are irreplaceable!”
“I know.”
“I’ll get the art squad on this right away. Are you available now?”
“Yes.”
“How did they get into the house?”
“I don’t know. They must have come in while you and I were at dinner.”
“Any suspects?”
“The first time Crane was in the house she commented on the paintings, paid a lot of attention to them. She knew my mother’s work.”
“Now we interview Crane,” Dino said.
“Okay with me, and you needn’t be gentle.”
“We’re on it.” Dino hung up.
Stone got dressed and poured himself a brandy; he needed it. Presently, the doorbell rang, and two detectives came into the house.
“I’m Jim Connor, this is my partner, Aaron Cohn,” the older of the two men said. “I understand you’ve had a burglary.”
Stone went to his computer and printed out color photographs of the eleven paintings, then he handed them to Connor. “That’s the lot,” he said.
“Do you have any idea of their value?” Connor asked.
“There was an auction at Sotheby’s last month,” Stone said. “A smallish painting of hers went for a million nine. It wasn’t her best work. My collection was the cream of her career.”
“I know Matilda Stone’s work well,” Connor said, “and I feel for you. Are they insured?”
“Yes, with Steele, who are my law clients, too. I also serve on their board of directors.”
“Did you buy all the paintings?”
“My mother left me four. The others I’ve collected over the years, the most recent acquisition late last year.”
“I understand you feel that a Ms. Crane Hart may have been involved in the theft?”
“Until recently, she was with Steele. We met when she came to adjust a claim I had made. She knew my mother’s work, and made a point of admiring the pictures. I assume Dino has briefed you on her possible involvement in a couple of other thefts—of jewelry, not art. Her former husband, one Don Dugan, is a suspect, as well.”
“I suppose you have a security system?”
“Yes. I armed it when I left the house.”
“Then it must have been bypassed. May I see the main box?”
Stone took the two detectives downstairs and showed them the panel. There was a light representing each sensor—door, window, motion—in the house. All the lights were off.
“I don’t know how the hell they did that without setting off the alarm,” Stone said.
“There are some very clever operators out there. When you came home from your dinner with Chief Bacchetti, did you enter the code, as usual?”
“Yes, and it made the right noises. I had no reason to suspect it had been tampered with.”
“You’d better get your security guy here first thing in the morning and let him diagnose what was done to the equipment. We’d like to know in detail how they switched off the system.”
“So would I,” Stone said.
The two men asked more questions, then Connor said, “We’ll be in touch.”
Stone let them out, and he started to engage the security system. Then remembered he didn’t have one.
37
Stone slept badly and awoke depressed. He had trouble getting out of bed. He called Bob Cantor, his electronics specialist.
“Good morning, Stone.”
“Hello, Bob. My house was burgled last night and eleven paintings were stolen. The alarm system had somehow been turned off while I was out to dinner.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Stone, but if you remember, your current system was installed by your friends at the Agency last year at the same time they replaced all your windows.”
“Oh, God, you’re right, Bob.” The Agency had done the work to protect his guest Marcel duBois.
“If I can be of any help to them, just call me.”
“Thanks, Bob, I will.” Stone hung up and called Holly.
“You’re up early, Stone,” she said.
“You remember last year when your people installed new windows and a new security system in my house?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Last night, my house was entered while I was out to dinner, and all of my mother’s paintings, eleven of them, were stolen.”
“Oh, Stone, those beautiful pictures of New York?”
“Yes, those. Can you get somebody over here to find out why their system failed?”
“I’ll make some calls immediately and get back to you.”
“Thank you.” They both hung up.
Stone ate half his breakfast, showered, shaved, and went downstairs. The phone on his desk was buzzing as he entered his office. “Yes?”
“Holly Barker on one.”
“Holly?”
“Stone, a technician will be there in an hour or less.”
He thanked her and hung up.
Joan came into the office. “You look terrible,” she said. “Are you ill? Do you want me to call your doctor?”
Stone told her what had happened.
“That seems impossible,” she said