According to the project description, somebody discovered what’s left of an eight-hundred-year-old culture on the northwestern Thai/Myanmar border. It’s called Nam Ton, after the local river. They made pots—lots of them—and they’re gorgeous. They’re coming into the U.S., probably illegally, and getting bought by people who can afford to lay out high four or low five figures for pots with missing pieces.
Our client’s arrangement with ICE—the customs cops—is that he’ll turn over the entire supply chain from start to end. That means whoever takes it out of the ground, whoever gets it to port, whoever ships it to California, and how it gets into the hands of the gallery the client bought it from.
Three big problems jump out from the beginning.
Problem #1: the client wants the project done in sixty days from the time it starts. I don’t know if this is his idea or the feds’; either way, it’s too short.
This project’s basically a long con. I learned during my fourteen-month, government-paid vacation at its all-inclusive facility in Pensacola that the thing that kills long cons most often is speed. I can’t just grab people by the throat and say, “Tell me where the pots come from.” I have to work my way in. That takes time. If ICE has been on this for two years, like it says in here, and hasn’t found out this stuff yet, why does anybody think we can do it in two months?
Unless they don’t think we can and they’re setting us up to fail. By “us,” I mean “me.” Then ICE gets to bust the client and perp-walk him to show everybody that even a rich dude can get arrested every once in a while.
Problem #2: the client bought his pots in San Francisco. That’s in the same state I live in. I was in the news four-to-five years ago… a lot. My name, my picture. If I walk into any gallery in the state, it’s better than even odds somebody’ll recognize me, no matter what name I’m using. I have to be very careful, but not too careful, because I have only sixty days.
Problem #3: the client’s lending us his art advisor to introduce me to the two people the client thinks are running the smuggling scheme on this end. That’s a person I can’t control getting a front-row seat to whatever I do. Also, it’s somebody who gets a lot of time to figure out I’m maybe not my cover identity. Unless she’s involved and she’s a future defendant, she sounds like a perfect witness for the prosecution.
Given what the client’s paying, I guess he gets to call the shots.
These problems are why I asked to read the project description right there in Allyson’s room after she handed it to me on a little blue thumb drive. She threw me out instead.
I probably shouldn’t turn the plane around and go back to Vail. Talking to Allyson is out for now. But when we land, I can go to the next best thing.
There’s no town car waiting for me when I get to Santa Monica. The nice people at Atlantic Aviation, the bunch who takes care of the business jets, let me sit in their remarkably generic conference room while I wait. I dig out my agency phone and hit the contact labeled “Mom.”
Two rings later, Olivia says, “Good evening. How may I help you?”
Allyson owns the DeWitt Agency—it’s her last name, after all—but Olivia runs it. She keeps track of us associates, helps us get things we need, processes our expenses and makes sure our pay gets to our offshore accounts. She’s our psychologist, mother-confessor, and concierge. I’m told none of us have ever met her.
“Hi. One-Seven-Nine.” My employee number. “I got my assignment.”
“So I hear. Are you still in Vail?”
“No. Santa Monica. Will there be a car, or do I take a taxi and expense it?”
“I’ll arrange for something. In future, when your plans change, please inform me—I can serve you better.” I think that was a scolding. “How else may I help you?”
“I need to talk to Allyson. How do I reach her?”
She pauses. “You’ve not had your fill of that for the year?”
“Guess you heard. She’s putting me in a bad position.”
“I know. Knowing her as I do, I’m certain she was less than sympathetic. That must have been frustrating for you. Nonetheless, one mustn’t bait the bear.”
Tell me about it. “I apologized. A lot.” Groveled wouldn’t be totally inaccurate. “I still need to talk to her. I read the project description on the flight home. There’s a few things I need to know before I start.”
Olivia pauses again. “May I offer you a spot of advice?”
“Okay.”
“Avoid Allyson for a spell. Several days would be a good start. She’s quick to anger and slow to cool. You ought not remind her of your existence until she’s recovered. If you insist, though…”
“No, that’s okay. Can you relay some questions to her and let me know what she says?”
“I can try. I’ll not guarantee anything. What do you need to know?”
“The client’s lending his art advisor to us. To Rick Hoskins. Does she know who I am really, or does she think Hoskins is a real person?”
“Right. Go on.”
“Does the client know my name? I want to know if Allyson negotiated with DHS directly or if she did it through the client. If it’s the first one, that’s one less opportunity for my name to get out.”
“Right. What else?”
“Is the sixty-day limit from the client or the feds? It’s too damn short. If it’s the client’s thing, it would be great if she could get him to stretch it. Ninety or 120 days would be better.”
“Right. Anything else?”
I saved the best—or worst—for last. “I need to know the client’s name.”
Olivia lets out a little cough. “You know that’s—”
“Against the rules, yeah, I know. Except it wasn’t last project. And this time around, he supposedly referred Hoskins to the art advisor. If somebody asks me where I found her or how I got into this game, I need to give them a name. If somebody asks me about this guy, I need to recognize his name so I can answer. I can’t wave my hands around this. I’ll find out who he is when the indictment’s filed, but it’s too late then. Get my drift?”
“Clearly. Allyson will not be pleased.”
“She’s already not pleased. I doubt she can get any less pleased. We might as well take advantage of that.”
“More easily said than done. I’ll do my best. You haven’t any more questions, have you?”
I’ll take the hint. “That’ll do it for now. I’ve got a couple for you, though. Requests. I need to buy a bunch of books in the next day or two. Probably a few hundred dollars’ worth. Can I expense them even though the project hasn’t officially started yet?”
“They’re related to the project, yes?”
“Yes. Call it homework.”
“I see no problems with that. I’ll not look too closely at the dates.”
Phew. “Thanks. Also… it’d be real useful if I didn’t have to work this coming week. It’s an extra eight or ten hours a day I’ll have available for studying. Is there any way I can get a stipend or something? I can’t not have money coming in.”
I can hear her breathing and a keyboard clicking. “For a week? Is that necessary?”
I was hoping to not tell anybody else about this, but it’s a reasonable question. “If I tell you something in confidence, can you keep it from Allyson?”
“Well… it depends, of course. If you’re plotting to kill her, I’ve an obligation to warn her. Anything less dramatic is situational.”
“It’s nothing that dramatic.” Deep breath. “This project’s all about pottery and Southeast Asia. I don’t know a Krishna from a Ganesh, and I don’t know shit about pottery.” Actually, I do know Krishna from Ganesh—Ganesh is an elephant—but that’s as far as it goes. “I need to do some serious homework so I don’t sound like an idiot. That means a lot of reading and visiting museums. I really need to do this right.” The downside looks worse the longer I stare at it.
“I understand. I assume yo
u’d rather Allyson not know. How much are you asking for? What are you paid for a day of work?”
“On a full shift—which doesn’t happen all the time—I get eighty bucks minus taxes.”
“Good God. That’s pathetic.”
“It’s good for counter service. Welcome to America.”
Olivia sighs. “Let me see what I can do. I may be able to juggle some accounts to beat out a few dollars. I’ll let you know.”
“That’d be great. Thanks. Um… can I get a partner?”
“Only as needs must. If this is a veiled way to ask if One-Two-Six will be joining you, she will not. She’s unavailable.” One-Two-Six is Carson’s employee number.
“Okay.” Not okay. I’d hoped she could help. It’ll feel weird without her. This will be my first time working a project alone. “That lawyer of Allyson’s—does he do criminal?”
“There is no one solicitor. She has several. As for criminal law, I understand a number of her solicitors have a great deal of experience with it.” One thing that makes it hard to get irritated at Olivia is that she’s always so calm, no matter what’s falling from the sky. Shit, in this case. “Please keep in mind that Allyson will review your performance at the end of this project and decide whether you may keep your temporary promotion.”
As if I didn’t have enough to worry about. “Is there a test?”
“The project is the test. Good luck.”
Chapter 5
59 DAYS LEFT
Achara Asian Art is on Sutter Street, a block north and half a block east of San Francisco’s Union Square, next to Caldwell Snyder, a contemporary art gallery. It’s too far from Market Street to be swarmed by the tech crowd—young people of various genders in hoodies and backpacks, loping by with their eyes locked on their phones. All the buildings on this side of the street except for Caldwell are older low-rises with cornice detailing, fire escapes, and multi-lite windows. I’m the only human in sight wearing a suit.
Savannah touches my forearm with her fingertips. “I hope you’ll like this, Rick.”
Savannah Kendicott’s the client’s art advisor, and now she’s mine. Actually, Richard Hoskins’. He’s an L.A. commercial property developer who’s worth nine figures or so and likes to spend it on art. This is my second go-round as him. It’s kind of a philosophical exercise to figure out whether Hoskins really exists. I exist, so when I’m Hoskins, does he exist? I never took philosophy in college, so I try to stay away from questions like that.
Another philosophical exercise: is this where I step over the legal line? I’m not going to take anybody’s money. I’ll actually buy something if they let me. Still, I was all nerves while I waited for Savannah this morning. It would help if I trusted the feds to not screw me, but being in the system cures you of that fast.
I shake it off… for now. “This is where you’ve been buying for your clients?”
“That’s right.” She brushes back a swoop of honey-blond hair from the corner of her eye. “This is really why you’re here, isn’t it? Not the gallery this morning.”
“Not entirely.” I’m lying; Achara’s totally why I’m here. “I needed an idea what the market’s like here. It was also a way to get to know you, and for you to figure out what I like.”
One of her perfectly plucked eyebrows perks up. “My audition?”
I have to assume Savannah thinks Hoskins is real; Allyson hasn’t answered my questions yet. “We’ll see.”
A New York art dealer once said that anybody with an iPhone and a pair of Louboutins can call herself an art advisor. When I was in the art business in L.A. five years ago (that long now?), I got to see a lot of art advisors and “art advisors” in action. The first kind—the ones who’d been at it for a long time, who’d done something real in the market before printing their new business cards—were like walking grad courses in art appreciation. I’d follow them around when they came to my gallery and just listen and learn. The second kind? Well…
I haven’t figured out yet which bucket Savannah falls in. She must have a trust fund, a rich daddy, or a sugar daddy behind her to be as young as she is, doing this, and still be able to afford the cap-sleeved, black-and-white Escada knee-length sheath and the Louboutin open-toed black pumps. She’s in the last half of her thirties (like me), a cheerleader-pretty, well-designed, French-braided blonde (though it doesn’t match her eyebrows). She’s named after a city and even has a shiny new iPhone. If I stopped there and decided to be judgmental, I’d decide the New York art dealer was right.
But Savannah has the resume (advanced degree, Sotheby’s), seems to know what she’s talking about, and the gallerist at the last place didn’t roll her eyes when we walked in. Maybe she’s the real deal. Not that it matters a lot. She doesn’t know it yet, but I need her for only two things—and one of them is to get me through Achara’s front door.
She gives me a smile that’s so perfect, it must’ve built her orthodontist a ski cabin at Squaw Valley. “Shall we?”
I stare through the glass door and suck in a deep breath. We visited a by-appointment-only gallery this morning, and I was in full fight-or-flight mode from the moment I walked in the security door. Nobody said, “Hey, aren’t you…?” or “You look just like…” that rat bastard who destroyed part of the L.A. art scene. The day’s still young, though.
Gulp. “After you.”
The door chime sounds like a gong. The floor’s paved with Saltillo tile—rough-hewn, foot-square terracotta—instead of the usual pale hardwood strip in most galleries. It warms what could be a chilly space. We pass the obligatory gilded Buddha (in rough-enough shape to really be a few centuries old) on a pedestal and the usual pot of incense sticks in pebbles. No gamelan or sitar music, thank god.
Savannah leans close and lays her fingertips on my sleeve. She’s a toucher, not that I mind. “Achara’s the only Bay Area gallery that specializes in classical Southeast Asian art.” Her voice’s low and soft in my ear. “Lorena’s wonderful to work with—I hope you’ll like her.”
We’re surrounded by things that look like things I saw in the books I’ve been inhaling since last Tuesday. I can even place a couple in time, thanks to last week’s trips to the Norton Simon and the Asian collections at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. But it’s mostly a smear of Hindu deities and Buddhas and bodhisattvas on cream pedestals or ledges against sanded white walls. The ikebana arrangements seem like a mixed metaphor. Savannah murmuring in my ear things like “Shakyamuni, Ayutthaya” is only marginally useful. I get a lot of practice in nodding knowingly and smelling her perfume (woody and understated).
I spent the past week studying eighteen hours a day. I bought (and expensed) over $400 worth of books (not as many as you might think) at Hennessey+Ingalls in downtown L.A. I have this trick memory where if I read something three or four times, I can remember it more-or-less forever. Too bad I only had time to read a couple of the most important books once or twice. My head’s full of random facts with no connecting tissue. Feeling completely unprepared is hateful, but here I am anyway.
“Good morning, Savannah.” The voice is gentle and slow and warm, like a good kindergarten teacher’s.
Savannah breaks away from me and hurries toward a willowy woman draped in a verdigris silk áo dài. “Lorena! You look lovely.” The women hold each other’s elbows and do the two-cheek air-kiss thing. “I was just about to come looking for you.”
“I’m sorry. I was on the phone. I love that dress on you.”
I’ve heard enough fake-affectionate cocktail-party greetings to tell that these two aren’t acting—they don’t actually hate each other.
Savannah steers Lorena by the arm in my direction. “Lorena, this is my new client, Rick Hoskins. Rick, this is Lorena Montford. She owns Achara.”
Lorena wraps both her long, delicate hands around the one I give her to shake. Her face is fine-boned, almost fragile, with plenty of definition. Deep-set, pale-blue eyes, laugh lines, freckle
s from the sun. Her center-parted black hair has a fair amount of gray in it. Late fifties?
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Montford.”
“Oh, please, call me Lorena. I’m glad Savannah brought you to me.” She squints, then purses her lips. “Have we met, Mr. Hoskins? You look familiar to me.”
Of all the things she could say, that’s the worst. Luckily, I’ve had a week to prepare myself to hear it, so I don’t have a heart attack. Much. “I’d remember if I met you.” When in doubt, try flattery.
A pink glow shows on each of her high cheekbones. “You’re too kind. But I’m sure I’ve seen you before.”
Aw, hell. On the first day here. “The news, maybe. Real Estate Forum. The business section of the L.A. Times.”
“Of course.” But she’s still peering at me. She’ll be thinking about it. I hope I’m a long time gone when she figures it out. “I understand you’re just getting started with Asian art.”
“That’s right.” We’re done shaking, but she hasn’t let my hand go and there’s no polite way to pull it loose. “Be gentle with me.”
She squeezes my hand. “I’m always gentle. You won’t feel a thing.” She finally lets me go. “Does anything you’ve seen here speak to you?”
Here’s where I steer us to the reason I’m here. “You know, you have a lot of gorgeous pieces, but…” I shrug. “Having somebody else’s god in my living room doesn’t work for me.”
Savannah says, “Rick’s really interested in ceramics.”
“Really?” Lorena’s smile gets bigger. “You’ve come to the right place. Follow me.”
Her dead-straight hair falls like a curtain to her waist. The calf-length ao dai ripples when she moves. Its skirt’s been slit to her hips, and it trails out from her loose black slacks. It’s like somebody’s pouring her hair and outfit over her while she walks.
The store’s U-shaped, surrounding an enclosed stairway that leads to the architect’s office upstairs. We cross from the sculpture gallery to the everything-else gallery. I stop. “This isn’t what I’d expected.”
Chasing Clay (The DeWitt Agency Files Book 3) Page 3