Carnal Curiosity - Stuart Woods Page 0,48

assign someone to work as a kind of shadow to Crane. Change everything about your arrangements—guard numbers and positions, panic codes, everything. But keep Crane in the old loop. Let her think that she still has the whole layout.”

“Good idea,” Mike said.

“I also think you should have plainclothes armed guards with each dealer.”

“Another good idea.”

“My detectives will work with the hotel’s security to handle everything outside the floor they’ve taken—elevators, parking garage, exterior access, and roof, including the helicopter pad, if there is one.”

“There is one. It’s already in service. That would make the most sense for a robbery team to get out fast.”

“Then we’ll have NYPD choppers overflying.”

Their food came, and they ate quietly.

“Who was Crane sleeping with at Steele?” Mike asked finally.

“Jeb Barnes,” Stone replied. “He kept the top client records in his office suite, and they spent nights there. Jeb says he’s a heavy sleeper.”

Mike nodded. “And you?” he asked Stone.

Stone shrugged. “That’s how Crane saw the pictures—four of them were in my bedroom.”

“That woman is something else,” Mike said.

“She certainly is,” Dino agreed. “And you’re going to have to be very careful not to let her know about our conversation. When she comes back to work, ask her about the interrogation. Believe me, she’ll have a plausible story ready.”

“Should I keep sleeping with her?” Mike asked.

“I don’t know,” Dino said. “Can you do that without her sensing that something is wrong?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Mike said. “I’ll have to think about it.”

“If you’re going to break it off, you should have a story ready for her. Tell her you’ve met someone else, something like that.”

“I don’t know how to bring that up,” Mike said.

“Let her take the lead,” Stone suggested. “She’s good at that.”

“That,” Mike said, “is a new high in understatement.”

39

Stone had hardly gotten back to his desk when Joan buzzed him. “There’s an Alistair Tremont on line one for you.”

“Remind me,” Stone said.

“Tremont Gallery, he says.”

“Oh, yes, I remember.” He pressed the button. “This is Stone Barrington.”

“Mr. Barrington, you may remember that I sold you a picture a few years back? A Matilda Stone?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I didn’t realize you’d sold it.”

“Sold it?”

“If you’d come to me I’m sure I could have gotten you a far better price.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“A young woman came in this morning with some slides. She’s a kind of walking gallery—she buys things at estate sales and junk shops, then cleans them up and sells them to galleries or at antique shows. I thought perhaps you had engaged her to sell some of your works.”

“Alistair, I’ve never sold any of the art I’ve bought. Are you telling me that the picture I bought from you—the Washington Square Arch scene—was among the things she was trying to sell you?”

“Exactly.”

“Do you have her address and phone number?”

“No, just an e-mail address.”

“Can you give me that, please?”

“Mr. Barrington, if you wish to repurchase the picture, I can do that for you.”

Of course, Stone thought; he wants to make another profit from the picture. “Alistair, that picture and ten other Matilda Stones were stolen from my home the night before last.”

There was a quick intake of breath on the other end of the line. “Good God!”

“Well, yes. And if she’s offering you one stolen item, she may have others in her inventory. This is a matter for the police art theft squad.”

“Well, I certainly don’t want to deal with them,” Tremont said. “I wouldn’t want them in my shop. Word gets around about that sort of thing—it’s not good for business.”

“Stolen art is not good for business, either.”

Tremont seemed indecisive about what to do.

“Alistair, was there anything else in what she showed you that you were interested in buying?”

“There was one other thing: a John Singer Sargent print from around 1910.”

“And if you wanted to buy them from her, how would you proceed?”

“I’d e-mail her that I’d like her to bring the two pictures to my gallery, and if they were in satisfactory condition, I’d make an offer for them.”

“Then do that,” Stone said, “and when you’ve made an appointment with her, call me, and I’ll be there. I won’t bring the police, and there won’t be any trouble.”

“All right, I guess I can do that.”

“Insist on a specific time for the appointment. I don’t want to wait around all day for her to show up. Tell her you’re busy, but you’ll squeeze her in.”

“All right, I’ll e-mail her now.”

“What is her name?”

“Anita Mays.”

“I’ll look forward to hearing from you.” They both hung