Painted Ladies (3 page)

“They controlled the situation,” Healy said. “It was a mismatch.”

“I guess.”

“Your pride’s hurt,” Healy said.

“This is what I do,” I said. “I can’t do it, where am I?”

“Where everybody is sometimes,” Healy said. “You looking for revenge?”

“No,” I said. “I barely knew the guy, and if I knew him better, I probably wouldn’t have enjoyed him.”

“You’re looking to even it up,” Healy said.

“Something like that,” I said.

“I know,” Healy said.

“I know you do,” I said.

We went around the head of the Charles and onto Soldiers Field Road past Harvard Stadium on the Boston side of the river.

“Some guys become cops because they get to carry a piece and order people around,” Healy said. “And some people do it because they like the work, and think it’s important.”

“Like you,” I said.

Healy nodded.

“And you,” he said. “Except you can’t work in a command structure.”

“I’m with Susan,” I said.

“Besides that,” Healy said.

“So you don’t have a problem,” I said, “with me looking into this.”

“Nope,” Healy said. “You’re nearly as good as you think you are, and you’ll do things I’m not allowed to do.”

“Damned command structure again,” I said.

“It has its uses,” Healy said. “Not every cop is as pure of heart as you are.”

“Or as much fun,” I said.

“Fun,” Healy said. “Long as you are fun on the right side of things, I got no problem with you.”

“Nor I with you,” I said.

“I am the right side of things,” Healy said.

“Ah,” I said. “That’s where it is.”

T
he Hammond Museum was a big gray stone building located in Chestnut Hill, halfway between Boston College and the Longwood Cricket Club. It had a gambrel roof and Palladian windows, and looked like one of those baronial cottages on the oceanfront in Newport.

I parked next to the museum in a slot marked
Museum Staff Only
. In the summer the grounds were richly landscaped. But now as we slid into December, the landscape was leafless and stiff.

The entry hall went all the way to a stained-glass window in back of the building. The hall was vaulted, two stories high, and sparsely hung with some Italian Renaissance paintings. Women in the Italian Renaissance were apparently very zaftig.

The director’s office was on the third floor, with a swell view of some dark, naked trees that in summer would doubtless offer a rich, green ambiance. The office itself was sparse and sort of streamlined-looking, with light maple furniture and some Picasso sketches on the wall.

There were two men in the room, one behind a desk that looked like a conference table and the other sitting across from the desk on a couch. The guy at the desk stood when I came in and stepped around his desk and put out his hand.

“Mark Richards,” he said. “I’m the museum director.”

We shook hands.

“This is Morton Lloyd,” Richards said. “He’s our attorney.”

I shook his hand.

“What a damned mess this has all turned into,” Richards said.

“Especially for Ashton Prince,” I said.

“I know,” he said. “Poor Ash. How too bad.”

“He gave you money,” the lawyer said. “To protect him.”

“He did,” I said.

“Can’t say I think you’ve earned it.”

“I haven’t,” I said, and took an envelope from my inside pocket and tossed it onto Richards’s desk.

“What’s this,” he said.

“The check he gave me,” I said. “It’s drawn on the museum account.”

“You didn’t cash it?”

“No,” I said.

“And you’re returning it?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Because you were unable to protect him,” Richards said.

“I didn’t earn it,” I said.

Richards nodded. He looked at the lawyer.

“He’s right,” the lawyer said. “He didn’t.”

Richards nodded again.

“Thank you,” he said to me.

He put the envelope on top of his desk, and put a small stone carving of a pregnant woman on top of it to hold it still.

“Did you come here simply to return your fee?” the lawyer said.

“No, I’m looking for information,” I said.

“About what?” the lawyer said.

“About the kidnapped painting and the ransom payment and Ashton Prince and anything else you can tell me,” I said.

“You’re planning to investigate this business?” the lawyer said.

“Yes,” I said.

“And who’s paying you?” the lawyer said.

“Pro bono.”

“We’ve already spoken with the police, and with the insurance people,” the lawyer said.

I nodded.

“I see no reason we should speak to you,” the lawyer said.

I looked at Richards. He shrugged.

“I understand that you are trying to make good on something,” Richards said. “And I am sympathetic. But I feel that the museum should be guided by our attorney.”

I nodded.

“Been working out great so far,” I said.

“Just what do you mean by that?” the lawyer said.

“Hell,” I said. “I have no idea.”

And I turned and walked out of the office without closing the door. . . . That showed ’em.

H
ealy came into my office with two large coffees and a dozen doughnuts. He put one coffee on my desk and offered me a doughnut.

“A bribe?” I said.

“Authentic cop food,” Healy said.

“Oh, boy,” I said. “Two of these babies and I’ll run out and give somebody a ticket.”

“Thought I might come by this morning and compare notes,” Healy said.

“Which means you haven’t got much and you’re wondering if I do,” I said.

“You want the doughnuts or not,” Healy said.

“Okay,” I said. I took a significant bite. “I know nothing.”

“Lot of that going around,” Healy said.

“You talk to the museum people?” I said.

“Yep, Richards, the director, and his man Lloyd, the lawyer,” Healy said. “You?”

“Same two,” I said.

“And?”

“They wouldn’t tell me anything,” I said. “How’d you do.”

“No better,” Healy said. “And I’m a captain.”

“Did you tell them that?” I said.

“They seemed unimpressed.”

“You know who the insurance company is?”

“I did get that,” Healy said. “Shawmut.”

“Way to go, Captain.”

“Their home office is here,” Healy said. “Berkeley Street, corner of Columbus. Right up from you.”

“I know the building,” I said. “Got the name of an investigator or somebody?”

“They call them claim-resolution specialists.”

“Of course they do,” I said.

“Called over there,” Healy said. “They tell me the claims-resolution specialist has not yet been assigned.”

“Who’d you talk with,” I said.

“Head of claims resolution, woman named Winifred Minor.”

“How about Prince?” I said.

“Professor at Walford University,” Healy said. “Married, no kids, lived in Cambridge.”

“Cambridge,” I said. “There’s a surprise. You talk with the wife?”

“Distraught,” Healy said. “Doctor’s care. So no, we haven’t talked to her.”

“She use his name?” I said.

“She’s a poet,” Healy said.

“So she doesn’t use his name,” I said.

“No,” Healy said. “Her name is Rosalind Wellington.”

“Wow,” I said.

“You read a lot,” Healy said. “You ever heard of her?”

“No,” I said. “But maybe she doesn’t know who I am, either.”

“I’d bet on it,” Healy said.

“What about Prince?” I said. “Anything?”

“We interviewed some colleagues at Walford. Nobody seems to know much about him. Quiet guy, minded his own business.”

“Talk to students?”

“A few,” Healy said. “Ordinary teacher, easy grader, nothing remarkable.”

“How’d he end up consulting on the art theft?”

“I asked that question,” Healy said. “They were a little evasive, but it appears that Lawyer Lloyd recommended him.”

I fumbled around in my desk drawer and took out the card Prince had given me at our first meeting. It said
Ashton Prince, Ph.D.,
and a phone number. I passed it to Healy.

“He told me he was a forensic consultant,” I said.

“That’s his home phone,” Healy said.

“Heavens,” I said. “No wonder you made captain. You know if he had an office or anything?”

“None that we can find,” Healy said.

“What about Lawyer Lloyd?” I said.

“Morton Lloyd,” Healy said. “Tort specialist. Works for the museum pro bono.”

“He legit?” I said.

“Far’s we can tell,” Healy said.

“He got an office?”

“Yeah, on Batterymarch,” Healy said. “Lloyd and Leiter.”

“He tell you that?” I said.

“No,” Healy said.

“Everybody is holding their cards right in close to their chest,” I said.

“Yep.”

“Whaddya think that’s about?” I said.

“I think the picture is still out there,” Healy said.

“That’s what I think,” I said.

S
hawmut Insurance Company was very handy, so when Healy left, I went over there. It was a medium-size brick-and-granite building, built in the time when people seemed to care about how buildings looked. There was an arched entrance on Columbus, and a smaller one on Berkeley. Next to it there was a hotel that used to be Boston police headquarters.

I wanted the full experience, so I went around the corner onto Columbus and went in the granite arched main entrance. Inside was a big old lobby that rose several stories. Opposite the entry was a black iron elevator cage. I asked the security guy at the desk for Winifred Minor and was sent, via the black iron elevator, to the third floor.

The third floor was open and full of desks, except along the Columbus Avenue side, where a series of half-partitioned cubicles marched in a fearful symmetry. The one where Winifred Minor had her desk had a higher partition than those on either side of her. Status! There was one at the far end that not only had a floor-to-ceiling partition but also a secretary outside. Deification. I stuck my head in the opening of Winifred Minor’s cubicle and rapped gently on the outer edge.

“Yes?”

I stepped in.

“My name’s Spenser,” I said. “I believe you talked with Captain Healy on the phone. I’m just stopping by to follow up.”

She looked at me as though she might be going to buy me.

“Spenser,” she said, and wrote in a small notebook that was open in front of her.

I nodded and put a little wattage into my killer smile. She survived it.

“First name?” she said.

I told her. She wrote that down in her little notebook. Then she looked straight at me and spoke. Her voice was very clear, and her speech was precise.

“I have nothing to say.”

“You know,” I said, “I don’t, either. These first meetings are awkward as hell, aren’t they.”

She leaned back a little and folded her arms. She frowned, though it wasn’t an angry frown. She looked good. She had thick black hair that she wore long. She had Tina Fey glasses and was wearing a white shirt and a fitted black tunic with brass buttons. I couldn’t see what she was wearing below that because the desk was in the way. But what showed of her was very well made up, very pulled together, and hot.

“Once we get to know each other,” I said, “we’ll be chattering like a couple of schoolgirls, but the first moments are always hard.”

“Well,” she said in her clear, precise way, “you are not the standard cop.”

I smiled and tilted my head a little in obvious modesty.

“I know,” I said.

She looked at me some more. I dialed my smile up a little higher. She smiled back at me.

“Does this crap usually work for you?” she said.

I grinned.

“Sometimes,” I said.

“Well,” she said. “This is one of those times. Sit down. Tell me what you need.”

Magnified by the fancy glasses, her dark eyes seemed even bigger than they probably were. She knew they were a good feature. She let them rest steadily on me. She didn’t blink. She sat and looked and waited.

“Okay,” I said. “Right from the beginning, I want there to be no secrets between us.”

She didn’t smile. But something sort of glittered in her eyes.

“I’m not a cop. I’m a private detective.”

“You were adroit at letting me think you were a cop, without actually saying so.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“So who is your client,” she said.

“Nobody,” I said. “I’m the guy who was supposed to protect Ashton Prince when he delivered the, ah, ransom.”

“And you are not satisfied with your performance,” she said.

“No.”

“What I know of the event, I don’t see what you could have done differently,” she said.

I didn’t answer.

“So,” she said, “the, ah, deceased is, in a sense, your client.”

“You could say so, I suppose.”

“What do you need from me?” she said.

“I’d love to know who’s working on it from your end,” I said.

“Me,” she said.

“Bingo,” I said. “First at bat. What can you tell me?”

“Nothing,” she said. “Except there is a lot here you do not understand and cannot find out. You did the best you could. It was not enough. Were I you, I would leave it and move on.”

“Can’t do that,” I said.

She nodded.

“Were you ever a police officer?” she said.

“Yes.”

“Did you clear every case?”

“No,” I said.

“Was that always because there wasn’t enough evidence?”