Matthias had already done that to her.
He swiveled his chair away and stared unhappily at the shuttered window behind him. He thought again about his brother’s suspicion that Jill might have been involved in a complex form of art theft or a swindle involving copies of paintings in the vault. If nothing else, it offered an explanation for her violent death. But still it didn’t seem possible. Jill had always been scrupulously honest.
Matthias put aside his work and descended to the vault, opening the heavy door. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed since he and the policeman had made their visit. The box containing The Red Tower was just as he had left it.
When he and the Michigan policeman first examined the Kirchner, a troubling thought had occurred to him. He hadn’t given voice to it, but it plagued him now. What if the shot-up canvas the Michigan policeman had recovered had actually been the original, and this one was the copy? Locked away in the vault, who’d ever check?
Working carefully, he removed the work from its protective coverings, examining the canvas carefully. It looked and felt like the original. There seemed age enough in its texture and colors and fibers. Chemicals and a microscope should be able to determine that—at least they could show whether there was reason for suspicion.
He returned the painting to its coverings and case, but set it aside without putting it back in its place on the shelf. Instead, he began wandering through the collection, pulling out a few storage cases that looked suspicious, bearing scratches that might be fresh.
In the end, he settled on four—the Kirchner, two German Expressionist works from the “Blue Rider” school, and an Egon Schiele nude. After stacking them carefully on a work table, he went back upstairs and made a telephone call to a man he knew in the Art Institute repair and restoration section.
“Matthias? I thought you were in the south of France.”
“Back for a visit. I need a favor, museum to museum,” Matthias said. “Analysis. I’ve been checking inventory. Some questions have been raised about authenticity.”
“I can’t imagine Karl Albrecht buying something that wasn’t authentic.”
“I can’t either, but the records are murky, and I’ve got to establish legitimacy for appraisal.”
“Insurance company?”
“Something like that. Four paintings are involved.”
“Pardon me for asking, but can you afford the fee?”
“The endowment can take care of that. It’s provided for in the will.”
“Well, of course, Matt, but it’ll be awhile before I can get to them. We have some cleaning work on the new Italian show coming in, and we’ve had some new acquisitions that are in rather sorry shape.”
“‘Awhile’ means what?”
“A couple weeks, three, possibly more.”
“I’ll bring them over now, if you don’t mind. You might find a free moment.”
He stowed the four cases in the Rolls’s trunk, then got into the driver’s seat. For a long, unsettling moment, the car refused to start. He was about to panic when, finally, with the last few flickers of energy from the old battery, the engine caught. He gunned it several times, then pulled away from the curb.
Zany had taken to working late at his little police station, sometimes well into the midnight shift. This afternoon, however, he came home early, carrying a suitcase. He’d filled it with all the files and evidence from the Jill Langley case, including material from the State Police lab and the FBI field office in Detroit. His wife was still at her shop. She was tiring of this case. Mostly she was weary of District Attorney Moran’s constant phone calls. When he wasn’t trying to reach Zany, some newspaper or broadcast reporter was. The Chicago media had picked up the story, including the Chicago bureau of one of the news weeklies. Moran was carrying on like he was going to be on the cover of Time.
Zany dropped the suitcase on the couch in the small back bedroom he’d converted into a den, then went to the kitchen and poured himself a beer. He thought he’d give himself a few minutes in which to do absolutely nothing. He pulled out two of the kitchen table’s chairs, dropping himself wearily into one and propping his feet up on the other. He’d had about three sips of beer when the phone rang.
It was Hejmal.
“Something wrong?” Zany asked.
“No, Chief. It’s all quiet. Why?”
“I was just wondering why you called.”
“Oh, yeah. I heard from that dentist. Meyerson? He said he doesn’t want his boat back. He said he’s getting out of his lease with the Curlands and we should give it to them.”
“I’m not ready to give it back to anyone. We’ve got a court order impounding it.”
“Should I call him back and tell him that?”
“No.”
“Should I call the Curlands and tell them?”
“No.”
“Shall I go home?”
“Give it a couple more hours, and run out to the highway and back on your way.”
“Okay. Like I say, Chief, all quiet.”
Zany went back to his beer, finishing it standing up. He fetched another from the refrigerator and went into his den, firing up his big computer.
It was an Omega 500, with a 2-megabyte RAM and 65-megabyte hard drive and 9,600-baud modem. It wasn’t quite on a level with one of the Pentagon’s CRAY units out in Cheyenne Mountain, but it could do some amazing things. Zany had added extra memory and an exotic array of special program packages, including a VCR hookup. He’d already used it to great advantage, entering videotape footage of the shot-up boat taken at several angles and using the computer to determine the bullet trajectories. The angles ranged from 40 degrees to 80 degrees, meaning that some of the shots were fired nearly straight down.
As if from an aircraft—possibly a helicopter.
He snapped open the suitcase, taking out a small square envelope containing a computer disk. It contained the texts of Matthias Curland’s two letters to Jill Langley. He’d given the originals to Plotnik to return to the girl’s family.
Zany had read them over several times, but still couldn’t make up his mind about them.
My dearest Jill,
Your letter causes me such pain. If I thought what you ask was possible, if I thought such a life as you suggest could ever be for us, I would [UNREADABLE] to make it so. I would beg, borrow, steal to obtain the money to bring you here, to make for us what you ask.
But it is not possible, as I’ve told you many times. I barely survive here. My choice is to live on the generosity of a few wealthy friends or to paint near pornography for the fat pig of an Arab who is now my only client. When they tire of me—or I tire of them—I have nothing. For a little while last year, I actually lived on the beach. A vagabond. There is nothing in this for you.
I paint now only for myself. This means that I paint for no one. I do not know why I continue. In the beginning, I thought that, as a man walking a road, I would arrive at some destination—success, truth, discovery. Something. But there is nothing. Absolutely nothing. I continue only because to stop would be the ultimate failure.
I failed my family—father, mother, brother, grandfather. I failed the architecture [UNREADABLE]. I failed Sally Phillips. I failed my wife. I failed you. I don’t want to do it again.
Adieu, Matthias
All very ardent and passionate, maybe even desperate. The second letter was more curt.
Dear Jill,
I understand your anger. I do not understand your desire to cause trouble for people who have done you no harm. Your grievance is with me and me alone. I wish to make amends with you. I have thought for a very long time upon this. I have decided that the very best thing I can do for you is to persuade you to leave us, to free yourself from our family, to make for yourself a new life.
You say Larry Train has offered you a job. Do not take it. Leave the museum, yes, for God’s sake do that, but do not stay in Chicago. Go to New York, to Washington, to someplace where your marvelous talent will b
e appreciated and rewarded and understood. Do not waste any more of your life with us. Find someone who deserves you. God knows, I do not.
Adieu, Matthias
Zany sat staring at the screen for a long time, blinking almost in time with the cursor. Then he put fingers to keyboard and sent the file back into its special queue.
He’d acquired something else that day—a telephone number in Pleasantville, New York, up in Westchester County just north of the city. The party’s name was a Mrs. Hillary Van Winkle. He’d tried her several times, but there’d been no answer. Finally her husband had answered, saying she wasn’t at home. Zany told him what he wanted, emphasizing that he needed to ascertain Matthias Curland’s whereabouts that Friday evening because it pertained to a homicide investigation, and asked the man to have his wife call him as soon as possible.
She hadn’t. It was now ten-fifteen, New York time. He dialed the number one more time.
Her husband answered. She had returned. Her husband reluctantly summoned her. She picked up an extension.
She was not at all friendly. “It’s a late hour to be calling, don’t you think, or is this some kind of emergency?”
Zany got directly to the point. “Mrs. Van Winkle, your husband, uh, ex-husband, Matthias Curland, he said he was with you in New York last Friday night. It’s pertinent to an investigation we’re undertaking and I wonder if you can verify that.”
There was silence. Zany heard breathing on the phone. He wasn’t sure it was hers.
“What’s this about? You told my husband there was a murder?”
“Yes, a homicide investigation. We’re just trying to determine where a number of people were that night. The victim was known to your, to Mr. Curland.”
“Who was it?”
“A former employee. A young woman named Jill Langley.”
“Jill Langley?” She sounded quite shocked.
“Yes. Did you know her?”
There was another long silence. “Yes, I knew her. You might say she’s the principal reason I’m no longer married to Mr. Curland.”
“I see.”
“What happened to her?”
“She was shot.”
“God.”
“Mr. Curland was with you then? That Friday?”
“No,” she said finally. “He didn’t come here.”
“He wasn’t in New York?”
“I don’t know where he was. He called me a day or so before that and said he was in New York, so I suppose that’s where he was. Are you telling me you think he killed Jill? In Michigan, did you say?”
“I’m not saying anything of the kind, Mrs. Van Winkle. I’m just trying to find out where Mr. Curland was last Friday night.”
“Well, he wasn’t with me. He called, I guess it was Wednesday, and said his mother had died and he’d just come back from France and he wanted to come up and see me. He was quite maudlin—very unhappy. I told him I didn’t think it was a good idea. I’m afraid I put it quite strongly. That’s the last time I talked to him. I hope I’m not getting him in any trouble telling you this, but that’s the last I heard from him.”
“You’re sure?”
“Quite.”
“Are you from Chicago, Mrs. Van Winkle?”
“I’m from here. I lived in Chicago for a few years, but I wish I hadn’t. Is there anything else?”
“Well …”
“Good night, then.”
Zany stared stupidly at the receiver in his hand, then slowly returned it to its place. The telephone instantly rang, like something ignited. Startled, Zany let it ring again, then picked up the receiver.
It was his dispatcher. “Got a call from Chicago homicide, Chief. A Lieutenant Baldessari. Wants you to get back to him right away.”
“Okay. Thanks. Still quiet tonight?”
“Yeah. Well, there was a beach party kinda gettin’ out a hand. Sent Zaluski and Meyer down to give ’em some words to the wise.”
“Okay. Night.”
Baldessari sounded very excited when Zany finally reached him. “We got our hooker in the O’Rourke case, Zany. A real looker. Tall blonde, name of Margaret Kozak.”
“And you wanted me to be the first to know?”
“That’s the good news. Guess what’s the bad news.”
“She didn’t do it?”
“She did it, all right. We found a roll of U.S. currency and one of O’Rourke’s business cards in a drawer in her apartment. Her prints were on both. So were O’Rourke’s.”
“How’d you find her?”
“On a tip. Anonymous caller. A woman. We figure it was another hooker. Turned her in to cool the heat on the street.”
“What’s the bad news?”
“Somebody whacked her before we got there. Made her a new mouth. Damn near cut her head off.”
“Rough town you got there.”
“It’s a messy-looking crime scene.”
“So all your troubles are over—except for the new homicide.”
“We can take our time with this one—I mean, we can be real thorough. Downtown figures it was her pimp, or somebody’s pimp. Icing her for picking on such a well-connected John stirring up too much trouble on the street.”
“What do you think?”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Well, congratulations, Frank. I was hoping you’d be calling with something that would be of help to me.”
“Zany, I gotta tell you, there was some stuff in her place—hot stuff, I think. Polaroid camera, tape recorder, pen and pencil set. Stuff that fits a certain burglary report.”
Zany’s eyes were fixed on the blinking cursor of his computer screen. His brain was functioning much the same way.
“The pen and pencil set,” he said. “Black and gold? Montblanc?”
“You got it.”
“I didn’t do it, Frank. My wife gave me that set. If it was me, I wouldn’t have left that behind.”
“Chrissake, Zany, nobody’s made you on this. What we were wondering, though—when you were here—you entertain any hookers in your hotel room?”
“Come on, Frank.”
“Seriously.”
“Seriously. I was working my case. I was up with you guys that night.”
“And where else?”
“Walking around. Driving around.”
Baldessari said nothing.
“I had nobody in my room, Frank. Not even room service,” Zany said. “Just a burglar.”
“I’m sure you’re not bullshitting me, Zany, but we gotta wrap this one up real neat and tidy. Can you come out tomorrow and see if you can I.D. the dead chippie? Someone you might have seen somewhere around your hotel? I gotta get a sworn statement, too—before you can get your shit back.”
“Thanks, Frank.”
“I know how you are about stiffs, Zany. We’ll cover up her throat or something.”
“You didn’t find a rolled-up painting there, did you? Couple bullet holes through it?”
“No such luck.”
“I’ll be out in the morning, Frank.”
His wife came in just as he hung up the phone. She set a fresh cold beer on his desk, then stood with her hand on his shoulder.
“Something wrong?” she asked.
“It was Frank Baldessari. He wants me to come out tomorrow and look at a murder victim. They recovered the stuff from my briefcase. Including the pen you gave me.”
“That’s close to being a miracle.”
“A real funny one.” Zany put his hand on top of hers. “I’m going to have to go back there tomorrow. You don’t mind, do you, Judy?”
“No, as long as you’re not planning to make that a permanent arrangement. I like it out here.”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
CHAPTER 6
Diandra had lunch served out on the north terrace of Poe’s penthouse, guiding Matthias to a chair with a view of Lake Michigan.
He kept his eyes on her. She was perfectly dressed—very proper but extrem
ely fashionable and feminine in a chic white designer dress with a blue neck scarf and white-and-blue two-tone high-heeled pumps that made her an inch or two taller than he. As they seated themselves, Matthias caught a glimpse of a curve of small breast revealed by the deep neckline, looking away before she noticed.
Her menu included a cold soup and a shrimp salad. The butler brought a bottle of white Bourdeaux wine. Matthias took a small sip of his, then let it be. Diandra had a much larger sip of hers.
“Toxin,” she said.
“Sorry?”
“Alcohol is a toxin. I have to remind myself of that. The body soaks up toxins the way it does water. I used to be more careful about such things.”
“When you were a fashion model.”
“I’m still a model, Mr. Curland. I just don’t do it for money anymore.”
He looked perplexed. She smiled, pausing to change the course of the conversation. This was not a direction she had intended.
“How was the sailing lesson?” she asked.
“The wind’s light today. We had no problems. Your husband’s a quick learner.”
“He says you’re a good teacher.”
“I’m a better architect.”
She smiled again, more sweetly. “You gave Peter some drawings—for his building.”
“I’m not sure if he likes them. He was rather noncommittal.”
“He hasn’t talked to me about them. Not in any detail. He seldom talks to me about business. Usually I’m just as glad. But in your case—I wish I could give you some news. I know he’s very excited about having this building put up.”
“I’m afraid my designs are a little unorthodox—even outlandish.”
“He said one looked like a sailboat.”
Matthias studied her eyes for a sign of ridicule. “Yes. He’d probably prefer a building like this one, only taller.”
“You might be surprised, Mr. Curland. Peter loves to surprise people.” She turned in her chair. The light breeze blew a curl of hair against her cheek. “It’s to go over there, up along the river?”
He nodded.
“I don’t understand why he wants to put it up in a slum.”
“It won’t always be a slum. That’s what this project is about.”
“But wouldn’t he make more money with something like that if it was closer to the lake?”
The Big Score Page 19