“And when the floor is hidden?” she asked.
“It’s illegal,” Zach said. “It could involve straw bidders in the crowd, or bogus signals from the phone banks, or winning bidders who quietly fail to follow through and take delivery after the headlines about a painting’s record price are made—any or all of the above can be used to be sure the floor is reached, and probably surpassed.”
Jill frowned. “I can see why the seller would want a big price. Where’s the benefit to the buyer if he’s the one doing the rigging?”
“Tax deductions. The bigger the sale price of the object, the bigger the deduction if the work is donated. When everyone is in on the fix, the seller gets enough of a kickback to pay capital gains on his art ‘profit,’ which he never really sees but still has to pay taxes on. Or the seller donates other paintings at the inflated price and ends up not having to pay taxes on his gains for the paintings he did sell.”
“You’re giving me a headache,” Jill said.
He shrugged. “Those are just a few of the ways to rig sales numbers. When St. Kilda’s researchers get some breathing space, they’ll go through the records and see just how much real money Dunstan owners have tied up in their paintings. I’m betting that at least one of them doesn’t have a tenth of the upcoming auction’s price into his Dunstans. The rest is blue smoke and auction fever. There are plenty of ways to juice the numbers, especially at an auction.”
“Is it common?” she asked.
“You mean like dirt? No. Common like something you should always be aware of in any auction? Oh, yeah. Millions of bucks change hands on the tip of a paddle or the lift of an eyebrow. A smart auctioneer or a savvy floor man can cover a multitude of backstage tricks. Sometimes the whole auction isn’t rigged, just certain lots in the auction. Real hard to prove and it all adds to everyone’s bottom line.”
“So a dozen new Dunstan paintings wouldn’t be very welcome if the game is already scripted.”
Zach smiled thinly. “About as welcome as a snake in a hen-house.”
A young man wearing an expensive suit and a harried expression crossed toward them.
“Here we go,” Zach said in a low voice. “Remember, we’re front people for a potential bidder, nothing more. Mr. and Mrs. Arlington.”
“Another charade. Craptastic.”
“You want to wait in the suite? I can take care of this.”
“I thought you were worried about me being alone.”
“You wouldn’t be,” Zach said, watching the crowd. “St. Kilda has ops in town, so if someone whispers St. Kilda in your ear, or Faroe’s name, do whatever they tell you to, including hit the door or the floor.”
She took a deep breath, steadying herself for a run down unfamiliar rapids. “I’ll follow your lying lead.”
“Pretext, not lie. You’re hurting my delicate feelings.”
Her laugh turned into a cough as the young man stopped in front of them. “Mr. Arlington? I’m Jase Wheeler. I’m very pressed for time, as you can well imagine.” He gave them a harried smile. “As you were told, the paintings aren’t really set up for public viewing at this—”
“No problem,” Zach interrupted, smiling easily. “My partner and I are used to artists’ studios. Nothing messier.”
Jase tried again. “You really would have a better opportunity to examine the works tomorrow, when we move across the hall to the Grand Ballroom.”
“Unless we like what we see today, we won’t be here tomorrow, because our client won’t be bidding,” Zach said. His smile had a lot more teeth than Jase’s.
“I see.” Jase straightened his suit-coat. “Your client was particularly interested in the Dunstans, I believe?”
“Yes,” Jill said. Her smile, too, was more teeth than good fellowship. She was getting tired of being transparent to salespeople when Zach was around.
“I hope your client has a great deal of money,” Jase said to Zach. “The excitement about those particular canvases is very intense.”
“Our client never worries about money,” Jill said, “just about getting what he wants.”
“And he wants Dunstans, but only if they’re top quality,” Zach said.
“I don’t recall a financial disclosure form being filled out for any client represented by you,” Jase said.
“There won’t be any need of financial disclosure unless we like what we see today,” Zach said gently. “Or is a financial vetting required simply to preview the works?”
“Uh, no, of course not,” Jase said.
Zach waited.
Jase gave in and guided them down a long narrow hall to a meeting room that was crowded with dozens of easels containing artworks.
“Only two of the Dunstans are on the floor right now,” Jase said. “The others are still, uh, being uncrated.”
“If you’re lucky, we’ll see something interesting in what you already have out,” Jill said coolly. “Otherwise, you might want to expedite the uncrating of the other two.”
Jase’s shoulders tightened, but he didn’t say a word.
67
LAS VEGAS
SEPTEMBER 16
5:13 P.M.
At the front of the room, two Dunstans waited in gilt frames that had been secured to large, sturdy easels.
Zach stopped twenty feet away and studied the paintings carefully for a full two minutes. The first painting was a Great Basin landscape that glowed with its own internal light, the magic moments of late afternoon sunlight captured forever in oils. The other painting was much more fierce, a winter storm slashing down across a dry lake bed that could have been in Nevada or east of the Sierras in California.
“Remarkable, aren’t they?” Jase said. “No one manages to catch raking light like Dunstan did.”
Jill made a sound that said she was too busy absorbing the paintings to waste time restating the obvious.
Zach walked up to the two paintings, examining them from a few feet away, looking pointedly at all four corners and the edges. Then he turned toward Jase.
“The corners look like they could be damaged,” Zach said.
Jill took the cue and came to stand closer, staring at the corners of each painting.
“Very doubtful,” Jase said. “These are some of the finest Dunstans in the world. They came directly from the family collection. They’ve never been offered to the public before.”
“Yeah?” Zach said. His voice said he wasn’t buying what Jase was selling. “So the Dunstans are peddling their heritage—or are they just editing the family collection?”
Jill bit back a smile. Editing was art-speak for culling inferior works from a museum or individual collector’s holdings.
“Not at all,” Jase said instantly. “It’s simply that there comes a time in a man’s life where art like this is simply too precious to keep in the home. The costs of insurance alone are staggering. Lee Dunstan is a simple man with simple needs.”
“At four million apiece, the paintings could take care of a lot of simple needs,” Jill said.
Jase ignored her. “Lee wanted his father’s work to be in a place where it could receive top-level care and display. The new museum in Carson City is just such a place. Lee will donate two of the four Dunstans to the museum. Those are the paintings that haven’t been uncrated, because technically, they aren’t part of the auction.”
“They won’t be sold?” Jill asked.
“No. As I said, Mr. Dunstan will donate them at the end of the auction.”
“What’s he waiting for?” Jill asked.
Jase kept ignoring her and talked to Zach. “Your client should know that four million is the bottom level of acceptable bidding. We expect the paintings to go as high as ten million, perhaps higher. Talbert Crawford will be at the auction in person. He is the foremost collector of Thomas Dunstan, although there are at least three others who will be hoping to outbid him. It’s very rare that Dunstan’s work is offered at a public auction.”
“Did Crawford have to
fill out a financial qualification form?” Jill asked.
“Of course,” Jase said. “Every bidder must. No exceptions.”
“If we still care, my client’s personal banker will call you tomorrow morning,” Zach said casually. “She’ll answer your questions.”
“What kinds of art does your client already own?” Jase asked.
“Whatever he wants. He’s new to the Western art market. He wants to start at the top. Saves all the kicking and gouging.”
Jase blinked. “Well, a major Dunstan canvas certainly would be a tremendous place to start.”
“Depends on the Dunstan,” Zach said. “Before I give my okay to the client, I want to black-light these. You have a place where I can do that?”
“Certainly,” Jase said. It was something any serious collector would want done with an expensive painting before the bidding began. The fact that Zach was being thorough was reassuring, underlining the earnest intentions of his client. “I’ll have the boys bring the paintings to a back room.”
“Unframed,” Zach said.
Jill held her breath.
“My client never buys a painting until I see it without its frame,” Zach added calmly. “It’s like marrying a woman before you see her without makeup and designer clothes.”
Jase almost smiled. Seeing the paintings naked, as it were, was another common demand, especially if the potential buyer was concerned about the condition of the canvas or stretchers. Framing could—and did—hide or minimize defects.
A snap of Jase’s fingers brought two young men trotting over. Under his supervision, they popped the canvases out of their frames and stood by, waiting for more orders.
“Follow me,” Jase said.
Zach and Jill fell in behind the young men with the canvases. They went down another hallway to a narrow back room where paintings were uncrated and cleaned, repaired, even reframed if necessary. As with real estate and used cars, curbside appeal was all-important to selling art.
If it looked dingy, it sold at a dingy price.
An armed guard sat on a folding chair just inside the door. He nodded to Jase and ignored everyone else.
Easels were scattered throughout the room. Two other people were examining various unframed paintings. One of them was using a battery-driven black light. When she set it aside and left with her companion, Jase picked up the light and handed it to Zach.
“Excuse the rudimentary conditions,” Jase said to Zach.
“Like I said. We’re used to artist’s studios.”
Jase nodded at his two helpers. Each placed a painting on an empty easel and stood close by, waiting to be needed.
“Either shut the door or kill the hall lights,” Zach said.
One of the helpers leaped to a dimmer switch on the wall behind the guard. Artificial twilight descended.
Zach turned on the black light and moved it across the front of one painting.
On the first pass the surface was uniform, constant, as it would be if all the paint had been laid down at the same time.
“Back here,” Jill said.
Zach retraced the painting with the black light until he and Jill could examine several areas where the artist had sketched landforms with extra layers of oil, blending blue and black and green to evoke the rich, earthy colors of a Western landscape.
“Looks clean,” Jill said. “No variation in style, just texture.”
“Signature is normal, painted after the canvas was dry,” Zach said.
“After the artist gave up on achieving perfection,” she said softly, “and went on to a new challenge.”
“Been there, done that?” he asked.
“Every time I picked up a brush.”
Smiling, Zach examined the top and side edges of each canvas. There was wear at the corners and a slight loosening of the canvas itself on the stretchers. Nothing critical, just the natural aging process that began the instant an artist finished a canvas.
“Turn each canvas so that I can examine the bottom edge of the rolled canvas,” Zach said.
The two young men duly flipped each canvas.
Zach moved the light slowly along the bottom edge. Once. Twice. Three times. He looked at Jill.
No thumbprint.
68
LAS VEGAS
SEPTEMBER 16
5:19 P.M.
Very lightly Zack ran his fingertips along the bottom edge of the painting. Jill took a deep breath, let it out, then took another breath, sniffing the bottom corner of the second painting.
“Black light,” she said.
Zach gave her the light. She held it at an oblique angle to the edge of the stretcher.
“See it?” she asked.
“Looks like it was added after the paint dried,” Zach said.
“Well after,” she said. “It still smells faintly of oil. The modern, quick-dry kind, complete with modern, quick-dry sealant.”
Once discovered, the over-painting leaped out like a scab on otherwise smooth skin.
Jase crowded in on the painting and stared. “You’re right, the repair seems new. But it has no significance.”
“Really?” Jill said skeptically.
“Probably the original frame was put on before the canvas had completely dried,” Jase explained. “When the frame was recently removed for the canvas to be re-stretched, some paint came with it. Thus the repair. It certainly doesn’t matter to the value of the painting as a whole. I doubt if you would even notice it without the black light. Once the canvas is back in its frame, the over-painting will be invisible.”
“Looks like the canvas might have been damaged,” Zach said. “That would affect the price.”
“If it was true, yes. The documents from Lee Dunstan didn’t indicate any such damage,” Jase said.
Zach shrugged. “Then you won’t mind if I record this for my client?”
“Record?”
Zach produced the little digital camera.
“No images,” Jase said immediately. “All reprographic rights remain with the artist’s estate.”
“I’m not going for the front of the painting,” Zach said. “Just the part that will be hidden by the frame at the auction.”
Jase hesitated, glanced at his watch, and said, “Please be quick about it. I have another appointment in two minutes.”
Zach bent over the canvas and recorded the over-painting under various lighting conditions.
The pager on Jase’s belt went off. He looked at the code and frowned.
“We can find our way out,” Jill said. “Don’t be late on account of us.”
“If you need to shift a canvas, one of my helpers will do it,” Jase said. “Insurance, you understand. We can’t have anyone touching the art.”
“Of course,” Jill said. “Thank you for your time. I assure you that our client will be very interested in these paintings. Nothing like a new, extremely wealthy collector to spice up an auction, is there?”
It was every auctioneer’s wet dream, and Jase knew it. “All qualified bidders are welcome.” He smiled. “If you’ll excuse me…”
While Jase hurried out of the room, Zach went to the other canvas. The black light flashed over his face. His grin looked demonic in the purple glow.
When Jill would have said something, he bent and kissed her swiftly, then breathed in her ear, “Not one word about thumbprints.”
Like the other canvas, this one must have been put into the frame before it fully dried, because there was more over-painting near the bottom corner.
Jill leaned in, breathed deep, and said, “Same as the other.”
“Yeah. What do you want to bet it has the same cause?” Zach asked mildly.
“I wouldn’t bet against it,” she said, flinching when the camera’s built-in flash went off.
“Not even in Vegas?”
“Especially not in Vegas.”
“Smart woman.”
“Keep it in mind,” she said.
“Always,” he promised.
<
br /> As soon as Zach was finished, they thanked the helpers and headed out of the room. When Jill was certain no one could overhear, she turned to Zach.
“How did someone know to—”
He stopped her words with a hard kiss.
“But when—” she began as soon as he lifted his head.
“Not until we’re in the shower. Naked.”
69
LAS VEGAS
SEPTEMBER 16
6:05 P.M.
Lee Dunstan staggered slightly, then righted himself by leaning against the plush sofa.
Can’t hold liquor the way I used to.
But he wanted another drink anyway.
When he went to get it, he found Betty pouring the rest of the bottle into the bathroom sink.
With an angry cry, Lee lunged toward her, knocking her and the empty bottle against the glassed-in shower enclosure. The shower’s heavy glass banged, vibrated, and held. The bottle shattered.
Betty slid down to the floor and put her face in her hands.
Lee turned on his heel and went to the room phone to order another bottle. Before he could pick up the receiver, the phone rang.
“What?” he snarled into the receiver.
“Ah, Mr. Dunstan?”
“Who the hell are you?”
“Jase Wheeler, with the auction. I just wanted to share some very good news with you.”
Lee took a deep breath. The room spun. He took another breath. Things settled down.
Mostly.
“I’m listening,” Lee said.
“The advisers for an unknown, extremely wealthy mystery bidder showed up to look at your Dunstans. They inspected them very thoroughly. They floated the idea that some damage had been done to the canvas because there were spots of over-painting on the bottom edges of the stretched canvas, but I—”
“Edges? Edges! Those paintings are in frames!” Lee shouted.
Blue Smoke and Murder Page 26
