Painted Ladies

by Robert B. Parker

Molly Pitcher was wearing a little white blouse with a little Peter Pan collar and a little black string tie. Adorable.

  “Morton Lloyd,” I said.

  “Do you have”—she looked up and her voice trailed off—“an appointment?”

  “I do,” I said, and walked past her into Lloyd’s office carrying a manila envelope.

  “What the hell are you doing,” he said.

  “I’m barging in,” I said.

  “Well, barge the hell right back out,” Lloyd said.

  “I’m hoping to save your life,” I said.

  “What?” Lloyd said.

  I closed the door behind me.

  “You know Rosalind Wellington?” I said.

  “I don’t really know her,” he said. “I know she’s Ashton Prince’s wife. What’s this about saving my life?”

  “Would you recognize her if you saw her?” I said.

  “I don’t think I ever met her. Why are you asking?”

  I took three of the goriest crime scene photos of the dead Rosalind out of the manila envelope and spread them faceup on his desk.

  “What she looks like currently,” I said.

  He glanced down.

  “Jesus Christ,” he said. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “That’s Rosalind Wellington, the late wife of the late Ashton Prince,” I said.

  “She’s dead.”

  “Yep. Somebody beat the hell out of her, then shot her twice in the forehead,” I said.

  “I don’t want to look at this,” he said.

  “Shooting somebody in the forehead twice,” I said, “is like wearing suspenders and a belt.”

  “Who did it?”

  “We think it was the Herzberg Foundation,” I said. “We think they killed her because she had information that might hurt them. And now we’re worried about you.”

  “That Herzberg will kill me?”

  “Yep.”

  He was silent, looking at me with an odd expression. It might have been fear. I walked to the window on the side wall of his office, the one that overlooked Batterymarch.

  “Who’s ‘we’?” he said.

  “Me and the cops,” I said.

  “Why aren’t they here?”

  “Figure if you’re seen talking to the cops, you’re a dead man,” I said. “So they sent me.”

  I continued to look out the window.

  “Who would see me?” he said.

  I nodded out the window.

  “Maybe them,” I said.

  He stood and came to the window. A silver BMW sedan with tinted windows was parked in a tow zone on Batterymarch.

  “How do you know someone’s in it,” Lloyd said.

  “Motor’s running,” I said. “See the vapor from the exhaust?”

  “So probably some guy waiting for his wife or something,” Lloyd said.

  “They followed me here,” I said.

  Lloyd was silent. I glanced at him. His face seemed pale. He swallowed a couple of times.

  “What are you gonna do?” Lloyd said.

  He sounded as if his mouth was dry and talking was hard.

  “I was thinking of asking you to tell me what you know about the Herzberg Foundation.”

  “And if I don’t tell you?”

  “I leave,” I said. “What else can I do.”

  “They’ll kill me,” he said.

  “If you talk?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “And if you don’t,” I said.

  “Whaddya mean?” he said.

  “There’s a leak sprung somewhere in their enterprise,” I said. “They’re running around trying to button everything up. You know stuff. Button, button.”

  “Don’t you even care?”

  “Not especially,” I said.

  “You can’t leave me alone,” he said.

  “Can, too,” I said.

  “I need protection,” he said.

  “Cops can give you that,” I said. “If you got anything to give them.”

  He stared down at the BMW.

  “Okay,” he said. “Will you stay with me till the cops get here?”

  “I will,” I said. “And beyond.”

  “I don’t want to go to jail,” he said.

  “Not my department,” I said. “But the cops and the prosecutors generally don’t like to put cooperative witnesses away. It discourages other cooperative witnesses.”

  “You got a gun?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  He stared down at the BMW some more.

  “And you’ll stay with me until they get here,” he said. “I can pay you.”

  “Coin of the realm here is information,” I said. “I’ll protect you.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Call them.”

  About ten minutes after I called, Quirk and Belson walked into the office with a couple of uniformed cops. I could see a little color come back into Lloyd’s face. The uniforms stayed in the outer office, to protect us. Belson followed Lloyd into the inner office.

  “Who’s in the Beamer,” I said to Quirk.

  “Lee Farrell,” Quirk said. “It’s his car.”

  “Tell him he does a good ominous,” I said.

  Quirk grinned, and we went into Lloyd’s office, too.

  61

  If you don’t mind,” Quirk said, “I’d like to tape this interview.”

  “I don’t mind,” Lloyd said.

  Quirk took a tape recorder out of his briefcase and put it on the desk between him and Lloyd. He punched up record and put some identity on it, then nodded at Lloyd.

  Lloyd looked at the recorder as if it made him uncomfortable.

  “I’m not sure where to begin,” Lloyd said.

  Lloyd was changing shape before my very eyes. The presence of the cops probably helped him feel safer. And he was probably heartened by his own decision to tell what he knew. In any case, he no longer seemed frightened. He seemed, actually, sort of dignified.

  “What’s your relation to the Herzberg Foundation?” Quirk said.

  “Legal counsel,” Lloyd said.

  “Why do they need a legal counsel?” Quirk said.

  Lloyd smiled and clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back in his swivel chair.

  “Everyone needs a legal counsel, Captain,” he said.

  Quirk nodded.

  “Everybody I meet,” Quirk said. “How did you get to be legal counsel to the Herzberg Foundation?”

  “It’s a tad circuitous,” Lloyd said. “I am on the board at the Hammond Museum. Through that position, I came to know Ashton Prince. And it was through Ashton that I met Ariel Herzberg.”

  “What did you counsel him about,” Quirk said.

  “The mission of the Herzberg Foundation,” Lloyd said, “is to locate objets d’art confiscated by the Nazis during the Holocaust, and to restore them to their rightful owners. As you might imagine, the question of rightful ownership, after all this time, is complex. I was asked to research the legality of possession and advise them of their rights in this matter.”

  “What if they can’t find the rightful owner?” Quirk said.

  “I believe in that case, once all possibilities are exhausted, they donate it to a museum or another appropriate entity.”

  “You on retainer?” Quirk said.

  “No, this was pro bono,” Lloyd said.

  “Why?”

  “Why pro bono?”

  Quirk nodded.

  “You’re not known for it,” he said.

  “I’m Jewish,” Lloyd said.

  “I could tell by the name,” Quirk said.

  Lloyd smiled.

  “My grandfather’s name was Loydjeviche,” Lloyd said. “When he got to Ellis Island, the immigration officers Americanized it.”

  “And you worked pro bono because you believed in the cause?” Quirk said.

  “You’re Irish,” Lloyd said.

  Quirk nodded.

  “My grandfather’s name was Quirk,” he said.

 
“You cannot, probably, know what the Holocaust means to a person of Jewish heritage.”

  “I can learn,” Quirk said.

  It was always a pleasure to watch Quirk do an interview. He was pleasant, calm, implacable, and patient. One had the feeling he’d be perfectly happy to sit there and ask you questions until Flag Day. He showed emotion only when it served his interest to show it. And when he did, its contrast to the patience-of-Job posture was very effective. He was one of the two best I knew. If it weren’t that I had the edge in charm and physical beauty, he’d have been as good as I was.

  “My grandfather was lucky. He got out with his family,” Lloyd said. “And I am here. And I am lucky. I feel that way quite keenly,” he said. “Every day.”

  “You religious?” Quirk said.

  “No,” Lloyd said. “But I’m Jewish.”

  Quirk was silent for a moment.

  Then he said, “Were you able to help them?”

  “I amassed a considerable precedent file, and I was prepared to litigate for them if it came to that.”

  “How many art pieces have they rescued,” Quirk said.

  Lloyd sat still for a moment.

  “I don’t know,” he said finally. “Lady with a Finch has pretty well preoccupied them since I’ve been aboard.”

  “Do you know where that is?” Quirk said.

  “If it is not blown up, no,” Lloyd said.

  “Have they always been here?” Quirk said.

  “No,” Lloyd said. “When Ashton introduced me, he told me they’d just moved here from New Jersey and rented the place in Brighton.”

  “He say why they moved?”

  “No, but I always assumed it was about Lady with a Finch,” Lloyd said.

  Quirk leaned over and checked the tape recorder, listened to a moment of playback, nodded to himself, set it back down, and pushed record again.

  “Tell me about Ariel Herzberg,” Quirk said.

  “His grandfather was not lucky,” Lloyd said. “I believe he died in Auschwitz, where Ariel’s father spent several years of his childhood.”

  “Nine to fourteen,” I said.

  Everybody looked at me as if I had barged onto the stage during a performance.

  “When he was liberated,” Lloyd went on, “his only possession was Lady with a Finch. Which he sold to a dealer in Rotterdam right after the war. The question Ariel wanted answered, with which I was trying to help, was: Did the sale constitute a legal agreement among adults? I thought we could certainly argue that it did not. The boy was fourteen and destitute, recently free after five years in Auschwitz, with no legal guardian. It was our position that the dealer exploited the boy, and that all else in terms of legal possession is tainted by that initial illegality.”

  “Who’s financing all this?” Quirk said.

  “I don’t know,” Lloyd said. “The foundation seems to have enough money.”

  “Didn’t you have to lend them a car?” Quirk said, as if he was puzzled.

  Lloyd smiled.

  “That, I think, had more to do with low profile,” he said, “than money.”

  I glanced at Belson. He seemed to be sitting blankly, looking at Lloyd. But I knew he heard every word.

  “They do any fund-raising?” Quirk said.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Lloyd said. “I offered to introduce them to philanthropic members of the Jewish community, but they said they didn’t want to be beholden.”

  Quirk nodded.

  “But they had money,” Quirk said.

  “Apparently,” Lloyd said.

  “Do you know where they got it?”

  “No,” Lloyd said.

  Quirk nodded again.

  “Tell me more about Ariel,” he said. “Did you think his dedication was real?”

  “To the point of obsession,” Lloyd said.

  “Would he kill someone?”

  “Kill someone?” Lloyd said. “He’s trying to do good.”

  “So he wouldn’t kill anybody?” Quirk said.

  “No,” Lloyd said. “Good God, of course not.”

  “So what are you scared of?” Quirk said.

  I smiled to myself.

  Gotcha.

  Lloyd was silent. It wasn’t a silence of pondering the question. It was a silence of I don’t know what to say. He had relaxed as he talked, feeling more and more lawyerly, confident that he could play these cops. Quirk was patient. He waited, letting the pressure of the silence work on Lloyd.

  “This seemed personal to him,” Lloyd said finally.

  “Enough to kill people?”

  Lloyd contemplated his answer for a bit.

  Then he said, “If you knew too much.”

  “You know too much?” Quirk said.

  “I know what I’ve told you.”

  “You think he killed others?”

  “Prince, and Prince’s wife, maybe,” Lloyd said. “A building supervisor in a building on Marlborough Street.”

  “Because they knew too much?”

  “Maybe,” Lloyd said.

  “What did they know too much about?” Quirk said.

  “This damn painting,” Lloyd said.

  “Lady with a Finch?” Quirk said.

  “Yes.”

  “And you?” Quirk said.

  “I guess I might know too much about the organization.”

  “What?” Quirk said.

  “Several former Israeli commandos work for the foundation.”

  “How many?”

  “Don’t know,” Lloyd said. “I just know that a couple of them often accompany Ariel. I think they are armed.”

  “See any tattoos?” Quirk said.

  “Yes, some of them, those where I could see it, have a number tattooed on their forearm. Ariel has it, too.”

  “Know any names?” Quirk said.

  “No,” Lloyd said. “I don’t think so.”

  “Joost?” Quirk said. “Or Van Meer?”

  “No, I . . . Joost,” he said. “There was a baseball player. . . .”

  “Eddie Joost,” I said.

  “Yes. I don’t remember him, but my father was a big fan of his,” Lloyd said. “I think he liked the name, mostly.”

  “And this other guy Joost worked for the Herzberg Foundation?”

  “Yes,” Lloyd said. “Is it important?”

  “I think it might be,” Quirk said.

  He looked at Belson.

  “Frank,” he said, “I’ll look after Mr. Lloyd. Why don’t you take some people and go get Mr. Herzberg.”

  Belson nodded. He stood and glanced at me.

  “Want to ride along?” he said.

  “I’d be a fool not to,” I said.

  62

  An apprehension team, wearing vests and helmets with face masks and sitting in an unmarked van, met us in the parking lot at District 14 Station on Washington Street. They were under the command of a sergeant who looked as though he might floss with a crowbar.

  The sergeant looked at me and said, “Who’s this?”

  “My bodyguard,” Belson said. “You’ve looked at the site?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I want the building covered on all four,” Belson said. “I want the guys at each corner of the property in visual contact with the guy at the corners on each side of him. You’ve done this before.”

  “Sure,” the sergeant said. “One question. Your buddy here a cop, or we gotta take care of him?”

  “He’ll take care of himself,” Belson said. “Let’s get to it.”

  The apprehension team went first, and we followed. They pulled up in front of the Herzberg Foundation and poured out of the car. In thirty seconds they had the place surrounded. Two guys with a short ram stood by the front door. The sergeant looked at Belson and nodded.

  Frank and I went up the stairs and tried the door. It was open. Frank and I both took out our guns and went in. Nothing. The place throbbed with emptiness. No people. No papers. No coffeepots. No water bottles. Neat, clean, and desert
ed.

  “Balls,” Belson said.

  “Exactly,” I said.

  Belson looked at the command sergeant.

  “Make sure,” Belson said.

  The sergeant nodded, and the team searched the house. It was as empty as it felt.

  “They been a step ahead of us pretty much all along,” Belson said. “How’d they know.”

  “Might be my fault,” I said.

  “They decided to bail after you told them how much you knew?” Belson said.

  “I was trying to bait him, get him to do something hasty,” I said.

  Belson nodded.

  “Case like this,” Belson said, “there’s not that much choice. You poke and push and see what happens. Better than doing nothing.”

  “This time what happened is that they took off,” I said.

  “Maybe,” Belson said. “Maybe something else.”

  The sergeant came back and reported that the building was empty.

  “Okay,” Belson said. “Canvass the neighborhood, see if you can learn anything.”

  The sergeant nodded.

  “When they left, how they left, where they went, whatever,” Belson said.

  “We’re on it,” the sergeant said.

  “And take off the armor so your people don’t scare the neighbors to death.”

  The sergeant grinned.

  “Some of my people look better with the armor on,” he said.

  While the neighborhood was being canvassed, Belson and I walked through the building, opening drawers, looking in wastebaskets. We didn’t find anything.

  “Could get the scientists in here,” Belson said.

  “Prints?” I said.

  “Whatever,” Belson said.

  “It appears to me that this place was rented furnished,” I said.

  “So there might be quite a few prints?” Belson said.

  “An embarrassment of riches,” I said.

  “You’re probably right,” Belson said. “But I’ll have them take a look, anyway. Makes them feel important.”

  The sergeant came back into the building.

  “Left a couple days ago,” he said. “Took a few boxes. In some kind of rental van. One guy thinks it might have been a Ryder. Nobody got an idea where they went.”

  “I’ll check the rental van,” Belson said. “We’ll see who owns this building and who they rented it to. Something might turn up.”

  “So you don’t need us no more, we’ll pack up and go home,” the sergeant said.

  “Thanks for stopping by,” Belson said.