Authors: Hillary Bell Locke
Collar Robber (17 page)
“Thanks,” Proxy said as Rachel returned the letter to me.
“Proxy, before you ask me whether the envelope Nesselrode gave me had any enclosure with the letter, which it didn't, I have to know who the hell âYoung Werther' is. Or was.”
“Title character in a lushly romantic novel by Goethe.” Proxy said this as if it were something even guys whose only degrees were in civil engineering should know. “I'd love to see what âTabby' enclosed with the letter, because I'll bet that was what Szulz spent the cost of a round-trip ticket to Vienna to get his hands on.”
“Well whatever it is, I don't think it's a game plan for an art heist twenty-five years in the future. I'll sound out Szulz when I give it to him.”
“You're going to have to hustle to get that thing to a guy in Pittsburgh and still make it to Hartford, Connecticut, in time for a meeting at six tomorrow night.”
“If it was worth a trip to Vienna for him, it ought to be worth a trip to New York. I'm planning on hopping a limo for Hartford at La Guardia at, say, three tomorrow afternoon. If Szulz wants the thing that badly, he can get to La Guardia by then. Twelve-to-five he shows.”
“No bet,” Proxy said. “Sleep well, and spend Quindel's money wisely.”
Cynthia Jakubek
“Seriously? You're telling me at seven forty-five in the morning that if my client can drop everything he's doing and get from Pittsburgh to New York by three this afternoon you'll give him a document that he'll otherwise receive whenever you get around to it?”
“That's about the size of it,” Davidovich said.
“That's the most high-handed thing I've heard since the last time I was in court.”
“Yeah, I've been working on my self-esteem.”
“All right, I'll pass it on.”
“Have him try to let me know either way, okay?”
“Sure, Davidovich.” I couldn't quite keep the sarcasm out of my voice, maybe because I didn't try very hard. “We always strive for courtesy.”
Exasperation undoubtedly showed as I punched END CALL. How in the hell was I going to present
this
to Willy? He deeply appreciates
chutzpah
, but only on his side of a deal.
I dialed his number and got Amber, whisperingâwhich probably meant that Willy was still snoring blissfully a few feet from her. Before I could tell her that she'd better wake him up for this one, I heard his groggy voice in the background.
“That's okay, I can take it. And how about some coffee?” Then, much more clearly, “What's up?”
I told him. I'll say one thing: the news sure woke him up. The last time I saw that fast a transition from grumpy to giddy, controlled substances were involved.
“Really? You serious? Holy shitâ¦What time is it?”
“Seven-forty-nine.”
“Almost eightâ¦Shit. Lemme get my computer on. This is the big Jew, right?”
“Yeah, Willy, the tall dude.”
“Let's seeâ¦Eleven-ten, gets in by twelve-thirtyâ¦Little tight at this end but, maybe, let's see, no luggageâ¦I can do this! Made in the shade! No sweat! C.J., you're a genius!”
“Right now I feel more like a messenger girl, but I'll take it. You have a pen handy? I want to give you the big guy's mobile phone number so you can call him and confirm the hook-up.”
“Do me a favor, C.J., text it, can you? I gotta fly. I don't even have my boxers on yet.”
TMI, Willy, TMI
. I smiled anyway. Couldn't help it.
“Can do on the text thing, Willy. Have a safe trip. And, if you think about it, sometime maybe you could tell me what the hell is going on.”
“Monday for sure, Counselor, like I said. Take it to the bank. Gotta go.”
I shrugged, remembering one of my mom's old lines:
You can laugh or you can cry, so you might as well laugh
. I checked my watch: seven fifty-one. One-tenth of a billable hourâon the nose.
Jay Davidovich
“This legit?”
Szulz looked at the letter to von Leuthen that he was holding in his left hand, and then at the envelope in his right. We'd just completed the hand-off: two-twelve p.m. at LaGuardia International Airport's livery service area.
“No idea. I'm just the messenger.”
“This envelope was already open when you gave it to me.”
“Yeah, I couldn't read the letter while it was still in the envelope.”
“So you know what this says?”
“Yep.”
“And you kept a copy of it?”
“No, Willy, I memorized it.
Of course
I kept a copy of it.”
Szulz gave me a long, searching look. Not a hard look. No anger in his eyes, no twitching in his facial muscles, no teeth-clenching. Just appraisal. Was I dumb or did I have the best poker-face east of Vegas? That's the question I read in his expression. In Szulz's opinion, apparently, that letter should have made me smack my forehead with the heel of my hand and blurt out that it explains everything. Well, whatever it was I sure hadn't figured it out yet. So I guess I'd have to go with dumb.
If you have to get from LaGuardia to Hartford, Connecticut, an air-conditioned Chrysler Imperial driven by someone else is the least unpleasant way I know of to do it. Plenty of room to stretch out my long legs. Cold MGD to take the edge off parting with Rachel earlier than I'd planned. Some old horse opera on TCM, muted so that I could enjoy one of Sirius XM's jazz channels while I watched guys in white hats and guys in black hats blaze away at each other with smoking, soundless six-shooters. At times like this, loss prevention ain't a bad gig.
I reached the Transoxana campus in Hartford around five-twenty. Not the beehive of activity that you'd see on a weekday morning, of course, but not just a corporal's guard standing watch either. Transoxana has local offices and billions of dollars at risk in every time-zone on the planet. It manages all of them from Hartford. Transoxana HQ doesn't completely close for Christmas and New Year's, much less for weekday evenings.
After the usual badge-flashing and log-signing, I found myself alone in a conference room heavy on mahogany and set up with real and decaf coffee, four varieties of soda, and bottled water. I figured Proxy would have called if she'd wanted a pre-meeting. She hadn't, so I grabbed some real coffee, found a side seat toward what I assumed would be the foot of the table, and booted up my laptop to check emails. I had twenty-seven, but only one of them mattered much:
Where are we on interviewing von Leuthen? Advise ASAP. âQuindel
I stared at the thing for seven seconds, not quite gaping but with my mouth slightly open. I couldn't believe it. Could not believe itâbecause it couldn't possibly be true.
Could Quindel have not bothered to read the memo Proxy had undoubtedly sent him reporting my von Leuthen scoop? Not likely, but not beyond the realm of human possibility. Could he have read it and completely forgotten it? I wouldn't bet much on that one, either, but I suppose it could have happened.
But no way Quindel would have sent an intra-corporate communication outside channels. No way he would have contacted me directly, circumventing Proxy. We'll find a loophole in the Second Law of Thermodynamics before that happens. Quindel is a lot of things, some of them unprintable, but dumb and lazy are two things he ain't.
Jay Davidovich
I was still going over the Sent From data on Quindel's email to see if I could spot anything that seemed off about it when Proxy came in and started briskly setting up for the meeting: laptop booted up, mobile phone off and out of sight, mini-legal pad beside the laptop. That reminded me to update my voice-mail prompt and then turn my own mobile phone offâironclad protocol for a Quindel meeting. Then I showed Proxy the message.
“Holy⦔ She choked off the vulgarityâhabit, I guess. “Thousand-to-one Quindel didn't send this.”
“Agreedâand I wouldn't give you a thousand-to-one on the outcome of a North Korean election.”
“So apparently someone has hacked into Transoxana's computer network.”
“Or at least into the marginal ganglion of the network that connects to my laptop.”
“They'd have to get past fourteen firewalls to do any real damage to the system.” Proxy's lips pursed fetchingly in concentration. “Forward this to Tech Supportâno, wait. Do you mind if I just jump on your machine and do it myself?”
Not really a question but for form's sake I said, “Be my guest.” I had to admire the Proxygram she tapped out for the benefit of whichever techie had the short straw tonight:
Analyze message below and report to pvs@transoxusa
only
. Do
not
, say again NOT, reply to forwarder or original sender. Implement standard security protocols but take no action, say again NO ACTION, transparent to original sender.
She almost hit SEND without asking me but remembered just in time. I nodded.
CLICK!
The table had now started to fill. Andy Schuetz, our ex-FBI guy. Some gray-hair from Legal with that I'm-a-lawyer-and-you're-not look all over him. A Quindel flunky in a khakis-and-polo-shirt outfit. And a senior secretary whose presence meant that we'd have official minutes for this meetingâin other words,
All right, Ms. Shifcos, let's see how you perform under pressure
. Finally Quindel strolled in, trailed by another flunky in charge of carrying his briefcase. Quindel was wearing blue jeans and a dress shirt with French cuffs. I'm serious. True, they were designer blue jeans that probably cost about four hundred bucks, but even so. We all seated ourselves andâno other word for itâcame to order.
From the head of the table Quindel smiled. Good-looking guy. Early forties and, just a hunch, feeling a tiny bit threatened by Proxy. Six even, trim body you'd expect of someone with a personal trainer, nice tan, and slightly curly salt-and-pepper hair that looks like it costs fifty bucks a crack to cut. Radiates confidence. Says “metrics” when “numbers” would do just fine. Has a tendency sometimes to call other people's opinions “unmitigated bullshit,” which always makes me wonder what mitigated bullshit is like. The CEO of the company could scream at him for ninety seconds about what a moron he was and he wouldn't bat an eye or pop a bead of sweat. He'd just wait out the tirade and then say calmly, “Let's get some metrics.” Wouldn't want him walking point for me on a patrol, but maybe that's just me.
“Thank you all for taking time out of your evening for this meeting. I realize it's an imposition. Unfortunately, we're looking at a hard stop. As in Chinese Wall. We have until noon tomorrow to give Pitt MCM a firm quote on art-exchange insurance. The insurance premiums will be funded by an NEA grant, so the Museum is going ahead with the exchange regardless of anything we say. At stake for us are premiums totaling almost a million dollars if the exchange runs its full three-year course. Even more important, it's likely that we'll lose our existing account with Pitt MCM for its standard insurance package if we refuse to quote. So looking at, say, ten-year metrics, we have a five million-dollar decision to make.”
He smiled again and swept the table's perimeter with his eyes. He lingered for an extra fraction of a second on me. I think he was daring me to compute how many years of my salary five million dollars amounted to. Then he got down to business.
“With that background, Mr. Davidovich, keeping in mind that your job is
loss
prevention, not
sales
prevention, please explain why Transoxana Insurance Company should blow five mil off its bottom line.”
“Because five is less than ten and we face at least a twenty percent risk of losing fifty million. Professional bad guys have criminal designs on
Eros Rising
. We've dodged the bullets so far but we can't expect to keep that up forever, because they're getting inside help from someone at Pitt MCM.”
“Which orifice did you pull that out of?”
“Nesselrode's crack about how amazing it was that the attempted snatch at the Museum almost worked even though it shouldn't have had a chance. The only way it had a chance was if someone at the Museum decided to add aiding and abetting to his job description.”
“Someone like Rand?”
“Maybe him, maybe someone else.” I shrugged. “Doesn't really matter.”
“Maybe Jennifer Huggens, the executive director.” Andy Schuetz contributed that one.
“Explain.” Quindel shot laser-eyes at Schuetz.
“The Museum has something called a deaccession committee. âDeaccession' is a fancy word for selling stuff. That committee has been looking at unloading some of its paintings to build up a sagging endowment and help cover budget deficits that it's been running for several years. Donors are getting tired of chipping in to cover the gap, so you can see where fifty million or so would come in handy.”
“So what? If they sell the thing we're off the risk. It's their painting. They can sell it if they want to, can't they?”
“Not that simple.” Proxy jumped in. “Museums can sell paintings to raise money to buy other paintings, but not to cover operating expensesâlike Ms. Huggens' salaryâor to make their balance sheets look better. Apart from possible lawsuits by heirs of donors, Pitt MCM could go on a black list if it pulled that, meaning other museums wouldn't engage in exchange programs with it or include it in touring exhibitions.”
“So far it sounds like their problem, not ours,” Quindel said.
“Our problem is the Museum's possible solution to its problem.” Keeping his hands folded in front of him, Schuetz leaned forward for emphasis. “Namely, for the Museum to collect fifty million for
Eros Rising
from us instead of selling it.”
“Which it could do,” I said, “if the painting were switched with a world-class forgery while it was on its way to Vienna.”
“Easy.” Quindel shrugged. “We drop fifty thousand on airtight security. Ex-Blackwater guys are going for a dime-a-dozen these days.”
“Ain't no such thing as airtight.”
“Fine.” Quindel tried to look like he was getting hot under the collar. “Let's say Loss Prevention falls down on the job and the bad guys pull the switch. They've got the real painting. They can't sell it to an honest buyer, so they sell it back to us for ten million. Or less. That's what art thieves almost always do unless the victim doesn't have insurance. At your twenty percent risk assessment, the discounted value of our risk is two million. Two is less than five.”
Three words into Quindel's comment I'd noticed an eerie stillness come over Proxy. I felt a vibe of puzzle-pieces falling into place in her brain, as if she were on the verge of a
Eureka!
moment.
She was. She waited a couple of extra seconds after Quindel had finished speaking before she swung her eyes first toward me and then back in his direction.
“Except that they won't sell it back to us. They won't have to. This isn't just a snatch, it's a scam. We'll be on the hook for the whole fifty million.”
Quindel looked straight at Proxy, daring her to break eye-contact. After a few too many seconds of that malarkey he spoke.
“Well, I really want to hear this. It ought to be good.”
