by Stuart Woods
“Can you document all of this?” Stone asked.
“Not so much the latter part.”
“I see. I’d like to bring a friend of mine to see it. If he likes it, I’ll make an offer.”
“Fine, but no lowballs, please.”
Stone walked to the front of the gallery and called Art Masi. “Do they know you at the Haynesfield Gallery?”
“I doubt it,” Art said.
“They’ve got what looks like either a fantastic copy of a Matisse or a stolen one with a fantastic provenance. Come and look at it.” Stone hung up and went back to his chair. “He’ll be here shortly. Do you take credit cards?”
“Possibly,” the young man said. “Excuse me a moment.” He went into the back room and came out with a short, bearded man in a baggy suit, who introduced himself as Conrad Haynesfield.
“I understand you’re interested in the Matisse,” he said.
“My art advisor is on the way to give me an opinion.”
“It’s one of the best Matisses I’ve ever seen in private hands,” the man said.
“How did you come by it?”
Art Masi strode through the front door and came to Stone, who introduced him to Haynesfield. Art took the painting from the young man and went to the window to see it in sunlight.
“You were telling me how you came by it,” Stone said.
Art came back and stood by Stone. “I like it,” he said.
“Mr. Haynesfield was just telling me how he came by it,” Stone said.
“You will notice that, at ninety thousand, it is very cheap,” Haynesfied said to Masi.
“Yes, I did notice that. Tell us why.”
“You will notice that the provenance includes a period of ownership by Hermann Göring?”
“I noticed,” Stone replied.
“Works of art with that sort of provenance cannot be successfully offered at public auction. Therefore, it behooves us to be reasonable, with regard to price. You understand?”
“Oh, yes, I understand,” Stone said. He looked at Art, who nodded. “I’ll take it,” Stone said, producing a checkbook.
“Splendid,” Haynesfield said. “I’m sure it will add substance to your collection.”
“I’ll make arrangements to transport it to your home, Mr. Barrington. You conclude the transaction,” Art said. He took out his phone and walked away for privacy.
“Would you make it out to cash, please?” Haynesfield said.
“I’ll need a receipt and the provenance on your letterhead,” Stone replied.
“Of course.”
Stone wrote out the check, payable to the Haynesfield Gallery, and handed it over.
Haynesfield looked at it. “I don’t think I made myself clear,” he said.
“Oh, you were very clear,” Stone said, “but I don’t think it’s in my interests to handle the transaction that way.”
“As you wish,” Haynesfield said. “Shall we wrap the picture?”
“Thank you, just some bubble wrap.”
He handed it to the young colleague, who took it to the back of the gallery.
• • •
TEN MINUTES WENT BY, then two of Art Masi’s detectives walked into the gallery and flashed badges.
“I don’t understand,” Haynesfield said. “I was just selling this gentleman a Picasso print. Everything is entirely in order.”
“Henderson!” Masi shouted, and another detective emerged from the back room carrying a painting in bubble wrap. The young gallery employee was in his other hand, in cuffs.
Masi took the painting and tore away the wrapping. “Ah, a Picasso print,” he said.
“One moment,” Henderson replied. He went to the back and came back with the Matisse. “There must have been some mistake,” he said.
The detectives departed with Haynesfield, the young man, and the Matisse.
“Shall we get on to the next gallery?” Masi asked.
“Of course. What did you think of the Matisse?”
“A very fine one, worth at least half a million.”
“Will you be able to get it back to its owner?”
“I expect so,” Masi said. “We have an expert on that work.”
45
STONE GOT INTO THE BENTLEY and gave Fred his instructions to the Eisl Gallery.
“Yes, sir,” Fred replied. Masi got out a block short, and Fred continued to the Eisl Gallery. He drew to a slow halt outside.
To Stone’s astonishment, one of his mother’s paintings was displayed in the window. He walked in; a small woman sat behind a desk.
“Good morning,” she said.
“Good morning. I wonder if you could tell me something about the painting in the window?”
“The Stone? Let me get Mr. Eisl for you, he’s our expert on Stone.” She telephoned, and a tall, elegantly dressed man came out of the rear of the gallery.
“Good morning,” he said. “You are interested in the Stone painting?”
“I’d like to know something about it,” Stone replied.
Eisl went to the window, removed the painting, and set it on a vacant easel. “There we are. It’s a Central Park scene by Matilda Stone, who is noted for her very fine paintings of New York.”
Stone inspected the painting closely. It was undoubtedly his mother’s work; he remembered when she was painting it. “What are you asking for it?”
“Let me check,” Eisl said. He went to the desk and the woman handed him a ledger. He turned a few pages and ran a finger down one, then returned. “Two hundred and fifty thousand,” he said.
“As much as that?”
“Stone’s work only rarely is found in a gallery. Most of her paintings are in private collections or museums. She has four in the American Collection at the Metropolitan.”
“Will you accept two hundred thousand for it?”
“I’m afraid that’s a bit too close to what I paid for it,” Eisl said. “Say, two hundred twenty-five?”
“Two hundred and ten,” Stone said, with a note of finality.
Eisl sighed. “Well, all right. If it’s cash, I suppose so.”
Stone wrote the man a check and handed it to him.
“Ah, I see your first name is Stone. Any relation to the artist?”
“She was my mother,” Stone replied.
Eisl looked for any trace of irony in his customer’s face. “Truly?”
“Truly.”
“Shall I deliver it to you? I assume you’re in the city.”
“I am, but my car is outside. Just some bubble wrap will do.”
Eisl handed it to the woman, who took it into the rear of the gallery.
“Are you looking for anything else, Mr. Barrington?”
“I’m always in the market for something very individual, something not everyone has.” Hook baited.
“I have something quite remarkable,” Eisl said. “It’s by a very famous artist, but its provenance, while fascinating, is not everything we would wish.”
“What artist?”
“It’s at my warehouse,” Eisl said. “I received it quite recently. If you have a few minutes, I’ll send for it.”
“What artist?”
“I think you may recognize him when you see the picture.”
“All right, I’ll look around a bit more. Half an hour?”
“That would be fine.”
Stone took the wrapped painting, walked out, and put it into his trunk. He tapped on a window and it came down. “Fred, please lock the trunk,” he said. He heard it lock.
His cell phone rang. “Yes?”
“It’s Art. Was that the picture in your hand?”
“No, it’s something I bought. Eisl says he has something at his warehouse by a famous artist. He wouldn’t say who, but he’s
sent for it. I’ll go back in half an hour.”
“Sounds like I should ask for some backup.”
“Not yet.” Stone walked up one side of Madison, then down the other, then he went into the gallery.
The woman was on the phone, so he waited, taking himself on a tour of Eisl’s pictures. Ten minutes passed, and she hung up. “Shall I call Mr. Eisl for you?”
“Yes, thank you.”
She picked up the phone, and a moment later Eisl appeared. “Ah, Mr. Barrington, the painting is on its way and should be here momentarily. May I offer you coffee or tea?” He waved Stone to a chair.
“Coffee, thanks, black.”
Stone took a seat. Eisl spoke to the young woman, who went to the rear and returned with a small tray. The phone rang, and she answered it. “For you,” she said to Eisl. “Rocco Maggio.”
Stone had heard that name somewhere.
Eisl picked up the phone. “Yes?” He listened for a moment.
Stone saw the color drain from his face.
“Say that again?” Eisl listened. “What are we to do?” He listened again, then hung up and went to where Stone sat.
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Barrington, but the painting is not available for viewing at this time.”
“Why not?” Stone asked, looking surprised.
“There has been a mix-up. Perhaps by this time tomorrow . . .”
“Where is your warehouse?” Stone asked.
“On Twelfth Avenue, but the public are not allowed on the premises for security reasons.”
“Has something happened to the painting?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that, I’m afraid.”
“Then perhaps you’ll tell me who the artist is?”
“Let us say, after van Gogh.”
“After van Gogh?”
“As I mentioned earlier, there are some difficulties about the provenance, so I am not in a position to guarantee its authenticity—not yet, anyway. I expect that to change when the painting is in my hands. I trust my own judgment above all others.”
“All right,” Stone said, getting up and giving the man his card.
“I’ll ring you the moment I have news,” Eisl said.
Stone thanked him, got into the car, and said to Fred, “Take a left, then stop.” He called Art Masi. “I’m around the corner. Join me.”
Masi got into the car. “Where are we going?”
“To Twelfth Avenue.”
46
STONE INSTRUCTED FRED to drive to Forty-second Street and turn right on Twelfth Avenue.
“What’s this little trip about?” Art Masi asked.
“Does the name Rocco Maggio ring a bell?”
Art’s brow wrinkled. “Yes, but I can’t place it.”
“Same here.”
“Sounds like a baseball player.”
“That’s DiMaggio.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Think mob,” Stone said.
Art thought. “Pietro Maggio,” he said.
“Not Pietro, Rocco.”
“Pietro was Rocco’s father—a rather elegant New Jersey don, died five or six years ago. Had a decent art collection—paintings, sculpture.”
“Any of it stolen?”
“Not that hung in his house. I got to have a close look at it once, with a warrant on a non-art case. He was rumored, though, to have moved the proceeds of a couple of big-time art heists—one in Boston, one in Philadelphia.”
“Were any of the pieces ever found?”
“Not a single one,” Art said. “Overall value, a hundred and fifty million, and that was ten, twelve years ago. Who knows what it would be now, with all the billionaires bidding.”
“How old is Rocco?”
“Maybe mid-forties.”
“Any record?”
Art got out his cell phone and tapped away at it for a couple of minutes. “Nothing but parking tickets.”
“How many?”
Art tapped some more. “More than a hundred grand’s worth. Apparently all of New York is a parking lot to Rocco.”
They reached Twelfth Avenue and turned uptown. All that Stone knew about the area was a big car wash and a number of taxi garages. Yellow cabs were parked on the side streets. A couple of more blocks, and Stone told Fred to pull over. He did. “Back up a few feet.” Fred did. “Now hand me the binoculars in the glove compartment.” Fred forked them over.
Stone trained the glasses on a spot halfway up the block from Twelfth Avenue. “Art, see that sign, maybe six doors up the street? The little one, near the top of the building?”
“Yes,” Art said.
Stone handed him the glasses. “See if your eyes are better than mine.”
Art gazed at the sign and fiddled with the focus. “Eisl,” he said.
“Take a right, Fred,” Stone said. “Stop halfway up the block on the right.” Fred did so.
“Now, Art,” Stone said, “before we cross the street and make nuisances of ourselves or get rousted, maybe shot, tell me more about Rocco Maggio.”
Art started Googling. “He’s on the board of a couple of lesser museums downtown. Goes to a lot of artsy cocktail parties with fashionable women a lot younger than himself. Used to be a member of the Italian-American Anti-Defamation League—remember that one?”
“Yes, I believe it sort of faded after its chairman got himself wasted at a clam house in Little Italy.”
“Right. That was twelve, fifteen years ago, when Rocco was a lot younger.”
“Weren’t we all?” Stone said. “I think this guy shapes up as a pretty good suspect.”
“So do I,” Art said. More tapping. “I thought that maybe there’d be a connection to the Eisl Gallery, that he was on the board or something, but he’s not.”
“And yet when Mr. Eisl calls his warehouse for the van Gogh to be brought over, he gets a call back from Rocco Maggio. Rocco doesn’t strike me as a guy who works part-time as a warehouseman.”
“Me, either,” Art said.
“Is there a lot of art theft in New York these days, Art?”
“More than you might think. It’s mostly burglaries—they take the jewelry and the silver, then maybe grab a picture or two. That’s how somebody like Sam Spain gets involved. There’s a museum robbery every few years, but surprisingly few big-time pieces are taken from private collections, like Tillman’s. The security arrangements are pretty tight in those cases—the insurance companies insist.”
“Still,” Stone said, “an important piece every year or two could make it a profitable business, what with the big-time artists pulling down multimillion-dollar sales at auction. That should create a market for bargain, under-the-counter sales to unscrupulous buyers.”
“You’re right, it does,” Masi agreed.
“Google Maggio’s business connections. Let’s see what his legitimate connections are.”
Art tapped away. “Ah,” he said, “shipping.”
“What kind of shipping?”
“He’s got a company that handles small-lot goods—you know, for companies that can’t fill a container on their own—and . . . oh, good, an air-freight company.”
“How could he compete with FedEx or DSL in that market?”
“You want to ship a grand piano, or maybe a horse or two, the big boys aren’t going to deliver those to your door—or your stable. They’re also not going to put multimillion-dollar artworks in their delivery trucks, or insure big-ticket items. There’s a market for specialty shippers. If you want to take your Bentley along on a European vacation, for instance. Some of them even have passenger compartments, so you can travel with your goods.”
“It sounds like the sort of service that could ship a stolen painting one way and bring back a suitcase or a hay bale full of cash,” Stone said.
“You know,” Art said, “if we could make a case for a warrant, we might find all sorts of stuff in the Eisl warehouse.”
“I’m inclined to agree,” Stone said, “but we come up short in the probable-cause category, so I think we’re going to have to confine ourselves to a look around the place.”
“Getting caught at that sort of thing is a career ender for me, Stone. I’ve got my pension to think about. I don’t think you ought to go in there alone, either. I mean, I can come running if I hear gunshots, but when you hear gunshots you’re often too late.”
“You know,” Stone said, “there was a time when I would just barge into a place like that, and the hell with the guards. Nowadays, I’m more likely to hire somebody to do it for me.”
“Good idea,” Art said.
“Is there anybody on your personal services list who might qualify for that sort of excursion?”
“I might be able to come up with a name or two,” Art said. “But you’d need to handle those arrangements yourself.”
“Put on your thinking cap, Art,” Stone said. “And, by the way, how long would it take to scare up an arrest warrant for a hundred grand’s worth of unpaid parking tickets?”
“Dino could do it pretty fast.”
Stone called Dino.
47
DINO ANSWERED. “Bacchetti.”
“It’s Stone. You know a guy named Rocco Maggio?”
“I know a Pietro Maggio, a Jersey don.”
“Pietro’s son.”
“I haven’t had the pleasure.”
“I think he’s mixed up in the fencing of our van Gogh.”
“You think he has possession?”
“It’s a possibility. I went to the Eisl Gallery on Madison this morning and made noises about wanting something special. Eisl himself bit and said he had something by a famous artist, but with a dicey provenance. It was at his warehouse, come back in half an hour. When I came back, he got a call from Rocco Maggio, and when he heard what Maggio had to say, he went all white and said the picture was unavailable, to come back tomorrow. Art Masi and I are at Eisl’s warehouse now.”
“I haven’t heard any probable cause for a warrant,” Dino said.