The blonde in the middle row sat with her hands folded in her lap.
“Ten thousand, once!”
My undersheriff murmured under her breath. “That’s right, bitch . . .”
“Ten thousand twice!”
The winning bidder scanned the ballroom with tarnished gold, daring anybody to take her on.
“Sold!”
She turned to me. “Gimme your checkbook.”
Sighing, I handed it to her.
She disappeared, and I watched the remainder of the auction, enjoying the fact that the bidding was active and the museum would make a much-deserved profit. Still holding my jacket over my arm, I skirted the room, and stopped at the nearest bar to get a beer.
“Your friend, she must’ve wanted that painting badly.”
Turning, I found the blonde from the bidding, the diminutive beauty with an undetermined accent, sipping what looked to be a vodka and tonic. “I think it’s a gift for me.”
“How very nice for you.”
I extended a hand. “Walt Longmire.”
“Katrina Dejean.” We shook. “I know; I was on the outskirts of your dissertation on Van Gogh.”
I bent my lips in a smile that I hoped conveyed a little humility. “Dissertation, huh? I hope it didn’t seem that way . . .”
“Oh, the count was being pompous, and it was fun watching him taken down a notch.”
“You know him well?”
“Business partners—I’ve helped him with some acquisitions overseas.”
“You, Conrad . . . He must have an entire team here.”
“You met Conrad too?”
“He seemed concerned for the count’s welfare.”
She sighed. “The count has enemies.”
“I guess he’s a shaker and mover, huh?”
“He has the ability to spot things before the public, which gives him an advantage in artistic trends.” She leaned in. “I don’t mean to be nosy, but I noticed the two of you in conversation outside—what was that about?”
“An investigation concerning a piece of art; a study that may or may not be of significance.”
“Historic?”
“Possibly.”
“A sheriff concerned with a piece of artwork strikes me as fascinating. Can I see it?”
“I’m not so sure it would be worth your time. I’m having it looked at now to determine the age.”
“Here at the museum?”
“Yep.”
She smiled and shrugged. “Well, it must be of some worth if they’re a part of your investigation.”
“Not really—they’re just doing it as a favor.”
She turned back and smiled up at me. “One more question before I let you go, the really important one?”
“Sure.”
“Who is that friend of yours, the Native American?”
“Henry Standing Bear, he’s Northern Cheyenne.”
“He’s delectable, is what he is.”
I nodded. “You’re not the first woman to notice.”
“I suppose not.” She glanced around some more, looking for the Bear no doubt. “Is he available?”
“I think you need to take that up with him.”
She eased away with a salacious smile. “I think I will.”
I couldn’t help but feel as if I’d just gotten the third degree, and then watched as she and Vic passed each other, both of them turning back for an appraising second look.
“They don’t give you your painting until the auction is over, but I paid for it.” She handed me my checkbook. “Well, you paid for it.”
“Thanks.”
“So, who’s the chippy?”
“A patron of the arts, looking for access to the Cheyenne Nation.”
“Access, is that what they’re calling it these days?”
“Among other things.” The bidding was continuing for the upper echelon, and I was just as glad that my depleted checkbook was back in my possession. “Want to head down toward the conservation area in the basement and get the final ruling on the find of the century?”
“No, I have to get your painting soon, and I want to be at the head of the line.”
“I guess I’ll go by myself then.”
“Deal.”
I watched as she drifted toward the tables to the right of the stage and then made my way along the wall, back into the main lobby, only to be cut off by Donna Johnson. “A word, Walt?”
“More than one if you’d like.”
She smiled, an asset that came in second to the computerlike mind of hers that had led her to the upper reaches of the Central Intelligence Agency, a portion of her life she rarely mentioned. “If you don’t mind my asking, what’s the story with you and Lehman?”
“I have a piece of art that I’m hoping to get appraised for a citizen, and from what I’m to understand he’s gifted in the field?”
“He is.” She glanced around. “He’s also as slippery as a lubricated eel.”
“In what way?”
She leaned in closer. “He made his name filching unofficial art out of the Soviet Union back in the nineties, millions of dollars’ worth of the stuff—Kharitonov, Leis, Mikhnov-Voitenko, Nemukhin, and Rukhins.”
I shook my head. “He doesn’t strike me as the covert type.”
“Oh, he’s not, that’s just the problem. Back in the day he got picked up by the KGB a half-dozen times, so many times that we started thinking he must be working for them.”
“Was he?”
“I’m still not completely sure, but I do know he was approached by the agency and he turned them down, saying it might compromise his attempts to liberate the art and artists.”
“Liberate?”
“It was a period when art was severely controlled by the Russian government, and anyone who was doing anything modern or abstract was perceived as perverse and an enemy of the state. The artists were harassed, their paintings burned, some even died under peculiar circumstances.”
“And Katrina Dejean?”
“An associate of his, French I believe, but I don’t think she was around during that period. She’s more of a conduit to Russian oligarchs who sometimes purchase art.”
“Illegal Russian art returning to the motherland?”
“Coals to Newcastle, huh?”
“And Conrad Westin?”
“Who?”
I glanced around, trying to catch a glimpse of the tall young man. “He also appears to be attached to the count.”
“Don’t know him.” She looked around again. “Anyway, she’s not the one to be careful of; Lehman has a bodyguard of sorts, Serge Boshirov, who is rumored to be ex-KGB.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, when the wall came down and glasnost and the big thaw in the Cold War came, those guys were a dime a dozen, but don’t underestimate him until I can do a little research.”
“What, he’s got a poisoned umbrella?”
She smiled up at me. “I just want you to know the lay of the land or steppes for that matter.”
“Got it.”
She patted my arm as she turned and drifted back into the crowd. “Be careful, big guy.”
I watched her go and then moved along the wall, exiting through an archway and heading back into the main lobby. As I crossed toward the stairwell, the hologram of Buffalo Bill suddenly appeared again, like a ghostly apparition. “Ladies and gentlemen, permit me to introduce myself, I am William F. Cody. I’ll show you some of the stirring scenes of the frontier . . .”
I guess the thing was motion activated, but it didn’t make it any less unsettling alone there in the darkened hall. Leaving Buffalo Bill to talk to himself, I walked down the hall and took the stairs leading below and then to the left.
There were lights but not much
illumination as I went down the wide hallway past a number of displays and through the double doors that led to the research library. The door at the far end of the boardroom was open, and I could see lights on in there. I figured that Beverly Nadeen Perkins was probably still tied up upstairs, but that it wouldn’t hurt anything for me to be there a little early. When I saw the door to the conservation area open, however, I got the feeling that something was wrong.
Hurrying in, I could see someone lying on the floor, a lamp and scattered papers forming a kind of halo beside the large table where we’d studied the partial painting. Reaching for my trusty Colt at my side, I discovered that I’d neglected to include it in my formal attire.
I kneeled by the table and could see that the conservator was still breathing, even with a pretty impressive bump at the back of her head. Rolling her to one side, I was relieved when she raised a hand to brush away my assistance. “Beverly, are you okay?”
“What the heck?”
“I think you must’ve fallen?”
She reached to the back of her head. “I guess. I was just coming down here to meet you, and I must have fainted or something.”
Propping her up, I looked to the side and saw a small Chinese statue of one of the terra-cotta soldiers of the Qin Shi Huang dynasty lying on the floor, broken. I held it up to her. “Did you knock this off the table when you fell?”
She looked at it, continuing to massage the back of her head. “No, that’s from Margaret’s desk in the next room.”
Examining the thing, I could see a little blood and hair attached to the edge of one shoulder of the figurine. “Somebody hit you with this.”
Mary Robinson appeared in the doorway behind us. “I’m sorry, but am I interrupting something?”
I slowly pulled Beverly up to a standing position. “I think your coworker has been attacked.”
She came over and took the conservator’s hand. “Are you all right?”
Beverly nodded carefully. “I think so, but why would anybody . . .” Her eyes darted toward the table. “It’s gone.”
“The Adams study?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you been down here?”
Peering at her wristwatch, she glanced back up at me. “Less than ten minutes, I’d say.”
I handed her to Mary. “Call 911 and get an ambulance to check her out. I came down the main entrance before you did, so I doubt anybody could’ve gotten through the way we came in.” Looking around the room, I spotted the only other doorway. “Where does that go?”
Mary assisted Beverly to a chair. “It’s a utility hallway—there’s locked storage space and access to the auditorium and pretty much every room on this level that way.”
“Great.” Stepping toward it, I turned back. “Stay here but call security and have them send some people down to cover the exits.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to go look for that painting.”
Pushing the heavy fire door open, I stepped into the hallway, lined with bays covered with security wire. The lights were on when I entered, evidently set off by motion, and I watched as they reflected along the concrete floor.
Feeling rather naked without my sidearm, I advanced, checking the bays as I went, but discovering they were all locked. Continuing on, I reached a crossroads with hallways going in opposite directions but then noticed the lights were only on in the one straight ahead. Testing my theory, I stepped in the one to the right and waited as it flickered on. Looking back at the one straight ahead, I returned to that course.
Reaching down, I opened the first door and found another storage area, this one for office supplies, which caused the lights to flicker on as I had supposed. Closing that door, I advanced and checked the next to my right, the lights not being on inside. I turned the knob, but it was locked, so I went on to the next to find a utility room full of breaker boxes and custodial supplies, my motion turning on the lights once again.
Moving to the next door, which was quite a bit farther, I discovered an entryway that met another—but in this one the lights were on. Pushing the door open the rest of the way and checking to make sure it wouldn’t lock behind me, I entered what turned out to be an anteroom, and then pushed open the next door to find myself in the back of an auditorium, the steps to a light booth to my immediate right.
No automatic lights came on, and I surmised that the much larger room must’ve been on a separate system, the only illumination in the theater being warning lights at the foot of the rounded stage and small ones in the seat stanchions along the two carpeted aisles.
As the door quietly closed behind me, I waited and listened.
There was no sound, and I glanced around, seeing a set of doors to my left that must’ve been the main entrance and then another door to the far right marked as a fire exit.
I slowly began making my way down the aisle, checking the rows on both sides as I went. Getting to the front of the house and then center stage, I looked back at all the empty seats and the closed curtain behind me.
I found the opening in the curtain and pulled it aside to glance around. Finding a podium and an upright piano but nothing else, I dropped the curtain and was about to give up when I heard something.
It was the scuff of shoe leather on concrete unless I missed my guess.
Glancing down, I was pretty sure the entire auditorium was carpeted.
The anteroom was concrete, but that was on the other side of the heavy door, leaving the steps to the light booth as the only place from which the noise could’ve emanated.
Quietly moving back to my right, I got as far as the steps when there was a commotion at the doorway where I’d entered, a slab of light casting across the carpet.
Jumping from the low stage, I ran up the aisle toward the door and blew through it and the next, ending up in the empty hallway as footsteps slapped in a rapid retreat.
I ran toward the noise and found myself in the crossroads. I turned right where the lights had come on and ran forward and spotted a figure dart around a corner at the far end.
Charging down the hallway as fast as I could, I turned the corner and blew through another double set of doors and was confronted with a truck dock and dumpster. Circling the dock and following the sound of the footsteps, I turned at the corner of the building at a dead run into the parking lot, where hundreds of people were flowing toward their cars.
Standing still and breathless, I scanned the area trying to see if anybody was still running, but no one was. They all just looked like regular museum patrons heading home. It was at that moment I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to find the Cheyenne Nation scanning the crowd along with me.
“Somebody stole my painting?”
7
“It was the real deal.” Beverly nursed her head wound with a cold pack in the boardroom, with the rest of the staff, the Park County sheriff, Vic, and me as the medical technicians checked on her. “The study was period perfect with no pigmentation altered, and the style was consistent with Adams.” She glanced up at me. “I am so sorry.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m just glad you’re okay.”
Vic shook her head. “Who in the world would go to these kinds of lengths to get that stupid portion of a painting?”
“Quite a few, I’m afraid.” Having had enough, Beverly pushed the EMTs away. “I’m fine, really.”
The young man in the blue jumpsuit wasn’t deterred. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to come with us back to the hospital for overnight observation.”
She glanced up at him. “What?”
Jack Pharaoh, one of the new breed of Wyoming sheriffs, was seated next to Beverley, a handsome kid with his hat pushed back and a strong dollop of dark hair across his forehead, he was an ex-rodeo roughstock hand and tough as rawhide. “Routine with this type of injury, besides I’m sure
they’re going to want to x-ray your head.”
“And find nothing?”
The young sheriff smiled as Mary got Beverley’s coat and assisted her in putting it on as she stood. “It’s the social implications of the piece and the fact that the missing painting is a national icon. There are plenty of private collectors who would be happy to pick up that artist proof on the black market and then keep it hidden for their own enjoyment.”
I nodded. “Count von Lehman seemed interested in it and was supposed to meet us down here, but he hasn’t shown?”
Mary shook her head. “No, I saw him leaving with an entourage.”
“There was also a woman who was curious about the piece.”
Vic turned to look at me. “What’d you do, send out a newsletter?”
Ignoring her, I continued. “A Katrina Dejean.”
Mary and Beverley turned to each other—both of their faces blank. “Never heard of her.”
Jack stood and watched the ladies go. “I’ll do some checking.”
Assisting Beverly in showing the medical staff out, Mary turned back. “As to the count, I wouldn’t be too upset, he can be a little flaky.”
Pharaoh nodded. “Roger that.”
I stood, and Vic and I walked to the main room of the research library in time to see Henry reappear in the doorway of the boardroom. “She will be all right?”
“I think so, just knocked around a bit.” I turned back to him as the Park County sheriff joined us. “Anything?”
Pulling a piece of paper he must’ve purloined from the staff, he unfolded it, revealing a flake of muddy blue about the size of a fingernail. “This must be a piece of pigment from the painting. I found it on the floor.”
Jack sighed. “So, whoever hit Beverly definitely took it.”
“I think it is safe to assume.”
Vic studied the paint chip. “Someone who knew the building?”
“Maybe, but it’s also possible that they heard me coming and just took the only other door that was available.”
Jack rested a hand on his sidearm, a big Kimber semiautomatic, and pulled his hat down. “You didn’t get a glimpse of them or anything?”
“Nope.”
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