Ghost Hero (2 page)

“Excellent,” he pronounced.

“What a relief. So…” I leaned back in my creaky chair, cradling my jasmine tea, which was also excellent. “… what are we going to do about the late great Ghost Hero Chau and his new paintings?”

“Well, my first thought, you won’t be surprised to hear, is that they’re fakes.” He sipped his coffee and gave a happy sigh.

“I suggested that to the client. He agreed they could be.”

“If Chau’s dead, and the paintings are new, they sort of have to be,” Bill pointed out. “If they’re real and they’re new, Chau’s unlikely to be dead. Unless he painted them twenty years ago and they’re just turning up now, so they’re not really new. Or he’s dead and he just painted them, so he really is a ghost.”

“Dunbar says no.”

“No real ghost?”

“You sound disappointed.”

“It would be something different.”

“Sorry. No old paintings. Dunbar says the content refers to the problems of modern China. Internal migration, freedom of expression, corruption.”

“The content,” Bill said thoughtfully. “But it’s coded, isn’t it? He’s sure he’s reading it right?”

“Well, he’s not reading it at all, because he hasn’t seen them. Those are the rumors.”

“Rumors. Which the whole collecting world’s heard, but the dealers haven’t.”

“Dunbar thinks the dealers almost certainly have but won’t admit it until one of them’s got the paintings in his hot little hands.”

“Okay, so tell me this: Why is Dunbar coming to an investigator instead of an art expert?”

“And an investigator with no clue about art. There, I just had to say it before you did. But it’s not about whether the paintings are real or fake. It’s about finding them. Which he thinks I can do because I’m Chinese. He thinks I can boldly go where no muscle-bound barbarian has gone before.”

“Undercover in the teahouses and rice paddies of your people. Eavesdropping behind crimson columns. Parting the stalks in a bamboo grove.”

“I actually think that’s what he means.”

“Well, good for him. How much does he say these paintings are worth?”

“Chaus from the eighties sell for three to six hundred thousand. And if these are real and new, meaning Chau’s still alive, they could set off a feeding frenzy.”

“Ah. Now chasing something that may not exist starts to make sense. Though I think your client’s being a little cute about his motivation.”

“By which you mean?…”

“The thrill of the hunt, being the new kid in town, wanting the big boys to take him seriously. All that.”

“You think it’s baloney?”

“I think it’s worse than that, but if I use those words I might not get more coffee.” He held out his mug. “You said there was something off about him.”

“Well, there was. I remember the art majors from college. The studio majors were on their own planet, of course, but even the dorkiest history-and-crit major was hipper than this guy.”

“People change. Maybe he swerved to the right after he graduated.”

“Then why is he collecting cutting-edge art?”

“Now he has a little money and he’s loosening up again?”

“What are you saying? You think I’m wrong about something being off?”

“You’re never wrong about that. I’m just giving you a hard time.”

“Oh, good, in case I might forget who you are. So what do we think he’s up to?”

Bill considered briefly. “Well, one possibility: it’s exactly what he said. He’s looking to make an end run around everyone else and snap these paintings up. But—”

“But you think it’s about money, not the pure love of art.”

“That didn’t cross your mind?”

“Actually, it more than crossed it. It lodged there.” I drank some more of my excellent tea. “In our entire conversation, he didn’t once say anything about wanting to
see
the paintings. Wondering what they were like. How they might be different from the older ones, better or worse. What a thrill it would be if Ghost Hero Chau really were alive, and still painting.”

“So. He may be a collector, but he’s not a lover. He’s gambling they’re real and he wants to corner the market. You’re shaking your head. Why?”

“I don’t think he’s a collector, either. I ran a background. No Jeff Dunbars his age in any of the databases. He gave me a business card with no business on it, only his name and phone number. Not even an e-mail. Now, that could mean he’s rich enough not to work, rich enough he doesn’t want anyone to know who he really is. Collecting art would go along with that, and I guess so would paying my retainer in cash—”

“How much, by the way? Unless it’s none of my business.”

“Since I’m paying you out of it, it can be your business. A grand against two days plus expenses. More after that, or we settle up if I find them sooner.”

“A trustful sort of fellow, handing over cash like that.”

I shrugged. It was a lot, but clients paying in cash are not all that rare. Many people like to avoid a paper trail leading to a PI.

“But the phone,” I said, “is a prepaid cell.”

“Ah. Now that’s damn dubious, I’d say.”

“And the suit didn’t scream ‘too rich to work’ either.”

“Shiny and threadbare?”

“No, no. Perfectly fine, but strictly off the rack. A good rack, but not super high-end. Remember, I’m a seamstress’s daughter.”

“You do your mother proud.”

“Leave my mother out of it. And frankly, if he were a Getty or something—not to display my lack of self-esteem but why is he coming to me? All the big guys have Asians on staff.”

“Because you’re better?”

“But how would he know that? Seriously, I’m thinking he’s just a working stiff, and his work has to do with China. He said he learned Chinese because he thought it would be useful. I bet he’s in import-export, or he’s American legal counsel for a Chinese firm, something like that. That’s probably where he heard about the paintings—at work. He’s using a phony name because he doesn’t want his bosses to know he’s on the hunt, and he came to me, not one of the big boys, out of the same instinct. He’s not the new collector on the block. He’s not on the block at all. He just wants to cash in on the Chaus.” I finished my tea and looked at Bill. It was a sensible theory and he nodded.

“Or,” I said.

“Or.” Bill didn’t stop nodding, but he waited for me to say it.

“Or he’s not looking for the paintings at all. He’s looking for the painter.”

Bill lit a cigarette and dropped the match in the ashtray I keep around for him. “So. Why?” He streamed out smoke. “Chau owes him money? Stole his girl?”

“Twenty years ago, when Chau was thirty-five and Dunbar was ten?”

“Maybe it wasn’t Dunbar. It was his daddy. A multigenerational family feud. Your people go in for that, don’t they? God knows mine do. Maybe this is the Hatfields and the McChaus.”

“Okay. But still. Chau’s well-known to be dead.”

“An obstacle, but not insurmountable. Maybe he’s been reincarnated. Another thing your people go in for.”

“You’re mocking my people.”

“In case you might forget who I am.”

“Fat chance.” We sat in silence for a few moments. Then I said, “Here’s what I propose: we take the case. But, whatever we find, we don’t tell the client until we know what’s really going on.”

“Or, you could tell the client to go climb a tree and branch off.”

“Are you kidding? May I remind you I haven’t worked in nearly a month? There was that fistful of cash, you remember.”

Bill didn’t respond to that. He and I have both sent clients packing, retainer or not, when they were up to something we wanted no part of.

I sighed and looked into my empty cup. “I realized something. While Dunbar was talking.”

“Which is?”

“The collecting thing … I don’t get it. I never have.”

“Okay.”

“But the hunting thing? Being the one to chase something down? Find it first, discover a secret? That I do get. I think,” I admitted slowly, “that’s why I’m in this business.”

Bill cocked his head and grinned. “That’s your big insight?”

“What do you mean?”

“If that’s news to you, you’re the last to hear it.”

I felt myself redden.

“No, come on,” Bill said. “You keep telling me I do this so I can be Sir Galahad, riding in and saving the town. Why can’t you have a less-than-pure motive, too?”

“I never said Sir Galahad. I said the Lone Ranger.”

“The effect is the same, and Sir Galahad doesn’t have to wear a mask.”

“No, just a tin suit. Anyway, my motives are pure and we’re taking the case.”

“So I can be Sir Galahad and you can be Indiana Jones?”

“The Lone Ranger! And Indiana Jones, in case you missed it, is a guy. Why can’t I be Lara Croft?”

“Okay, but she doesn’t have a whip.”

“I’m
so
not going there. And for your information, we’re taking the case because at the end, when I’ve found the secret and you’ve saved the town, I can keep Jeff Dunbar’s retainer and maybe even send him another big bill. Coffee-making machinery doesn’t come cheap, you know. And a constant supply of beans? Please.”

“Well, if that’s what’s at stake.” Bill finished his coffee. “So okay, boss. What’s our first move?”

I sat back and gazed at the ceiling. “I wish I knew more about Chau. Or Chinese art. I Googled, but Chau’s story is pretty much what Dunbar said it was, and I didn’t find anything else helpful. The only lead I have is this gallery assistant who backpedaled.”

“Well, let’s go lean on him.”

“Sure, but what if he doesn’t give? I don’t have a clue where to go next.”

“Art, according to Dunbar, is not why he hired you. Chineseness is.”

“Yes, but he’s wrong. Seriously, whatever’s going on, who says anyone involved is Chinese except me and Ghost Hero Chau? It’s art I need.”

Bill looked at me for a few moments with something in his eyes I couldn’t read. Then he shifted his gaze to his coffee cup, and the press, and the grinder. “Well, okay,” he said, and took out his cell phone. The coversation was friendly and brief: he ascertained the callee was in and would remain so, and that was that. He put the phone away and stood. “Come on.”

*   *   *

We subwayed up to a neighborhood I don’t usually have much business in, the part of the Upper East Side that’s waist-deep in old money. Bill, though, negotiated the sidewalks like he was right at home. That’s because he was. He lives as far downtown as I do—and was born in Kentucky, for Pete’s sake—but a lot of New York’s museums and galleries are up here. Bill is one of those rare New Yorkers who actually spends time in museums and galleries, looking at art.

We weren’t going to a gallery or a museum, though. At a brownstone on Madison near Seventy-fifth Bill pressed a buzzer. A man’s voice popped from the speaker: “Hey! Come on up!” and, buzzed in, we climbed a curving staircase from the days when this was someone’s grand home. On the second floor, in the open doorway of an elegantly spare office—gleaming wood floor, sunlight pouring through wide street-side windows—stood a tall and grinning Asian man.

“Bill Smith!” he said. “Way cool! Come on in.” He shook Bill’s hand, then turned to me. “Hi. I’m Jack Lee.” His words held no trace of any Asian accent, but not a New York one, either.

“Lydia Chin.”

“Bill’s partner, I know.” Jack Lee’s hand was big, his grip solid. “Come on, sit down, you guys.”

Jack Lee was around my age, nearly as tall as Bill, and in weight somewhere between us, which made him a string bean. Loose-limbed and lanky, he wore a beautiful multicolored silk tie and ironed black jeans, but no jacket. His white shirtsleeves were neatly rolled back, revealing muscled forearms. Closing the door, he pointed us to wood chairs set around a low table piled with art books. Most of what was in the waist-high bookcase behind the desk were art books, too, though some had the staid leather bindings and stamped lettering of law manuals.

Bill and I sat, and Jack Lee started to do the same, but stopped halfway. “Uh-oh. F for hospitality! I don’t have coffee or anything for you guys. Drank it up, haven’t replenished. You want something? There’s a good place a block up.” He rattled off words like a drum solo.

“Not me, I’m fine,” I said. The minimalist chair was surprisingly comfortable.

“Me, too,” said Bill. “I just had a really good cup of coffee.”

“Cool. I’m second-generation ABC from Madison, Wisconsin,” Jack Lee said to me as he sprawled onto a chair. ABC, that’s American-born Chinese. I’m first generation, myself. “I may look Chinese, but think of me as an All-American midwestern college-town boy. That way you won’t be too disappointed.”

I had to smile. “I’m already not disappointed.”

“But she wasn’t expecting anything,” Bill put in.

“Baseline zero, try not to make it worse, Jack, I get it. So, what can I do for you?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “What do you do?”

Jack Lee raised his eyebrows at Bill. “You didn’t tell her?”

“I never tell her anything. Keeps the relationship fresh.”

“‘Fresh’ isn’t the word I’d have used,” I said.

“Got you. Well, the big secret he wants me to spill is, I’m a private eye.”

“Oh.” I blinked. “No kidding?”

“Yeah, how about that? And Bill’s been promising to bring you up here for months now. You know, so we can share mysterious Chinese trade secrets. I was starting to think you didn’t exist. That he’d invented a kick-ass Chinese partner to string me along, keep the top-shelf bourbon flowing.”

“Kick-ass?”

“He was lying?”

“Not about that, no,” I said.

“I was just waiting for the moment of maximum impact,” Bill said. “I thought it would be most efficient for you to share those mysterious secrets while you worked on a case.”

“Hey,” said Jack, “you mean this isn’t just a social call? You come bearing work?”

“We might.” Bill turned to me. “Jack, as he says, may look Chinese, but that’s actually beside the point. He’s an art expert.”

“‘Expert’ is too strong a word,” Jack corrected, with Chinese modesty but an American grin. “But it’s my field. Art history, Asian art concentration.” I’d already taken note of the framed University of Chicago Ph.D. on the bookcase—which included the words “summa cum laude”—so that wasn’t news. “Life plan was to be a big-deal dealer. Came to New York to go the gallery route. But I couldn’t take it.”