by Steven Henry
“Whatever,” she said. “My point is, they couldn’t sell it. It was too famous.”
“Everyone in the world knew it had been stolen,” Luke agreed. “And no one got paid in the end.”
“You know a lot about art theft,” Erin said.
“In my line of work, you have to,” he said. “Otherwise, I could be asked to appraise a painting that was stolen, and if I didn’t know it, I’d be in trouble. I know a lot about market value, and by necessity, that includes what a given work could bring on the black market. I do a lot of research.”
“That’s what I figured,” she said. “So why steal this painting, if it’s impossible to sell?”
“The Madonna hasn’t been officially authenticated,” he said. “I was one of the experts preparing to do just that. The authentication was set to happen before the exhibit closed. Until that happens, legally speaking, it would be possible for a collector to buy the painting, sit on it for a while, and then reveal it.”
“But there are pictures of it already,” Erin said. “Everyone would know it was the same painting.”
“They could argue this painting was a forgery, and they had the original it was copied from,” Luke explained. “Only a few experts have seen the one that was taken, and there’d be no proof.”
“Okay,” Erin said. “So we know why it was taken now. Later on, once you and the other art guys vouched for it, it’d be too late to steal and auction.”
“Do you know how rare it is for an undocumented work of a Renaissance master to be discovered?” Luke said. “This was a unique opportunity. The Madonna should never have been put on display before being authenticated, and the security should have been twice as strong.”
“But it wasn’t,” Erin said. “So, Luke, what do you do once you’ve stolen the painting?”
He blinked. “You think I stole it?” he exclaimed.
Erin had to laugh. “No, I think if you were planning an art heist, you wouldn’t have brought a cop along as your date. I meant, if you were to have this painting, and wanted to sell it, what would your next move be?”
“You can’t peddle stolen art like a stolen TV set,” Luke said. “I mean, it’s not like you can just go on eBay and say, ‘Hey, I’ve got a stolen Raphael Madonna, starting price thirty million, buy now for fifty million.’”
“Fifty million?” Erin echoed. “You’re shitting me.”
“No, I’m not,” he said. “I may be underestimating. In 2012, a drawing by Raphael sold for 47.8 million dollars at a Sotheby’s auction. That was for a black chalk drawing of an apostle’s head, not even a finished painting. From his sketchbook. So you understand the stakes we’re talking about here?”
She whistled softly. “Okay. Yeah. I get it. So how would you sell something like this?”
“Like I said, you can’t do an online auction. Not without attracting all sorts of law-enforcement attention. And you can’t go through the major auction houses. Back in the nineteenth century, they didn’t much care if a work was stolen, but now? No reputable house would touch it. What I’d do, I’d have the buyer lined up ahead of time, before even stealing it.”
“You think someone else put these guys up to the job?” Erin asked. “Hired them for it?”
“I’d bet on it,” Luke said. “What do you know about the thieves?”
Erin shrugged. “They’re small-time thugs, local boys.”
“Where would guys like that get the idea to dress up like security guards and steal a specific painting?” he asked.
“They wouldn’t,” she said. “You think they knew how valuable it was?”
“Probably not,” Luke said. “Why would their employer tell them?”
“I’m guessing they got offered a commission,” Erin said, thinking out loud. “Five or six thousand, tops. You don’t want to pay millions of dollars to street punks, even if you can afford it. They’ll just buy fancy cars and start flashing handfuls of bills around, and the next thing you know, everyone starts asking questions.”
He nodded. “That makes sense. Unfortunately, it also makes the pool of potential buyers pretty large. Plenty of people can afford five grand for a painting.”
“Yeah, but how many of them are in Queens right now?”
“What do you mean?”
“Jake seems like the kind of guy who doesn’t do business over the phone,” she explained. “He did everything in person with the kid he got for the uniform-store heist. I’m pretty sure he’s got his girlfriend taking care of the one that got wounded last night. I get the feeling he wouldn’t pull a job like this without meeting the buyer. He’ll do the handoff face-to-face if he can. That way he’s sure to get paid.”
“That narrows it down a bit,” Luke said. “Is that what you wanted to ask me? Who would be interested in buying stolen paintings around here?”
“I don’t care about the art black market,” Erin said. “All I care about is who on that market would buy this particular painting, and would be willing to steal in order to get his hands on it.”
“I can get you a list of names,” Luke said. “But I don’t know—”
Erin gave him her most dazzling smile. “Thanks, Luke,” she said. “I knew I could count on you.”
He shook his head. “Are you using me, Erin O’Reilly?” he asked.
Erin wiped her mouth, leaned across the table, and kissed him lightly on the lips. “What do you think?”
He smiled. “I think I could get used to it.” His smile faded a little. “I really was worried about you last night.”
“It’s a dangerous job sometimes,” she said. “But most crooks know better than to mix it up with the cops. It’s not that bad.”
“Erin, an officer got killed last night. He was standing right next to you.”
“You think I don’t know that?” she snapped, more sharply than she meant to. “That’s rare,” she added, bringing her tone of voice back down. “I’m careful and I’m good at my job. But it’s nice to know you care.”
“I do,” he said.
“I appreciate it, Luke,” she said. “If you could get me that list today, that’d be great. Now I’ve got to go to work.”
“You’re working today?” he asked, startled.
“Not officially,” she admitted. “Officially, I’m off the case. But yeah, I’m working. I need to find out how badly those two jackasses from Homicide have screwed things up. Call me when you have those names, okay?”
“Sure thing, Officer,” he said, touching his fingertips to his brow in a mock salute.
Erin stuck out her tongue at him as she slid out of the booth, surprising both of them with the girlish gesture. Then, impulsively, she leaned in and kissed him again. She lingered a moment, feeling the stubble on his chin against her face. Her lips parted slightly. She was surprised at how nice it felt. It had been a long time since she’d been this close to a man, and she’d almost forgotten the sensations it rekindled in her.
But there was work to do, and Erin didn’t have the time or the emotional energy to spare, no matter how handsome and charming Luke Devins might be. “Catch you on the flip-side,” she said, leaving the diner and heading back to her case.
* * *
Erin wasn’t in uniform. She wasn’t on duty. She’d been warned off the case by Homicide. She went to the station anyway. She had some evidence to pick up, and she wanted to see what had happened while she’d been asleep.
She should’ve checked the news first. TV vans and reporters were swarming all over the parking lot when she arrived. Erin knew better than to ask a reporter what had gone down, so she just walked straight into Precinct 116, Rolf trotting by her side, ignoring the press.
One of the first cops she ran into was Porter. Porter had gone off-duty and changed out of her uniform, but she was still hanging around the station. Erin found her by the coffee machine.
“Hey, Porter,” she said. “What’d I miss?”
“Stick around for the press conference,” Porter said dryly. �
��They’ve got ‘em.”
“What?” Erin exclaimed. “All of them?”
“Not quite,” Porter admitted. “The Homicide guys called in ESU when they came available and made a raid just before eight this morning. They hit the apartment of some girl, the girlfriend of one of the gang. Nabbed two of them, plus the chick, of course.”
Erin slammed her fist against the doorframe. She’d slept through the bust. Maybe the biggest case of her career, and Lyons and Spinelli had snatched it right out from under her. Plus, they’d screwed the pooch, just like she’d thought. “Just two?” she asked. “Who got away?”
“Gallagher, and one of his pals,” Porter said. “You remember Wallace? I dated him for a while.”
“Yeah, I know him,” Erin said. “What about him?”
“He’s on rotation to ESU, so he gave me some info,” Porter said. “The area wasn’t properly secured, he said. Gallagher and his buddy did a rabbit when ESU kicked in the door. Went out the bathroom window, down the fire escape, and then they lost ‘em. Some shots got fired, but no one was hit.”
“Why wasn’t there a perimeter?” Erin demanded.
“Wallace said Spinelli was in a hurry, wanted to wrap the whole thing up in time for the morning news cycle. Wallace was some kind of pissed. He figures they blew their big chance at taking down the whole gang at once, and now there’s a couple fugitives running scared, armed and dangerous, of course.” Porter rolled her eyes.
“So they got the wounded guy, the nurse, and one of the others? Which one?”
“Tall, skinny guy. Randall, I think.”
“Okay, thanks,” Erin said. “I’ve gotta go.” She hurried to Lieutenant Murphy’s office.
She found Murphy in front of his mirror, adjusting his necktie. He turned startled eyes on her. “O’Reilly? What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come for the mailing tube,” she said. “Can you sign it out to me?”
“Mailing tube?” he echoed.
“From the gallery?” Erin reminded him.
“Right! That mailing tube,” he said. “It’s down in Evidence. You hear we got two of them?”
“Yeah, and let two get away,” she said.
Murphy shrugged. “Classic screw-up,” he said. “Two of the blocking units couldn’t get on station in time, and before they were in position, Spinelli went ahead with the breach. Now he’s going to go in front of the cameras and claim it as a victory for law enforcement, which I guess it was.”
“Sir, this was my case,” she protested.
He laid a hand on her shoulder. “I said you could run with it,” he said, not unkindly. “But it’s a homicide now, and that takes it out of our hands. So what do you want to do? You want to be a detective?”
“Maybe I do,” Erin said.
“I think you’ve got what it takes,” Murphy said. “But we’re a bureaucracy, it’s a process, and right now, you’re in Patrol Division. If you want, I can help get you on track for a gold shield. I’d hate to lose you. You’re one of my best officers. But if that’s what you want…”
“Sir, what I want right now is to make a clean sweep, get all these creeps before they kill someone else.”
Murphy nodded. “Then get your dog to the corner of 164th and 77th. See if you can track them. That’s why we’ve got the K-9s, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir!” Erin said. “Can I still have the mailing tube? It’ll have scent on it.”
“Sure thing,” Murphy said. “I’ll walk you down to Evidence. Then I’ve got to go to the press conference.” He stood back at arm’s length and gave her a long look. “How’re you doing?”
“I’m okay, sir,” she said.
“Fine. But take someone with you. If you do run into these guys, remember, they’ve already killed one of ours. Sergeant Daniels should be around somewhere. Ask him for Paulson or Stewart.”
“Will do,” she said. “Thanks, Lieutenant.”
“You’ve got a window here,” Murphy said. “The Homicide boys will be strutting in front of the cameras for an hour, and then they’ll be sweating the perps. But don’t think they’re going to forget about you. Make Patrol proud. Get us a collar.”
Erin started to leave.
“O’Reilly? One more thing.”
She stopped, her hand on the doorknob.
“Anything feels hinky, you call for backup. No playing hero.” Murphy wasn’t smiling.
“No, sir.”
“Okay, get your dog on the scent.”
Chapter 11
Given the choice between the beefy Stewart and the wiry Paulson, Erin went with the little guy. It wasn’t that she was intimidated by Stewart; quite the contrary. It was that Paulson was so scary that if Erin had to pick one guy in Precinct 116 to back her in a fight, it would be him. He’d been an Army Ranger and had served in Iraq. He’d been shot twice and blown clean out of a Humvee by a roadside bomb. He wasn’t loud or outwardly violent. There was a quiet, dangerous air about him. When Erin told him she needed some backup, he just nodded and said, “Roger that.”
Erin packed Rolf into his compartment and climbed behind the wheel of her Charger. Paulson rode shotgun. The target building was just a few minutes from the station. On the way, she explained what they were doing. Paulson had worked with K-9s, both overseas and with the NYPD, so he didn’t need extra instruction.
“You think we’ll find either of them?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t be bringing you otherwise,” she replied.
A pair of squad cars and the CSU van were still on-site at Sylvia Paxton’s apartment. One of the cops was leaning against the fender of his squad car, smoking. Erin freed Rolf and approached the patrolman. He nodded a greeting.
“Where’d the rabbits run off to?” she asked him.
“Down that way,” the cop said, pointing with his half-smoked Marlboro to an arched passage that ran under the apartment. “We lost them in back of the building.”
“Okay, thanks.” Erin was holding a duffel bag which contained the infamous mailing tube, wrapped in brown paper to preserve the evidence. She put on a pair of gloves, opened the bag, and took out the tube. She held it in front of Rolf. “Such,” she said.
The Shepherd sniffed the tube carefully and thoroughly. He raised his nose and tested the breeze. He bent down to the concrete, nostrils flaring. Then he was off, trotting briskly along the arched passageway, moving quickly in spite of his Kevlar vest.
Erin slung the duffel on her shoulder and followed, drawing her Glock and holding it by her side. A glance at her comrade told her that Paulson had retrieved the shotgun from the trunk of her squad car. He carried it like a soldier, stock against his shoulder, muzzle angled slightly down, index finger extended beside the trigger guard.
The two cops trailed the dog. Upon exiting the tunnel, Rolf turned sharply to the left. He came to a steel gate in a brick retaining wall, paused, and whined. Erin worked the latch and opened the door for him. Rolf slid through the opening and crossed 77th Road, headed north. The dog went up a driveway into a back yard, easing through a gap in the base of a wooden privacy fence. The hole was too small even for Erin. She and Paulson vaulted the fence into a yard. They quickly crossed the grass, exiting by another gate into a back alley.
Erin felt an excitement that was, on reflection, very optimistic. This trail was hours cold, and though Rolf was on a good scent, the chances of actually catching up to the fugitives were slim. They’d probably stolen a car, at which point the trail would end. Maybe, she dared hope, this would at least tell them what vehicle to look for.
Rolf continued through the middle of the block between 77th Road and 77th Avenue. Erin was continually surprised that the city planners would set up street names like that. They came to a makeshift fence of plywood panels. Above it she could see a half-built townhouse, nothing but a skeleton of bare wood with a roof and basic walls. Rolf whined again and scratched at the base of the fence.
“Over?” Erin wondered.
Paulson sho
ok his head. “Around to the front. Pick up the trail at the door.”
They circled the construction project to the street side. There, in the midst of a dozen warning signs and building permits, the workmen had incongruously fitted a house exterior door, complete with a stained-glass window in the center. Erin blinked at it and shook her head. Rolf paced back and forth on the sidewalk, sniffing and snorting, but his enthusiasm had been replaced by confusion. He’d lost the scent.
“Inside,” Erin said, taking hold of the doorknob. She opened the door onto the packed dirt yard. Rolf and Paulson entered. Erin marveled at the similarity between them, man and dog moving with the same predatory purpose. The dog put his nose to the ground and immediately regained his confidence. He rushed to the base of a ladder which rested against the front wall of the building. Then he whined again and pawed at the bottom rung.
Erin pointed up the ladder. “You don’t think…” she said very quietly.
Paulson’s lips drew back in something that was almost a smile. “Bingo,” he breathed.
Erin’s hand strayed to the radio at her belt. Should she call for backup? They didn’t know for a fact that anyone was here, and she’d already called in a tactical strike on an apartment that had proved to be empty. She thought of Lyons and Spinelli. What would they say? What would they do? She shook her head and left the radio where it was. Signaling to Paulson to stay at ground level, she went to the ladder and began to climb as quietly and carefully as she could, keeping her Glock in one hand.
It wasn’t the sturdiest ladder. When she was about halfway up, it shifted against the side of the building. Wood creaked loudly. Erin froze, one foot poised, holding her breath.
Moments passed. Nothing happened.
She let out her breath slowly and took another step up. She ducked low. She didn’t want to have her head exposed until she could bring up her gun to cover the second floor. She was facing a sheet of plywood which extended about half the height of the second story. She had no idea what was on the other side.