Restrike (18 page)

Coleman awoke in a good mood. She’d had fun with Rob, and she was glad that Tammy had confessed and left. She was relieved that Chick had been cleared, although sad about his death. She no longer had to worry about the leak, or Jonathan taking over the magazine. Zeke was on board to help her at
ArtSmart.
She’d promised herself not to think about Heyward Bain; she was far too busy. Anyway, his image, which had dominated her consciousness for months, had dimmed. She had a meeting with him and Rob coming up—the first time she’d have spoken to Bain in months—and she wasn’t even excited. Strange. Bain was the fling that never happened.

“Dinah, Mrs. Ransome is on the phone.”

“Mrs. Ransome, thank you so much for calling.”

“It is good to speak with you, Ms. Greene, but I regret that we are speaking in such unhappy circumstances. How may I help you?”

Dinah told her everything that had happened in the New York print world since October. “A bearded man keeps turning up, and we all thought it was Simon in disguise, but Simon always has an alibi. We hoped you could help us. We’re up against a stone wall.”

“I had not heard about the two deaths, nor the attack on your cousin, nor the Rembrandt plates. I am so very sorry. As for Simon, I believe he is capable of anything. I was certain it was he who stole the Dürers. I am still certain he planned the theft.” She paused.

Dinah thought she had finished speaking and was about to reply, but Rachel continued, her voice harder. “There is much I should tell you about Simon, but I do not think it should be on the telephone. Will you come to London? I urge you to come immediately. The attack on your cousin concerns me. It is possible that she remains in danger.”

Dinah frowned. Why did Rachel think that Coleman might be in danger? After Simon was cleared of Coleman’s mugging, Dinah had dismissed it as attempted theft. When Coleman had identified Simon’s scent as the source of her certainty that Simon was the attacker, Dinah had assumed that others wore it. She’d mentioned the attack on Coleman to Rachel only because Coleman was so certain it was connected to the print crimes, not because Dinah, or anyone else, agreed. Was Rachel suggesting Simon
was
involved? How was that possible?

“I’ll talk to my husband and Coleman and I’ll get back to you later today,” she said. When she reached Coleman, she repeated Rachel’s warning.

“I can’t get away,” Coleman said. “I’m short of staff and swamped.”

“Come on, Coleman, don’t miss a trip to London because of work. It’s only a weekend. Suppose she’s right? If your mugging is connected with the art crimes, you could be in danger.”

“I’m in danger of having a nervous breakdown if I don’t get caught up,” Coleman said.

Heyward Bain had agreed to see Coleman and Rob at his house on East Sixty-Fifth Street. When they arrived on his doorstep, a grizzled and slightly stooped African American man in a white jacket led them to a small room, where Bain sat writing at a black lacquered table. Crammed bookcases covered the walls. No art, no
objets
, no photographs, nothing personal in sight. The desktop was bare except for Bain’s writing pad.

He greeted Coleman with a friendly smile. She introduced Rob, explaining why Jonathan had retained him. Bain seated them in chairs grouped around a low table and joined them. The man in the white jacket—Bain introduced him as Horace—served coffee. Coleman noticed that the furniture had been subtly scaled down to accommodate its owner, but it was not uncomfortable even for someone as large as Rob.

“Mr. Bain—” Rob began.

“Heyward, please.”

“Thanks, call me Rob. You probably know most of what I’m going to tell you about what we think is a series of related art crimes.” Rob summarized everything he knew, careful not to criticize Simon Fanshawe-Davies, who, after all, was Bain’s business associate. “The only way to tell for sure whether the Rembrandt is a restrike is technical analysis. The Metropolitan Museum can tell you where to have it done, maybe even do it for you,” Rob concluded.

Bain sighed. “I’d better call my lawyer again. He’ll have his hands full with the Dürers, and now this. And I’ll have someone take the Rembrandt to the Metropolitan Museum right away.”

“What are you going to do about the Dürers?” Rob said.

“I’ll return them. They can’t prove the prints I bought are the Baldorean Dürers, but it seems obvious that they are. It’s a good thing I wouldn’t allow them to be stamped. I’m sorry to lose them, but it can’t be helped.”

Every time she’d seen Bain, Coleman had had a sense of familiarity, and she felt it again today. But that was all she felt—no excitement, thrill, or attraction. He seemed like a decent man—his attitude towards the Dürers was evidence of that—but the spark was out. She was glad. “That’s very generous of you,” she said.

“Let me tell you why we’re here,” Rob said. “The Dürers, Rembrandt’s
Sleeping Kitten
, Lautrec’s
Midget
, and Homer’s
Skating Girl
, which Simon Fanshawe-Davies bought for you at auction, were all sold by Jimmy La Grange. As you know, La Grange and Chick O’Reilly, an
ArtSmart
writer who was trying to learn more about La Grange’s role in all this, have been killed. As Coleman said, I was retained to find out what’s going on, and if possible, bring those responsible to justice. We hope you might like to help.”

“What do you have in mind?” Bain said.

“Well, initially all of us thought that Simon must be involved. But he seems to be clear on everything—he has good alibis, including one you gave him.” Rob smiled at Heyward, whose face remained impassive.

Coleman’s cell phone rang. She took it out of her bag and glanced at it. “I’m sorry. It’s Dinah. I’ll step out to take the call, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Certainly—Ellen will—oh, I keep forgetting—Ellen’s gone back to Chicago. I’ll take you to another room.” He showed her into a much larger and more colorful sitting room, and left her.

Dinah, sounding as excited as a child, told Coleman that she and Jonathan were taking the eight p.m. British Airways flight to London. “Jonathan wants to know if Rob and Heyward want to come.”

“I’ll ask them. Talk to you later.”

When she re-entered Bain’s office, the two men looked at her, expecting a report. “I’ll tell you later. You still have the floor, Rob,” she said.

“Well, on the topic of Ellen Carswell, one of Simon’s alibis was that he was spending the night with her, and she confirmed it. Did you know they were lovers?”

Bain flushed. “No, and I don’t believe it. I never saw a sign of it.”

Rob shrugged. “They both say they were together. Meanwhile, we’ve learned a lot about her. You probably know she owns Computer Art Research Services, and she also owns a magazine, the
Artful Californian.
Ms. Carswell has been—uh—there’s no polite way to say this—stealing article ideas from Coleman. She hired one of Coleman’s writers. While still working for
ArtSmart
, the writer became a spy for Carswell.”

“You astonish me. I knew she owned Computer Art Research Services—she worked for me in that capacity—but I didn’t know she owned a magazine, and I find it hard to believe that she’d do anything unethical,” Bain said.

“Back to Simon,” he continued. “I can see that suspicion might have fallen on him because he’s done so much for the Print Museum, but he has my total confidence. He’s been vital to the success of the museum, and I can vouch for his honesty and integrity.”

“Well, that’s good to know. On another topic: Have you heard about Coleman’s mugging?” Rob said.

Bain frowned, and turned to Coleman. “Were you hurt?”

“No, just bruised. I thought it was Simon because the mugger smelled of that scent he wears, but Simon has an alibi.”

Bain nodded. “Yes, his scent—quite distinctive. I can see why you’d think it was he. I can’t imagine anyone else wearing it, but there must be someone who does. Simon would never physically hurt anyone. I’m certain of that.”

“Simon was with you, Heyward, coming back from Santa Fe, when Coleman was attacked,” Rob said, watching Bain.

Bain smiled. “Oh, so that’s why the police asked about that trip. Yes, he
was
with me—the crew saw him, and so did the driver who met us at Teterboro airport. I’m not alone in giving him an alibi.” He turned back to Coleman. “But Coleman, you couldn’t be wrong about that scent. It’s unmistakable and—uh—regrettable, although he loves it—says it’s very ‘New Age.’ I think someone in California makes it for him. Maybe the maker has sold it to someone else, even though Simon thinks it’s his exclusively.”

“We’ll look into it,” Rob said. “There’s another question: where’s the money? You bought at auction—with Simon bidding for you—the Dürers, the Rembrandt, the Lautrec, and the Homer. The checks for the Homer and the Lautrec hadn’t been sent out when Jimmy was killed, so they’ve been held up. But the other auction houses mailed the checks to box numbers rented in Jimmy’s name. They’ve also been endorsed in Jimmy’s name—forgeries, of course—and the checks have been cashed. So someone has the money. But who? Obviously, you can’t recover the money you paid for the Dürers and the Rembrandt unless they can find it.”

Coleman leaned forward. “There are lots of unanswered questions, but we may be about to get some answers. Dinah and Jonathan are going to London tonight. Rachel Ransome wants to talk to them about Simon, and she warned Dinah that she thought I could still be in danger.”

Rob frowned. “Did she explain why?”

“She wouldn’t say anything on the phone.” Coleman turned to Bain. “I can’t go to London—I have too much work to do—but Dinah and Jonathan wanted to know whether you and Rob will join them.”

Rob shook his head. “If you’re not going, I’ll stick around. I think you need me here.”

“I’ll go with Jonathan and Dinah,” Heyward said.

Coleman smiled to herself. Heyward Bain certainly didn’t act as if he were in love with her, never mind what Dinah said. Rob, on the other hand…but maybe Rob saw guarding her as part of his job? No matter, it was comforting having someone thinking about her safety. The mugging, the encounter with Maxwell, Tammy’s furious attack, and Chick’s death had shaken her more than she would admit to anyone, even Dinah. Having Rob around was like having a big warm St. Bernard watching her back.

Coleman and Zeke shared an early Chinese take-out lunch in Coleman’s office, while they plotted how to use the bug to trap The Listener.

“I have a lot of ideas I can never use because they’re too way out, too dangerous, and they’d make us too many enemies,” Coleman said. “I thought we might pass them on as stories we’ve decided to run. If it’s the
Artful
crowd listening in, maybe they’ll be dumb enough to use them.”

“You think the bug was installed by the
Artful Californian
people?” Zeke asked.

“Yes. I think they put it in when I stopped telling the staff my ideas, and Tammy wasn’t coming up with anything they could use.”

“Wouldn’t they have told Tammy about the bug?”

“Who’d tell her? Never trust a traitor,” Coleman said.

She stacked the empty food cartons and put the used plates and plastic utensils in the wastebasket. She tossed Dolly—who had watched her every bite—a piece of raw carrot she’d brought from home. Dolly retreated to her basket to gnaw her treat.

“What stories should you and I discuss in the conference room?” Zeke asked.

Coleman grinned. “We’ll do an ‘Arts Climb,’ the worst examples we’ve encountered of social climbing in the art world. We’ll talk about them as truly imaginative steps, as if we admire these people. I’ll tell you some, you take notes and organize the material, and then we’ll go through it again for the tape. We’ll work out a little script.” She leaned back in her chair.

“Let’s see. The funeral as social event. A Wall Street mogul—let’s call him the Squeaking Head—whose art collecting activities opened a lot of doors to him, but not as many as he’d expected, was leaving his office to attend the funeral of a member of a prominent family, when a business associate said to him, ‘I didn’t know you knew the Engleharts.’

“‘I don’t,’ said he, ‘but it’s an important funeral at which to be seen. Rockefellers will be there.’”

Zeke was wide-eyed. “No, not really! Can you imagine pushing your way into the funeral of somebody you don’t know?”

“Wait: the most unattractive couple in New York—I call them Tank and Dank—take turns promoting each other. He approached the president of a New York college and offered to buy Tank an honorary degree. He opened the bid at $50,000 and kept raising it. The president—someone I know well, he’s a honey and top drawer—told me he practically had to shove Dank out of his office.”

“Wow!”

“And there’s the place-card shuffle. There are two women in art circles who are notorious for that—let’s call them Missy and Prissy—they go to parties early and sneak into the dining room to rearrange the seating, making sure they’re in the best places . . .”

Zeke was laughing. His laughter was so infectious that Coleman joined in, despite herself. She’d never found these people amusing—more like disgusting—but Zeke was right to laugh at them. People kept telling her to lighten up. Maybe Zeke—and Rob?—would help make it happen.

“Wait, wait,” Zeke sputtered. “What will we call these people? We won’t use their real names, will we? Or the names you just gave them?”

“We’ll give them thinly disguised names, so even the
Artful
dopes will know who they are. If they’re the idiots I think they are, they’ll use the names we give them, or even their real names. If Tammy is a sample of their brain power, I’m sure they’ll take the bait. Carswell’s smart, but she must turn the magazine over to morons while she concentrates on the Chicago company.”

Simon slept until nearly two, but even so, he woke feeling jaded. Kestrel was a ferocious and demanding lover. He’d been up until nearly three satisfying her rapacious appetite. He didn’t know how he’d manage without Viagra. And now there was this other pill—the one that advised you to call a doctor if you kept an erection for four hours. Not a chance: he’d call Kestrel.

He ordered breakfast and glanced through his messages while he waited for room service. Ellen. He’d call her as soon as he’d had his coffee. It was important to keep her happy. And my God—a message from Owl, from a 212 number. What was he going to do with her in New York when Kestrel was here? He wasn’t sure he had the stamina to deal with both of them.

There’d be hell to pay if Ellen found out about his relationships with Owl and Kestrel. He shuddered at the thought. He was going to have to marry Ellen, and probably soon, too. Marriage was the only way he could protect himself financially. Ellen had her own special sexual tastes and inclinations. They were a part of his hold over her. But her sexual desires were so much less athletic than those of Kestrel and Owl. Sex with Ellen was downright restful.

Kestrel had taken her sexual model from
The Story of O.
He’d never heard of the book until she gave it to him—it had been published in the 1950s, well before his time. Because of it, Kestrel had a hankering for being whipped, which he found too tedious for words. But he liked some of the other tricks she’d picked up from the book. She’d abandoned tights, girdles, bras and panties. She said it made her “accessible.” Provocative, too. Like Sharon Stone in
Basic Instinct.

He’d been only mildly interested in the activities described in the book until the end, with its descriptions of the animal and bird masks made of feathers and fur. Those masks sounded more appealing than those stupid leather things some of the sadomasochist crowd wore. They were ugly, uncomfortable, hot, and stiff. Anyway, that group was ridiculous. Imagine excluding females: why eliminate half the available sex from one’s games? He’d found a like-minded crowd, more attractive, more eclectic, and definitely higher class than the Apemen and their zoo-mates.

In the book, O’s animal name was Owl, but Kestrel didn’t want to be called Owl. She’d chosen Kestrel because she liked its picture in Peterson’s
Eastern Birds.
So Simon had given his latest bird the name Owl. She was up for everything; she was a game little owl, and very useful, too, although not as wise as her name suggested, and certainly not as wise as she thought she was.

He and Kestrel had a lot in common. For one thing, she liked both female and male lovers. He longed to arrange a threesome with Owl and Kestrel, but he’d have to move gradually, and make a ménage à trois seem glamorous, especially to Owl. She was, after all, very young. Tonight he’d see Owl early and meet Kestrel later. Too exhausting. But needs must when the Devil drives.

A tap on the door. Room service had arrived. He’d postpone his phone calls until after breakfast.

The waiter also brought him a package, and Simon opened it right away. It was a duplicate of his California copy of
The Record
, sent him by Ellen. He’d use it to set another trap for Rachel. The bloody bitch had threatened him, but his lawyer said she could do nothing. Simon still owned twenty percent of Ransome’s, and she couldn’t take it away, not for anything he’d done that
she
could know about. One day Ransome’s would be his.

Coleman and Zeke, scripts in hand, walked noisily into the conference room, rattling papers and coffee cups, and speaking loudly to alert the bug. When Coleman signaled, Zeke said, “Coleman, I really appreciate your letting me write this story. I know how important it is, and I promise to have it finished tomorrow to make the March copy deadline. But I’d like to go over a few details with you, just to make sure I’ve got it right.”

“Sure. Fire away.”

“Well, this is the introduction of a new monthly feature, ‘ArtsClimb.’ We’ll use it to talk about people skillfully using the arts as an entry to social life in New York, and discuss some of the very imaginative ways they’ve moved up the social ladder?”

Coleman smiled. “That’s right. How are you doing on the story?”

“This is my lead sentence…”