Ghost Hero (13 page)

Jack asked, “Where’s Hohhot?”

“Inner Mongolia,” I said. When they both looked at me, I added, “Hey, I’m not just a pretty face.”

“Whatever positions Frank offered Dr. Lin,” Eddie To went on, “the only one he agreed to, as told to me, was to be our exclusive consultant in the field of bleeding-edge Chinese art. Dr. Lin Qiao-xiang. And doesn’t Doug Haig wish he knew. Q.X. is the only reason we find artists Doug the Slug hasn’t gotten to yet. We have to keep him secret or he’d be stolen in a heartbeat.”

“How secret can you keep him, if he’s an expert in Haig’s field?”

“Please. Haig doesn’t have a field. He has a market. He doesn’t speak Chinese and Lord knows he doesn’t go to conferences. He’s above all that. So maybe we can remain a step ahead long enough to get established and stay out of the poorhouse. Possibly even to be able to afford some of the artists Q.X. has found us who, by the time we get to them, are beyond our means. Though as I said, with the gentlemen in this show we’re counting on gratitude and a Chinese sense of duty.”

Jack said, “I think you can count on their prices not rising.”

“Oh, Jack, you’re such a stiff. Hey, Frank named the spotted robot after you.”

“Really? If that’s a bribe he’d be better off naming them after critics.”

“Don’t be absurd. You’re a tastemaker.” Eddie cocked his head. “Odd for a stiff, hmm? Anyway, he did name a few after critics. The one that keeps crashing into that post, like it can’t see it? That’s Gross, from
ARTnews
.”

I watched a red box drive itself into a blue post, back up, and do it again. “Why is the spotted one Jack?”

“Its job is to tail the striped one.”

Sure enough, wherever the striped red box went, the spotted box zoomed after a few moments later. “They all have jobs?”

Eddie To went to the desk and brought over three stapled sheets. “Artists’ statements. English on one side, Chinese on the other.”

“The Chinese makes more sense,” Jack said. “Especially if you don’t read Chinese. Listen, Eddie, love chatting with you but we’re here on a case.”

“Seriously? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you working. I’ve had to watch the robot to get any sense of what you do.”

“Here’s your chance. I want to ask you something.”

“Well, isn’t this exciting? Frank will be jealous. How can I help?”

“You’ve heard the rumors that there are new Chau Chuns floating around?”

“Of course. Who hasn’t?”

“Jen Beril heard them, too. She heard them here, at your opening last week. She just can’t remember who from.”

Eddie To clutched his chest. “That’s just heartbreaking.”

“Why?”

Eddie pointed an accusing finger toward the elevator. “Ms. Thing made her entrance—vogueing in the doorway like RuPaul—took one quick spin, guzzled some Vigonier, and left. Frank would’ve named a robot after her but none of them’s enough of an ice queen. Of course I mean that in the nicest possible way.”

“Do you remember her talking to anyone?”

“I remember it well. Though obviously she doesn’t. Shows you where I am on the food chain. The only person she spoke to was—
me
.”

“It was you who told her about the Chaus?”

“Was that bad of me? I was trying to impress her with my up-to-the-second inside-track type of knowledge.”

“I’m sure she was impressed. Where’d you hear it?”

“Yes, so impressed I’ve slipped her mind entirely. Remind me not to save the Vigonier for her next time. She can suck up Chablis and like it. As for me, to go back an earlier conversational motif, I heard about the Chaus from the wellspring of all self-importance. Jabba the Hutt down there on the first floor: Doug Haig.”

*   *   *

As soon as the elevator door closed behind us I exploded. “That revolting creepy fat sleazebag ugly creepy liar!”

“You said fat, so I know you don’t mean Eddie. And you said ‘creepy’ twice, by the way.”

“Doug Haig! He is creepy twice. He told Eddie To about the Chaus last week? He acted like the first he’d heard of them was from Bill.”

“You guys believed him?”

“Not at all. Unless Nick’s wrong, Haig found out about them from Shayna Dylan, even though she doesn’t know she knows. But Haig’s spreading the rumors himself? I mean, what is that?”

“Why? Rumors create buzz and buzz drives up prices.”

“And brings you people like Vladimir Oblomov, and then you act like you don’t know what he’s talking about?”

“Maybe Haig already has a buyer.”

“Then why not say, ‘I already have a buyer’? instead of, ‘Don’t be ridiculous, you silly Russian, there are no such paintings’? And besides, you aren’t telling me Doug Haig would put loyalty to an existing buyer above profit from a brainless mobster? Especially if it’s true he’s in trouble.” The elevator opened at the lobby. “No,” I said, “here’s what I think. I think Haig absolutely does know about the paintings. I think he’s seen them and I bet he knows where they are. But he hasn’t got his hands on them yet, so he can’t sell them, to Bill or anyone else. Something makes him pretty sure he will, though. So he’s trying to create buzz now, for then. Then he’ll try to reel Vladimir in, and whoever else. But I don’t want him to find them.”

“If you’re right he’s already found them.”

“Don’t split hairs! I mean, to get his hands on them! I want to steal them out from under him.”

“For our clients, you mean.”

“Yes. Absolutely. For our clients. And also, as part of my plan to reduce Doug Haig to a grease spot on his own gallery floor.”

“Remind me,” Jack said thoughtfully, “not to get in your way.”

“Don’t worry, I will. Besides,” I said, starting to calm down, “my client’s whole point in hiring me was to get to these paintings first. Not to have to bid in public against some crazy Russian.”

“Bill’s not really a Russian, you know. And are you sure that’s what your client’s after?”

I looked at him. “What?”

“Phony name, prepaid cell, thin cover story—it must have occurred to you he was hiding something.”

“Yes, and we told you—”

“What you told me isn’t worth hiding. That’s a lot of trouble to go to just so his own PI doesn’t find out his name.”

“We—”

“Look, I know you’re smart because Bill’s smart and he says you are. No way you guys haven’t been wondering about Dunbar’s angle. He wants something else, not just the paintings. Most likely, it’s the painter.”

In the setting sun the spring breeze was chilly. I zipped my jacket. “Yes,” I admitted. “That’s how we figured it.”

“I wish you’d just told me.”

“Does it matter? To the investigation?”

“Maybe not. But to me. ‘All for one, one for all’? ”

“I’m sorry. Really.” I looked off down the street, then back to Jack. “But I didn’t know you. I wasn’t sure…”

“How far you could trust me?”

“I guess so, yes.”

Surprisingly, he grinned. “Well, that’s good.”

“It is? Why?”

“Bill must have told you you could trust me. In fact, you said he said I was stand-up.”

“He did.”

“But you still had reservations.”

“Yes. I’m sorry. I—”

“Au contraire, it’s excellent. Because what that means is, you and Bill aren’t quite as tight as I thought. And
that
means maybe there’s room for someone else to slip in there.”

I felt my cheeks grow hot. “Jack—”

“Okay, never mind, I was out of line, sorry.” He spoke briskly but he was still grinning. “I’m all about business. So what’s our next move?”

“Our next—I—”
Oh, stop stammering, Lydia! You’d think a smart good-looking ABC PI had never come on to you before!
“We—” While I was collecting myself so I could be all about business, too, Jack’s cell phone rang.

He checked it, told me, “Dr. Yang.”

I said, “Don’t tell him yet.”

Jack made a face at me while he said, “Professor. How are you?” Then his tone changed. “I don’t … No, we’re…” Dr. Yang was obviously talking, Jack trying to get a word in sideways. “What are you … I think … That’s …
No.
” He raised his voice. “I’m sorry, it’s just not acceptable.” The volume seemed to have an effect; Jack got to say a whole sentence. “I think you owe me a real explanation. A few hours ago we … No, I … Wait, I’m … Hello? Dr. Yang?”

Jack lowered the phone. He stared at it for a moment, then looked at me. “He fired me.”

“
Fired
you?” I was momentarily wordless, too. “Did he say why?”

“He changed his mind.”

“That’s it? Changed his mind?”

“So he says.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“You think?” Jack rubbed the back of his neck and breathed, “Damn! You know, I was already thinking you guys weren’t good for my health. Now I’m not sure you’re good for business.”

“Did he say it was because of us?”

“I didn’t mean specifically, I meant in a jinxy sort of way. Dr. Yang didn’t say anything. He changed his mind.”

I shook my head. “Something’s going on.”

“I know. Two hours ago he was so mad he’d have ripped the stripes off my sleeves if I’d had any, but he didn’t fire me. But just now he was perfectly calm. He didn’t say it was my fault, or your fault, or anybody’s fault. He just said he didn’t want this looked into anymore and he didn’t need my services.” Jack frowned. “I have half a mind to go down there and make him tell me what the hell is up.”

“And the other half?”

“Is smarter than that. It wants to think.”

“Is that the half that has Doug Haig’s cell phone number?”

He looked at me. “Both halves do. How’d you know?”

“You didn’t help at all when I was trying to pry it out of Nick Greenbank.”

“I may have to rethink.” Jack took out his phone. “You might be good for business after all.”

I tried not to notice the little glow I felt when he said that.

10

As it turned out, Doug Haig wasn’t available, at least not to us, not right then. While Jack was leaving a message I had another thought.

“If I bought you a martini,” I said, “would you mind drinking it by yourself?”

“That’s got to be the most ridiculous offer anyone’s ever made me. Or maybe, the most oblique brush-off.”

“You don’t get oblique from me. I’m not that clever. What I was thinking was, I have a date with Jeff Dunbar. At six, at this bar on West Street. I’d be very interested to find out if he’s someone you know from the art world. You obviously can’t come to the meeting, but there’s no reason you couldn’t be sitting at the bar.”

“Keeping an eye on things! Observing without being observed! Like Bill did in Dr. Yang’s office.”

“You caught that?”

“Did Mao wear a jacket? You guys do that all the time?”

“Whenever we can.”

“Hmm. I guess a partner can come in handy.”

“Come on,” I said, starting down the sidewalk.

“Where are we going?” He didn’t move.

“This bar,” I stated the obvious. “On West Street.”

“The Fraying Rope?”

“You know it?” I stopped. “Is it famous?”

“Among certain people. It’s a bogus waterfront dive in a new condo building down there. Cheap beer, plywood paneling, and a stuffed fish on the wall, but no danger of running into any actual longshoremen.”

“I think I hear a faint a note of disdain. You’re a fan of longshoremen?”

“I don’t know any. Neither does anyone at The Fraying Rope. A pretentious crowd that plays it safe, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Look at you, moralizing.”

Jack grinned. “Wow, I am, aren’t I? Sorry. They do make a good martini, I’ll give them that.”

Leaving aside the question of how many trips to The Fraying Rope his assessment of the crowd and the martini was based on, I asked something else. “How did you know that was where Jeff Dunbar said to meet?”

“The area’s changing but it hasn’t changed yet. Most of the West Street bars are the real thing, genuinely sleazy. Your man Dunbar doesn’t sound like the sleazy bar type.”

“No, you’re right, he’s more the new condo type. Not particularly pretentious, though. But plays it safe, definitely that.”

“Okay, you’re on,” Jack said. “Just one thing.”

“What?”

“The subway’s four blocks east. When it gets us downtown The Fraying Rope will be four blocks west again. Your date is in fifteen minutes. Let’s take a cab.”

In order to maintain a harmonious working relationship I gave in. Anyway, it was a lovely afternoon for a cab ride down by the river, with the trees freshly green and the water sparkling. We left the cab a block north and Jack strode on ahead of me. By the time I pushed through the door of The Fraying Rope, he was already leaning over a martini, as relaxed as if he’d been hanging out here all his life and actually liked the place.

From what I could see, Jack had nailed it. Cheesy ersatz-nautical. Actually, ersatz-cheesy, too. Not just the stuffed fish, but the linoleum floor, the plaid lamps with ship’s wheels, and a variety of thick, looped, fraying ropes. The jukebox played Jimmy Buffett over a noise level loud but bearable. Glossy-haired blondes sipped pink drinks, and frat boys in suits or polo shirts swigged from beer bottles with lime slices in them. Chrome stools lined the bar, and cane chairs surrounded coffee tables. One of the stools was under Jack, and one of the chairs held Jeff Dunbar.

I spotted him right away, but lingered in the doorway as though I hadn’t to give Jack a chance to notice me. Jeff Dunbar waved, discreetly. I waved back and crossed the room to his table, though Jack had shown no sign he knew I was there.

“Mr. Dunbar,” I said as I sat. “How are you? Interesting place. Is it your local?”

“Friends brought me here, and I liked it.” Neatly sidestepping the question of whether he lived nearby. “I’m hoping you have good news for me.”

A waiter drifted over and I ordered cranberry juice. Dunbar was drinking one of those lime beers.

“I have news,” I said. “I don’t know if it’s good. For one thing, I thought you ought to know that someone else had the same idea you did.”

“What idea?”

“There’s another PI on the case.”

A pause. “Searching for the Chaus?”

“Yes.”

“For another collector?”

“No. For Kah Ching.” To his blank look, I said, “The Columbia professor?”