Romano and Albright 01 - Catch Me If You Can (MM) (10 page)

“All right, Romano. Calm down. She’s missing a painting. Someone took a painting from the gallery opening a couple weeks ago. The painting was…an interesting one. Actually, I think they’d call it something else—”

“A forgery?”

“No. It was just terrible.” He tipped his bottle back and took a long pull.

“What?”

“Mallory put together a show—Flea Market Artistry: Found in the USA. You get what I’m saying? Salvation Army rejects. She collected all these pieces as a fundraiser, because money’s tight everywhere and it was supposed to be a good time with low overhead. She sold tickets and was going to have it catered by your little girlfriend. She talked one of the Albright’s most flush donors into loaning this, uh, postmodern unschooled acrylic. On canvas board. The backer? It was his mother-in-law’s work.”

I was barely listening. I had a bad feeling. “Postmodern unschooled acrylic? Really? That sounds…” Exactly like something I’d say. “What is it? The painting?”

“It’s called Circus of Despair. I have a photo.”

“You’re kidding. I know that painting. I saw it in Steph’s office, leaning on the bookshelf. She told me it was paint by numbers.” Peter would have liked it though. He would have liked it a lot. He would have liked it enough to slip the damn thing inside his coat. Shit.

“Nope. So this backer reconsidered and asked for the painting back and…well there’s no painting. He’s hitting her where it hurts.”

This didn’t make any sense. “Why the hell would anyone think I took that?”

Dan shrugged. “Mallory suspects that you did it for Peter, to discredit the gallery—or that you’re going to use it as leverage for a job.”

I swallowed. “I wouldn’t blackmail someone for a job. I’d just ask for one.” I bet I knew where that painting was. Well, at least where it was supposed to be. Peter and his proclivity for clown kleptomania. Jesus. A carousel and a harlequin, and my boss had a hard-on. That idiot. I swallowed. “How long have you been watching me?”

“I spent Wednesday doing your background checks—”

“Oh my God.” Not that I had much of a background. Still, it was unsettling.

“Thursday and Friday.”

I wracked my brain. Had I scratched myself? Picked my nose? Flirted ineptly? “Where were you?”

“On the train, in the Starbucks—you read a lot.”

“How do you know Mallory?”

He stalled. “How don’t I know Mallory? Her son represented me when I left the force. Got my settlement.” He said this casually, glossing over some pretty major details. “Mallory and my mother are close. They went to school together.”

I choked on my beer again. “Your mother went to
Smith
?”

Dan took one step and managed to fill the room. Had I insulted his mother with my tone? Maybe being alone in this stranger’s house wasn’t one of my better ideas. The guy was half a foot taller than me. No one had any idea where I was. I backed cowardly away. He smiled, his mouth slightly crooked, and that dimple appeared in his cheek. Mischief turned his eyes a deep brown, like the most bitterly dark chocolate. I held my ground, waiting. He reached a finger, touching my temple, and pain sliced me.

I jerked back and smacked my head against the wall. “Ow!”

“You’ve got an egg.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

His hand brushed the side of my face and then he gave a self-deprecating shake of his head, like he was unwillingly amused. Great, now I was the clown. He dropped his hand and headed for the living room. “So, Caesar Romano. C’mon in and tell me all your secrets.”

I trailed after him, my beer in my fist. “Only if you tell me yours.”

Sunday I went in to the gallery at ten. I left Poppy’s truck in the alley. Captain and Joseph were nowhere to be found, which I took as a good sign. Unlocking the door, I poked the alarm code in by rote. Today was a major workday. I flipped the lights and went to turn the front door sign to OPEN. Back in the kitchen, I brewed a pot of Fog Lifter. Time to enjoy another exciting day at the Stuhlmann Gallery working my tail off for nothing.

My life was going down the toilet.

I went to check the messages. Midway through the congratulations and hang ups, it occurred to me that I never opened that stupid envelope last night. Dan had not only distracted me with a couple beers and a humiliating round of Gears of War, he was a terrible detective. He’d agreed to help me, and because I was broke, all I could afford was an incompetent, albeit attractive, investigator. He hadn’t once asked about that envelope. Great.

I ran back to the van and searched the floor. The damn thing was lodged under the seat. My cell started chirping as I stepped back into the kitchen. It was one McNamara, Sheppard.

“Hel—”

“Where were you last night?”

“Oh. Sorry. I was with a…” I paused. What could I say? A friend? Hardly.

My silence seemed to say it all to Shep who fairly screeched, “You were getting laid while I’m having the single worst crisis of my life?”

Laid? I had spent the early part of the evening being grilled and the later part of the night interrogating anyone who answered the phone. I was incapable of concealing my intent so I had flat-out asked if they’d seen anyone upstairs. If they’d had sex with a guest. If they’d stolen something. They were all pretty pissed when they hung up. Worse, that bastard Peter had yet to call me back. He was hiding in the desert with the Treefucker guy, letting me handle his mess.

“Shep. I wasn’t doing anything but having a beer and trying to save your damned neck. And why I’m explaining myself to you is a mystery. If you’d let me finish, I’d have told you that I was awake half the night leaving messages and talking to anyone I can think of who was at the party. No news. Then my battery died and I went to bed. What did you do?”

“I’m freaking out. Chad is breathing down my neck about that part. He’s suspicious, and that dinner didn’t help me any. I have to be the poster child of unblemished heterosexual living. Estelle asked me if you were my boy toy and told me to get rid of you. She thinks I should
pay
you to be quiet. And that asshole who sent the video emailed again. He asked me for more money.”

Pay
me
to be quiet? Jesus, why hadn’t I thought of that? Sighing, I dismissed every whine he had except the last one. “How does he want you to pay him? Secret drop at an undisclosed location? PO box?”

“PayPal.”

“
Are you serious?
”

“As a fucking heart attack.”

“Well that should be easy to track. I think I may have someone who can help us.”

“You can’t tell anyone, Ce. No one. Not about this and not about us. I’m not kidding.”

“But you, of all of us, need to go to the police, Shep. You were violated.”

“I’m fine.” He wasn’t fine. I could hear it. He was in denial, not exactly new territory for him, I know, but one of these days he was headed for a breakdown. “I can’t go, man. I just can’t.”

“This person could hound you for years. You know that right?”

His voice grew unmistakably hard. “I’ll handle it. Once I find out who it is.”

“Fine. You hang in there. Go have brunch with your mother or something. Take the train to Connecticut and have some lox at the club. I’ll speak with you later. I’ll have this Dan guy check things out. I’m sure he has software for that kind of thing. Forward me your emails.”

I went back to work preparing the sculptures for shipment. We’d only keep a few of the busts. Everything else would go to either its new owner or to other galleries. A few would return to Jean Luc’s studio in Brooklyn. I still didn’t know what to do about Justin Timberlake…except to wait for the blackmailer to contact me. And wait for Dan to come up with something.

I spent the morning hauling all the pieces into the South Salon and then I got the North Salon prepped for Peter. Installation was not in my job description. God forbid I so much as straighten a frame in this gallery once it was on the wall.

I took a break at eleven thirty and just as I sat down, Rachel wiggled in. She was a tall, bubbly, sweet girl, and I immediately recollected the condom on the carpet upstairs. I still wouldn’t pick that thing up. “Hey. What are you doing here?”

Rachel kissed my cheek, her lips a full, wide, cosmetically enhanced cupid’s bow, painted a rich cherry red. I knew she’d left a big smear on my face. “I need to get the last check, and Brandon said he left the warming oven here. They loaded the truck on Friday night, and he asked me to come back over here and get it. I have an old boyfriend who says he can fix it. My brother lent me his car.”

“What oven?” I went to my office to find Poppy’s final payment.

“The warming oven. Are you deaf?”

No, I was confused. “You guys took it the other night. It’s not here.”

She looked even more confused. She asked in her chipper, squeaky morning voice, “Oh, maybe Poppy took it? You’re sure?”

“I’m positive.”

Rachel flitted off to the kitchen. Her ass wiggled obscenely in her skintight black jeans, another pair of dangerously high, flashy heels. She wore a red halter top and great big red hoop earrings that brushed her shoulders. She was just so trashy and adorable. I gazed down at my gray flannel pants and my blue button-down. I was dull as dishwater beside her.

“Oh, is that coffee?” She swung through the door. I followed.

“Help yourself.”

She gave me a considered once-over. She did it again as she poured her coffee.

“What? Do I have something on my face?” I patted my cheek, feeling for crumbs or dirt.

“No. I just…I wanted to ask you…Caesar…if…you…you know…if…you…
know
. About me. If Poppy said anything.”

“Know what? My God. Spit it out, woman.”

“Ce. This is a secret. You can’t tell anyone.”

I was hearing that a lot lately. “Yeah. Sure.”

Rachel took a sip from her cup, then added two sugars. Stirring, her wrist jerking sharply, she blurted, “So at the party the other night, someone left an envelope in my handbag.”

The envelope.
Shit.
I’d stuck it in my pocket when Shep called. Why did I keep putting off opening it? Because it was going to be expensive. And because, really, this was Peter’s problem. Resigned, I showed her my own wrinkled white mailer. “Like this one?”

Her eyes widened with recognition. “Oh! Yes. Exactly. Wait. Did you leave it for me?” she asked in bewilderment.

“No. Someone left this for me.”

“Really? For you? What’s it got in it? ’Cause mine was…like a bill. It was like a bill for nine hundred dollars. This was in it.” She reached into her snappy red purse and fished out a folded piece of paper. She pressed it delicately into her cleavage. “You can’t tell anyone. Promise. Only Poppy knows this, okay? No one knows.”

“Sure, Rach. I promise.”

She unfolded the paper. It was a photo of a young man, a teenager. He was cute. He seemed familiar. I took a good look at Rachel. “Is that your brother?”

“No. Caesar. Ding-dong. Look at the picture.”

I checked it out. “Holy shit.” My head snapped up on my neck. She was so girlie and curvy. The big hair and tits…I knew better than this. “Oh. My. God.”

“Yeah. I know. That’s me.” She winked and preened.

“Are you…? Did you…?” I crossed my legs. It was all I could do not to grab my crotch. I knew a few trannies, sure, but I hadn’t ever met anyone who’d done the full deed. I spent most of my time in the gallery—I rarely stepped outside the art circle or the old neighborhood. I was rather sheltered for a queer New Yorker, come to think of it. It was all I could do not to glance at Rachel’s groin. “When?”

“A couple years back. I’m a girl. I was always a girl. Look how tiny my bones are. I was a…you know. Like a mix.” I immediately thought labradoodle and coughed. I needed to get a grip. She continued, “A hermaphrodite, not an actual boy. I’m a girl. My parents decided I was a boy. They were wrong.”

“And Poppy knows this?” How could she not have said? Not even when we were drunk? I would have spilled that secret.

“Yeah. Of course.”

I remembered the condom again. “Oh man. Does Peter know?”

“No.
No!
I’m au naturel everywhere else. These babies are real.” She held up her breasts. “Well they were, but then I had them slightly enhanced.” She waggled them proudly.

Slightly? They were double Ds, and they came to her neck. I groped the counter for support. “How would anyone find this picture? Or know the truth?”

“I don’t know. I had it in my purse to show Poppy—and then I guess I didn’t notice it was missing until now. I really would rather certain people not find out.”

Yeah, like half the U.S. Navy on leave. I felt like sitting down. “I would think not.”

“You can understand that some people might think differently about me.” She gave me a small, embarrassed smile, and I knew she was terrified. “Some people wouldn’t want…uh…that to get out, you know?”

I decided to tell her everything. The bust, Peter, Shep, Mallory, Justin Timberlake and the Circus of Despair…it all flew out of my mouth in great detail.

“Oh, Ce. We’re all being harassed…for what? Peanuts.”

“I wouldn’t call it peanuts.” We stared at the envelope. “I guess I should open it.”

It wasn’t sealed. The flap was simply tucked inside. I slid out a badly printed photo—someone’s printer needed ink. It was Justin Timberlake, with one ear. The watch where his right nipple had been was gone. That was probably still on the sink upstairs.

“Oh! He still looks great.” Rachel beamed. “That man is so talented. I just love him.” I didn’t know whether she was referring to JT or Jean Luc.

I flipped the picture over and on the back was a dollar amount. It read: Five thousand dollars. I choked.

“Holy shit. Good luck getting that kinda cash. Are you sure this is for you? Maybe it was for Jean or Peter.”

“No. It was on the truck. Damn it. Why me?” I wasn’t being a martyr. I honestly had no clue why I was getting hit up for that kind of cash and not someone else.

I schlepped into my office to think.

Dan sauntered in at one with his motorcycle boots and his black leather jacket. He had a paper sack in one hand and a tray holding two coffees from Starbucks in the other. He brought the scent of gum and sunshine with him.