by S. J. Rozan
“It sounds to me like he does think you know something about the paintings.”
“No, he’s probably going to all the galleries where they might turn up, to see if he can learn anything and to make sure everyone’s disinclined to get involved with them if they do. Except to call him. That, it seems, would put him in our debt. So? How’d I do? Now you know the Chinese Consulate cares, too. Is that important news? Can I be Deep Throat?”
“Eddie, you’re the very epiglottis,” Jack said. He didn’t mention we already knew the Chinese Consulate, or at least someone up there, was interested in this case. “Thanks. Stand by and keep your ear to the ground. Report in if you hear anything else.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Bond. Over and out.”
The phone went silent and we all three looked at each other. “Well,” said Jack.
“No kidding,” I answered.
“What now?” Bill asked.
I thought. “We have to go see Dr. Yang, but before that, I have to get back to Chinatown to meet with my client. Maybe after that, we should consider dropping in at the Chinese Consulate.”
“Right up in their faces?” Jack asked.
“Maybe. First things first.”
We gathered up our garbage and our cell phones and headed for the car. Bill unlocked it, said, “Saddle up!” and we were back on the road.
We’d reached the Manhattan Bridge and were admiring the view when Jack’s phone rang once more. He checked it. “A 718 number I don’t know. Maybe it’s your cousin. Jack Lee,” he told the phone. “Yes, hi, Linus, good to meet you.… I know. You ready?… Well, but it doesn’t have to be good Chinese.… No, not even … Great. Here’s what we need. Go to my Web site…” The conversation got art-technical from there, Jack directing Linus to a few places online, listening to Linus’s questions and suggestions, responding with his own. By the time we’d reached Bill’s parking lot they were done. “He thanks you for your faith in him,” Jack said to me, slipping his phone into his pocket.
“Was he being sarcastic?”
“No, just nineteen.”
18
We’d debated whether the guys should be in on my confab with my client.
“I’ve never even seen the guy,” Bill said.
“I have, but I bet he couldn’t tell me from Daniel Dae Kim,” Jack said.
“A common mistake, no doubt.”
“It’s the broad shoulders and smoldering brow. Still, it could be useful. Him not knowing what we look like.”
“You could hide in the closet,” I suggested.
“Both of us?” Jack said. “I think it would have to be the bathroom.”
“What if her client has to pee?” Bill asked.
So we decided to come clean with Dunbar/Jerrold, in the hopes that he’d come clean with us.
Bill stuck his head in at Golden Adventure as we passed and was rewarded with the usual waves and smiles.
“Guess you don’t need panic button today, Lydia!” Andi Gee called.
“No, I’m good,” I agreed, unlocking my door.
“I don’t get it,” Bill complained as he followed me in. “They all like me. Why doesn’t your mother?”
“You flirt with them.”
“I could flirt with your mother,” he offered. The idea did not merit a reply.
“I’m going to hear about you, too,” I told Jack. “You know our dinner last night was all over the Chinatown telegraph? The aunties think you’re cute.”
Jack gave Bill a smug grin.
Bill, in response, went to my desk drawer and retrieved his ashtray. He’d just lit up when the doorbell buzzed. I buzzed back, and we waited.
Dennis Jerrold, aka Jeff Dunbar, pushed my door open but stopped with his hand on the knob when he saw Jack and Bill.
“Come in, Mr. Jerrold.”
“Who’re they?” He showed no sign of recognizing either of them, which I guessed spoke well of Jack’s lurking-and-tailing talents.
“Colleagues,” I said. “Bill Smith, Jack Lee. Guys, this is Dennis Jerrold, who likes to be called Jeff Dunbar.”
“What are they doing here?” Jerrold/Dunbar ignored the introduction.
“Working the same case.”
“What does that mean?”
“I told you there was another investigator with another client. Bill’s my partner; Jack’s the other investigator.” This time the smug smile went from Bill to Jack.
“Who’s the other client?”
“I didn’t tell you before and I’m not going to tell you now. But I do have other things to tell you. And some to ask you.”
“I don’t want them here.”
“I don’t care. The three of us are working on this together. I’m following through on what I’ve found no matter what you think about it and don’t start with the stuff about your dime. I offered you your money back and you said no. Unless you’ve changed your mind, come in and sit down, Mr. Jerrold.”
So much for the whole Jeff Dunbar thing. Another hesitating moment, and Dennis Jerrold shut the door and sat. Jack was in the other chair; Bill, of course, was standing, though there’s not much to be seen through my pebbled alley window.
“We found the paintings,” I said.
Jerrold halfway stood again. “You have them?”
“No. I said we found them. We know where they are but there are complications.”
“What do you mean, ‘complications’?” He settled back down, recognition in his eyes. “A shakedown, is that it? Now that you have them it’s going to cost me?”
I sat back in my springy chair. “Why is it,” I asked the air, “that everyone involved in this case is so hard to help? So suspicious? But come to think of it, maybe this is a shakedown. Yes, sure, call it that. It’s going to cost you, Mr. Jerrold. Just not money. A lot of that going around, too. I’ll tell you what we know if you tell us what you know. And you have to go first. Why did you come to me and why use a false name? Why does the State Department care about a dead Chinese artist?”
He stared. “The State Department?”
“You know, if you start denying everything this could take all morning. State Department, Assistant Deputy Director, East Asia Section, China specialist. And speaking of China: the PRC government, why do they care? The phony Mr. Wing is from the Chinese Consulate and I’m pretty sure you know that, and you were supposed to call and tell me and you never did. The real Mr. Jin, is, too, do you know him? Now either tell me what’s going on or take your money back and get out of here.”
Jerrold’s expression was that of a man trying to choose a path through uninviting but unavoidable terrain. He extemporized. “Is it considered professional in your field to talk that way to people who hire you?”
“Is it in yours, to lie to people you hire?”
“He’s a diplomat,” said Bill. “I think it is.”
“That was unnecessary,” Jack said. “Sorry, Mr. Jerrold. But you can see how it’s frustrating to try to do your job when your client doesn’t even trust you to know his name.”
What was this? They were doing Good Cop/Bad Cop without me?
“Whoever you are, I’m not your client,” Jerrold said.
“And you’re about to not be mine in a minute,” I said. “Unless we get some answers.” When Good Cop and Bad Cop are already taken, there’s always Steamroller. “Besides the guy with the gun I told you about yesterday, there’s the matter of the Chinese gangster.”
“Who also had a gun,” Jack said.
“He suggested I stop looking for the Chaus because he has an investment to protect. What investment, Mr. Jerrold? And the so-called Samuel Wing, who made the same suggestion, though he wouldn’t say why, and the mysterious Mr. Jin, who’d also rather these paintings didn’t see the light of day. Who are all these people and what the hell is going on here?”
The question, besides being phrased in stronger language than I generally use, was admittedly disingenuous. I had, in essence, the information Jerrold had paid me to get: w
here the paintings were. And the bonus fact, that they were fakes. Nevertheless, we waited, all three of us staring my client down.
Dennis Jerrold drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “How did you find out my name? Where I work?”
“Oh, please, Mr. Jerrold. You’re a diplomat, we’re investigators. Would I be surprised if you negotiated a treaty, or whatever it is you people do? Okay, nuts to the whole thing.” I spun in my chair to reach my safe, which doubled as the sideboard with the tea set I wasn’t serving Dennis Jerrold tea from. Turning my back on a client isn’t something I consider good practice, but it’s great drama and with Bill and Jack there I wasn’t worried. I ran the dial, extracted the envelope holding Jerrold’s thousand dollars and tossed it on my desk. “If this is the level of trust we’ve got going you’ll be happier with some other PI anyway.”
He made no move to take it. “The paintings,” he said. “Were you able to ascertain whether they’re real?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
I waited a moment, then gave it to him: “They’re fakes.”
He visibly relaxed.
“But they’re about to come on the market as real. Authenticated by an expert. Next week. Asian Art Week, Beijing/NYC.”
“But you say they’re fakes. What expert would put his reputation on the line like that?”
“That’s not really the question. The question is, how bad would it be for you if it happened?”
After a moment he gave a soft laugh. “The funny thing is, it wouldn’t matter. In my situation, I can be a hero—though that’s looking less and less likely—but I can’t really be the goat. Nice work if you can get it, huh? No, keep the money, Ms. Chin. If it’s true you’ve found the paintings. It would be nice if we could keep them from hitting the market, but if they’re fakes the authentication won’t—”
“We might be able to.”
“What?”
“Keep them off the market. Or maybe not, but we can probably discredit them with a bang. And the person who’s going to be selling them. If we had a reason to. Would that work for you?”
He leaned back in his chair. “Do tell.”
“No, you tell. Give us that reason. What so-called heroics are you engaged in here and how was I supposed to be helping?”
“Well,” he said. “Well.” He looked around. “I suppose it’s reasonable to hope for a certain amount of discretion from all of you, even though I’m only paying Ms. Chin?”
“Actually, you’re paying Bill, too. And Jack’s one of us, so don’t worry about it.” I didn’t look to see who was smug-smiling whom.
“Fine. Not that it really matters. I wasn’t doing anything wrong, just … unauthorized. Going to you could earn me a reprimand, or, on the other hand, a commendation for creativity. If I tell you what I know—which I can already see won’t answer all your questions—then what? You’ll tell me where the paintings are?”
If I’d had any doubt Jerrold was a diplomat I’d be over it by now. Everything was a negotiation. I decided to stonewall.
We sat in silence; then Jerrold smiled. “Okay. Point made.” He crossed one leg over the other, settling in more comfortably. “As you surmised, I’m with the State Department.”
Surmised? We knew his job title.
“I’ve been there eight years. I’m not an art collector, in fact I’m not in the visual arts at all. Literature’s my field. But we all talk, and you hear things.”
“We all talk, who?”
“State Department staff, and our Consulate counterparts. In my case, the PRC Consulate. That’s where I heard about the Chaus, at a reception. Buzz in the air, worried looks, things like that. The Cultural Attaché, Jin, had heard rumors and he wasn’t happy. They have that Beijing/NYC show coming up, the whole Asian art world’s watching. If the PRC gets embarrassed here in New York it’s on Jin’s head. Xi Xao, the guy at my level in the visual arts over there, dismissed the whole thing. He tried to persuade Jin not to worry about it. He said no one could possibly take these paintings seriously, everyone knew Chau was dead. I guess he changed his mind, though, or at least, he couldn’t convince Jin, because I think Xi’s who came to you as Samuel Wing.”
“Older, skinny, receding gray hair?”
“Yes.”
“I’m still not clear. If they decided to look for the paintings after all and asked you for help, why did Xi come to me to get me to lay off?”
“They didn’t ask for help. First off, it wouldn’t have been me, it would’ve been one of our visual arts people. But they didn’t. Jin just scowled and Xi tried to jolly him up and they both drank scotch. No, what happened was, I was watching Xi fawning on his boss—a guy at least ten years younger than Xi, and nowhere near as educated or as smart—and my boss came over to join us and I had a lightbulb moment. It hit me that if I didn’t watch out I’d be Xi before I knew it. You know the difference between staff jobs and line jobs?” I shook my head. Bill and Jack, I noticed, both nodded. “Well, it’s what it sounds like.” Seemingly instinctively, Jerrold offered his explanation to all three of us, so I wouldn’t feel like the only dummy in the room. Very diplomatic. “Line does. Staff supports. At State you almost always start as staff but, like anywhere, line’s where the action is. Eight years, I suddenly realized, was borderline too long to still be staff. There’s a point beyond which you don’t get promoted because you haven’t been promoted, and I’m getting near it. I needed to make a move.”
“And Chau was your move?”
“Xi kept telling Jin he should ignore the rumors, that the paintings were obviously fakes and any notice they paid would do nothing but stir up interest in them. Jin was unhappy but he agreed that he didn’t want to draw attention. Someone poured another round and the talk moved on to other things.
“And I thought, well, okay. The PRC government looking for these paintings did have the potential to raise the paintings’ profile. Xi was right about that. But if collectors were already looking, one more collector wouldn’t matter.”
“So it wasn’t about their value? And it wasn’t about making a name for yourself?”
He smiled. “It absolutely was, both things. But their value’s not in money, it’s in the PRC’s diplomatic face, and the name I’m looking to make isn’t in the art world.”
“If you had the paintings, what would you do with them? Take them to Xi, at the Consulate?”
“No, to Jin. If I went to Xi he’d go to Jin, and that would get him some of the credit, diluting things for me.”
I nodded, considering that. “Speaking of Xi, Mr. Jerrold, how did Xi find out about me and why did he want me to stop?”
“I don’t know about the first. The second, I suppose it’s because, as he said, he thinks making waves is the wrong approach.”
“It was a lot of money to stop some waves that might turn out not to matter. His, I wonder, or the PRC’s?”
“Well, probably his. Like what I gave you was mine. The PRC isn’t that free with its purse strings.”
I sat back. “All right, Mr. Jerrold. Here’s what I think we can do. The paintings are fakes but they’re about to be authenticated. Then they’ll be shown.”
“I thought you said you might be able to stop that.”
“We’ll be able to keep them off the market. Maybe not to stop their being shown. But they’ll be discredited and the whole thing will look like a high school prank. But you can still be a hero.”
“Oh? How’s that?”
“The paintings have poems on them. Chinese classical paintings often do,” I added loftily. “Since the Yuan Dynasty.”
“I do know that much, Ms. Chin.”
“These particular poems are by Liu Mai-ke. Mike Liu.”
“Ah.” Jerrold rubbed at his chin. “Ah, damn.”
“It’s true, then? That might be a problem?”
“Chau and Liu, together? A dissident double-team. Jin’ll hate it.”
“If it turns out the paintings will be shown, I
’ll warn you and you can warn Mr. Jin. Or tell your boss to warn him. At least it won’t be a surprise. The PRC can prepare a response. That should win you points.”
“Interesting thought. Not as many points as I’d hoped for from this, but it can’t hurt. Although if you told me where the paintings are—”
“Not going to happen.” I pointed to the money-stuffed envelope on my desk. “You can take that back if you want to, but right now that’s all you’re getting. If things change, I’ll call you.”
He eyed me. “They might?”
“You never know.”
* * *
Chinatown’s so near NYU that we walked up. As we neared Dr. Yang’s building I called his office. First hurdle jumped: he answered. I asked in a breathy voice for an appointment because I was an undecided student looking for guidance about my major. He blew me off, suggesting—really, ordering—that I talk to Dr. Somebody Else. Didn’t matter, though. By then we were in the building and we knew he was, too.
We caught him eating lunch behind his desk: pork dumplings from the Rickshaw truck accompanied by green tea in a rough pottery cup. The room smelled terrific, salt and onions, very homelike, but the comforting nature of his lunch mellowed Dr. Yang out not one bit.
“What are you doing here, Jack?” Dr. Yang lowered his chopsticks to glare at us.
“We know what’s going on,” Jack said without preamble. “We want to help. We have a plan.”
After a moment: “Get out.”
“No.” Not only didn’t Jack leave, he sat. I admired his courage and then realized I needed to do something, too, so I parked on the other chair. Bill wandered over to the window to look down at the world. “We’ve just come from Anna’s,” Jack told Dr. Yang. “We knew about the paintings before we went, the phony Chaus. We found out about them more or less the same way Doug Haig did. Anna tried not to tell us anything but she was too upset to fake it. We know what Haig wants and we can stop him.”