Lady Justice on the Dark Side (Volume 19) (7 page)

    As I drove to Kevin’s apartment, two things were going through my mind.

    The first was pure excitement. I had landed my first real case, working for one of the best defense attorneys in Kansas City.

    The other was a feeling of apprehension.

    I kept thinking of Suzanne’s example. For five years, I had been serving the Lady Justice in the flowing white robe wearing a blindfold. Then I remembered Kevin’s characterization of her sister, the one wearing the tight skirt, the fishnet stockings and the high heels, the Lady Justice of the dark side.

    One of my favorite movies is
Eddie and the Cruisers
. One of the songs from the movie is titled,
On the Dark Side
, and as I drove, I couldn’t get the lyrics out of my mind.

   
The dark side’s calling now.

    Nothin’ is real.

    She’ll never know just how I feel.

    From out of the shadows

    She walks like a dream.

    Makes me feel crazy.

    Makes me feel so mean.

    Ain’t nothing gonna save you from a love that’s blind.

    You slip to the dark side across that line.

    I could feel the new Lady Justice calling me from the shadows, drawing me into a world different from anything I had known. Was I blindly following her into the dark side and crossing that line? 

    Like Suzanne said, “We’ll see.”

    Only time will tell.

CHAPTER 9

    Kevin was all smiles when I told him about my meeting with Suzanne Romero.

    “So, you’re really thinking about doing this --- going into the investigative business?”

    “I’m giving it some thought. I might even have our first case.”

    When I mentioned ‘our first case,’ his eyes lit up like a kid in a candy store.

    “Whatever it is,” he said, rubbing his hands, “I’m in! Give me the details.”

    I shared what Suzanne had told me about the theft of the two art pieces at the Heart of America Gallery.

    “Let me get this straight,” he said, rubbing his chin. “Two Thomas Hart Benton pieces were stolen and one of them turned up in Jason Knight’s basement.”

    “That’s what she said. One was a lithograph titled
Coming ‘Round the Mountain
, worth about ten grand and the other was an oil painting titled
Construction Workers
worth over forty thousand.”

    “Let me guess. The lithograph was the one that turned up in Knight’s basement.”

    “How did you know?”

    “Think about it. If Andrew Pitts set up his partner to take the fall, it only makes sense that he would sacrifice the lesser piece and stash the more valuable one to sell after his partner has been convicted of insurance fraud. That’s what I’d do --- theoretically speaking.”

    “If that’s actually what happened, do you think a sting similar to the one you cooked up in the King Tut case would work?”

    “That particular sting works when one of man’s basic flaws is in play --- greed. So, yes, if Pitts set this whole thing up, he’ll be looking for a buyer for the oil and I know just the guy who is looking for such a work of art --- me!”

    Kevin was a master at setting up a con.

    His first task was recruiting another member for our team.

    “Willie, how would you like to reprise your role as Reginald, the chauffer?”

    “If dat means I get to drive dat big ole Cadillac limo again, den hell yes!”

    Willie, a natural con man himself, had given a fine performance when the Professor had taken on the role of Oscar Cavendish, the Egyptian artifact collector, in the King Tut sting.

    Kevin’s next task was assembling the surveillance equipment which would record the evidence that would nail Andrew Pitts and clear Jason Knight.

    I was amazed as he pulled box after box of equipment he had used during his thirty years as an investigator, out of his closet.

    After sorting through a tangle of wires and gizmos, he selected a tie tack that contained a tiny speaker which would transmit an audio signal to the recording equipment I would have in my car a block away.

    A day later, everything was in place and we were ready to set our plan in motion.

    We decided that Kevin would visit a couple of other galleries before hitting Heart of America. Undoubtedly, the sight of a big black limo sporting a driver decked out in a Jacobson chauffer’s hat making the rounds of the Crossroads district would get some attention.

    Kevin showed up in a KITON Napoli black wool suit. When I asked him where he had come up with threads costing over two grand, he said it would be better if I didn’t know, so I didn’t push. Apparently there are some very exclusive haberdasheries on the dark side.

    Forty-five minutes after making his appearance in the Crossroads district, Willie pulled up in front of the Heart of America Gallery. He hopped out, opened the door for Kevin and made a dignified bow as Kevin walked by.

    Evidently, Andrew Pitts had seen or been informed of the presence of a wealthy buyer. He met Kevin at the door with a flute of bubbly champagne.

    I pushed ‘record’ and listened to the conversation through a set of Kevin’s earphones.

    “Welcome to the Heart of America Gallery. May I offer you champagne? It’s Dom Perignon 2004.”

    “Why, yes. Thank you very much.”

    “How may we be of service to you today?”

    “I’m looking for a Thomas Hart Benton. I thought that surely, with Benton being a Kansas City artist, this would be the best place to find some of his work, but so far, I’ve been very disappointed.”

    “Really, I’m surprised. I know of several galleries that have some fine lithographs. In fact, I have several myself. Would you like to see them?”

    “Lithographs! Heavens no! I have one of the largest collections of oils in Boston. I’m looking for an oil by Thomas Hart Benton. Nothing less will do.”

    “A Thomas Hart Benton oil is a rare thing. Most are in private collections like yours, or museums.”

    “Rare, indeed! Why do you think I came all the way from Boston? Oh well, thank you for your time and for the champagne. I’ll just have to continue my quest elsewhere.”

    “Hold on a minute. How long are you in town?”

    “I’ll be leaving on my private jet tomorrow morning. I’ve heard there may be a Benton in a gallery in San Francisco.”

    “Where are you staying?”

    “At the Hotel Phillips in the Power and Light District. Why do you ask?”

    “I --- uhhh --- just might know of a private collector who has a Benton oil. I’m not sure if he’ll part with it, but he might for the right price.”

    “Really? What piece is it?”

    “It’s just a small oil titled
Construction Workers
.”

    “I know that piece. It would be perfect. What kind of offer would possibly persuade him to part with it?”

    “I know he paid forty thousand for it.”

    “Offer him fifty. I’d have to see it and check its authenticity, of course.”

    “Of course. If he’s interested, may I call you at your hotel?”

    “Absolutely! Just ask for Oscar Cavendish. But mind you, I’m off to San Francisco tomorrow morning.”

    “Yes, Mr. Cavendish. I’ll be in touch.”

    Kevin headed back to the limo where Willie gallantly held open the door.

    As soon as he was inside, Kevin tapped the mike. “Let’s hurry down to the Hotel Phillips and rent a room. I think our sucker took the bait.”

    I called Suzanne and filled her in.

    “Rent two adjacent rooms,” she said. “I’ll call the detective in charge and let you know how we are going to proceed.”

    We rented rooms 406 and 407 and settled in, waiting for a call from Andrew Pitts.

    “Wot about me?” Willie asked. “You need me anymore?”

    “Don’t think so,” Kevin replied. “You did a good job.”

    “When does de limo have to be back to de rental place?”

    “Not until ten tomorrow. Why?”

    “Mind if I borrow it fo’ de evenin’? Emma would be really impressed if’n I showed up an’ took her for a spin. She be real grateful, too, if you know wot I mean.”

    “Sure, enjoy yourself,” Kevin replied, smiling. “You earned it.”

    Willie beamed and gave him a high-five as he headed for the door.

    “What sounds good?” Kevin asked, opening the room service menu.

    I glanced at the prices. “How about we order a pizza? Those prices are outrageous.”

    “You’ve got a lot to learn about the P.I. business,” he replied, patting my leg. “Expense account. You’ll just pass the bill along to Ms. Romero and she’ll take care of it. That’s just how it’s done.”

    At first I felt guilty, but I got over it quickly when our tenderloin medallions, garlic mashed potatoes and green beans arrived. The ticket, complete with dessert and a bottle of wine came to just over a hundred dollars.

    I had never enjoyed a stake-out like this when I was a cop. There were definitely some advantages being on the dark side.

    At six, the phone rang.

    “Mr. Cavendish? Andrew Pitts here. I spoke with the collector and he’s reluctant to part with the Benton. He’s turned down a previous offer of fifty thousand.”

    “Pity,” Kevin replied. “I had my heart set on that oil. Do you think he would consider an offer of sixty?”

    “All I can do is ask, Mr. Cavendish. I’ll do my best.”

    “Thank you. I’ll be waiting for your call.”

    “Greedy son-of-a-bitch,” Kevin mumbled, hanging up the receiver. “He knew he had a patsy, so he’s going for the gold. Oh well, it’s that same greed that’s going to be his downfall.”

    Fifteen minutes later, the phone rang again.

    “Cavendish here.”

    “Congratulations, Mr. Cavendish. Looks like you are going to be the proud owner of a Thomas Hart Benton oil. The collector accepted your offer.”

    “Splendid! But as I mentioned earlier, I must have the piece authenticated. Can you bring it by the hotel?”

    “I believe I can arrange that.”

    “Excellent. I’ll make a call to my art expert. Can you be here by eight?”

    “That shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll see you then.”

    I called Suzanne. “We’re on. He’ll be here at eight.”

    “Great! So will we.”

    At seven-thirty, Suzanne arrived with Detective Derek Blaylock.

    Ox and I had worked many cases with Blaylock and he was constantly amazed that a couple of grunt cops seemed to always be up to their ears in the most bizarre cases.

    “I thought I’d seen the last of you when you retired. Apparently not.”

    Then, he spotted Kevin. “You, too! How can I be so lucky?”

    “Lucky!” Kevin replied. “That’s the operative word. In a half hour, we’re going to deliver an art thief right into your hands. It’s the easiest collar you’ll ever make.”

    “Yeah, right. So how are we gonna play this?”

    “We’ve got audio equipment set up in the next room, number 407. You and Ms. Romero can wait there, listen to our conversation, record it, and when he delivers the painting, come on in and cuff him. It’s that simple.”

    At precisely eight o’clock, there was a knock on the door.

    Kevin opened the door and Andrew Pitts entered carrying the painting in a protective cardboard container.

    Pitts gave me the once-over.

    “And who might this be?”

    “This is Archibald Williams, my art expert.”

    “I don’t recognize the name,” Pitts said, extending his hand. “I thought I knew most of the art experts in the city.”

    “Oh, my goodness no,” Kevin replied. “He’s not from Kansas City. I brought him with me from Boston. I could never trust a stranger on a matter such as this.”

    I had to admire Kevin. He could spit out a lie on a moment’s notice. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to do that.

    “Well, let’s see it,” Kevin said, rubbing his hands. “I’ve been waiting so long for a Benton.”

    Pitts carefully unwrapped the painting.

    When it was fully exposed, Kevin examined it closely.

    “Yes, that’s definitely it, the
Construction Workers
oil.”

    That was the signal Blaylock had been waiting for.