Don, the recruiter, called with questions about the skill level required, and I explained that in addition to a solid foundation of knowledge, we were looking for half diligence and half common sense. He chuckled and told me he had someone in mind and would call back, he hoped, within the hour.
I realized that whoever Don found as our temporary researcher, he or she, as a newcomer, would need the appraisal protocol explained in more detail than Sasha had required. I sighed, resigned to doing what felt like busywork. It was too complex to delegate, but it had to be done.
“Gretchen,” I said, calling her, “I need a binder. Would you bring one up?”
“Sure. Want some coffee? I just made a fresh pot.”
“Thanks,” I said, smiling. “Good idea.”
I heard the clickity-clack of her heels on the steps, swung around in my chair, and saw her enter with a big smile, then accepted the steaming mug of coffee she proffered. She placed the burgundy binder, preprinted with our logo and name on the cover, on my desk.
“Can I help?” she asked.
“No, thanks. It’s a research thing.”
“Well, let me know if I can do anything.” With a cheery wave, she was gone.
I thought for a moment about what to include in the binder. I started with a description of the grandfather clock and added the protocol itself along with the explanation of how I calculated the value. Since the researcher would be new to the region, I added a paragraph explaining my distrust of Troudeaux’s research. Deciding that more information was better than less, I photocopied the title pages of the two catalogues I consulted, Shaw’s and Troudeaux’s, along with the pages containing the specific entries about the clock. I retraced my steps on the Web sites, found the information I’d discovered previously, and printed out the relevant pages.
I was trying to determine the best sequence when Max called, just before 1:00. “Hey, Max,” I said, “I was just thinking about lunch. Do you have time? I’ll buy.”
“Thanks, Josie. I’ll take a raincheck. Alverez called.”
I sat up straight, alert for trouble. “What now?”
“I don’t know. He wants to see us this afternoon.”
As if a switch had been flipped, I lost my appetite. Whatever Alverez wanted, I figured it must be dire if he was calling Max out of the blue. I began to shake, and swallowed twice to try to control my visceral reaction. “Okay,” I said, as calmly as I could. “When?”
“Is three o’clock all right?”
“Sure. I’ll meet you there, okay?”
I hung up the phone and began to think about what might have led to this unanticipated request. Nothing came to mind, but I became increasingly disquieted and tense. Stop it! I told myself. Until I had cause, tormenting myself with unanswerable what-if questions was way south of pointless. I’d know whether I had reason to be concerned soon enough. Just as I was chastising myself and wondering how to stop worrying, Don called back and gave me the name of the researcher I was going to hire for five days at $400 a day, Fred Reynolds.
“He’s perfect, Josie,” Don said. “He’s young and eager. Smart as a whip. With absolutely no social skills at all. But give that boy an antique and a computer and look out.”
I laughed, and it felt good. “Thanks, Don. You’re the best.”
Don told me that Fred was already en route. He was flying to Boston, where he’d rent a car, and with any luck, be at my warehouse by 4:00. I passed on the information to Gretchen, who made a hotel reservation at a small bed-and-breakfast in downtown Portsmouth.
As soon as I hung up the phone, anxiety returned. Keep busy, I admonished myself. I took a long drink of water, and turned my attention back to the protocol.
I played around a little, designing a jazzy title page on letterhead, and using a three-hole punch, thumped all the pages and inserted them into the binder. I flipped through, admiring my work, and smiled. I was ready to dazzle anyone. Don’s researcher, Fred, would have an unequivocal understanding of what I meant by “professional standards.”
Thinking about the schedule, I decided I’d better consult Sasha.
“Sasha,” I said, when I had her on the phone, “how’s it going?”
“Good. I’m working on the sofa, and have two tables and the plant stand to go.”
“That’s great,” I said. “You’re working quickly.”
“I’m trying. There’s so much.”
“Yeah. Listen, Don has called back. A young guy named Fred Reynolds, a terrific researcher, according to him, will be here by four o’clock or so.”
“Great.”
“I’m going to be out for most of the rest of the day. When Fred arrives, it might make sense for you to get him settled in at the extra desk near Gretchen, make sure he can get on-line, then show him around. Okay?”
“Okay. What about the protocol?”
“I’ll do that. Are you okay to meet at the office at eight o’clock tomorrow?”
“Sure.”
“Arrange that with him, okay?”
“Okay.”
“You can watch the video with him first thing and show him how the tape relates to Mrs. Grant’s ledger. After that, I’ll go over the protocol with him. Then we should be good to go.”
Hanging up, I realized that I ought to take the binder with me. I wanted to know the material cold when I reviewed it with Fred in the morning.
I headed downstairs.
Gretchen was on the phone arranging an appointment for me. From what I gathered as I waited for her to finish, a couple was downsizing after their kids had left for college. They were moving from a big Colonial in Durham into a small condo overlooking South Mill Pond in Portsmouth. She passed me a note reading “2:00 P.M. tomorrow?”
I nodded that 2:00 was fine. When she was off the phone, she said, “This is a good one, I think.”
“Yeah? What do they have?” I asked.
“Loads of stuff, it sounds like.” She glanced at her notes. “A set of china, nothing special. A dinette set from the ’40s. End tables. Some hand-carved decoys. Japanese screens. A pool table, in pretty good shape. Boxes full of miscellaneous goods.”
“That’s great! Where did the lead come from?”
“The tag sale. Eric got this one.”
“Excellent.”
I slipped the address she handed me into my purse.
“Eric’s off today, right?”
“Right.”
Since we all work on Saturdays, everyone gets a weekday off. Eric usually took Mondays. Gretchen rarely did, since she was responsible for reconciling the weekend receipts. She and Sasha worked it out between them which day they took, so we always had coverage in the office. “When are you off?” I asked.
“Wednesday.”
“When Eric gets in tomorrow, have him go to the professor’s and pick up the books. He ought to have a helper. There’s a lot of them.”
She nodded, jotted herself a reminder, and taped it to her computer monitor. “I’ll get a temp right now.”
“Good. I’m heading out,” I told her. “When Fred arrives, remember that he’s a stranger to these parts. Make sure he has everything he needs and that he can find his way to the B-andB, okay?”
She gave me an of-course-I-will look.
“Yeah, yeah, I know, of course you will.” I smiled.
I stopped at a grocery store and circled their deli-style salad bar picking and chose whatever grabbed my fancy, drove to the beach, and ate sitting in my car. It tasted pretty good, but not as good as homemade. I missed cooking for someone. Rick, my former boyfriend, loved my cooking. It was one of his best qualities.
I wondered what Rick was doing now. When I’d called to let him know that I was leaving New York for New Hampshire, he’d told me that he thought it was a good idea for me to get away, that maybe the physical distance would help me put my father’s death behind me. I didn’t respond to either his insensitivity or his bitter tone. His lack of empathy was why we’d broken up a month or so after my father’s death, and it still seemed incredible to me that he thought I ought, somehow, to simply turn the other cheek, and get on with things. I had wished him good luck, and hung up, relieved that I was no longer dating him.
I shook my head. We’d had such good times for almost two years, I still felt surprised at how quickly things had changed. In only a matter of weeks, we’d gone from cruising the farmer’s market looking for the freshest produce to strangers laboring to maintain a conversation.
I leaned my forehead against the steering wheel, a sudden memory bringing tears to my eyes. I’d been making a Newburg sauce, slowly stirring sherry into cream, when he came behind me, his hands encircling my torso. He brushed my hair aside and began kissing my neck, his lips electric on my skin.
I sat up and pushed the memory aside. I didn’t want to be with him, but I wanted to be with someone. I was aware that I was exerting a lot of mental energy coping with loneliness. I tried my best, without much success, to shake off my growing depression. I had a sense of impending doom. Not only was I alone but I was having to deal with being suspected of murder. I swallowed, fighting tears.
Whatever Alverez was going to say or do, I felt certain it would be bad news.
It was exactly 3:00 when I entered the Rocky Point police station.
Max was leaning against the counter chatting with Alverez. I saw the big blonde, Cathy, at a file cabinet in the rear. We walked down the now-familiar hallway to the interrogation room, and I took my usual seat. I doubted that I’d ever enter that room and see the cage in the corner without wincing.
Once we were settled, Alverez turned on the tape recorder, spoke the date and time, listed our names as those present, and then said, “Thanks for coming in. Our investigation has progressed and I wanted to give you some information.”
“Okay,” Max responded.
Alverez leaned back, stretching out his legs. He looked the same as always, his demeanor providing no clue about his message. I was anxious, but braced to deal with whatever came my way.
“Unless new information comes up, which I don’t expect, Josie has been cleared as a suspect.”
“What?” I exclaimed, stunned.
Alverez half smiled, and nodded. “We don’t think you were involved in the murder.”
Max gripped my shoulder for a long minute, a contained gesture of celebration. Tears welled up in my eyes, and I didn’t try to stop the flow. I took a deep breath, realized I’d had a death-grip on the sides of my chair, and lifted my hands to the table top, clenching and unclenching my fists to relax. I reached over and put a hand on top of Max’s, still on my shoulder, and squeezed, then reached into my purse for a tissue, and wiped away my tears.
As stress and anxiety receded, anger rushed in. I stuffed the crumpled tissue in my purse, turned to Alverez, and asked, “Why didn’t you call me?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you mean ‘What do I mean’? You drag me down here to tell me that I’m no longer a suspect? Don’t you think I might have been interested in hearing that news right away? Would it have killed you to have called and told me?”
He shrugged, and I took the gesture to mean that he thought I was overreacting. “Sorry. There’s something else I need to discuss, so I knew we’d be talking anyway.”
I looked at him and shook my head, his cavalier dismissal of my distress fueling my rage. “You needed to talk to me? How thoughtful of you to balance my needs with your own,” I added, unable to suppress the sarcasm.
“I didn’t mean it that way. Sorry. Guess it was a little insensitive of me not to have called.”
“A little!” I exclaimed.
Max reached for my arm and squeezed, gently. “Josie,” he said. “Point taken. Let’s move on.”
I shook off his hand. “No, Max. This is too important.” I pushed hair aside. “It seems I should be grateful that you have something else to talk to me about,” I said to Alverez. “Otherwise I might have learned that I’ve been cleared-when? Tomorrow? The next day. Oh, I know! Probably you’d have given Cathy a note to call me when she got a chance, right?”
“Okay, Josie,” Alverez said, unsmiling. “I get it. I was thoughtless. I apologized once and I meant it. I’m sorry. Can we move on now?”
Stop, I reminded myself. Breathe. Think. I took a deep breath and turned to Max. He was watching me with compassionate eyes. I looked out of the window. The tall grass that dotted the dunes waved in the light breeze. My anger dissipated as suddenly as it had arisen, leaving me spent. I felt exhausted and emotionally raw. Taking a deep breath, I looked at Alverez and smiled a little, a nonverbal offer of detente. His stern demeanor eased in response.
I felt awkward, uncertain what to do or say next. One emotion after another washed over me-the fatigue that had eclipsed my fury now gave way to an almost giddy volatility. I smiled again, broadly this time. Alverez smiled back, and I found myself admiring the flecks of gold that glistened in the brown of his eyes. His eyes were hypnotic, drawing me in. After a long minute, Max cleared his throat and the mood was broken. I looked away. “Sorry about that,” I said. “I guess this situation has made me a little emotional. I don’t normally rant like a fishwife.”
Alverez smiled. “It wasn’t so bad. I’ve been called worse than insensitive.”
“Really? Like what?”
Alverez smiled and shook his head slightly. “That’ll be a topic for another time, if you don’t mind,” he said, shifting in his chair.
“So,” I asked, pleased at his obvious discomfort, “what made you realize I wasn’t guilty?”
“That too can be covered later. We have something important to discuss now, if that’s all right.”
“Sure. What?”
“The reason I asked you to come in is to ask for your help. We’ve reached a point in the investigation where we need an expert.”
“An expert in?…” Max asked.
“Appraisals.”
“Why Josie?”
“She’s the logical choice. We can bring in an outside expert if we have to, but my plan is more likely to work if Josie will help us.
“What do you need?”
Alverez cleared his throat and idly tapped his pen against the wooden table. “A couple of things. First, what do you know about the Renoir? I mean, according to Mrs. Grant’s ledger, the three paintings, the Renoir, the Matisse, and the Cezanne were all bought from someone or something called A.Z. Do you know what, or who, that is?”
“One second,” Max said to Alverez, reaching out his hand to stop me from speaking. He leaned over toward me and whispered, “Do you know what it means?”
“No,” I whispered back.
“Do you know anything about the paintings.”
I paused, then decided to tell Max the truth. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
“What?”
“It’s complicated.”
Max straightened up, glanced at the recorder, the red light indicating it was on, and said, “Josie and I need to consult for a moment. We’ll step outside and walk a little, if that’s all right.”
“Sure,” Alverez said, narrowing his eyes. “But you can stay here. I’ll leave the room, like I did before.”
“I’d just as soon stretch my legs,” Max answered.
Alverez shrugged and hit the Off button. “Let me know when you’re ready to resume.”
Max and I walked across the street and stepped up onto the sandy dunes. I picked up a flat gray rock and hurled it toward the ocean. Clouds were rolling in from the west, white-topped waves rippling the ocean’s surface. Max stretched and bent down.
“That’s a relief, huh?” he asked, standing upright.
I choked on sudden tears. “You have no idea.” I grasped his upper arm and leaned my forehead against his sleeve. “Thank you, Max.”
He reached over and patted my shoulder. “Sure, Josie. I don’t know that anything I did had anything to do with anything, but it’s a pleasure to work with you.”
I smiled as best I could given that I was still feeling emotional. My tears gradually abated, and I turned toward the sea. The salty air smelled fresh. I stood up, my smile broader, my confidence returning. “How come you wanted to come outside?” I asked.
“Well, I wanted to make the point that we could. This time, we aren’t here for an interrogation. You’re being asked to do a favor.”
I smiled. “Wow, that’s right, isn’t it?”
He shrugged, and looked mildly embarrassed. “I wanted to crow a little.”
I tapped his shoulder and smiled again.
Max smiled back. “So,” he said, “talk to me.”
“I’ve researched all three paintings. They were stolen from Jewish families before or during World War II. The Matisse disappeared from a small museum on the Mediterranean. The other two were taken by the Nazis.”
“My God,” Max said, turning to look at me, shock registering on his face.
“Yeah,” I said, nodding, responding to his overall reaction, not only his words. “I know. It’s horrible. I think that’s why Mrs. Cabot hired me. I think her daughter, Andi, who’s an immoral shrew, by the way, would make it impossible for her mother to return the paintings to their rightful owners. But if I find them, and announce the discovery publicly, well, Mrs. Cabot will have no choice.”
He nodded. “Makes sense.”
“Here’s the thing. I’ve found them.”
“What?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
“Where are they?”
“I’ve got them safe.”
After a pause, Max asked, “So why haven’t you brought them forward?”
I looked away, turning to focus on the ocean as I struggled to get my jumbled thoughts in order. “I’m not sure. Two reasons, I guess. First, I thought I ought to hold on to them in case I needed to use them to clear my name. And don’t ask how they’d help me do that, Max, because I don’t know. I don’t have a plan. I just knew those paintings could somehow be an ace in the hole.” I shrugged. “Or, they might be. It’s the only thing I know that no one else does. Knowing their location is, somehow, an insurance policy.”
“What’s the other reason?”
“I need to tell Mrs. Cabot first. I just found them. And today’s her father’s funeral. It seems too awful to tell her today. I just couldn’t do it.”
Max touched my arm again. “You’re a good egg, Josie.”
“A good egg?”
He smiled. “What else?”
“That’s it.”
“Where are they now?”
For some reason, I didn’t want to reveal their location, but I couldn’t justify not doing so. Max was my lawyer, after all. For reasons I didn’t understand, I stayed vague. “In Mr. Grant’s house. I moved them from one secret spot to another.”
He didn’t prod further. Instead, he asked, “How certain are you that someone else won’t find them wherever it is you’ve hidden them?”
“No one but me has access to the house right now, and I’ve arranged it so none of my staff will go near them.”
“I don’t like it, Josie. I think we ought to tell Alverez the truth, and let him take custody of them. Your exposure, your potential liability, if something happens to them, even, God forbid, a fire, is too great.”
I nodded. I hadn’t considered that aspect of the situation before. He was right. “There’s one more thing,” I said, looking down, not really ashamed, but feeling awkward that money came into my reckoning.
“What’s that?”
“There’ll be a reward. It was posted on a Web site. I found them, so I want it. If I turn them over to the police, I’ll lose my claim.”
“No, you won’t. I’ll make certain you’re covered.”
I couldn’t think of any reason not to do as he recommended. “Okay, then.”
“You ready to go back in?”
“Are you sure I should tell him everything?”
He squeezed my arm again. “Yes. I’ll protect your rights.”
Alverez looked somber. His eyes were dark and intent. His manner was serious, even grave. He’d asked if we were ready to resume, Max said we were, and suddenly, the tape recorder light was red, indicating, that once again a record of our conversation was being created.
“Josie has a statement to make.”
“All right,” Alverez said.
“A couple of things before she begins,” Max said. “She has acquired some knowledge of the missing paintings and is going to tell you what she knows.”
“Good,” Alverez said, his tone neutral.
“The paintings, we believe, were stolen. Josie expects to return them to their rightful owners, and if a reward is forthcoming, she expects to claim it.”
Alverez paused and I heard the soft whirr of the recorder. “And?”
Max shifted in his chair. “And we’d like to turn them over to you. But we want to be on the record that you acknowledge that but for the actions of Josie Prescott, you wouldn’t have been able to take possession of the missing artwork.”
Alverez turned to look at me. “Are you saying you have them in your possession now?”
Max said, “Do we have your acknowledgment?”
“When you turn them over, I’ll write you a receipt. I can make no comment about any other aspect of the situation.”
“That’ll be fine,” Max said, but it didn’t sound fine to me.
I leaned over to Max and whispered, “That sounds bad.”
“Nah, it’s standard operating procedure.”
“Okay,” I said, unconvinced.
“Plus, we’ll have a copy of the tape.”
“Josie,” Max said aloud, “tell Chief Alverez what you know about the paintings.”
Taking a deep breath for courage, I said, “I found out that all three paintings were stolen.”
“How?” Alverez asked.
“A Web site.”
“We checked on-line.”
I shrugged. “You checked law-enforcement sites, right?”
“Right.”
“Me, too. I didn’t find the paintings listed there. I found them on a specialized site tracking Nazi thefts before and during World War Two.”
Alverez leaned back and shook his head. “What are you saying?”
“You asked me before about Mrs. Grant’s ledger. The entry that indicated that Mr. and Mrs. Grant bought all three paintings from ‘A.Z.,’ right?”
“Right. Do you know who or what that is?”
I shook my head. “No. Maybe a person. Maybe a gallery.” I shrugged. “No idea.”
“What do you know?”
“I know Renoir’s Three Girls and a Cat was one of several paintings taken from the Brander family home in Salzburg in 1939. Cezanne’s Apples in a Blue Bowl with Grapes was stolen from a well-respected Viennese collector and businessman, Klaus Weiner and his wife, Eva, also in 1939, except that they called it collecting the ‘Jew tax.’ Matisse’s Notre-Dame in the Morning was owned by the Rosen family. They’d lent it to a small museum in Collioure, France, in 1937. In February of 1941, the curator reported it stolen along with, if I recall right, seventeen other paintings.” I shrugged. “Maybe the Nazis got that one, too. I can’t confirm that. But I do know it was stolen, and it had been owned by a Jew.”
Alverez’s eyes narrowed as he listened, and when I was done, he shook his head.
“We figured they were stolen. Why else keep them under wraps?”
“Well, a legitimate owner might be afraid of theft,” I ventured.
He shook his head. “Then you wouldn’t leave a gimcrack lock on the front door.”
“Good point,” I acknowledged.
“Where did you find them?”
“In a hidden compartment behind other paintings.”
“How did you know to look there?”
“Intuition? Luck? I don’t know. I noticed a three-sided frame on the workbench in the basement. A few hours later, tossing and turning in bed, something clicked.”
“Where are they now?”
I turned to Max. He nodded encouragingly.
“I’ll show you. I won’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“I want that receipt as I hand them over.”
He nodded. “When we’re done here, we’ll go together.”
“And you’ll give me a receipt?”
“On the spot.” He rat-a-tat-tatted the table with his pen. “We need to get the paintings authenticated.”
“Yeah.”
“I want to alert our expert that they’re coming.” He pushed back his chair and stood up.
“I thought I was your expert.”
He smiled. “You are on appraisals. Not on authenticating art.”
“Who are you going to use for that?”
“Leo Snow from Dartmouth.”
I nodded. “He’s an expert, all right. Good choice.”
“I’ll be right back.” He punched the Off button and left the room.
Max and I sat quietly. When he returned, he started the recorder, and said, “I got Dr. Snow on the phone. He’ll be here in the morning with his chemistry set, and we’ll have confirmation by the end of the day.” He paused. “Josie?”
“Yeah?”
“Congratulations on finding them.”
I smiled. “Thanks. I was pretty pleased.”
He smiled back. After a moment, he asked, “Change of subject. How do you set values?”
“You mean on the Cezanne or the Matisse?”
“Yes. Or anything.”
“It’s complex,” I said, explaining the intricacies of the process.
“But,” Alverez objected, “you’re saying there’s no intrinsic value to things.”
“That’s true. Think of it as the last bastion of pure capitalism.”
“My God.”
“Why are you asking?” Max chimed in.
Alverez looked at us for a moment before settling back in his chair. He pushed it out farther from the table, and the scraping noise startled me. “We have several suspects, and I’m hoping you’ll help us narrow the field.”
“What do you mean?” Max jumped in before I could speak.
“If a junkie boosts a diamond pin and pawns it, I know how it would be valued. I could send in a guy undercover and he could hold his own in the conversation. With a Cezanne or a Matisse,” he said, gesturing hands-up, “we’re a little bit out of our depth.”
“You’re thinking of asking Josie to do something undercover?” Max asked, incredulous.
“Or maybe to educate us, so we can do it. We have options.”
Neither Max nor I spoke.
“So, can you give me an example,” Alverez asked me, “of how you’d set a price?”
Remembering the binder I’d prepared for Fred, I pulled it out of my purse. “I just happen to have… ta-dah!” I laid it on the table, opened the cover, and said, “This is a summary of the protocol I established,” I explained, pointing to the first page. “But, in a sense, showing you this first is bass-ackwards.”
Alverez looked amused.
“That’s a perfectly good word, coined, as far as I know, by my mother. My mother was a lady who never in her life said a bad word. Given that standard, she found that she needed to be creative in order to properly express herself.”
“Of course. That explains it,” Alverez said, half smiling. “Bass-ackwards. You were saying…”
“The first thing you do is look for comps. Just as in real estate, you need to find similar items with which to compare your piece. I found three. Two references came from printed catalogues that I had on my bookshelf. The third came from a Web site we subscribe to.”
“When you say catalogues, do you mean listings from other company’s auctions?”
“Exactly.”
“Why do you have this with you?”
“We have a temporary researcher coming in to help us with the Grant appraisal. I thought I might want to review it later so I brought it with me.”
“May I see?” he asked, reaching for the binder. He flipped through the pages.
When he got to the title page from Shaw’s catalogue, I stopped him. “This page shows you which catalogue I’m referring to. One important thing to note is what, in the industry, is referred to as ‘recency.’ Obviously, the more recent the sale, the more valid the comparison. I decided five years is a reasonable window.” I turned the page and pointed to the catalogue entry itself. “You see how this text details the factors that were used to authenticate the clock? And then the writer, in this case Shaw, added provenance information. That’s very helpful in figuring out whether the price this clock sold for might be higher than others that sold around the same time.”
Alverez nodded, his eyes scanning the entry.
“What else is here?” he asked, flipping the page.
“Another catalogue entry.” Reading upside down, I said, “You can see that this one is from one of Barney Troudeaux’s auctions in 2002.”
After scanning the paragraph criticizing the quality of Troudeaux’s research, he looked up, and asked, “Why include it at all if you think it’s so bad?”
I shrugged. “Because it’s there. I don’t mean to be flippant. I’m serious. Troudeaux’s sold a clock that was similar and we know how much it sold for, so we’ve got to include it. But it’s also important to consider whether the clock might have sold for even more if the catalogue had provided better or more detailed research.”
Alverez nodded and flipped through the remaining pages. After a moment, Alverez asked, “So if you wanted to set prices for the Cezanne or the Matisse, how would you go about it?”
“Same as I did here,” I answered, shrugging. “I’d do research.”
“Can you give me a ballpark?”
“Millions, but I couldn’t say how many millions.”
“Not even a wild guess?”
“No. I know a Cezanne sold for more than sixty million in 1999, but that was during the Internet bubble, so it’s probably not relevant.”
He nodded. “Just for the sake of argument, if ten million was a reasonable estimate for a sale of a Cezanne at auction, how much would you ask a private buyer to pay… five million?”
“No way.”
“A million?”
I thought about it for a minute. “I’m pleased to say that I have no experience in this arena. That said, I should think you’d have to offer an even greater discount… say half a million, or even less. Think about it. You’re limited to a certain kind of wealthy buyer. It has to be someone who is okay with never displaying the painting in public. In fact, they can never even admit they’ve seen it. I mean no disrespect when I say that a lot of collectors buy expensive pieces so they can display them. I mean, part of the fun is showing what you got.”
“So who would buy it?”
“I can only speculate. Someone who loves art and doesn’t care about showing it to anyone else. Someone with a lot of cash-because I should think you’ve got to be careful about withdrawing that large of a sum from a bank account. Again, I don’t know, but with the Patriot Act, after nine/eleven, I should think a big withdrawal sends up a red flag.”
Alverez nodded. “Continue. What else would you assume about a private buyer?”
After a pause, I said, “Well, actually, when I think about it, a rare masterpiece would be a pretty good hedge against inflation. And a good way to launder money.” I smiled. “So, you’re looking for a rich guy with a lot of cash lying around who wants to balance his portfolio. Or someone in the mob. Or a crooked dealer who knows people like that.”
Alverez drummed the table. “Well, that narrows the field,” he said dryly. “Here’s the thing. I’m hoping that you’ll research the value of either the Cezanne or the Matisse, and offer to sell it privately.”
“What?” I exclaimed. “To whom?”
“Let me get this right-” Max began, but Alverez put up a hand and interrupted.
“Once we agree on Josie’s involvement, I’ll give you full details.”
“I can’t advise Josie to put herself in harm’s way,” Max said.
Alverez looked at me. “You’ll be in no danger,” he assured me.
I found myself unable to look away. His eyes were seductive, and I felt my breathing slow as I relaxed, gazing deeper and deeper into his eyes, feeling safe in his presence. I swallowed. “I don’t understand,” I said. “You want me to research one of the painting’s value, and then do what?”
He paused. “Help us a catch a killer.”