Chameleon's Death Dance

by BR Kingsolver

  “Oh, well, yes. An excellent idea.”

  For someone so handsome, rich, and sophisticated, Danielle seemed to knock him a little off balance. He led me to a side door, opened it with a passcode, and ushered me inside. I found myself in a maintenance hallway. Most museums and other public buildings had them. The staff running around doing their jobs tended to disrupt the quiet, contemplative atmosphere art lovers prefer.

  “Are we going to see some forbidden art?” I asked with a mischievous grin. “Maybe something pornographic that you can’t show the school kids?”

  Langston laughed. “Is that what you want to see?”

  “I want to see all the stuff you hide away. Why would I want to see all the normal stuff when we’re here after hours playing naughty?” I leaned against him and gave him a quick kiss on the lips, then turned away.

  He took me up a flight of stairs and through a long hallway, then around a corner and up another short flight of stairs. He keyed in his passcode, and we entered a room with paintings sitting on easels rather than hanging on the walls. I counted eight of the paintings, and two small sculptures on a table.

  “Are these recent acquisitions?” I asked. “Or are they here for appraisal?”

  “Authentication and appraisal,” he answered. “As you said, before someone pays a small fortune for an artwork, they want to know it isn’t a fake.”

  Neither the Rembrandt nor the Van Gogh I sought was there, but their theft was three years old. I did recognize a Monet, The Beach at Trouville. It had been part of an exhibition at a museum in Belgrade the previous winter and disappeared at the end of the show, a pretty slick heist that made me suspect another chameleon. One of the sculptures looked familiar, but I couldn’t place it. When Langston looked away for a moment, I took a picture of it with a small camera hidden in my bracelet.

  “So, tell me about them,” I said, smiling and throwing my arms around his neck, giving him a more enthusiastic kiss than I had earlier. “Are they worth millions of credits? Are any of them forgeries?”

  With his arm around my waist, he led me around to each piece in turn and told me about it. He didn’t falter when we came to the Monet, but didn’t mention it was considered a stolen piece. He also downplayed its value, telling me he estimated its worth at twenty-five million credits. I knew it had to be worth at least four times that amount.

  The sculpture I thought I recognized was an African piece, and I filed away what he told me about it in my memory.

  “So, where did these come from?” I asked.

  At that point, he turned reticent. “Various collectors or brokers. You understand, my clients and those who are selling the pieces prefer anonymity.”

  I gave him a sly grin. “Yeah, I understand that. A friend of my father got into some gambling problems and had to sell some art to pay them off.”

  He looked relieved when I didn’t press the issue. Instead, I flowed into his arms.

  “Thank you so much. Maybe next time we can view your pornography collection.”

  He grinned and leaned forward to kiss me. Art wasn’t the only thing he knew. I grew a little weak in the knees. His hand slid down my back and over my ass.

  “Oh, my! Look at the time! Oh, Langston, I’m so sorry. I have an early tennis date with Cheryl Frind in the morning. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to take me home. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “No. No, of course not.”

  “You are such a dear.” I separated from him. “You probably think I’m a horrible tease. Please, don’t think terrible things about me. I’ll make it up to you. I promise.” I laid my hand on his cheek and gave him a quick kiss, then turned toward the door.

  He came up behind me and put his arms around my waist, pulling me against him and letting me know how aroused he was. He kissed the back of my head and said, “I’ll hold you to that promise.”

  I giggled. “I’ll be disappointed if you don’t.”

  When the limo pulled up in front of my hotel, I leaned over and gave Langston a quick kiss on the cheek, then jumped out of the car before either he or his driver could get out. It was raining.

  “Thank you so much. I had a wonderful time,” I said, then dashed for the hotel.

  Inside, I breathed a sigh of relief. I was playing a dangerous game with Langston. I didn’t consider myself a prude, but I was probably the least promiscuous woman I knew. At least in my private life. I had seduced men and women in the interests of pulling off a heist or an assassination, but I found it distasteful and used the tactic only when absolutely necessary.

  In my private life, Wil and I had never discussed monogamy. I definitely couldn’t talk to the top law enforcement officer on the continent about the occasional necessity to sleep with someone in order to steal their assets. That would be much too awkward.

  Ten days after Marian Clark’s charity dinner, I arrived at her door promptly at noon. The butler showed me in, and Marian met me in the reception room off the foyer.

  “I’m so glad you could come,” she gushed, acting as though I was doing her a favor. We both knew it was the other way around.

  “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. I’ve heard so much about your collection. Langston says it’s the finest private collection in this part of the world.”

  “Oh, Langston, is it?” she said with a conspiratorial grin. “Are you and Director Boyle developing a friendship?”

  I gave her a raised eyebrow and grinned. “I understand he enjoys friendships with women. I assume I would be the latest in a long line?”

  She laughed as she led me to the second floor. “I’m sure I don’t know how long the line is, but Langston does like the ladies, and he’s been a bachelor for a very long time.”

  “That’s what Cheryl said.”

  The room we passed through was decorated in a seventeenth- and eighteenth-century French style with artwork from that era. The baroque and rococo styles went well with the furniture and the tapestry that covered one wall. Her taste was miles above that of Sheila Robertson.

  We walked out onto a second-floor terrace. Manicured lawns and colorful gardens spread out before us. The wall of their compound in the near distance separated the estate from the forest beyond. In the other direction, the water of Vancouver Bay was dotted with islands and the hills of the mainland and Vancouver Island in the far distance.

  I immediately noticed that while the terrace was open to the outside air, Marian hadn’t donned a filter mask. I took a deep breath and filled my lungs with the clean, ocean-scented breeze.

  “Oh, my. This is breathtaking. So beautiful.”

  A genuine smile lit up her face. “We like it. My great grandfather built the house, as well as the bridges linking the island to Central Island and the mainland.”

  We sat, and two servants served us lunch with a bottle of white wine.

  “Are you enjoying your stay in Vancouver?” Marian asked.

  “Very much. It’s such a pretty place, and the climate is so nice. Even nicer than Ireland. It doesn’t rain as much.”

  “Are you still staying in that hotel?”

  “Yes. I did a little bit of looking for a place, but I really haven’t put much effort into it,” I replied.

  She lifted an eyebrow. “Are you thinking of staying much longer?”

  “Yes. I would like to. Cheryl is encouraging me to stay, and I must say the social life, the nightlife, and the men are quite appealing.”

  “Would you be looking for a house, or an apartment?” she asked.

  “I should think a house would be too much. I don’t want to deal with hiring and training servants or taking care of the grounds.”

  Her face lit up. “A friend of mine’s daughter is going to Europe for two years to study,” Marian said. “She has an apartment in a very nice building near the north side of Central Island. It’s small, but not cramped. Would you care to take a look at it?”

  “Thank you. Yes, I’m interested.”

  “It’s on
the ninth floor and faces the water. It’s very secure, which would be a bonus, considering what’s been going on lately.”

  I pretended ignorance. “I don’t understand. What’s been going on?”

  “Haven’t you heard?” Marian took a deep drink of her wine, squared her shoulders, and leaned back in her chair. “We have a burglar in Vancouver.”

  With a laugh, I said, “I’d be surprised if you only have one.”

  “You may laugh if you wish. I’m talking about an uncommon burglar. Since you were here last, no fewer than four of the people you met that night have been robbed.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “No. Even the Robertsons. You remember Sheila, don’t you? My nearest neighbors. They were robbed when they were out one evening. Guards on duty, servants in the house, and the best security system money can buy. No one heard a thing, but jewelry was taken from a safe.”

  I wanted to say that the Robertsons’ system was far from the best, but held my tongue. More interesting was no mention of the Manet. “That’s awful. You don’t think it could have been one of the servants, do you? I mean, that would seem to be a more logical conclusion than someone getting in.”

  “That’s the thing. The thief set off the alarm as he was leaving.”

  “You said four burglaries?”

  “Yes, the Robertsons and the Yangs here on Stanley Island, and two more on Central Island. Robbed of their jewelry while they were away.” She waved her hand. “I’m having the entire system upgraded. I’m afraid to leave the house. We could be next.”

  After lunch, she took me for my promised tour. One room was decorated in a nineteenth-century French style with several impressionist works, including two Monets and a Manet. In the next room, two Picassos hung on the wall. It went on. I counted twenty-three paintings by grand masters, along with three Rubens sculptures. The lesser works I didn’t bother to count, but I was sure many of them were worth millions.

  I paid special attention to five of the pieces. Two I knew were stolen, and the other three I wasn’t sure about. None were on the list Chung had given me of missing art insured by North American. But it stretched my credulity to believe that an astute collector such as Marian didn’t know the provenance of the works she hung on her walls. Titian’s Venus and Cupid with a lute-player had been lifted from a museum in Vienna only two years before. Of course, that was at least the fourth time that painting was known to have been stolen over the previous two hundred years. Very popular.

  The room that surprised me the most held the paintings I’d teased Langston about at the museum. At least twenty nudes, including the Titian painting, hung on the walls. The only places to sit in the room were three very plush chaise lounges, which invited thoughts about the room, and Marian, which I decided not to explore.

  My brief tours with Langston and Marian confirmed my father’s intelligence of a healthy trade in stolen artwork in Vancouver. I was surprised at how little concern the participants had about keeping their acquisitions quiet. Either they truly considered me empty-headed, which I couldn’t discount, or they didn’t care if I knew the paintings were stolen. The number of stolen art pieces I’d seen during my midnight excursions into the homes of Marian’s friends backed up that thinking. I was building quite a collection, but so far nothing that Chung wanted.

  Chapter 4

  Checking the Art Loss Database, I verified that five pieces I had seen at Marian’s were listed as stolen. In addition to the Manet from the Robertsons’, I had identified and appropriated a stolen Rubens, a Pollock, a Warhol, and a Rousseau at some of the houses I’d burglarized in the city. Dad confirmed that an emerald necklace I’d pinched was also on a list of stolen items. The paintings I was trying to recover hadn’t turned up, nor had the jewelry or any of the other pieces on North American’s list.

  I decided to visit the contact my dad had given me. A call to David Abramowitz got me as far as his secretary, who set up an appointment.

  The following day, I showed up at his office in an older section of the city. Abramowitz’s secretary sported a purple Mohawk, a white plastic skirt that barely covered her ass, and a halter-top that didn’t manage to cover her boobs. It was quite a contrast to Abramowitz himself, who was a large man, tall and overweight, about my dad’s age—mid-sixties—with a fringe of white hair, dressed in an immaculately tailored suit that was fifty years out of style. His Victorian office furnishings made the suit seem new.

  I had debated with myself as to whether I should present myself to the broker as myself—my dad’s daughter—as Danielle, or as another persona. I finally decided on keeping to Danielle, but with a minor twist.

  “Mr. Abramowitz, thank you so much for agreeing to see me,” I said, extending my hand as I entered his office.

  “Certainly.” He took my hand but eyed me cautiously. “You told my secretary that Jason Bouchard gave you my name? How do you know Jason?”

  “His daughter is my best friend. I’ve known him since I was a small child.”

  He nodded and motioned to a chair. “And what is the nature of the business you are interested in?”

  “I am acting as an intermediary,” I said. “My client is interested in finding two paintings. He has information that they might be in Vancouver.”

  “Jason said something about missing paintings. Missing Dutch paintings, I believe.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Are you aware that people have died for those paintings?”

  “Yes, I’m aware of their recent provenance.”

  Abramowitz shook his head. “Go back to Toronto, or Ireland, or wherever you live, Miss Kincaid. You don’t want to get involved.”

  “I am willing to pay very handsomely for information.”

  “Go home, Miss Kincaid.”

  “A quarter of a million for information leading to a recovery. The other three-quarters when I retrieve the items.”

  That stopped him. As in, he froze and stared at me. I waited.

  “What would you expect me to do?” he finally asked.

  “I wouldn’t expect you to do anything. Simply tell me who has the paintings, or at least who brought the paintings to town and where they went as far as you know.”

  He bit his lip and stared off into space for a couple of minutes.

  “I don’t know who has the items you seek. I’m also not sure who commissioned their acquisition. I do know that they were authenticated at the Gallery, but where they went afterward, I have no knowledge.”

  “Who, in your opinion, would be likely to acquire such works?” I asked. He had verified that Langston was involved with illegal art, but I already knew that.

  He squirmed in his chair while I simply sat still and stared at him.

  Abramowitz shook his head. “There are too many people to count.”

  “Oh, come on. Yes, there are a lot of people who would like to lay their hands on them, but these are very high-ticket items. Surely the list of collectors with the funds for such an acquisition is limited.”

  Patience is a virtue. Eventually, he said, “Clark, Robertson, Aquilini, Audain, Harrison, Fung, Gaglardi.”

  I took out a payment card with my contact card and slid them across the desk. “That’s not what I hoped for, but here’s a hundred thousand. If you want more, then get me more.”

  I stood and walked out of the office, nodding to the purple-haired secretary, who was doing her nails.

  Langston called Wednesday morning and asked me to a play and dinner on Friday night. Figuring I might be able to get some information on him that wasn’t on the society or art infonet sites, I called Cheryl and asked her to meet me for lunch.

  She suggested one of the two restaurants on Stanley Island, and when I arrived, I saw her seated without a filter mask outside at a table overlooking the ocean.

  I shook my head as I sat down. “I’ve eaten outside occasionally in Ireland, but never in Europe or North America. This is incredible.”

  Cheryl smiled. “It
’s my favorite place. It’s so amazing to think that people used to breathe unfiltered air even in the cities.”

  “Well, you wouldn’t do that in Toronto or Pittsburg,” I said. The waiter came and I ordered. Cheryl already had a bottle of white wine on the table, so he filled my glass. I took a sip, nodded, and winked at him. He smiled and retreated.

  “Do you flirt with everyone?” Cheryl asked.

  “It’s fun. Admit it, you enjoy me flirting with you, and I’m sure our waiter does, too. I can be serious if I want to, but I rarely want to.”

  “How was your date with Langston Boyle?” she asked, saving me the trouble of guiding the conversation around to him.

  “It was fun. He took me on a late-night private tour of the museum. He kisses nice.”

  “Oh? And will there be a second date?”

  “Of course there will. He didn’t get what he wanted, so he’ll keep coming back until he does.”

  She laughed.

  “What do you know about him?” I asked. “I mean, I can read what’s on the net, but where does he come from? What kind of family? Why is he still single?”

  The waiter brought our meals. I’d ordered what turned out to be a large salad with crabmeat. He poured more wine, and left us to ourselves.

  “Langston’s from England, and I get the impression his parents are middle management,” Cheryl said. “He came here for university, went to Europe for graduate school, then came back here and got a job at the museum. Worked his way up and was promoted to Director about ten years ago. Some of the heavyweight donors, such as Marian Clark, supported him.”

  And I bet I know why, I said to myself.

  “Cheryl, you don’t seem as though you have much of an interest in art.”

  She shook her head. “Not really. Neither of my parents care that much about it. I’d far rather go to a concert or a nightclub and listen to music than trudge around through the dusty halls of a museum.” She shrugged. “I think art’s boring.”

  She took a sip of her wine, then chuckled. “Langston and I dated for a while about five or six years ago. He couldn’t comprehend my attitude toward something he finds so important. It got to where I enjoyed pulling his chain about it. You know, look at a Rembrandt and say, ‘That artist wasn’t very good, was he? Look at how those peoples’ faces are all lumpy.’”