She reappeared from a little office at the rear, unlocked the access door to the shopwindow, fished out the Rolex, and handed it to him. “It’s a nice one, a Submariner.”
“Any idea how old?” he asked.
“Probably from the sixties,” she said.
He wound the watch, and it began to run, always a good sign. The steel case was scratched from wear, but that would polish out. “How much are you asking?”
“Three thousand,” she said.
“A new one is only five grand,” he said. He wasn’t sure that was still true.
“I might go twenty-five hundred.”
He handed back the watch. “Can I see the picture?”
She unlocked another door at the end of the window and removed the painting.
“Mind if I get some sunlight on it?” he asked, nodding toward the stoop.
She went first, as if to block him if he ran with it.
He stepped onto the stoop and looked the painting over, front and back. He saw the name “Stone” on the back of the canvas; he had seen the picture in Stone’s study. “Nice,” he said. “What are you asking?”
“Fifteen thousand,” she replied.
He affected shock. “Oh, that’s way beyond my budget.” He handed back the painting. “I’ll offer you fifteen hundred for the Rolex, though.”
“I might do seventeen-fifty.”
“I’ve got cash, no tax to pay.”
“Sixteen hundred, and it’s yours.”
“Done.” He followed her back into the shop. “Have you got the box?”
“You’re in luck,” she said, opening a cabinet and coming out with a Rolex box.
Bob took a wad of bills from his pocket and counted out sixteen hundred in hundreds. “You’re just about cleaning me out,” he said, handing her the money.
She got a pad and began writing out a receipt.
“Where do you get all this stuff?” he asked.
“Estate sales, auctions, places in the country. I’m not telling you where.”
He laughed. “I don’t have the energy to visit them. I’d rather let you do my shopping for me.” He pocketed the receipt. “Would you take seven thousand for the picture?”
She laughed. “Not a hope. It’s fifteen, firm.”
“Oh, well, maybe in some other lifetime.” He put the Rolex into its box and dropped it into the Barneys bag with his picture. “Thanks,” he said.
“Come back next week,” she said. “We’re getting new stuff all the time.”
“I’ll do that,” Bob said, and walked back up the block toward his bicycle. He strapped his purchases to the rear rack, unlocked it, and started back up the street. As he approached Anita’s Artfest, a battered gray van pulled up front, and a young man—six feet, 170, sandy hair and short beard—got out and began unloading items that Anita carried into the shop.
Bob smiled all the way home.
43
S
tone was wrapping up his Friday when Bob Cantor called.
“What did you learn?” Stone asked.
“You’re right, Anita Mays likes to fly under the radar. She doesn’t advertise, doesn’t use eBay. One of the local shopkeepers implied that her boyfriend is a burglar, and I think she might very well be right.”
“Did you go into the shop?”
“Yep, bought myself a nice Rolex for sixteen hundred. She didn’t know that it was one of a limited edition, celebrating the watch’s fiftieth anniversary. It has a green bezel and larger numerals and is probably worth ten grand used, if you can find one. It was issued about ten years ago. And get this: one of your pictures was in the shopwindow.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“I kid you not. The shop is full of very nice stuff, so the boyfriend has good taste in stolen goods. He arrived as I was leaving the block, and unloaded some stuff from an old van. The
vehicle is registered to a William Murphy, of the Barrow Street address. I think the two of them live in the basement of the building.”
“That’s all very interesting, especially the part about my picture.”
“She was asking fifteen grand for it, and she wouldn’t budge on the price.”
“Well, I guess I’d better get down there before they get any smarter. Any other observations?”
“The girl is very wary. I think she suspects everybody of being a cop, and given the sort of stuff they’re dealing in, she should be wary. I didn’t talk to the guy, but he’s pretty well built, and I’d guess he probably knows how to throw a punch, so watch yourself.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Tell you the truth, I wouldn’t be surprised if the girl knows how to throw a punch, too, or maybe kick you in the balls.”
“Then I’ll
certainly
watch myself. What do I owe you?”
“Reimburse me for the Rolex, and we’re square.”
“The check is nearly in the mail. Thanks, Bob.”
Stone hung up and buzzed Joan and asked her to send Cantor the check, then buzzed Fred Flicker on the intercom.
“Yes, sir?”
“Fred, I’m going to need you to drive Dino Bacchetti and me down to the Village tomorrow morning, shortly after eleven o’clock.”
“I’ll have the car ready, sir.”
“And I have some papers for you to fill out.”
“Papers, sir?”
“An application for a license to carry a firearm. Chief Bacchetti is going to be of help.”
“I’ll come right over, sir.”
Fred was there in two minutes, and Stone gave him the license application. “You’ll have to be fingerprinted at police headquarters, too. Any problem with that, Fred?”
“Not a bit of it, sir. If they investigate me they’ll just find my service record.” Fred was ex–Royal Marines.
“Good. Here’s a pen, fill that out, and I’ll give it to Dino tomorrow.”
Fred sat down and began filling out the form. “Any word on my application for a green card, sir?”
“An immigration specialist at my law firm is handling that,” Stone replied. “He expects a favorable outcome in a matter of weeks. Oh, on the application list your work as ‘personal assistant and security guard.’”
“Righto, sir.”
“Fred, did you ever carry a weapon out of uniform?”
“Only in Northern Ireland, sir.”
“You served there?”
“That was our war, until the Falklands came along.”
“You were there, too?”
“It was where the shooting was, sir. Royal Marines always run toward the sound of gunfire.”
“Was it rough down there?”
“Not as rough as a Belfast pub on a Saturday night, sir, but I was aboard HMS
Sheffield
when she took an Exocet missile from an Argentine fighter jet. I had just delivered some documents to the captain and was getting ready to board our rigid inflatable
for the return trip, when I saw the thing coming. I yelled, ‘Hit the deck!’ and did so myself. I got bounced around a bit, but I wasn’t really hurt. Twenty of the poor sods in the crew bought it, though.”
“I don’t envy you the experience,” Stone said.
Fred went back to filling out the form, then signed it and gave it to Stone.
“I’ll get Joan to notarize it,” Stone said, leaving it on his desk. “See you at eleven tomorrow.”
Fred left, and Stone took the document to Joan. “Notarize this, please, then pack two hundred thousand in hundreds in my briefcase and put it in your safe. I’ll get it out tomorrow.”
“You know the combination?”
“Unless you’ve changed it.”
“Nope, it’s the same.”
“Then I’ll be able to get at it.”
44
S
tone was on his second cup of coffee in his study when Dino let himself into the house. Stone poured him a cup. Stone’s briefcase was open on the coffee table, displaying the cash.
“So,” Dino said when he had settled into a comfortable chair, “what’s your plan?”
Stone gave him the substance of his conversation with Bob Cantor the day before. “Fred will let us out a block or so from the shop, and we’ll walk to it, with you remaining well back. I’ll leave my briefcase containing the cash with Fred, and I’ll call you when I need it.” Stone slipped his little Colt Government .380 under the banded hundreds. “Just in case.” He handed Dino a beeper-like black box and showed him his own. “Call this a panic button. If I signal you, come in fast, gun first.”
“Okay. You sure you don’t want some backup?”
“I don’t think we’ll need it, you’re scary enough, if it comes to that.”
“I’m flattered you think so.”
Stone gave him Fred’s completed carry application, complete with notary’s stamp and a photo Joan had taken. “I’d appreciate anything you can do.”
Dino looked over the form. “Royal Marines, pistol champion, et cetera, et cetera. Very impressive. His qualifications won’t be an issue.”
“What might be?”
“He’s a foreigner. Has he got a green card?”
“Soon, our immigration lawyer says. Should we wait?”
“Nah, I think I can manage this without being seen to manage it. Tell me, what are you going to do when you get in that shop on Barrow Street?”
“Improvise,” Stone replied.
“Oh, shit.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll stay out of trouble. I’m just an art lover, shopping for pictures.”
“If you say so.”
Stone produced his little wallet that held his honorary badge and tossed that into the briefcase with the Colt, then he took one stack of hundreds and put it into his inside jacket pocket. “Shall we do this?”
“You betcha.”
“Fred’s waiting out front with the car.”
Stone snapped the briefcase shut; they left the house and got into the Bentley Flying Spur. He gave Fred the address, and Fred entered it into the car’s navigation system, not being a New Yorker and unfamiliar with Greenwich Village’s eccentric street plan.
“Something I don’t get,” Dino said.
“What’s that?”
“These pictures are auctioning for north of two million a pop, and this burglar is selling them for fifteen grand each?”
“Yeah, I wondered about that, too. This guy couldn’t have stolen them from my house—he wouldn’t know where they were, and I doubt if he could have defeated the alarm system.”
“Maybe Crane or Dugan hired him, told him where to find the pictures.”
“Then why would he have them and be selling them? He obviously has no idea of their value. They’d have paid him off and kissed him goodbye and sold the paintings somewhere else. Or Crane might have kept them, maybe in their Hamptons house. She loved the pictures.”
“Well, I guess all that doesn’t affect what you’re doing today.”
“No, this will be a quick in and out, I think—fifteen minutes, tops.”
“If you say so.”
“Fred,” Stone said, “pull over right before the corner, then drive around the block and see if you can find a parking spot on Barrow Street. If not, double-park. I may need this briefcase later.” He set it on the front passenger seat. “If so, I’ll call Dino and he can bring it to the door of the shop.”
“Yes, sir. And Chief Bacchetti, may I say how grateful I am for your help with the gun license?”
“Don’t mention it,” Dino said. “It’s better that way.”
“Okay,” Stone said, “stay well back of me. Here we go.”
They got out of the car and Stone strolled down to the corner of Barrow Street and turned the corner. It was noon sharp. He spotted the sign for Anita’s Artfest and checked out the window
before entering. The picture was no longer on display. The door was locked, and he rapped on the glass with his signet ring. He could see Anita coming from the rear of the shop.
She opened the door. “You’re on time—good.”
“I’m pathologically punctual,” he said. He followed her to the rear of the shop. “Have a seat,” she said, pointing to a velvet-covered straight-backed chair. “I’ll show you what I’ve got.”
Stone took the chair and waited. She began bringing out pictures and lining them up on easels and an antique sideboard. Stone spotted his picture among them. “That one,” he said. “May I see it up close?”
She handed him the picture, and he held it so the light struck it and examined it closely, finding his signature on the back of the canvas.
“You said you’d have others,” Stone said. “Where are they?”
A young man stepped from behind a mirror, surprising Stone. He must have been in the rear office, he thought. “We have some,” he said, “but first, let’s have a chat.”
45
S
tone looked him over; Bob had described him perfectly, even to the attitude of potential violence.
“I came here to buy, not chat,” Stone said.
“We’re going to chat anyway.”
“Then be quick about it.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Jim. Who are you?”
“He’s Bill,” Anita said, “and he’s just being careful.”
“Are you a cop?”
“I am not a cop, I’m an art lover.”
“Why do you want these pictures?”
“That’s the dumbest question I ever heard a seller ask a buyer.”
“I mean, why these particular pictures? By this artist?”
“Lots of collectors collect artists. Aren’t you aware of that? I like this one.”
“He bought the little Sargent, too,” Anita said. She seemed to
be careful of her boyfriend, as if she thought he might have a short fuse.
“How many of this artist have you got?” Stone asked.
The two exchanged a glance.
“I might be able to put together ten of them.”
“Then let’s get started. Trot them out.”
Anita nodded slightly to him.
“Just a minute,” he said. He went back into the office and began bringing out Matilda Stones, setting them up for viewing.
Stone examined each of them carefully.
“They’re fifteen grand each,” Bill said.
Stone finished his examination. “Just a minute, I’ll get some cash.” He took out his phone and speed-dialed Dino’s number.
“You still alive?” Dino asked.
“Yeah. You can bring me the briefcase. I’ll meet you at the door.” He hung up. “He’ll just be a minute,” he said to Bill.
“Who’s the guy outside?” Bill asked.
“My boyfriend. We’re thinking of getting married.”
“He’s not coming in here.”
“He doesn’t need to, he’s just bringing me my briefcase. I don’t walk around with that much money.” There was a rap on the door, and Stone went to it and slipped the lock. He stuck a hand through the door and took the briefcase. “Thanks.” He went back and resumed his seat.