Chasing Clay (The DeWitt Agency Files Book 3)

by Lance Charnes

  “Uh-huh.” She pulls my hand around her back until we’re in a clinch. The rest of her is warm, too. Her voice goes purry. “You’re spending the night, right?”

  “Just for you. Should we be doing this in front of the gallery?”

  “I keep telling you.” Kiss. “I don’t care if they know.” Kiss. “Let’s go in before we freeze.”

  I shake with Bandineau (navy blazer, gray sweater-vest, windowpane plaid white button-down) and Lorena (sunflower-yellow ao dai over white slacks). Lorena offers us tea. While she pours, I act like I’m checking emails on my phone. I’m really turning on the audio recorder.

  Teacups in hand, we gather around the usual sideboard.

  Four Nam Ton wares rest on red-silk plinths at even intervals on the tabletop: two small bowls, a smallish tripod incense burner, and a voluptuous foot-tall vase with a graceful neck and trumpet mouth. They’re all pretty, but the big piece is gorgeous. I’d be mighty impressed if I hadn’t been inside a metal box last night with eighty-one of its cousins.

  What would Savannah make of Bandineau’s stockpile of pots? Would she see it as a travesty, the sacking of a culture? The best toy box ever? Or (I hope not) a business opportunity? I wish I knew.

  Bandineau stands at the sideboard’s corner. “Rick, this is why you’ve been on this journey with us. I know you’ve been unhappy with the delays, but it all pays off today.” He swivels an open hand toward the pots. “These will be yours soon.”

  “All four?”

  “Yes. I’ll explain why in a few minutes. Now, Savannah tells me you’ve been studying Nam Ton. Are you comfortable with what you know about these pieces and the culture? Is there anything you’d like me to tell you about them?”

  I guess pillow talk is fair game. Good to know. “Where do they come from?”

  He laughs. “That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? Actually, Savannah’s been looking into it.”

  I’m less than shocked, though it would’ve been nice if she’d mentioned it.

  Bandineau holds a hand out toward her. “Can you share anything new with us?”

  Savannah gives him a smile that looks like a sunny day at the North Pole. “I’ll let you know.”

  Bandineau swivels to me. “The map at the museum is still the best idea we have. Is there anything else you’d like to know?”

  I’ve been rethinking how to play this since last night. I don’t want to slam Bandineau with the pictures yet; that needs to happen in a one-on-one. After playing hardball with them at lunch a couple weeks ago, I can’t suddenly turn into a mushball. At the same time, I need this buy to happen so I get some product into my own hands and show Allyson some progress.

  “What’s the provenance?”

  Lorena—who’s been standing by the sideboard’s other corner—smiles not quite enough for it to reach her eyes. “These pieces are from a collection assembled by a U.S. Air Force officer in the late 1950s. I’ll provide you with the documentation once we finish the sale.”

  No surprise. “David Johnson again? Like the Phimai wares you sold me?”

  “No, another man. A Colonel Spenser.”

  I glance at Savannah. She’s watching me, her eyes and eyebrows curious.

  Let’s see how she reacts to this. “You know, I looked this up after I bought the first Phimai pot. The Air Force didn’t go into Thailand until April of 1961. So, who are these guys? How’d they have enough free time to build these collections?”

  Savannah’s mouth twists. Amusement or shock? Bandineau shuffles his feet.

  Lorena’s face hasn’t changed a bit. I wouldn’t want to play poker with her. “I understand he was with the embassy. An attaché or some such.”

  Nice save. “Why’s he selling now?”

  “The colonel’s widow died last year. His children are selling the collection through my gallery. Does that give you the information you need, Mr. Hoskins?”

  Savannah hides a smile behind her teacup.

  “Just as long as the provenance holds up when it’s pushed.” I hope they’ll read that as moral flexibility. “Jim, how is it that people in the ‘50s could collect these wares when Nam Ton wasn’t discovered until 2008?”

  It’s a reasonable newbie question, but it’s a softball. Bandineau smiles as he fields it. “It wasn’t studied scientifically until 2008, but pieces have been appearing in markets for decades. I’m sure that’s how the colonel came by them.” He points his hand toward the sideboard. “You’re concerned that these aren’t here legally?”

  The edge in his voice suggests this might worry him. Good. “I’m concerned there’s not enough of a story to answer basic questions about how they got here, and when. When ICE knocks on my door, I want them to go away happy.”

  Bandineau’s smile freezes. Just for a second, but I catch it. Lorena barely blinks.

  I feel Savannah’s lips brush against my ear. “You know that saying about gift horses? This is that.” When she pulls back, she ticks up her eyebrows just enough for me to see.

  She knows. I don’t know how, but I know she knows. I’ll have to ask her later, after I break some customs laws.

  Bandineau says, “Don’t worry about that, Rick. The provenance has held up to scrutiny perfectly well so far. Feel free to call on us if there are any problems. Do you have any other concerns? Do you need any more information?”

  I slowly scan the four wares. How long did they sit in that storage locker? How did Bandineau select these for me when there were so many to choose from? Did he take the dirt off them at that workbench, or did they come already cleaned and conserved? So many questions he’ll need to answer soon, when I have his nuts in a vise. “How much?”

  Relief washes over Bandineau’s face. Even Lorena cracks what looks like a real smile. She says, “Before we get to the actual price, there’s something we’d like to discuss with you.”

  Here it comes. “Well, let’s get on with it. I have a meeting to go to.”

  Lorena throws Bandineau an after you glance. Bandineau says, “Of course. You asked about why there are four pieces. Only this one—” he points to the vase “—is for you to keep. Rick, do you remember how I mentioned that one of our goals is to have our collectors donate Nam Ton wares to museums?”

  “I remember something like that.” And I hope he’s about to do what I think he is.

  “Excellent. First: do you understand why we want to place Nam Ton wares in museums?”

  “It makes the wares respectable, safe for collectors. That boosts the value and broadens the market.” It works for other kinds of art, too. Collectors are generally conservative even if they buy crazy avant garde work; you don’t want to be a pioneer when you’re writing an eight-figure check. That’s why they take cues from big-name collectors or branded museums or buy from branded galleries or auction houses.

  “Exactly. Nam Ton still isn’t well-known in the U.S. The Norris put on an exhibition four years ago, but it didn’t get the notice I thought it deserved. We still live in the shadow of our big brother in the Civic Center.” He means the Asian Art Museum.

  Savannah says, “It got Chad’s and Brandon’s attention.”

  Chad? Brandon? Two more of her clients? I’ll need to look that up.

  Bandineau smiles at her. “Yes, it did. Two of its few successes.” He turns to me. “You and I already talked about how cautious accession committees can be. That’s why we need potential patrons—like you—to donate pieces to museums to kick-start their collections. This is how we do it.” He holds his hands on either side of the vase without touching it. “This is a beautiful piece, and I hope you like it as much as I do.” He spreads his hands across the other three. “These are also nice, but not as spectacular. Still, any museum wanting to start a Nam Ton collection would be happy to have these. We propose that you buy all four, then donate these three to one of our partner institutions. The Museum of Asia-Pacific Cultures in Portland is interested in adding them to the
ir Southeast Asian collection.”

  I focus on the pots, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It doesn’t. “I don’t want all four of them. The three small pieces don’t speak to me.” A polite way to say meh.

  Lorena volleys. “That’s understandable. We can offer you a special price for the lot. And you’ll have the satisfaction of helping a small, regional museum that’s trying to become an important institution in the Northwest.”

  Bandineau says, “I’m sure MAPC—” he pronounces it map-see “—will be happy to recognize your generosity.”

  Savannah snickers. I say to her, “Tell him how I’m recognized at LACMA.”

  “The Fontana Collection.”

  “I’m not in this to get my name on a label. Lorena, tell me about that special price.”

  Another glance between Lorena and Bandineau, this one edgier. Lorena’s back to her poker face. “It’s $31,000 for the lot. A very reasonable price, I assure you.”

  Bandineau smiles again. He’s going to wear out his teeth. “Two or three years from now, you’ll call this a huge bargain.”

  “Maybe.” I turn to Lorena. “How’s this price ‘special’?”

  “I’ll explain. When you purchase all four pieces, Jim will provide you with appraisals for each. The appraisal for the vase—” the tall one I’m coveting “—will be…?” She throws a look toward Bandineau.

  “Twenty-seven to thirty thousand,” he says without hesitation.

  “A very fair price, in line with the market.” Without mentioning that they’re the market. “The other three will appraise for…?”

  “Nine thousand each for the bowls.” Bandineau waves toward the incense burner. “Ten to twelve thousand for the censer.”

  That doesn’t make any sense. Either those prices are way inflated, or they have one hell of a margin on the sales. “Let me get this straight—I buy one and get three almost free? What’s the catch?”

  Bandineau says, “Why does there have to be a catch?”

  “You’re offering me a free lunch. Every time that happens, I wonder how I’m gonna pay for it down the road. I’m still trying to figure your angle.”

  Lorena says, “Our ‘angle,’ if you want to call it that, is this: you have an incentive to donate more pieces to museums. That brings in new buyers. Prices will go up. Also, you won’t be satisfied with one piece. None of my other clients have been.”

  “This is like the dope dealer on the corner giving me a dime bag to get me hooked.”

  Lorena makes a face like her breakfast is eating her. “That’s a rather… sensational comparison, but it’s apt. Nam Ton is addictive. Savannah dear, how many Nam Ton pieces have Mr. Mellon and Mr. Cort purchased so far?”

  Cort and Mellon. Last names for Brandon and Chad? I’ll find out soon.

  Savannah says, “That they’ve kept? Four dozen or so between them.” She winks at me. “You’ve got some catching up to do.”

  “It’s a race?” I swivel to Bandineau. “You’ll give me written appraisals?”

  “Of course.”

  “So I could donate the three little pieces to Portland and use those appraisals to claim an inflated tax writeoff. Is that a bug or a feature of this deal?”

  We worked this scam at my old gallery. There was a regular client, a fund manager for Chase, who’d come by in November or December to buy some cheap canvas. He’d throw down a strap of hundreds and ask us to write up the sale for ten times the actual price. He’d donate the piece to some charity and claim the juiced valuation. He was proud of this. We did it because only part of that cash ever went on the gallery’s books. We finally paid for it; I don’t think he ever did.

  Bandineau and Lorena exchange knowing looks. Bandineau says, “We certainly couldn’t encourage you to do that.”

  Lorena: “It would be illegal.”

  Bandineau: “It’s between you and your tax accountant.”

  Lorena: “It’s not unheard of, of course. But we can’t advise you on the matter.”

  Shit. It’s obvious what they’re doing here, but they’re smart enough not to say it out loud. My recording’s useless. They won this round.

  I get a full dose of Savannah’s perfume when I lean in to whisper in her ear. “What do you think?”

  She props her right elbow on her wrist and holds her chin in her hand. After pondering a few moments, she asks Lorena, “How much for just the vase?”

  Lorena smiles. “Twenty-nine thousand dollars.”

  Savannah bumps an eyebrow at me.

  I say to Lorena, “At the top end of the market. In other words, it doesn’t make sense for me to not take your deal.”

  Lorena nods once.

  I know I have to buy the pots. I know it’s not worth Hoskins’ time to dicker over the price. What I have to do now is theater. “I need to talk to my advisor for a minute.” Then I grab Savannah’s arm and steer her into the statue gallery. She doesn’t seem to mind when I get all up-close-and-personal with her. I murmur, “When I asked you whether you’d seen Jim do anything sketchy, you didn’t think to mention this?”

  She scowls at me. “It’s an art gallery. Everyone does it.” Not everyone, but enough do. “Don’t feel special—they’ve done it to all my clients.”

  Aha. “Do any of your clients push back?”

  “They tried. Ohlmeyer succeeded, but that was early on.”

  Ohlmeyer? Our Client’s name? I can’t ask her. Too bad Allyson didn’t tell me. “What I need to know is, will Jim stand by his appraisals even if the feds put the screws to him? I don’t intend to be the only one twisting in the wind if it goes bad.”

  Savannah pulls away, her eyebrows stretching. “Does that include me?”

  The real answer is yes, but it’s not the one she needs to hear now. I take her hands and kiss her forehead. “You’re my favorite art advisor in the whole wide world.”

  She peers into my eyes for a few moments, then squeezes my hands and smiles a little. Either she didn’t notice I didn’t answer her question, or she did and figures it’s as good as she’s going to get. “What do you want to do?”

  “What can I do? I either take the pieces they’re dumping on me, or I get nothing.”

  Savannah glances toward the ceramics gallery, then grabs my hand and tows me almost to the front door. “Remember what I said about the Chinese market?” Her voice is low, but not so low that my phone won’t pick it up. Yes, I feel a little like a jerk.

  “Yeah.”

  “I have a friend there.” That’s convenient. “I send the wares to him. He sells them, takes his commission, then sends the rest to me. I take my commission and give you what’s left. Since your basis is $2,000, you’ll definitely make money on them.” She pulls back enough to show me her smile. “It’s part of my services.”

  Services for clients, or services for boyfriends? “If I do this, what’ll Jim and Lorena do?”

  “Who says you have to tell them?”

  “He’ll ask when he doesn’t hear from Portland.”

  “He didn’t say to do it tomorrow.” She cozies up again. “What do you want to do?”

  I try not to look into those big blue eyes so I can think straight. I need to get those written appraisals so the IRS can work out a tax-fraud charge. I’m also curious how Savannah’s scheme will turn out. And after all, I’d have to file Hoskins’ tax return to be guilty, right? “Let’s go buy some pots.”

  Chapter 28

  I text Olivia the moment I get back to the suite: I have nam ton pots.

  Congratulations.

  I’d expected more enthusiasm, but whatever. Next, I email the photo I took at Achara to McCarran. He’d emailed on Monday to say he’d be in San Francisco today through Friday if I want to meet. I do; maybe he has more info for me, or maybe he got sucked into the donation racket too.

  Finally, I pull my personal phone, scroll through the contacts, think for a moment, then punch one I haven’t touched since be
fore I went to prison. I half-expect the tones and “sorry, Charlie” recording, but it actually rings.

  “Hello?” Very careful, like she expects her phone to explode.

  “Toni? It’s Matt Friedrich.”

  Long silence. “Matt? Are you out of jail?”

  “Yeah, have been for a while. How’s it going?”

  “Uh… okay?” At least she’s talking. Some people just hang up.

  “Toni” is Antonia Torricelli, a nice Pennsylvania girl now living in Lotusland. She works (worked?) in the Getty Museum’s conservation lab. Other than an annoying verbal tic (everything she says sounds like a question), she was a pretty normal person. My boss Gar and I bailed her out of a situation with her student loans (long story), and to repay us she’d do the odd checkup on canvases that came through our gallery’s back door. If we were going to get stuck with a fake, we wanted to know about it.

  “Say, do you still work for the Getty?”

  “Uh… yes?”

  “Great. I need some ceramics dated. Can you help me out?”

  “I don’t do ceramics? That’s another lab?”

  “Know anybody in that lab who’d help for some extra income?”

  Another long pause. I hear rubbing against cloth. “Matt?” She’s whispering. “Look, I really appreciate that you didn’t tell anybody about me, but… well, I can’t do that stuff anymore? I’ve been promoted? I’ve got a really good job with the Trust? I’m married? Please don’t ruin it for me? Please?”

  Toni always reminded me of the timid shop clerk in old movies who’d take off her Coke-bottle glasses and the hero would say, Miss Baxter, you’re beautiful! Except with Toni, the glasses actually help. I put on my calming-the-spooked-horse voice. “Don’t worry. This is legit. I just need a pot dated, fast. I’ll pay with clean money. Do you know anybody who can help? Up there, out in the world…?” No answer, just hyperventilating. “You know you still owe me money, right?” Actually, I can’t remember if she does or not; I hope she won’t either.

  Toni squeaks. “Okay, okay, okay, okay, I’ll find someone. Please don’t come here, okay? Please? People still know you?”