by Tim O'Mara
The girl, barely above a whisper, said, ‘I’m Zaz. Do you play Frisbee?’
I laughed. ‘I used to. Why, do you?’
‘No, but my brother does, and he’s really good.’
‘Really. That’s cool.’
‘What’s cool?’ she asked.
‘One: that he’s good at Frisbee. Two: that you brag about your big brother.’
‘I wasn’t bragging about—’
‘Yes, you were,’ Max said. ‘You were bragging about me.’
Laura looked at her phone again. ‘OK, family. You should get going. I’ve got to speak with Raymond, and you guys gotta get to class.’
‘I sing,’ Zaz informed me. ‘In a chorus.’
I turned to Max. ‘She any good?’
‘I guess,’ Max said with a degree of reluctance.
‘Now you’re bragging about me,’ Zaz countered.
‘OK,’ Kenny said. ‘Let’s let Mommy work.’ He gave me his hand again. ‘Nice to meet you, and give my regards to Edgar. Maybe we can all get together for a beer or two. We got some great places in Hell’s Kitchen.’
‘I’ve been to a few of them,’ I said. ‘I’ll mention it to Edgar.’
‘OK, OK,’ Laura said. ‘Off with you all!’ She gave kisses all around and said quickly, ‘Bye. See you later and I love you.’
They all said something similar back and headed off to other parts of the city. Laura turned back to me.
‘So,’ she said. ‘I hate to do this, but I have to be up there,’ she gestured with her head at the building behind her, ‘a bit earlier than I had thought.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’ll try and make this quick. Who’s buying and selling art looted by the Nazis or smuggled out of Germany before the war?’
‘Yeah. Edgar said that’s what you wanted to know. First, I have to tell you my firm represents some of the wealthiest families in the world. I will not mention any names. But if I did, you’d know them.’
‘I didn’t expect you to.’
‘Good. Edgar told me your girlfriend’s a reporter and the last thing I need is—’
‘I just want to know what kind of market there is out there and how someone gets involved in the buying and selling of that particular art.’
‘Also, my firm does not specialize in this, but we do have one guy who does pro bono work to reacquire Holocaust art and return it to its rightful owners.’
‘I understand.’
‘OK. The buying’s easy,’ she said. ‘You need a lot of money. Either private or from an endowment to a museum. We’ve seen both.’
I considered that. ‘So, let’s say I’m a private individual with enough money to buy a painting that’s been missing from the art world for almost eighty years. Why would I want to do that if I knew I could never show it off?’
‘You might be a dick,’ she said. ‘There’re more people out there than you’d like to think who have Picassos and Matisses and Chagalls hanging on their living room walls for the same reason dogs lick their you-know-whats.’
‘Because they can.’
‘Exactly. My firm has been affiliated with some of these families.’ She coughed into her elbow. ‘Then you get the auction houses and museums.’
‘I thought they’d be the ones against this kind of thing.’
‘You would think so, and most of the time you’d be right, according to my colleague. But there are professionals in the art world whose desire to own some of these pieces apparently trumps their respect for the law and rightful ownership.’
‘What do they do with them if they can’t display them?’
‘Some do.’ She paused. ‘Edgar said you used to be a policeman.’
‘Years ago.’
‘You never ran into people who thought they were above the law?’
I laughed. ‘I see what you mean.’
‘And why are you so interested in this, if I may ask?’
I grinned. ‘I can’t mention any names,’ I said. ‘But if I did, you wouldn’t know them.’ Laura gave me a little chuckle. ‘I know a family who seems to have somehow acquired some artwork that has been listed as missing or destroyed by the Nazis since the mid-to late-nineteen thirties.’
She let out a whistle. ‘Any idea how they acquired the piece or pieces?’
‘The family left Germany right before things got real bad for the Jews. They eventually made their way to Williamsburg and opened a business that’s still running today. My guess is that they brought the art over with them and, as hard as it is to believe, forgot about it. My friend was given a piece that seems to be genuine by an elderly man whose father had moved the family to the states. The guy seems to have Alzheimer’s so he had no idea what he was giving away.’
She thought about that and said, ‘That doesn’t surprise me all that much. I did a little research after Edgar called, and I found out that it’s estimated there are sixty to a hundred thousand pieces of artwork missing from that time. I wouldn’t be all that shocked if people sold them at garage sales not knowing what they had.’ She paused for a few seconds then said, ‘Is your friend interested in selling the piece? Is that why you wanted to meet with me? If that’s the case, I don’t want you to say another—’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Not at all. We’re just interested in how someone would go about it. We’re planning on giving the piece back to the old man’s son. This is not the first time the old man’s given away paintings. We need to tell the son what we know and find out if they’re the rightful owners.’
‘You think he may have given other valuable pieces away to people?’
‘It’s a real possibility.’
‘Your friend,’ Laura said, ‘or the family should contact the State Department. Their New York office is at the United Nations.’
‘They’re the ones who handle this kind of thing?’
‘They have in the past. The art was smuggled out of Germany, and that makes it an international matter. I can put you in touch with our pro bono lawyer. He’s worked extensively with the State Department.’
‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ I said. ‘I’ve read that a lot of people who were able to get out of Germany before the war brought stuff to the states for safekeeping for other families. A lot of those families didn’t survive the war.’
Laura put on her lawyer face as she considered that.
‘Morally,’ she said, ‘if the family you’re talking about is not the rightful owners, they should do all that they can to ensure that the art gets returned to the heirs of the rightful owners. There are lawsuits all the time with families trying to recover what their families lost because of the Nazis.’
‘I’ll talk to the guy. See what he says.’
Laura nodded and looked at her phone. ‘I have to head in now,’ she said. ‘I hope I was able to help.’
‘Very much so,’ I said, shaking her hand.
She reached into her pocket and handed me a business card. ‘If there’s anything else I can help with, give me a call. No promises, but I’ll see what I can do.’
‘I appreciate that. Have a good meeting.’
She smirked. ‘Right.’
I was almost to the subway when my phone rang. I looked at the caller ID. I didn’t recognize the number, just that it was a 516 area code. Nassau County.
‘Hello?’ I said.
‘Raymond?’ A guy’s voice, almost recognizable.
‘Yeah, who’s this?’
‘It’s Chris,’ he said. ‘Chris Miller. Melissa’s brother.’
‘Oh, hey, Chris. What’s up?’
There was a slight pause on his end. Then, ‘We need to talk.’
‘Is Melissa OK?’ I asked, hoping that yesterday’s interview with Allison hadn’t upset his sister too much.
‘No, oh yeah, she’s fine,’ he said. ‘It’s about something else.’
I stopped just before heading down to the train where I’d more than likely lose my signal. ‘Go ahead,’ I said.
‘Not on the phone,’ he said. ‘Is your fr
iend Edgar home?’
‘I think so.’ Did I tell Chris about Edgar? ‘Why?’
‘Let’s meet at his place. Let’s say in half an hour?’
‘OK, Chris, but why—’
‘Thanks, Raymond.’
He hung up before I could ask him how he knew where Edgar lived.
Then it came to me. Shit.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Wanting to get to Edgar’s as quickly as possible, I decided not to take the subway and hailed a cab. At first the driver told me he was not going to take me to Brooklyn – his shift was almost over and he didn’t want to make the trip into another borough – then I explained the law to him, which he already knew, showed him my mini NYPD badge Uncle Ray had given me, and within a minute we were on our way to Edgar’s. I’d called him before we crossed the East River to tell him I was on my way, so he was waiting for me outside his apartment when the cab dropped me off. The trip took about ten minutes. I added an extra ten to the cabbie’s tip. If he was grateful, he did a good job of hiding it.
‘What’s up?’ Edgar said.
‘Chris Miller’s on the way here,’ I said.
It took him a bit to remember who that was.
‘Why?’ he said.
‘I think he wants to confess.’
Just as those words came out of my mouth, a blue compact car pulled into the sole empty space in front of Edgar’s place. Chris Miller got out and walked over to us. He had a gym bag slung over his shoulder. He shook my hand and then Edgar’s.
‘Chris Miller,’ he said.
‘Hello,’ Edgar said. He thought about what to say next, and all he could come up with was, ‘What’s up?’
Chris closed his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘I owe you an apology,’ he said. He opened his eyes again. ‘A big one, I’m afraid.’ He unzipped his gym bag and came out with Edgar’s laptop bag. ‘This is yours,’ he said.
Edgar reached out and took it. He turned it around in his hands as if examining a rare, valuable book. I had to squash the powerful urge to punch Chris in the face. I had found myself liking the guy, a lot, but he’d hurt my friend. As my heartbeat increased and my body temperature rose, I stuck my hands in my pockets. Again, it took Edgar more time before he realized what this all meant.
‘You?’ he finally said. ‘You were the one who mugged me?’
Chris cringed at the use of the word mugged. He nodded and then said, ‘I’m sorry. I was desperate and couldn’t think of anything else to do.’
‘You broke into Marty Stover’s office,’ I added, keeping my tone as level as possible. ‘Then you followed us back here.’
He nodded again. ‘Like I said, I was desperate.’ He looked down at his feet. ‘If you guys wanna call the cops, I understand.’ He looked up at us. ‘But I’d like to explain myself first, if that’s OK.’
I had a feeling I knew what he was about to say, but I told him to go ahead. Maybe the more he talked the less I’d feel like hitting him.
‘Melissa’s been having these dreams lately,’ he began. ‘They’ve been getting worse.’ He swallowed hard. ‘I’m not going to go into too many details, but they involve her being held down and … and attacked. I think they started up again when she started seeing this new therapist.’
Oh, great. ‘She’s not seeing a regression therapist, is she?’
‘No, no,’ Chris said. ‘Nothing like that. This one’s real good. She lets Melissa do most of the talking and tell her story. I think Melissa called her a narrative therapist.’ He took another breath. ‘I think the dreams are coming because Melissa’s story is getting clearer in her head.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know how else to put it.’
I let that sit for a while before saying, ‘And how does this lead to your breaking into Marty’s office and then stealing Edgar’s laptop?’ And hurting my friend?
If anyone who’d just admitted to committing two felony crimes could look embarrassed, Chris Miller pulled it off. It took him a little time to gather his thoughts.
‘I thought,’ he said, ‘that Marty Stover would have a file in his office on Melissa’s case. I’d been by his office earlier that week to talk with him. He didn’t want to discuss the case and practically threw me out.’
‘That’s how you knew about the old alarm system,’ I said.
He nodded. ‘When I broke in and went into the offices, all I saw was computers. The file cabinets were locked. Obviously, I hadn’t thought it all the way through. I don’t know what I was thinking. After a few minutes, I realized what I’d done was pretty stupid, so I panicked and left.’
‘How did you know about us?’ Edgar wanted to know. ‘About me?’
‘After I got out of there,’ Chris said, ‘I figured the cops would be showing up. Then I thought Marty’s son would come, and I could ask him about my sister’s case. So, I parked down the block and waited for him.’
‘Instead you got us,’ I said.
‘You guys went in with the cops.’ He turned to Edgar. ‘I saw you with the laptop and … I don’t know, I guess I thought if anyone had the file on Melissa’s case, it’d be you.’ His eyes filled up as he went on. ‘I am really sorry that I hurt you. I just wanted to find out what I could. For my sister.’
In all the years I’d known Edgar, I’d never seen him hold a grudge. This time was no different. He offered his hand to Chris. ‘It’s OK. It wasn’t that bad.’
Watching Edgar so graciously forgive the guy who had attacked him lowered my own body’s electrical pulses. After a large truck lumbered by, I spoke next.
‘Your thought process sucked, Chris,’ I said. ‘And so did your methods.’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’
‘But your instincts were pretty good.’
I proceeded to tell him what Edgar, Allison, and I suspected after going over the files, my dad’s notes, and talking with Billy Taylor.
‘So Bobby was involved?’
‘That’s what we think. What we can prove is another matter. And after all these years, I hate to say this, there’s not much the cops can do.’
I watched as Chris Miller’s face turned from apologetic to something approaching rage. The look someone gets when they realize that justice may not be in their future.
‘So Bobby Taylor gets away with what he did?’
‘Not exactly,’ I said.
‘What does that mean?’ he asked. ‘You just said—’
‘I just said there’s not much the cops can do.’
TWENTY-NINE
With my Uncle Ray’s permission – and his insisting I give him the Reader’s Digest version of what Allison and I had planned, and his not objecting for once – Officer CJ Gray drove Allison and me out to Sea Cliff, Long Island. Marty Stover, Junior, met us outside the Taylor family home.
Billy and Bobby Taylor might have grown up in the same middle class Long Island as I had, but once Bobby signed with the majors, he’d bought his folks this place in Sea Cliff. Their home, like many on the block, was an old Victorian with a wrap-around porch situated on what must have been at least an acre of land made even more impressive by the light of the setting sun. It was a far cry from the homes on the block I had grown up on.
Marty, Allison, and I walked up the half dozen steps that led to the front porch of the Taylor house. We were a few feet from the doorbell when the door opened. It was Mr Taylor who met us and spoke through the screen.
‘I was about to call you,’ he said to Allison. ‘And call this whole thing off.’
‘That is your right, Mr Taylor,’ Allison said. ‘But then your side will not make it into my paper. I will write that you denied my repeated requests for an interview.’
‘Repeated?’ he said. ‘You asked once and I reluctantly said yes.’
Allison didn’t miss a beat. ‘And now I’m asking again. That makes it repeated.’ This part of the show was Allison’s, and I couldn’t help but be impressed.
We all stood a yard or so away from Mr Taylor, separated only by a screen door. I wat
ched as he weighed his options. Truth be told, I didn’t think he really had many at this point. That was proven when he opened the door, stepped aside, and said, ‘Come in.’
The three of us stepped inside the Taylor home, which my mother would have described as gracious. At least the part I could see. Mr Taylor immediately steered us to the left into the living room where his wife was sitting on a love seat, her hands resting gently on her lap. Her face betrayed whatever calm she was trying to present to the world.
Marty, Allison, and I all said hello at the same time, almost as if we’d practiced it.
‘Excuse me for not getting up,’ she said. ‘My sciatica is acting up again.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I said. Gesturing with my hand toward Marty, I said, ‘You know Marty Stover, I’m sure.’
‘We know of him,’ Mr Taylor said. ‘Not sure why you had to bring a lawyer along, though. Unless you’re afraid of getting sued for defamation and slander.’
‘That would be libel,’ Allison corrected him. ‘And that’s not why he’s here.’
‘Whatever.’ Pissed at our presence or not, Mr Taylor remembered his manners. ‘Have a seat, I guess,’ he said, gesturing toward the over-sized couch that would easily fit the three of us. ‘Bobby is not here yet.’
Of course not, I thought. Bobby Taylor made others wait for him. It was that kind of hubris we were counting on tonight. We all sat down.
Mrs Taylor made a motion as if about to get up. ‘Can I get you all something? Some tea, maybe? Something cold? Hard to tell what to offer this time of year.’
When the other two didn’t speak, I said. ‘We’re OK. Thank you.’
‘You have a great home,’ Allison said. ‘I love all the landscaping.’
‘Thank you,’ Mrs Taylor said. She motioned with her head toward her husband. ‘It’s kind of a hobby with Warren. He never did feel comfortable having other people do his yard work. Although we do pay the boy two doors down to do the shoveling.’
‘That’s enough, Barbara,’ her husband said. ‘They didn’t drive all the way out here to interview us for House and Garden.’ He turned to Allison. ‘I suppose you might as well start with the questions. The quicker we get started, the quicker we can get this over with. Bobby should be here any minute.’
