on the line if I’d said that. It takes a very self-confident man not to let his insecurities and his mom issues and all that crap get in the way when a woman hands him an ultimatum—especially if he’s sitting between two other women.”
“But you would have been giving our ultimatum to one of the chicks, not Tally.”
“Tally is our real target.” Didn’t appreciate “chicks,” but I had thick skin and bigger fish to fry. “They’re caucusing so Shifcos can ask Huggens how much the Museum will chip in. Tally is the key to that discussion.”
“Got it.” Willy rubbed his hands together. “We want him thinking from behind his eyebrows instead of his zipper.”
“Bingo.”
“You gotta gimme a pass on ‘chicks,’” Willy said then, a bit sheepishly. “It kinda just slipped out. You know, Willy being Willy.”
“Speaking of which, try to keep the Willyisms on ice once we’re back within earshot of the big guy.”
“I hear ya. I noticed he wasn’t coming on to you while we walked back over here, so I figure he’s gotta be gay, right? I’ll watch my mouth.”
“Or maybe he just loves whoever has the wedding ring matching the one he’s wearing. But what concerns me is the other ring, on the little finger of his right hand. Silver signet ring with a Torah-scroll-and-candle design.”
“Blond hair, blue eyes, the build of a small forward—and you think he’s Jewish?”
“I don’t think he got that ring for being the best altar boy at St. Stanislaus. Might be a good idea to skip light-hearted remarks about stormtroopers taking five-finger discounts on fine art.”
“You got it.” He nodded vigorously. “No wisecracks until we’ve got Transoxana’s signature on the dotted line.”
I sensed movement behind us and turned back toward the inside of the reception area. A substantial woman in her mid-fifties moved ponderously toward us.
“Not sure what her problem is,” Willy muttered, “but I think we can rule out anorexia.”
I sighed. No wisecracks. Right.
“Ms. Huggens asked me to tell you that they’re ready for you in the conference room,” she said seven seconds later when she reached us.
I thanked her and herded Willy back toward the hallway that led to the Oliva Stannard et cetera. I wanted to put distance between us and the woman before Willy dropped another impulsive mot.
“Think we’ve got a deal?” he asked.
“Nope. If we had a deal, Tally would have come out for us.”
I was right. As soon as we were seated, Shifcos squared up and looked directly across the table at me. She had her forearms on the table and her hands folded lightly in front of her. No tension. Her face with its peaches-and-cream complexion seemed open and empathetic. What I read in her eyes wasn’t hard-nosed bitchiness or cold ruthlessness but something scarier: confident certainty. She knew that well south of two hundred thousand dollars would mean more to my client than fifty million meant to her company. Even more important, she knew that the Museum would put more on the table than it had while Willy and I were passing time in the reception area.
“We need a week. Possibly less, but a week to be safe.”
Shit. With someone maybe following Willy around, delay struck me as a bad idea. But we couldn’t look like we were afraid to give them a chance to check out Willy’s story. At the same time, it might be interesting to know how much they wanted it.
“Twenty-four hours was free. Weeks are going for ten thousand each these days.”
“Five thousand.” Shifcos shook her head, the way an assistant principal might when telling you she’s sorry but she has to give you detention. “We appreciate your position, but five is the best we can do. And if we do make a deal, the five thousand counts against our final payment.”
“Well we are going to make a deal so it’s a zero-cost concession for you anyway. Let’s just split the difference.”
Again with the head-shake. Again with the certainty.
“Five thousand. Last, best, and final offer. Take it or leave it.”
“We’ll take it,” Willy said.
Willy can be a pain in the butt, but he is a self-confident pain in the butt.
Chapter Six
Jay Davidovich
“I have some things to discuss with Mr. Rand.” Proxy said this to me as everyone was standing up and she was stowing her mobile phone in her attaché case. “Why don’t you go to the hotel and get started on our trip report? I’ll give you a call around six to talk about dinner plans.”
I took this as Proxyspeak for see if you can figure out whether Szulz is really being followed. Especially since she unobtrusively slipped the rental car fob into the left pocket of my windbreaker. That’s why I left at the same time as Jakubek and Szulz. Figuring Jakubek had spotted the fob-pass, I decided to put it on the table as soon as our tight little group hit the sidewalk.
“If I can remember where we parked the Buick Avis rented to us, I’ll be happy to give you a ride back to the Omni.”
“I wouldn’t have a GM car, personally,” Szulz said. “After the way Comrade Obama shafted the bond-holders when he was ‘saving’ General Motors, I’d feel like I was trafficking in stolen goods.”
“Thanks, but it’s only a few blocks.” Jakubek said. “If we don’t see you again, it’s been real.”
If you don’t see me again it’ll be because I’m doing my job right.
I found the dark blue Ford Escape right where Proxy had parked it, just down a side-street called Stanwick that intersects on the diagonal with Liberty Avenue near the Museum’s main entrance. I’d made the “Buick” crack so that I’d be the farthest thing from Szulz’s mind if he happened to notice a Ford SUV making the same turns he was when he drove from the Omni to his next destination. I was betting they wouldn’t take me up on my ride offer. If they had I would’ve come up with something to explain the Buick thing away, but I’m not sure what—so it’s a good thing they didn’t.
When it comes to following someone, I prefer heading to tailing. People associate being followed with having someone behind them, so the smoothest way to bring it off is to start from the front. You slip to the back if you have to along the way, then get in front again when you can.
The Escape’s GPS wanted to route me along Liberty, but that’s where Jakubek and Szulz were strolling toward Fifth at the moment, so I took a quick right on Fourth instead. That made the GPS scold but its illuminated map still worked fine. I managed a left on Smithfield after two blocks east on Fourth, and rode that to something called Oliver Avenue, between Fifth and Sixth. A right on Oliver and our hotel was almost staring me in the face.
Time to wait. I’d noticed by this time that downtown Pittsburgh is very hil
ly. No, let me rephrase that: hill-wise, Pittsburgh makes San Francisco look like Des Moines. That meant I’d have to wait closer to the intersection of Oliver and William Penn Place than I would have liked. The pale March sun would be in their eyes if Jakubek or Szulz happened to glance in my direction, though, so I figured I was probably okay.
I finally spotted them trooping by on the opposite side of William Penn Place maybe seven minutes later. I sat tight until they actually reached the hotel entrance. Then I eased into a right turn and found an almost-legal parking space that let me get a decent view of the hotel’s front door in my side-view mirror. I was betting that Szulz would drive back in the direction of the Museum, which was the most direct route to his condo if the address in Proxy’s cyber-packet and the Escape’s sulky GPS were right. If he turned north instead of south I’d need to do some fancy wheel-work, but I decided to go with the odds.
By the time I had the parking brake on, Jakubek was already making her way on foot toward Sixth Avenue. I got a little gut-flutter because I couldn’t see Szulz for a second, but then I spotted him in shadows north of the entrance, handing his claim check to a valet. Less than five minutes later a garnet-red Mercury Sable that had to be twelve years old pulled up front. A guy in a gray-with-red-trim hotel uniform got out of the car. Szulz slipped him something and climbed in.
He swung the Sable toward the southbound lane. Maybe thirty feet ahead of him I pulled into the outside driving lane, framed him in my rearview mirror, and got ready to turn onto Fifth ahead of him. Smooth as silk.
Then the gray Corolla I’d spotted on my earlier excursion to the hotel pulled out behind Szulz and got on his tail. Smooth as sandpaper.
Collar Robber: A Crime Story Featuring Jay Davidovich and Cynthia Jakubek Page 2
