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
Stone 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