Fallen Idols (40 page)

At Whiting's suggestion, he was going to using a pseudonym—Thomas Lucas. Lucas was his middle name. Walter Gaines was famous in the field of pre-Columbian archaeology and art. Antiquities dealers would know the name Walt Gaines. They would run for cover if they knew his son was trying to pry information out of them.

The gallery was on the ground floor of a converted brownstone. Tom entered and looked around. The soft-White interior walls had been knocked out to make one long, high-ceilinged space. He was the only customer in the place. Looking up, he spied a video camera in the corner of the ceiling. It was pointing at him, the red light blinking steadily. He smiled at it.

Wandering about the gallery, he looked at various pieces with what he hoped would pass for a critical eye. The house specialty seemed to be Mexican and Central American art. There were several artifacts from the region, as well as some very old church icons and frescoes. Expensive pieces, he assumed.

A middle-aged man with a balding, mottled scalp, pink-skinned as if scrubbed hard in his shower, wearing an Italian-cut business suit, emerged from the rear and approached him. “May I help you?” the man asked, in a well-modulated but brisk voice.

Tom turned toward the art on the wall. “Beautiful pieces,” he said. “Are you the owner?”

The man nodded. “I am. Are you interested in anything particular?”

“I'm not buying art at the moment, but thanks.”

“Well, feel free to look around,” the owner told him.

Tom squinted at a statue of a woman that was displayed on a pedestal. “This is a nice piece,” he said complimentarily. “It reminds me of similar ones I've seen on trips to Central America.”

The owner cocked an eyebrow. “What type of art would that be?”

“Maya, primarily,” Tom answered. He looked at the statue again. “This is Mayan, isn't it?”

“Yes,” the owner answered. “It is.”

“Pre-1983, of course.”

The man took a step back. “I don't handle illegal art.” His face flushed pink. “Is this some kind of sting? I have I nothing to hide, believe me,” he said indignantly.

“You've got me wrong,” Tom said hurriedly, and hopefully, reassuringly. “A gallery like yours obviously wouldn't do anything illegal. You wouldn't need to, and you could get into too much trouble. I was simply commenting on the problems that go on down there. The incredible amount of theft. Everywhere I went, people talked about it.”

The man arched an eyebrow. “Where in Central America have you been going to exactly?”

“All over,” Tom answered easily. “Recently I was at a new excavation called La Chimenea. It's one of the most incredible sites that's been discovered since Tikal and Chichén Itzé. I was there a couple of years ago, too, when they were just getting started on the excavation of some of the most important areas.”

The owner nodded. “I know of La Chimenea,” he said cautiously. “It's supposed to be spectacular.”

“It is. But they're having problems with what I just talked about. When I was there that first time, two years ago, the problem was terrible.”

“Yes,” the owner acknowledged. “So I've heard.”

Tom glanced around. Except for the two of them, the gallery was empty. “The name of your gallery rings a bell, and now that I think about it, I remember why,” he said. “That first time I was down there, I met a woman who was in the art business. I don't know what she did exactly, but she may have dealt in Mayan art. I know she was interested in it, because she took the trouble to go down there at a time when it wasn't very easy. The conditions were pretty primitive. Anyway, she was a nice woman. Very …” He paused. “… attractive. We got to be kind of friendly and …”

The gallery owner stared at him blankly.

“I lost track of her,” Tom continued, “and since I was here in the city I thought I'd look her up, but she isn't in the phone book. Then I walked by here and saw your sign and it jogged my memory. She told me she did business with you.”

The man stared at him. “Did business with me?” he asked suspiciously.

Tom nodded. “Acquiring things for you, I assume.” He paused. “Her name is Diane Montrose. Ring a bell?”

The man stood perfectly still. Only the twitch on his left cheek betrayed any sign of nervousness or worry. “I'd like you lo leave,” he said.

Tom stared at him. Gotcha, pal, he thought. “Does that mean she didn't work for you, or that you don't want to talk about her? I really would like to get back in touch with her, or at least find out where she is and what she's doing.”

The owner took another step back. “I'm not going to talk about my business with a stranger,” he said. His voice was choked, as if it was hard to force the words out of his throat and mouth. “Now please …” He pointed to the door. “Get out of here, and don't come back.”

Tom worked his way downtown, stopping in four more galleries. In each case, he got a response similar to his first encounter: they all denied knowing Diane Montrose, and they were all lying—their body language gave them away. One woman actually started shaking at the mention of Diane's name. But no one would talk to him about her.

It was almost dark. Tom had been on his feet all day, and hadn't eaten since his meager breakfast. There were three more galleries on his list, and half a dozen individual collectors. He was saving them for last, because he knew they would be harder nuts to crack—if he could get to them at all. One more gallery, then he'd bag it and start fresh tomorrow.

Addison Galleries was located in a block-long second-story loft in SoHo. The ceilings were twenty feet high, the floors were wide planks, bleached white. An entire wall of double-glazed industrial windows looked out onto the street. Most of the art on display was more contemporary than in the other galleries Tom had visited, but there were a few beautiful older sculptures. The gallery was staffed by two younger people around his age, who were at the far end of the room: a short, stocky man in khakis and a bottle-green button-down shirt, his brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, a wisp of goatee under his chin; and a woman a few years older, tall, angular, dressed in black—tight skirt, ribbed-cotton turtleneck sweater, black tights, ballet flats. Her ears were multiply-pierced, and her flaming red hair was cut spiky-short.

A couple of middle-aged female patrons in stiletto boots and designer jean outfits were conversing with each other in the center of the room, gesturing toward one of the sculpture pieces, a black, heavy, sensual, semi-abstract block that to Tom's untrained eye might have been a woman nursing a child, or something completely different, not even representational. Tom, in his conservative suit, felt dorky. I should come back here tomorrow in my jeans and leather jacket, he thought.

The man seemed to be in charge of the gallery, the woman subordinate. He conferred briefly with the two women, pointing something out about the sculpture. The spiky-haired redhead was in the back talking on the phone, writing something down while sipping a latte from a takeout container.

The man looked up and noticed Tom. He smiled briefly, then turned away. I'll wait a couple of minutes, Tom decided. If it doesn't work today I'll bail and come back tomorrow.

One of the two women said something to the pony-tailed man, who scribbled on a small card and handed it to her. As they left they checked out some other works, commenting to each other about them as they descended the stairs.

The man ambled toward Tom, stopping a few feet away, poised on the balls of his gray ostrich-hide cowboy boots, hands jammed into his back pockets.

“Hello,” he said, in a friendly tone.

“Hello,” Tom said back.

“Jesse,” the guy said.

“Tom. You're the manager?”

“I'm the owner.” There was a touch of swagger in his tone, as if to say, “don't judge me by my age, my hairstyle, my thousand-dollar custom boots.”

“Nice stuff,” Tom said agreeably. “Nice space.”

“Thank you. If you need any help, holler.” Jesse turned to walk away.

“What about pre-Columbian art?” Tom said to his back.

Jesse pivoted. “What about it?”

“Do you deal in it?” Tom looked around at the work being exhibited. Pre-Columbian didn't fit here, not with the gallery, not with this man or the woman, who was casually checking him out over the lip of her coffee cup. Even from a distance he could see the blood-red lipstick impression she had left on the rim of the cup.

Jesse shook his head. “Not our thing. We show some older African stuff”—he gestured toward the sculpture Tom had observed—”but mostly we're contemporary, as you can see. If you're interested in pre-Columbian, there are places I can refer you to.”

“Buying it as well as selling it?” Tom asked.

Jesse rocked on his heels, eyeballing Tom. “What's the deal, man?” he asked. “You're not just browsing on your way home, are you?”

“No, I'm not,” Tom said. “I'm trying to locate a woman I met a few years ago who dealt in pre-Columbian. I was told she did business with you.”

Jesse's face scrunched up. “Oh, yeah? Who's that?”

“Diane Montrose.”

There was a long beat. Jesse rocked on his expensive heels. “Diane Montrose,” he said in an almost hushed voice. “That's a blast from the past. I haven't done any business with Diane for a couple of years. I don't know anybody who has, or even knows where Diane is these days. It's like she went out for a pack of smokes and never came back.”

“That's what I've been hearing,” Tom said, “I've heard other things, too.”

“Like what?”

The subtle approach hadn't worked. It was time to lob a grenade and see what the explosion uncovered. “That she sold you post-1983 pre-Columbian artifacts she had smuggled into the country.”

Jesse almost levitated off the floor. “That's bogus! You could put me in serious trouble, pal, spreading lies like that,” he cried out, his voice rising an octave in panic. “What are you, a cop?”

“No. And I'm not out to bust your chops. All I want is information about what Diane sold you in the past, what you bought, who you sold it to.”

Jesse exhaled through his nose. “I can't help you.”

“I think you can.”

Jesse shook his head in denial. “Like I said—I haven't heard from or about Diane Montrose in over two years. And if I never do again, that's excellent with me.”

The sidewalks were crowded with end-of-the-day workers and shoppers. Tom stepped off the curb into the street. He was going to hail a cab back to the hotel and get out of his uncomfortable suit. Then he'd find a happening bar, have some drinks, go somewhere for music. Forget his cares and woes for a few hours.

“Hey! Wait up!”

He spun around.

The woman from Addison's was jogging toward him. “I'm Celia.” Her face was flushed from running. “From back …” She pointed behind her.

He nodded. “I recognize you.”

Up close, she had more mileage on her than he would have guessed. Late thirties. Maybe forty. A tiny diamond in one nostril. An interesting face; not conventionally pretty—both her nose and chin were too long—but attractive. Good legs.

“Got time for a drink?” she asked.

All bars are the same in the end, Tom thought as he looked this one over with a practiced eye via the long mirror behind the backbar: a combination of secular church, analyst's office, clubhouse. Most of the patrons were his age or younger—NYU and the New School were in the neighborhood.

They were sitting at a tiny triangle-shaped table near the back. Celia had thrown down two fast vodka shooters, chasing them with a Panamanian beer Tom didn't know. He nursed an Anchor Steam draft. Later, maybe, he'd allow himself to get a buzz on, depending on her intentions.

She lit a Marlboro Light, inhaled deeply, and exhaled through her nostrils. “I overheard you and Jesse,” she said. She took another heavy drag, blew a perfect smoke ring up toward the ceiling. “So you really know Diane Montrose, huh?”

He nodded. “Did,” he corrected her. “I'm trying to get back in touch with her.”

“You and her were what … partners?”

It sounded to him as if she wanted to say “lovers,” but was afraid he'd answer yes. She's hitting on me, he realized. Is that all this is about?

“We were involved. But not romantically.” That was what she wanted to hear, he assumed.

“So like, you and she were in business?”

He shrugged. She took it for a yes. He could see that she wanted to.

“It's been a while since anybody's heard from her,” she told him.

“I assume she's lying low,” Tom lied.

“How did you meet her?”

“Through a close mutual friend.”

Celia caught the waitress's attention and held up her glass, mouthing the word “double.” The waitress nodded.

“You're throwing those down pretty fast,” Tom observed. He was a bartender now, he had developed an eye for people who drank too much too fast.

Her look to him was fragile, vulnerable. “I'm nervous.”

“Why?”

“Because of what I'm going to tell you.”

He pushed his beer away. He wanted his head to be completely clear. But not hers. He wanted her well lubricated. Not so much that she'd fall down drunk and wouldn't be of use to him, but enough so that whatever inhibitions she had about being with him, divulging information to him, would flush through her system on a river of alcohol.

“I have to be really careful talking to you,” she said gravely. She didn't seem to be unduly feeling her liquor. A seasoned drinker with a big capacity. Not a bad quality in a woman, as long as she didn't abuse it.

Easy, boy, he reminded himself. Don't let this woman think there's more than you're giving her. “So you have moved pieces for her.”

She nodded. “We have, shall we say, acted as a discreet go-between for appropriate sellers and buyers.” She tossed down the rest of her drink and grabbed the loose bills from the table, leaving a few for the tip. “We can't talk here,” she told him. “We'll go to my place. It isn't far.”

Celia's apartment, a Lilliputian-sized one-bedroom, was in NoHo off Great Jones Street, a couple of blocks from the Angelika movie theater. There was interesting art on the walls, some of it, to his untrained eye, original. He was going to have to be very careful about how he managed this. If she figured out he didn't know his ass from third base about art and the art world, this delicate endeavor would go up in smoke.