Restrike

by Reba White Williams

  “We’re especially interested in the plate for Sleeping Kitten,” Coleman said. “As I explained on the phone, and as I told Ms. Swain, I’m working on a story about the Print Museum in New York. As you know, they recently bought an impression of that print.”

  Dr. Parker was sorting through the plates. “Oh, my God, it’s not here. And look, two more are missing—there should be seven envelopes, and there are only four—oh, no!”

  “Which are the other two that are missing?” Coleman asked.

  Dr. Parker checked. “Shells and Winter Landscape,” she said, staring at the empty envelopes.

  Coleman and Dinah exchanged glances. “Do you have records of the people who’ve come to look at them?” Coleman said.

  Dr. Parker, her face pale, clutched the envelopes containing the four remaining plates, her eyes fixed on the empty box as if she expected the others to materialize. “We invited a bunch of curators to look at them when we first got them a year ago, and since then a few press people have been here. But only one recent visitor came specifically to examine the plates, a Rembrandt scholar from Holland. He had a red beard and spoke with a heavy Dutch accent. I don’t see how anyone else could have taken them, but I showed him the plates myself, and I’d have sworn they were here when he left.”

  Coleman was sure the bearded visitor was Simon, but she had a horrible feeling the curator wouldn’t be able to identify him. Not in the disguise she’d described.

  “Don’t you think you ought to tell someone? The dean? The police? You’ll have to report it to the police if you want to claim insurance,” Dinah said.

  “Yes, you would think of that,” Delia Swain said. “Have you had experience with theft, and the police? Are you a reporter, too, Ms. Greene?”

  “No, I’m an art historian,” Dinah said. “I’ve worked most of my career with prints, but one doesn’t have to be a reporter—or even very intelligent—to know that one should call the police when there’s been a theft.”

  “And you both live in New York?”

  Coleman thought Swain pronounced “New York” with distaste, as though the city were populated exclusively with pederasts. She seemed an unlikely type to be in public relations: being pleasant was part of the job. Coleman would have snapped her nasty little head off, but Dinah got there first.

  “Yes, we do. But we’re from Slocumb County, North Carolina, near Wilmington, a place called Slocumb Corners. The name of our house was Four Oaks. If you’re from the South, you should have heard of the town, and the house. But perhaps you’re a newcomer to Virginia? You seem unfamiliar with Southern manners. We both went to Miss Dabney’s in Raleigh. Our undergraduate degrees are from Duke, our graduate degrees are from Columbia and NYU. Maybe you’d like our résumés?”

  Coleman nearly laughed. Dinah rarely snubbed anyone, but when she did, her put-downs were effective.

  Delia tossed her hair, emitting a sickening aroma of cigarette smoke and hairspray, but she didn’t reply. It was just as well. Coleman ached to slap her.

  “Well, there’s no help for it. I’ll call the dean,” said Dr. Parker, apparently so preoccupied she hadn’t heard Swain’s rudeness or Dinah’s response.

  When they’d said goodbye to Dr. Parker and were in the parking area, Dinah took out her cell phone. “I’m going to call Jonathan and tell him what’s happened, and see what’s going on in New York,” she said.

  “Don’t tell him about Maxwell Arnold. You can tell him when we’re back in New York, but not now. He’ll have a fit unless he can see you’re safe,” Coleman said.

  Dinah dialed Jonathan. When he answered, she said, “It’s just as we thought, the plates are missing. There’s only one suspect, a Dutch guy with a beard. We think it must have been Simon in disguise.” Dinah filled him in on Coleman’s call from the Apemen, and explained how Coleman had sicced the New York Times on them. “The police might have already picked up the Apemen. Maybe it’s time to call the man your lawyer suggested. What’s his name? Mondelli?” Dinah said.

  Coleman interrupted. “Is Jonathan going to call that jerk Robert Mondelli? Oh, no, say it isn’t so.”

  Dinah stared at Coleman. “Hold on a minute, Jonathan. Coleman, you know Robert Mondelli?”

  “Unfortunately.” Coleman reminded her that Mondelli had interviewed her about Jimmy La Grange and had been sure that art had nothing to do with La Grange’s death. “I hoped I’d never see that know-it-all-know-nothing again.”

  “I don’t think you told me his name,” Dinah said. “Anyway, we ought to at least talk to him once—he comes so highly recommended. Maybe your experience with him was an aberration. Let’s meet with him, and if you still think he’s an idiot, we’ll find someone else.”

  “All right, but if he’d listened to me about the La Grange murder, Chick might not have been killed,” Coleman said.

  New York

  “Mr. Mondelli? This is Jonathan Hathaway. I think you may have heard from my attorney. I hope he told you why I’m calling.”

  “Yes, he said you had information about what appear to be art-related crimes, and that two people who may have been connected with these crimes have been murdered. Why don’t you tell me the whole story?” Mondelli said.

  Jonathan told him everything he knew, finishing with the story of the Harnett Museum’s missing Rembrandt plates, including the plate for Kitten, a print Bain had bought. “I guess that covers it, through fifteen minutes ago.”

  “And no one in the police force sees any art links to the murders? I looked into the La Grange killing in October, and that was their position then. Has anything changed?” Mondelli asked.

  “The police were convinced that no art crimes were involved. But the Harnett Museum must have reported the missing plates, so by now they know about at least one art crime, which is almost certainly connected to the Print Museum. None of us has met with anyone investigating either of the two deaths, so we don’t know who’s on the case, or what they think, except through third-hand sources. I believe you interviewed my wife’s cousin?” Jonathan said.

  “That meeting didn’t go so well, as she probably told you. What would you like me to do?”

  “I’d like to retain you on behalf of myself, my wife, and her cousin Coleman. We want you to listen to what Coleman and Dinah have to say, and to tell us how the police see things. After that, maybe we could discuss what we should do next. My attorney thought we might have information helpful to the police, but advised us to stay away from the front lines,” Jonathan said. “One thing I didn’t tell you: Coleman was attacked last night, and she thinks it was connected to all this, although the policeman at the scene thought it was a random mugging. She wasn’t hurt, and nothing was taken.”

  “Okay, I’ll check that out, too. Why don’t you wire me a $20,000 retainer? Ask your assistant to call mine about where to send it. We’ll messenger you standard agreements—they’ll enable me to represent you officially with the police or anyone else, if necessary. I’ll get on it right away, and I should have some preliminary information by late afternoon. Could you meet around six? We could get together at my office on West Forty-Seventh, if you like.” Mondelli said.

  “Could we meet at our apartment in Greenwich Village? I’ll alert Dinah and Coleman. They’ll both want to be there,” Jonathan said.

  Thirty-Two

  Tuesday night

  London

  “Mrs. Ransome, Mr. Quincy is on the line,” Miss Manning said.

  She picked up the receiver. “Mr. Quincy?”

  “Mrs. Ransome, the police have checked the Baldorean portfolio. As you suspected, the only fingerprints on it are those of Mr. Yeats. The car that Mrs. Ketcham photographed was rented at Heathrow by an American woman, one of a tour group that stayed at the Randolph Hotel in Oxford for three days, including the day the bearded man visited the Baldorean. She and all of her party have alibis, and the police think someone must have ‘borrowed’ her car. They haven’t found any evidence that Simon has been in the Oxf
ord area, or at the Baldorean, apart from the photograph.”

  “I see.”

  “The police are concerned about your identification of the man in the photograph as Simon,” Quincy continued. “Because you have so much money involved, they think you may be the victim of wishful thinking. They think that when the photograph is enlarged and enhanced, it will be clear that it isn’t Simon. They’ve asked the New York police to check on Simon’s whereabouts on the day the bearded man was at the Baldorean. If he was in the United States, he couldn’t have been at the Baldorean, or responsible for the theft of the Dürers.”

  “I see. Please let me know what they learn.”

  Rachel was certain that the man in the photograph was Simon. She’d seen the false hair in the Mount Street flat, and the shape of Simon’s long bony face was unmistakable. But two hours later, Quincy reported that Simon had an impeccable US alibi for the day the Dürers disappeared. He hesitated, then added, “There’s a group in New York investigating what may be a series of crimes involving the Print Museum. They share your suspicions of Simon. I’m faxing you all I know about the people, in case you want to speak with them.”

  Rachel had no intention of dealing with strangers. She would continue her investigations, and, sooner or later, she would get rid of Simon.

  Tuesday afternoon

  New York

  Coleman, stiff and sore and with the beginnings of a headache, planned to go straight from the airport to her apartment and soak in a hot tub. But as soon as she got off the plane, her cell phone rang: it was Jane Parker from the Harnett Museum.

  “The Dutch police have interviewed the red-bearded Dutch scholar I suspected. He told the police that he saw me put the plates back in the box, and lock the box. The dean says he’s well-known and respected, and the police think it’s unlikely that he took the plates.”

  Coleman frowned. “Then how could it have been done? Didn’t you say he was the only visitor?”

  “I must be mistaken. Someone must have come when I wasn’t around. We’re checking everything and everybody. The window of opportunity is narrow, since the theft had to take place after the Dutchman was here. But thank the Lord he swears he saw me put the plates back—at least I’m clear through his visit. I’ll let you know if I hear anything else.”

  Jonathan had sent his car and driver to meet them, and on the way into Manhattan, Dinah told Coleman about the meeting with Mondelli. “You’ll come, won’t you?”

  Coleman groaned, partly from her aches, and partly at the thought of Mondelli. “I guess so, although I can’t imagine what that idiot will say. But first I’m heading home for a bath and a painkiller.”

  While she waited for the tub to fill, Coleman checked her e-mail. Clancy reported that the police had picked up the Apemen. The Times would run a little story, the News and Post would probably run bigger ones.

  Coleman smiled. A victory at last. But her smile faded when she read her second message. David, Chick’s partner, wrote that a memorial service for Chick would be held two weeks from Friday. He’d included the details, and hoped Coleman would be there.

  She felt again the reality of her friend’s death. The warm water in the tub soothed her muscular aches, but only time would diminish the pain of her loss.

  Thirty-Three

  Tuesday night

  New York

  Dinah liked Rob Mondelli’s looks, even if he was a little too jockish. Despite his bulk, she found him cozy. It was too bad Coleman had taken against him; Coleman’s first impressions were usually fixed in concrete.

  After introductions, and Jonathan had served drinks, Jonathan asked Rob for an update.

  Rob pulled a folder out of his briefcase and glanced at the papers in it. “I’ve spoken to the people who interviewed the Apemen—they’re brothers. They talked their heads off after they learned their fingerprints were all over everything at La Grange’s, and that witnesses had seen them leaving his building. They say Raven left a message at Blackbeard’s to set up a date for them with La Grange. Raven was at La Grange’s apartment when they got there. He paid them in cash, and left. They’ve identified a photo of Simon Fanshawe-Davies as Raven.”

  Coleman and Dinah exchanged glances. “I knew he had to be involved,” Coleman said.

  Rob looked at his notes again. “They said the date was routine. There was no rape involved. Sex was consensual. When they left him, La Grange was alive, and not complaining. They insist they didn’t touch La Grange with anything but their fists, and they didn’t hit him in the face or on the head—they never do, their clients don’t want visible injuries. But according to the autopsy, blows from a blunt instrument to his head killed La Grange. The Apemen were insulted about the blunt instrument accusation. They said it’s against their principles to use a weapon,” he added, rolling his brown eyes.

  “A man who lives in La Grange’s building saw the Apemen leave around one a.m., about an hour and a half before La Grange died. The estimate of the time of death is pretty good, because La Grange and Fanshawe-Davies had a sandwich together right before the Apemen arrived, and of course, the body was found fairly soon after death occurred. The witness said the Apemen weren’t carrying a weapon of any kind, or anything where they could have concealed a weapon. The police initially thought maybe the Apemen came back later and finished La Grange off. But half a dozen witnesses at Blackbeard’s say they were there until four a.m. when the place closed. Then they had breakfast at the Village Diner. Again, plenty of witnesses.”

  “What about Chick?” Coleman said.

  “The Apemen say O’Reilly came snooping around Blackbeard’s, looking for them. A telephone call from Raven warned them he was coming. They admit they beat Chick up, but they swear he wasn’t seriously hurt. Like Jimmy, O’Reilly died from blows with a blunt instrument—which, again, they insist they never use. The time of O’Reilly’s death is less certain because the body wasn’t discovered for nearly forty-eight hours, but they think it occurred the same Friday night the Apemen beat him up. The murder weapon appears to have been the one used on La Grange, some kind of club or bat.”

  Dinah frowned. “Are these men saying someone else came along after they’d beaten Jimmy and Chick? And that person killed them?”

  “Unlikely as it sounds, that’s what they claim. Back to O’Reilly: unlike La Grange’s death, there was no sex involved, although the police initially assumed there was because of the other similarities. The police have verified the Apemen’s alibi for late Friday night, and they’re looking for others who were out and around. The Village is so active all night on weekends, they’re optimistic they’ll find people who saw something or someone.”

  “I’m glad Chick wasn’t raped,” Coleman said, almost inaudibly.

  Rob looked at her, and nodded. “The Apemen claim they left O’Reilly lying in the open and conscious. They say they didn’t push him behind that dumpster. These guys aren’t rocket scientists. They didn’t think about fingerprints, or other trace evidence, or even witnesses. I guess they’ve been beating up people for money for years, and there have never been any repercussions. As far as I can tell, they don’t feel guilt, and I don’t think they have the brains to make anything up.”

  “What does Simon have to say?” Coleman asked.

  “Fanshawe-Davies confirms everything the Apemen said, although he puts a different spin on it. He says he called the Apemen at La Grange’s request, and stayed to pay them because La Grange asked him to—Jimmy was shy, never had done anything like that before. Fanshawe-Davies’s previous association with La Grange was all about prints, and he says he met the Apemen for the first time at La Grange’s apartment. La Grange had heard about them, and knew how to reach them.”

  Jonathan refilled Rob’s glass with red wine. “What about his fake name, ‘Raven’?”

  “Fanshawe-Davies says he uses the name Robert Raven or Robert Ravenscroft to deal with what he calls ‘the lower orders.’ He didn’t want his association with people like the Apemen
to hurt his ‘reputation.’ He picked the name because his employer, whom he apparently hates, and who calls herself Ransome, was known as Rachel Ravenscroft when Simon first met her.”

  “How did Simon explain warning the Apemen about Chick?” Coleman asked.

  “He claims that Chick telephoned him, and said he’d heard about the Apemen, and wanted to talk to them about La Grange. He asked Simon to set up a meeting for him. Fanshawe-Davies said Chick pretended he wanted to interview them for ArtSmart, but he thought Chick was interested in them for other reasons—he implied Chick’s interest was sexual. Incidentally, Fanshawe-Davies voluntarily told the police about both calls to the Apemen. He claims he didn’t know the police were looking for them for La Grange’s death. He said they were so easy to find, he assumed they’d been cleared. And Fanshawe-Davies has alibis for both murders,” Mondelli said.

  Coleman shook her head. “He’s disgusting. He knows damn well Chick wasn’t interested in those guys sexually. I don’t believe Chick called him for an introduction to them, either. It just doesn’t sound like Chick. But are you saying the police learned about the Apemen when Jimmy was killed?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. But remember, the police thought Jimmy’s death was an accident, consensual sex gone bad, and that sort of case doesn’t get much attention. Now that they’ve got the Apemen, and it’s looking like both La Grange’s and O’Reilly’s deaths might be murder, the cases are high priority.”

  Coleman sighed. “How depressing. If they’d arrested the Apemen for Jimmy’s death, Chick would still be alive. That reminds me: do you remember my telling you that Simon looked angry when he heard Jimmy was dead, and you said the police knew all about it? What was that about?”