by Steven Henry
“Yeah, they’re all in New York,” Luke said. “Four of them were at the gala.”
“They were?” Erin exclaimed.
“Of course. It was the major art event of the season. I’m only surprised Haddad didn’t show.”
“Was he supposed to?”
“I have a copy of the guest list,” Luke said. “I saw his name on it, but he wasn’t there.”
A thrill ran through Erin. “I need to talk to him, find out why he was a no-show.”
Luke produced his smartphone and brought up an address. “Here’s the house Haddad is renting,” he said, showing it to her. “If you could, though, please don’t mention that I told you. I move in these circles a lot, and if word gets around that I’m handing out tips to law enforcement, people won’t talk to me.”
“Criminals won’t talk to you, you mean,” she corrected.
“There’s a lot of gray areas in the art world,” he said. “Sometimes it’s genuinely hard to know if something was legally obtained. And these are people who like their privacy. Nobody likes a cop nosing into their private affairs.”
“Sure thing, Luke,” Erin said. “I’ll keep your name out of it. And thank you, for everything. You’ve been a big help.”
“Just trying to impress a girl,” he said with a grin.
Erin felt excited, her nerves tingling. Some of it was the wine, some of it the new lead. And some, she admitted, was Luke Devins. She leaned toward him. “Well, maybe I’m impressed,” she said quietly. “Are you sure you don’t want a cop involved in your private affairs?”
Their eyes met. “How involved do you want to be?”
“Thoroughly.” She slipped her hand around the back of his neck and drew him into a kiss.
Luke might not be great at catching bad guys, but Erin found he made up for it with other talents.
* * *
“You talking to Haddad?” Luke asked an hour later.
Erin glanced over her shoulder at him as she buttoned her blouse. “Him first,” she said. “Then the others.”
Luke smiled. “Go get ‘em,” he said. “Call me after, though. Let me know how it went?”
“Will do,” she said. She wasn’t wearing her uniform, since technically she wasn’t on duty. But she buckled her Glock onto her belt and clipped on her shield.
Luke had gotten out of bed and was quickly dressing. “You really think you’ll need the gun?”
“If he’s the guy, then Jake Gallagher may be there,” she said. “Anyway, you know where I am. Just in case anything happens.”
“Shouldn’t you have backup?” he asked. “If this is dangerous…”
“I can’t call for backup,” Erin said. “Not unless I see a crime actually being committed. Everything I’m doing is unofficial, thanks to those two jackasses from Homicide. Besides, I’ll have Rolf.”
“Won’t it spook him, having the dog there?”
“I hope it does,” Erin said. “I want him off-balance.”
Chapter 15
From Luke’s description of a wealthy playboy art collector, Erin was expecting Omar Haddad’s house to be something ridiculous. A gated mansion, maybe, with a swimming pool, tennis courts, and a sculpture garden. The address was in Forest Hills, southwest of the Museum. It was a nice part of town, but hardly the sort of place for an oil baron.
She drove along tree-lined avenues, past pleasant red-brick houses and apartments. The early-evening sun slanted through the leaves of the trees. The house that matched the address Luke had given her looked no different from those on either side, very middle-class and ordinary. She double-checked the number, then got out of the squad car and, Rolf’s leash in hand, approached the building.
The doorbell was answered by a tall man with a black goatee, skin the color of old leather, and the stern, polite manner of a trained butler.
“Good afternoon, madam,” he said with a distinct British accent. “How may I assist you?”
“Sir, my name is Erin O’Reilly,” she said. “I’m an officer with the New York Police Department. I’d like to speak with Omar Haddad.”
“Master Haddad is within,” the man said. “But he is indisposed, and I fear he is not receiving visitors today.”
“Sir, this is not a social call,” Erin said. “I’m investigating a serious crime, and I believe he has information which may help resolve it.”
“Madam,” the man said severely, “Master Haddad has done nothing illegal. He is convalescing from an unfortunate accident, and will be entirely unable to assist you in your inquiries.”
Erin fought her impatience. “Sir, with respect, I’d like to be the judge of that. Please ask him if he would be willing to speak with me. It’s about the theft of the Raphael Madonna from the art museum. I think he’ll find it’s in his best interest to talk to me.”
The butler considered her. “Very well, madam,” he said. “Please be patient.”
The door closed in her face. It wasn’t quite a slam, but it was a very solid and definite closure. Erin sighed. Rolf, recognizing that nothing was happening at the moment, sat on the front steps and stared at his surroundings.
It was only a few minutes until the door opened again. The butler, his face showing a hint of irritation, stood to one side. “Please come in, madam,” he said. As she started forward, he added, “But your pet must remain outside.”
“He’s not my pet,” Erin retorted. “He’s my partner. He’s a trained K-9 of the NYPD. He won’t chew on anything I don’t tell him to. But he goes where I go.”
“A dog, madam?” he said, in the same tone he might have used if Erin had suggested dragging in a dead rat. “That filthy creature does not pass this threshold.”
“Okay,” Erin said. “Then you can go back and tell your boss that thanks to your lack of hospitality, his guest has gone away. Then you can deal with the detectives who’ll be coming by later. They may not be so polite.” She turned away.
“Madam,” the butler said, before she’d taken more than a step. She paused and half-turned. “The brute may enter,” he said reluctantly. “But you will be held responsible for whatever it does.”
“I always am,” she shot back as she strode in. Rolf marched beside her, ears at attention, tail swinging from side to side. Erin could have sworn the dog looked smug.
The house was obviously rented out, fully furnished. The style was modern American, without particularly fancy decoration. This was not what she had expected at all.
Nor was the man she found reclining on the couch. Omar Haddad was younger than she was, not more than twenty-seven or twenty-eight. He was very good-looking, almost movie-star handsome. His features were smooth and regular, his skin tone a warm caramel. He was clean-shaven and his eyes… there was no other way to describe them. They smoldered. He was wearing a silk dressing gown. A silver tray lay on the coffee table with a teapot, a cup of steaming tea, and several newspapers.
“Officer Erin O’Reilly, sir,” the butler said. He bowed and stepped back into the doorway, from which he stared balefully at Rolf.
“Thank you, Ibrahim,” the young man said. His voice was soft, almost melodious. He seemed mildly surprised at Erin’s appearance, his eyes traveling over her with more than casual attention. She realized he hadn’t known she was a woman ahead of time. “Officer O’Reilly, I am Omar Haddad. I would stand to welcome you, but I fear my leg is injured. Come, share a cup of tea with me.”
“That’s all right, Mr. Haddad,” she said. “I don’t need anything. I just wanted to ask you a few questions.”
“Please, I insist,” he said. “For my sake.”
“Okay, thanks,” Erin said, not knowing what else to say. She preferred coffee or alcohol to tea, but she figured she’d better be polite.
“Ibrahim, another cup for my guest,” Haddad said. The tall man, still glowering, bowed again and departed, returning with a teacup and saucer. “That will be all, Ibrahim,” the art dealer said. The servant frowned, but he left the room.
&nb
sp; “Now then,” Haddad said, when Erin had taken a seat in the chair to his right and he had poured her a cup of tea. “How may I be of assistance?”
“Mr. Haddad, yesterday the Queens Museum of Art was robbed,” she began. “A painting believed to be a Raphael was stolen by armed men dressed as security guards. A police officer was killed trying to stop them.”
“I am aware of all this,” he said, gesturing to the newspapers on the table.
Erin looked straight at him. “Mr. Haddad, you were on the guest list for the gala at the Museum. Why didn’t you attend?”
“A moderate inconvenience prevented me,” he said, gesturing to his leg. “I was interested in acquiring a young stallion from a farm near Albany, and had flown there for the day. Unfortunately, the stallion was rather spirited, and I was thrown. The physician says my leg is not broken, but my knee was dislocated.”
“Can anyone verify your whereabouts?” she asked.
“I traveled in a small airplane,” he said. “The pilot can confirm this, as can the proprietor of the stable, several stablehands, and my manservant.” He paused and regarded Erin. His eyes slowly took on a coldness that startled her. She’d seen eyes like those on hardened street criminals. They were a killer’s eyes. “Officer, you surely are not suggesting that I had anything to do with the unfortunate events of last night?”
“Did you want the Madonna?” Erin countered. When doing interrogations, she’d found that answering the subject’s questions shifted control of the conversation. It was better to keep them responding, and to simply ignore any questions that came back her way.
“Of course I want it,” Haddad said. “Have you seen it? It is a true masterpiece. Any man who appreciates true art would desire such a treasure.”
“What were you prepared to pay for the painting?” she asked, refusing to be put on the defensive.
“For an original, undiscovered Raphael?” Haddad smiled, and a little warmth returned to his eyes. “Officer, the whole point of an auction is that no one knows how much the other bidders are prepared to offer. Otherwise, we might as well simply slap a price tag on the painting and put it in a shop window, like those dreadful paintings by that American who paints country cottages with windows all aglow.”
“You’re a dealer in rare art and antiques,” Erin said. “What are you doing in Queens, in this house?” She waved a hand at the very ordinary, very American décor.
“I am fond of the trees.”
“The trees?” Erin blinked.
“My homeland is Saudi Arabia,” Haddad said. “It is a desert nation. Oh, there are trees in Riyadh, but they are sparse and skeletal compared to these lush, lovely trees which grow in your marvelous climate. So whenever I come to your country, or any similar place, I rent a house with a yard. It must have trees and long, green grass.”
“I see,” she said. “Sir, you did come here to view the Raphael, with an eye to buying it, didn’t you?”
“I did,” he agreed. “I am as irritated as you that someone has stolen it. I do hope you find them.”
Erin cursed inwardly. He was giving nothing away. If he was guilty, he was doing an excellent job of hiding it. “Have you seen the Madonna, Mr. Haddad?”
“Not in person,” he said. “I intended to visit the Museum today, or perhaps early next week. Now, of course, that serves little purpose. I would very much like to see it, however. If your department recovers the painting, I trust it will be placed back on display. Is it true that the blood of its previous owner, the Jew, is spattered on it? I have heard as much.”
She stared at him, remembering Schenk’s story of his uncle’s murder. “Tell me, Mr. Haddad,” she said, unable to help herself. “Would having Jewish blood on a painting make it worth less to you, or more?”
Haddad smiled again. Erin still thought he was handsome, but she was liking his face less and less with every moment of the conversation. “It serves as a badge of authenticity,” he said. “Though I do wish the man who owned the painting had possessed the decency to die somewhere else, leaving the painting unspoilt. That sort of blood does tend to contaminate that which it touches.”
“Sir,” Erin said with slow, careful self-control, “do you know anything at all that could help our investigation into this robbery?”
“I know that there have been several interested parties, each looking into acquiring the painting,” he said. “I have my agents, as do they. We all keep an eye on one another, you see.”
“And?” she prompted.
“Roy Atkins and Adlai Martin are two names which were brought to my attention as competitors,” he said. “They have each purchased tickets to the auction to be held at the conclusion of the tour.”
Erin nodded. Haddad had actually told her something useful there. These men were either extremely clever, or innocent. “What about Professor Schenk?”
“The German Jew?” Haddad snorted. “He could never afford such a painting. He has no money to speak of. His interest is solely intellectual and sentimental.”
“Phineas Van Ormond?” Erin tried.
“Another academic,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “He never even engaged a professional to make an appraisal.”
“I just have one more question, Mr. Haddad,” she said. “Is this the sort of painting that can be sold on the black market?”
“No, Officer,” Haddad said quietly. “This painting is too unique. Those who stole the painting will deliver it to their employer. Then it will disappear into his private collection. It is a pity. I would like to own it. How is your tea?”
“Fine,” Erin said, looking down at her cup. She hadn’t taken even a sip.
“I am pleased to hear it. Is there anything else I can do to aid you?”
“If you think of anything, please let me know,” Erin said, standing up. She laid one of her cards on the table. “Thank you for the tea.”
“Officer,” he said. “Where I come from, we still cut off the hands of thieves. If you do find these men, do not be gentle with them.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Erin said. Ibrahim had returned, by some sort of servant telepathy, and once more filled the doorway. The tall Arab led her and Rolf back out of the house and into the quiet evening air.
Chapter 16
Erin sank behind the wheel of her car. She sat there for a moment, thinking. Then she shook her head and sighed. The sun had gone down on the longest day she could remember. She didn’t even have the energy to be angry anymore.
But she couldn’t sit there all night. There was still work to do. She started the car and pulled out her phone, calling Luke.
“Is everything okay?” he asked immediately.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” she said, thinking, civilians. “But it’s a washout. He’s sleazy, sure, but he’s got an alibi that looks like it’ll hold up.”
“Okay,” Luke said. “So what now?”
“Now I run down the other leads,” Erin replied. “Once I’ve talked to all the folks on your list, I’ll go home and grab some sleep. Maybe things will look different in the morning.”
“Do you want anything…” he began, then backtracked. “I mean, is there anything else I can…”
She had to smile. “I know what you mean, Luke, and you’re sweet. You get some rest. I’ll call you.”
“All right. Erin?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you. Good night, Luke.”
* * *
Erin had four more names to run down. Philippe Clemenceau and Adlai Martin were in their Manhattan apartments. Roy Atkins and Dominique de Vere, by sheer good luck, were both staying at the same hotel, the Hilton at JFK Airport. She owed Luke big for the tips he’d given her. Without his insider knowledge, she’d have been shooting in the dark.
It was getting late, and there was no guarantee any of her targets would be in. She had phone numbers, but the element of surprise was valuable, and calling ahead would tip them off. On the other hand
, driving around New York City on a wild-goose chase wasn’t her idea of a fun evening.
She compromised and called the Manhattan guys, figuring she could drive to the Hilton in Queens without wasting too much time. Martin was first on her list. She dialed his number from her car.
“Hello?”
The voice on the phone was wary. Erin wished she could see his face.
“Mr. Martin?”
“Who is this?”
“Sir, I’m Officer O’Reilly, with the NYPD, and—”
“Listen,” he snapped, cutting her off. “Whatever that bitch told you, I never laid a hand on her. You got that?”
She remembered Luke had told her that Martin was going through a messy divorce, with allegations of abuse. “Sir, I’m not calling regarding that particular matter. I just wanted to ask you a few questions about—”
“Call Rinkmeyer, Spencer, and Flynn,” Martin interrupted again. “They’ll answer your goddamn questions.” Then he hung up.
Erin sighed. Martin’s lawyers were probably closed for the night, and it’d be useless to call them anyway. Her gut told her Martin was innocent. Well, not completely. He was probably guilty of whatever his soon-to-be-ex-wife said he was. But he’d assumed a call from the police was related to his divorce proceedings. It would’ve taken a hell of an actor to play things so believably without advance notice.
She’d loop back to him later, if necessary. For now, she had three names left on her list. She called Clemenceau next.
“Good evening.” This voice was smooth, cultured, with just a faint hint of a French accent.
“Good evening, sir. Mr. Clemenceau?”
“Indeed I am. To whom am I speaking?”
“Sir, I’m Officer Erin O’Reilly, with the NYPD. I hope this isn’t an inconvenient time.”
“Not at all, Officer. How may I be of assistance?” He was pretty much the opposite of Martin, all suave manners. If he was startled at being contacted by the police, he wasn’t giving any hint of it.
“I’d like to speak with you about the Orphans of Europe art exhibit,” she said.