Black Velvet

by Steven Henry

  “Pursuant to your investigation into the theft of its centerpiece, of course,” Clemenceau said. “I doubt if I can shed significant light upon the subject, but I would be delighted to speak with you, Officer.”

  “Could I talk to you this evening, in person?”

  “Madam,” he said, “I am entirely at your disposal. Do you have my address?”

  “I do.”

  “I shall inform the footman in my building of your impending arrival. Simply furnish him with your name, and he shall direct you to my chambers.”

  Erin almost snorted at the last word. His chambers? Who the hell was this guy? “Thank you, sir,” was what she said out loud. “I have to make the drive from Queens. I’ll be there in a half hour or so.”

  “I eagerly await your arrival.”

  * * *

  Erin brought Rolf with her. The dog was partly for moral support, partly to see if she could shake up the smooth customer. Clemenceau’s address was in Midtown Manhattan, one of the most expensive neighborhoods in one of the most expensive cities on Earth. She didn’t even want to guess at his monthly rent.

  His apartment was on the twenty-fifth floor of a high-rise. She took advantage of a reserved police parking space, took a moment to rub some of the drowse out of her eyes, and got Rolf out of the back of the Charger. The footman was expecting her, just as Clemenceau had said. He showed her to the bank of elevators, and even insisted on pressing the button for the proper floor. She spent the ride up wondering whether the gold plating on the elevator walls was genuine. She scratched at it with a fingernail and decided it was.

  She rang his doorbell at nine thirty on the dot. A few seconds later, the door opened.

  “Officer, please come in,” Philippe Clemenceau said.

  Erin stepped onto some of the thickest carpet pile she’d ever felt. The apartment was lit with a warm, soft light. All the furnishings were obviously tremendously expensive, but arranged with care and good taste. She wondered what Luke would think of it all.

  Her host was tall and thin, with a long, hooked nose and a full head of gray hair combed straight back. She pegged his age at about sixty. His posture was straight, no hint of a slouch. His eyes were dark and thoughtful. Overall, he was a little too serious to be good-looking. He reminded her of a retired college professor from some fancy ivy-league school. He wore a gray coat, waistcoat, and slacks, a white button-down shirt that looked like silk, and a maroon bow tie.

  “Good evening… Miss O’Reilly?” He actually bowed to her and offered his hand.

  “Officer Erin O’Reilly, sir,” she said, shaking hands.

  “I am delighted. If you would follow me?”

  He ushered her into his living room. Erin sat carefully on the edge of a couch that probably cost more than her annual salary. She was starting to think it might have been a mistake to bring Rolf, but the Shepherd was well-behaved as always. He sat next to the couch and waited for instructions.

  “What a remarkable animal,” Clemenceau said. “May I presume he is employed by your department in an official capacity?”

  “He’s my partner,” Erin said.

  “Excellent,” he said. “Would you care for a glass of wine? I have a very acceptable ‘64 Bersano.”

  She had no idea what that was, but it didn’t matter. “I’m not allowed to drink on duty.”

  “Oh, of course,” he said. “My apologies. Perhaps a cup of coffee, or tea?”

  “Coffee would be fine.”

  “I fear it is not decaffeinated.”

  “That’s fine,” she said. “I’m not going to sleep for a while yet.”

  “The repose of sleep refreshes only the body,” Clemenceau recited. “It rarely sets the soul at rest. The repose of the night does not belong to us. It is not the possession of our being. Sleep opens within us an inn for phantoms. In the morning we must sweep out the shadows.”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “It has a more melodious sound in the original French,” he said. “But I believe what Gaston Bachelard is saying is that when the mind is wakeful, sleep serves little purpose.”

  “Right,” she said.

  “Excuse me for one moment,” he said, disappearing into the kitchen. While he put the coffee on, Erin looked around at what she could see from the couch. Clemenceau definitely had a fine collection of artwork, from about the same time period as the Madonna, and she was willing to bet they were originals.

  The smell of fresh-roasted coffee wafted into the room, perking up her sleepy wits. A few minutes later, Clemenceau came back with a tray holding two cups, saucers, a sugar bowl, and a small pitcher of cream, all very carefully arranged. Erin reached for the cup, but he insisted on serving her.

  “Cream, no sugar,” she said. He poured and handed her a cup and saucer. She took a sip. It was easily the best coffee she’d had in months, maybe ever. She took another.

  “Now, madam, what is the nature of your inquiry?” he asked, taking a sip of his own coffee.

  “You know about the Madonna of the Water?” she asked.

  “Indeed,” he said. “Believed to be a Raphael. Quite lovely, by all accounts.”

  “Have you seen the painting?”

  “Alas, no,” he said. “As I am sure you are already aware, I attended the gala at the Queens Museum, but I foolishly believed there was no need for haste. I paid too much head to Jean Bruyère. He said, ‘There is no road too long to the man who advances deliberately and without undue haste; there are no honors too distant to the man who prepares himself for them with patience.’”

  “I don’t think the thieves have read Jean What’s-his-name,” Erin said. “You know anything about the theft?”

  “I?” Clemenceau raised his eyebrows. “I am shocked you would think such a thing of me, even on such short acquaintance. What have I ever done that would instill such suspicion?”

  Luke had armed Erin for this moment. “The Titian that was stolen from Milan three years ago?” she suggested. “That ended up in your possession?”

  For the first time in their conversation, Clemenceau looked a little uncomfortable. “A regrettable misunderstanding,” he said. “I confess, in my eagerness to possess such a marvelous work, I neglected my research into the provenance of the item. I was insufficiently diligent. Since then, I have been more patient and circumspect.”

  “Right,” Erin said, cutting through the bullshit. “You’re saying you didn’t know the painting was hot when you bought it. That’s what you told Interpol when they called you. But you don’t strike me as a guy who doesn’t do his homework. You do everything neat and careful, even the little stuff. You expect me to believe you didn’t ask any questions?”

  He smiled thinly and stroked his chin. “The looks may belie the man, or the woman, for that matter. You have a keener eye than I had thought. But truly, I asked neither deep nor probing questions of the merchants of the painting to which you refer.”

  “Because you already knew the answers,” she said. “Do you traffic in stolen paintings as a matter of habit?”

  Clemenceau was still smiling, taking no offense. “Indeed not. I exert all legal means at my disposal to acquire that which I desire.”

  “And did you desire the Raphael?”

  “Passionately.”

  “How passionately?”

  “I anticipated with adolescent longing the titillation of the auction house,” he said.

  Erin couldn’t believe this shit. Either he was trying to rattle her, or he really did talk this way. She decided to keep coming at him head-on. “Has Jake Gallagher offered you the painting?”

  “I am sorry, madam, I have not the pleasure of that man’s acquaintance.”

  “The painting thief. Did he offer to sell it to you?”

  Clemenceau shook his head. “I fear not,” he said sadly. “I fear, also, that these rough men may have damaged her with their mishandling. This whole affair is a terrible tragedy from beginning to end, made all the more poignant by the sacrifice
of that noble policeman who fell attempting to thwart their evil designs.”

  “Yeah,” Erin said, not knowing what else to say.

  “In token of goodwill,” he said, “and of the esteem in which I hold this fair city, I wish it known that, upon recovery of the Madonna in good condition, I shall make a small donation toward the upkeep and maintenance of the New York Police Department. Shall we say, one hundred?”

  “A hundred bucks would be nice,” she said.

  “One hundred thousand dollars, Officer,” he said gently.

  “Oh.”

  “Now, have you any further questions on this or any other matter?”

  Erin thought it over. This was getting her nowhere. “No,” she said. She finished her coffee and stood up. He rose and walked her to the door. She gave him a card on her way out. “If you think of anything, or if anyone does contact you,” she said.

  “You shall be foremost in my thoughts,” he said. Then, to her complete confusion, he bent over her hand and kissed the back of it. “I bid you good night, fair lady.”

  * * *

  “Fair lady?” Erin repeated to Rolf as they drove south on 278. “Fair lady?”

  Rolf didn’t have anything to say on the subject.

  “He’s not the guy,” she said to him, bouncing her thoughts off her partner. “He’s crooked, sure. He’ll buy stolen goods. But the way he talks about it… he needs to tell himself a story so he can sleep at night. And the story he tells is that he doesn’t know for sure if a painting was illegally obtained. That way he can make believe his hands are clean. And that means he wouldn’t hire guys to steal for him. Shit. I miss dealing with average street assholes. At least when they talk, I can understand them.”

  But she had two more art dealers to take care of. There was still a little evening left, and she intended to make use of it.

  Chapter 17

  Erin didn’t have the room numbers at the Hilton, but the night clerk was very helpful when she flashed her shield. She tried Roy Atkins first, mainly because he was on the ninth floor and Dominique de Vere was up on Twelve. She took a deep breath and knocked.

  “Mr. Atkins? NYPD. Please open up.”

  She waited. No answer.

  After a few moments, she tried again. Still nothing. She leaned against the door, thinking maybe he had the TV or the shower on, but couldn’t hear anything.

  Either he was out, or he wasn’t opening the door. In either case, there wasn’t a thing she could do without a warrant, so she and Rolf moved on upstairs.

  She knocked on de Vere’s door. This time she didn’t announce herself. It was only a legal requirement if she was serving a warrant, and she thought maybe there was a better chance of the door opening if they didn’t know an officer was outside.

  The door opened. Erin and the other person were both surprised. She was looking at a man of about forty. His hair was wet, like he’d just taken a shower, and he appeared to be wearing only a bathrobe. For his part, he’d clearly been expecting somebody else. They stared at one another for an awkward couple of seconds. He broke the silence first.

  “You’re not room service.”

  “You’re not Ms. de Vere,” she replied.

  “Who is it, darling?” purred a female voice from inside.

  “A woman… and a dog,” he said over his shoulder.

  “Sir,” Erin said, “I’d like to talk to Dominique de Vere, please. My name is Officer O’Reilly. I’m with the NYPD.”

  He looked her over and liked what he saw. “You sure are,” he said with a smile.

  “Let her in,” the woman said. “She sounds positively delightful.”

  The man stood to one side. As Erin walked in, Rolf beside her, she could feel the guy’s eyes all over her. He closed the door behind her, and she was sure he was checking out her ass.

  The room was part of a suite, one of the nicest in the hotel. The lights were turned down low. A woman was lounging on the couch. Her whole manner reminded Erin of a black cat relaxing. She was wearing a silky black nightdress. Her hair was black and lay loose around her shoulders. She was a little older than Erin and strikingly beautiful, with a model’s high cheekbones and full, red lips. Erin distrusted her on sight.

  “Ms. de Vere?” Erin asked.

  The woman slowly, languidly straightened up. She adjusted her nightdress. It had ridden pretty far up her thighs. “I am. And you, my dear, are far too pretty to be a police officer.”

  “And your name, sir?” she asked the man, ignoring de Vere’s last statement.

  “I’m Roy Atkins,” he said, extending his hand and smiling broadly. His teeth were very white and straight. “Please, call me Roy. You have a first name, O’Reilly?”

  “Yeah, I do,” she said.

  He waited a second. She didn’t tell him.

  His grin didn’t falter. “Okay, strictly business. I can respect that. I like a girl who knows what she wants. What’re you drinking?” He moved toward the minibar.

  “Mr. Atkins,” she said. “I’ve been looking for you, too.”

  “Really?” He sounded pleased. “Hey, that’s great, kid. Tell you what. Let’s have a drink together, and we’ll see if we can’t all come out of this evening winners.”

  “Roy, darling,” de Vere said. “Do you really think I want to share?”

  “Hey, there’s plenty to go round, babe,” he said.

  Erin was tired and didn’t have time for this. “Ms. de Vere, Mr. Atkins,” she began.

  “Hey, babe, I told you, it’s Roy,” he said.

  She didn’t bother to answer that. “Both of you were at the Orphans of Europe gala at the Queens Museum,” she said. “I’m interviewing people connected to the incident.”

  “Geez, kid, that’s a big job,” Atkins said. “There had to be a couple hundred people there. You getting to all of them in person? You’ve got to be exhausted. Have a seat, get comfortable. You sure you don’t want that drink?”

  He dropped to the couch and patted the cushion on one side of him. De Vere was on the other.

  “No thanks,” she said. She very deliberately sat in a chair to the side. Rolf gave Atkins a cool look and took up his usual place beside Erin.

  “I’m coming to you because I hoped you could help with something,” she said.

  “Do go on,” de Vere said. She slipped a hand inside Atkins’s bathrobe and caressed his chest.

  Erin felt a flush of embarrassment and irritation creeping onto her face. She was pretty sure de Vere was trying to make her uncomfortable on purpose, so she tried not to show any reaction. “We’ve caught almost all the thieves already,” she said. “But the painting’s still missing. We’re going to get the last one. It’s only a matter of time. But there’s a concern that the painting may be damaged when we take him down.”

  She was bullshitting them, of course. While it was true that the NYPD would try not to damage the work of art, their main concern was neutralizing a cop-killer. All other concerns were a very distant second place.

  “I’m glad to know your department is taking thought for such matters,” de Vere said. “But I really don’t see what we can do to help.”

  “There may be a possibility of negotiating the safe return of the painting,” Erin said, improvising. “You have contacts in the New York art world. Would you be willing to help mediate a trade?”

  “I think that’s a great idea,” Atkins said. “We don’t want to risk more damage to such a unique work of art. Anything I can do to help, you’ve just got to ask. And let me say, I think the NYPD does a fantastic job. I mean that. You are the thin blue line, you know? On the one side we’ve got order, on the other is anarchy, and you’re in between. I really respect that.”

  “Thanks,” she said dryly. “Do either of you know where a thief would go to shift a stolen painting in New York?”

  “Well, I really couldn’t say,” de Vere said. She leaned in close to Atkins and nuzzled his ear. “Unless, maybe…”

  “You thinking the s
heikh?” Atkins said. He seemed a little distracted by her attentions.

  “Mmm,” she murmured, doing something else with her hand inside his robe.

  “The sheikh?” Erin asked.

  Atkins didn’t seem to be able to form a coherent response, but de Vere smiled at Erin.

  “Omar Haddad,” de Vere said. “The man has no principles.”

  “Yeah, I know about him,” Erin said. She suddenly realized that she was done. A real detective would’ve kept at these two, pried some information loose from them. But she didn’t wear a gold shield. She was just a patrol officer, tired, angry, and sick to death of these rich bastards. All she wanted to do was to climb in a shower and wash off the whole stinking mess, then sleep for two days straight.

  She stood up abruptly. “Thanks for your time,” she said. “I’ll let you get back to your… evening. If you hear anything about the painting, will you let me know?” She laid a card on the end table.

  “Of course,” de Vere said.

  Erin went to the door, opened it partway, and paused. “Oh, there’s one more thing,” she said, turning to face them. “How can I get in touch with Jake Gallagher?”

  “Who?” Atkins said blankly. De Vere just raised her eyebrows.

  “Okay, never mind,” she said and got out of there. Her bed was waiting back at her apartment, and she didn’t think she’d ever been so glad to know it was there.

  Chapter 18

  Erin was a morning person. No matter how tired she’d been the night before, she could never sleep in when something was on her mind. She slept soundly enough, but woke up just before seven with thoughts of the case running through her brain. There were leads she could still follow, but she had to be careful. Homicide was all over this case, and Lyons and Spinelli would be looking for an excuse to kick her to the curb again.

  She wanted to hit the ground running, but breakfast was essential. Her dad had taught her never to start a long day on an empty stomach. She started the coffee pot and dropped two slices of bread into the toaster. While she waited, she fetched in the paper. The Internet might be the news source for the twenty-first century, but her memories of mornings with her dad and the New York Times were something she treasured. Sitting down at her dining table, she glanced at the headlines.