Consigned To Death Part 11

"So, what kind of gun do you have?" he asked.

"A Browning nine-millimeter."

"Do you like it?"

"Yes. Part of it is that it was my father's. Sentimental attachment, if you will. But it fires straight, and it's comfortable in my hand."

"Any chance I could borrow it for a look-see?"

"You bet," I said, not smiling, playing it straight.

"Would you get it now and bring it to my office?"

"Sure."

I confirmed that I'd drop it off within an hour or so.

"When you report in after checking your safe, call the police station, not Alverez's cell phone, okay?"

"Okay," I said.

"Don't ask for him. Just leave a message. All right?"

"Sure."

"And if anything is missing," Max said, "call me instead."

I agreed, and thanked him for everything.

We got in our separate cars and Max waved that I should go first. I drove slowly along the coast. The sun was trying to come out from behind thick clouds, and the ocean glinted gold when it succeeded. Behind me, I saw Max signal and turn off toward the interstate, presumably to return to his office. I stayed on the back roads and got to my house just after one.

It was odd being home during work hours. The sun was brighter here, away from the coast. I ran up the narrow stairs, found the gun, and slipped it into a canvas tote bag. Half an hour later, I watched as Max put the Browning in an envelope, labeled and signed it, sealed it with heavy clear tape, and placed it in his safe.

It was a relief to get to back to work. Gretchen was in the office, her red hair glistening in the now-bright sun that slanted through the oversized window near her desk.

After greeting her, I asked, "Anything going on that I should know about?"

"Nope. Everything's under control."

"You are so good," I said, meaning it.

"Thanks, but it's not just me. It's all of us. Any word about the Renoir?"

"Nothing definitive," I answered. "I know this is a crazy question, but ... what size shoes do you wear?"

"I wear an eight. Why?"

"It's a long story. Another time, okay?"

"Okay," she said, implying with her tone that she was willing to placate me.

"Where is everyone?" I asked.

"Sasha's at the preview. I just spoke to her and she said it's slowed down some. Eric and the temps are almost done setting up the gla.s.sware. I think he said art prints would be next."

I nodded. "Sounds good. I'm going to run up to my office for a sec, then I'll be around and about. Have you eaten?"

"Yeah. Sasha and I traded off lunch breaks."

"Order me a pizza, will you? I'm starved."

"Anything else?"

"Not now. Thanks."

Upstairs, I dialed the combination of my floor safe and saw that everything was intact. I sat at my desk for a moment to call in to Chief Alverez, as promised. I got Cathy, the big blonde, who noted my message without apparent interest. I could picture her writing on a pink While You Were Out pad.

I opened a bottle of water from the case I kept in my office and leaned back with my eyes closed, my determination to take charge allowing me to relax in spite of the ever-present fear.

"Oh, jeez," I said, sitting up with a start, realizing that I could begin my independent research right away, "I never checked."

As I turned toward my computer, Gretchen called to tell me that the pizza had arrived. Hunger overpowered curiosity, and I headed downstairs to eat.

Entering the front office, I was so intent on my own thoughts, I was only vaguely aware of Gretchen. It had just occurred to me that previously I'd searched an Interpol site to see if the Renoir had been listed on the official law enforcement site as stolen. But I'd never searched for information about the painting itself. I brought up a browser and entered the painting's t.i.tle and the artist's name.

"Can I help you with anything?" Gretchen asked.

I considered telling her. Gretchen was plenty loyal, but she was young and social. She told me once, just after she started working for me, that she loved gossip. She laughed when she said it, as if it was a rather charming quality, girlie and cute.

She didn't exaggerate. Gossip was more than a hobby. It was almost an obsession. She spent every lunch hour at her desk, nibbling on a salad, surfing celebrity gossip Web sites, except once a week, when the trashy tabloid newspapers. .h.i.t the stores. On that day, she'd dash out to pick up copies and read them, too.

About a year after she started, she pointed to a photograph on the front page of one of the tabloids. A baby, apparently a movie star's newborn, appeared to weigh almost twenty pounds.

"Isn't that awful?" she asked.

I looked at the trick photo. It was awful.

"Yeah," I agreed. "How do you think they did it?"

"Oh, you mean the photo? No, no. It's real. The baby's size is a deformity, a rare side effect of a medication his wife took while she was pregnant. Isn't it horrible?"

I looked at her, gauging her level of credulity, and concluded that it was high. She thought the oversized baby was real. If I asked her why no other media mentioned the abnormality, probably she'd whisper that it was a conspiracy funded by the pharmaceutical industry.

I didn't want to get roped in, so I smiled vaguely, and said, "You never know, do you? I'm off to the Finklesteins'. I should be back by two." And I left before she could tell me anything else she'd discovered in the gossip columns.

I didn't understand her enthusiasm at all, but knew enough not to judge. My mother had been a closet tabloid reader, lingering at grocery store checkout racks to sneak quick reads. It wasn't something we discussed openly, but my father and I would often exchange knowing looks as we pretended to be occupied in another part of the store to give my mother time to finish a story.

Toward the end, when my mother became bedridden, my father bought a copy of every gossip newspaper, true-confession magazine, and scandal sheet he could get his hands on, and their pictures and stories helped ease my mother's pain.

Still, Gretchen's love of gossip didn't inspire confidence that she knew the value of discretion, so I decided to keep my own counsel. If nothing else, she was young, and discretion generally wasn't a virtue of youth.

"No, I'm fine," I answered.

"Sure?"

"Thanks. I'm okay."

"Then I'm going to go see if I can do anything for Eric, all right?"

"Good," I answered absent-mindedly.

I clicked the Search Now b.u.t.ton, and in seconds got eighty-nine hits, mostly art museums, poster shops, and reference sites, like encyclopedias and university art history departments. But one site was unique. Hardly able to believe my eyes, I clicked on a link to a site claiming to track art stolen by the n.a.z.is before and during World War II.

While I read, I ate two pieces of pizza without tasting either one. According to the Switzerland-based organization whose Web site I was on, Three Girls and a Cat was one of seven paintings that had been stripped from the walls of the Brander family home in Salzburg in 1939 in return for a promise of exit visas for the family. According to the meticulously kept n.a.z.i records recovered after the war, the paintings had been stored in a barn pending determination of their final destination. But mysteriously, only one daughter, Helga, then twenty-one, had been granted an exit visa. Apparently, neither the rest of her family, nor the seven paintings, had ever been seen again. Until now.

The phone rang, and I was so intent on what I was reading, I nearly missed the call. "Prescott's," I said, "May I help you?"

"You run tag sales, right?" a stranger asked, wanting driving directions.

Hanging up the phone, I read on. After the war, in 1957, Helga Brander Mason, married and living in London, had pet.i.tioned the Austrian government to locate and return the pillaged works. They'd promised to try, but whether they'd done anything more than register her request was anybody's guess. Almost fifty years later, her son, Mortimer Mason, had picked up the search. He was listed as the contact for information regarding the seven missing paintings.

Reeling from my discovery, I stared into s.p.a.ce, stunned and disbelieving.

"Things are looking great out there!" Gretchen said as she walked into the office. She looked at me and stopped, tilting her head. "Are you all right?"

"What?" I asked, distracted, having trouble switching my attention to her.

"Are you okay? You look, I don't know, funny."

"Yeah. I'm okay," I answered. I bookmarked the URL and closed the browser. "How's Eric doing?"

"Fine. He says he doesn't need help."

I nodded. "Good."

"Any calls?" Gretchen asked.

"Just one. A woman wanting directions."

Gretchen sat at her desk, and soon I heard tapping as she typed something. The phone rang and I heard her answer it.

It was inconceivable to me that Mr. Grant had owned a Renoir that had been stolen by the n.a.z.is. Maybe, I thought, the purchase was innocent. Perhaps he hadn't known the painting's sordid history. I shook my head in disbelief. Mr. Grant was a sharp businessman, way too savvy to buy a multimillion-dollar painting without first verifying its authenticity. Since he hadn't mentioned the painting when we'd talked about the sale, it was more likely, I thought, that he'd purchased it knowing full well that it was stolen. Or that he'd stolen it himself during or after the war.

I was beyond speechless. I was in shock.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

Wiping my hands on one of the small napkins the pizza parlor had included, I thanked Gretchen for ordering the food, and added, "Hand out the rest to anyone who wants it, okay?"

I knew that I needed to pull myself out of what, increasingly, felt like a quagmire, but I was uncertain how to proceed. I considered calling Mortimer Mason, the alleged lawful owner of the Renoir, but I thought better of that idea almost immediately. Since his painting was safe, and I didn't know what to say to him, or even what questions I should ask, and since I had no clue what I should say in response to whatever he might ask me, I decided to delay making the call. Maybe, instead of calling, I thought with an unexpected thrill of excitement, I'd go to London and knock on his door.

I started toward the tag sale grounds, but stopped as I approached the stacks of crates that were still segregated from the main area of the warehouse by waist-high, crisscrossed lines of yellow police tape. Seeing the tape reminded me that prudence is an important aspect of bravery. Since I didn't know what was going on, it occurred to me that I ought to keep my research private.

I reentered the office, and blocking the monitor from Gretchen's watchful eyes, I deleted the Web site URL I'd just added to my "favorite" listing. I also deleted all temporary Internet files for good measure. I hoped that the police wouldn't impound the computer, since I suspected that an expert could easily track my Internet movements despite my attempts at subterfuge, but it was the best I could do, and I hoped that it would outwit a less experienced spy.

At the tag sale venue, I surveyed the rows of six-foot tables that stretched for just shy of a hundred and fifty feet. Every ten feet, a shorter table jutted out, forming a sea of U-shaped booths.

The weekly tag sales were my bread and b.u.t.ter, and it pleased me to see that the booths were well stocked. Since most items were relatively inexpensive, profitability depended on volume. I'd modified my father's often-repeated admonition to buy cheap and sell high-I bought cheap and sold just a little higher. Tag sales were close to the bottom of the antiques-business food chain, and it was important to remember that fact when setting prices. About a month ago, I'd witnessed a middle-aged woman showing off a Sandwich gla.s.s salt cellar she'd just purchased for $21. She'd whispered to her friend, "I can't believe the deal I just got! There must have been a mistake in the pricing." With that one sale, a loyal customer was born.

About halfway down the back row I saw Paula Turner, a regular part-timer, carefully sorting boxes of art prints. Paula, a soph.o.m.ore at the University of New Hampshire, had worked for me for two years on the tag sales. She was wearing low-cut jeans and a cropped white T-shirt that read There Are No Devils Left in h.e.l.l ... They're All in Rwanda. She was a serious young woman, earnest and hardworking. She wore no makeup; her ash blond hair hung straight to her shoulders; and she had surprisingly small feet. No way they were size nine narrow.

"Hey, Paula," I said as I approached the table where she was working.

"Hey, Josie," she said.

"How's it going?"

"Pretty well."

"Have you seen Eric around?"

"Yeah," Paula said. She turned toward the parking lot. "There he is," she said, pointing.

Spotting him standing just outside the wire mesh gate, smoking a cigarette, chatting to Wes Smith, I felt a flutter of anxiety. I was beginning to feel stalked.

"See you, Paula," I said. I turned and walked at what I hoped appeared to be a casual pace.

"Hey, Eric," I said as I approached. "Hey, Wes," I added with a fake smile, "long time no see. Whatcha doing?"

"Eric and I were just getting acquainted," he said.

"You got a sec, Eric?" I asked.

"Sure." He stamped out his cigarette and picked up the extinguished b.u.t.t, as promised. He could smoke on my property, I'd agreed, but only outside, and only if no trace remained.

We walked by two young women I didn't recognize who were discussing how to position Chinese vases on a table. New temp workers.

"What did Wes want?" I asked without preamble.

He tossed his extinguished b.u.t.t into a box half filled with trash. "I don't know. He'd just introduced himself when you got there."

I nodded. "I can't tell you not to talk to him, or any reporter, for that matter. Do what you want. But I would ask that if you do talk to them, tell them the truth and tell me what you told them. Okay?"