For Joan: live art
My first client of the day (and of the week, truth be known) came into my office on the Tuesday after Thanksgiving and sat in one of my client chairs. He was medium-height and slim, wearing a brown tweed suit, a blue paisley bow tie, and a look of satisfaction.
“You’re Spenser,” he said.
“Yes, I am,” I said.
“I am Dr. Ashton Prince,” he said.
He handed me a card, which I put on my desk.
“How nice,” I said.
“Excuse me?”
“What can I do for you, Dr. Prince.”
“I am confronted with a matter of extreme sensitivity,” he said.
I nodded.
“May I count on your discretion?” he said.
“Sure,” I said.
“I’m serious,” he said.
“I can tell,” I said.
He frowned slightly. Less in disapproval than in uncertainty.
“Well,” he said, “may I?”
“Count on my discretion?”
“Yes!”
“At the moment, I don’t have anything to be discreet about,” I said. “But I would be if I did.”
He stared at me for a moment, then smiled.
“I see,” he said. “You’re attempting to be funny.”
“ ‘Attempting’?” I said.
“No matter,” Prince said. “But I need to know you are capable of taking my issues seriously.”
“I’d be in a better position to assess that,” I said, “if you told me what your issues were.”
He nodded slowly to himself.
“I was warned that you were given to self-amusement,” he said. “I guess there’s no help for it. I am a professor of art history at Walford University. And I am a forensic art consultant in matters of theft and forgery.”
And pleased about it.
“Is there such a matter before us?” I said.
He took in some air and let it out audibly.
“There is,” he said.
“And it requires discretion,” I said.
“Very much.”
“You’ll get all I can give you,” I said.
“All you can give me?”
“Anything,” I said, “that your best interest, and my self-regard, will allow.”
“Your ‘self-regard’?”
“I try not to do things that make me think ill of myself.”
“My God,” Prince said. “I mean, that’s a laudable goal, I suppose. But you are a private detective.”
“All the more reason for vigilance,” I said.
He took another deep breath. He nodded slowly.
“There is a painting,” he said, “by a seventeenth-century Dutch artist named Frans Hermenszoon.”
“Lady with a Finch,” I said.
“How on earth did you know that?” Prince said.
“Only Hermenszoon painting I’ve ever heard of.”
“He painted very few,” Prince said. “Hermenszoon died at age twenty-six.”
“Young,” I said.
“Rather,” Prince said. “But Lady with a Finch was a masterpiece. Is a masterpiece. It belongs to the Hammond Museum. And last week it was stolen.”
“Heard from the thieves?” I said.
“Yes.”
“Ransom?” I said.
“Yes.”
“And if you bring any cops in, they’ll destroy the painting,” I said.
“Yes.”
“So what do you want from me?” I said.
“The Hammond wants the whole matter handled entirely, ah, sotto voce. They have asked me to handle the exchange.”
“The money for the painting,” I said.
“Yes, and I am, frankly, uneasy. I want protection.”
“Me,” I said.
“The chief of the Walford campus police asked a friend at the Boston Police Department on my behalf, and you were recommended.”
“I’m very popular there,” I said.
“Will you do it?”
“Okay,” I said.
“Like that?” Prince said.
“Sure,” I said.
“What do you charge?”
I told him. He raised his eyebrows.
“Well,” he said. “I’m sure they will cover it.”
“The museum.”
“Yes,” he said. “And if they won’t cover it all, I’ll make up the difference out of pocket.”
“Generous,” I said.
“You’re being ironic,” he said.
“It is you I’m protecting,” I said.
“I know,” he said. “The painting, too. It is not merely a brilliant piece of art, though that would be enough. It is also the expression of a distant life, cut sadly short.”
“I’ll do my best,” I said.
“Which I’m told,” Prince said, “is considerable.”
I nodded.
“’Tis,” I said.
Susan and Pearl were spending the weekend with me. It was Saturday morning and the three of us were out for a mid-morning stroll in the Public Garden. Pearl was off the leash so she could dash about and annoy the pigeons, which she was doing, while Susan and I watched proudly.
“So you are going to make this exchange Monday morning?” Susan said.
“Yep.”
“How do you feel about it?” she said.
“I am, as you know, fearless.”
“Mostly,” Susan said.
“ ‘Mostly’?”
Susan smiled and shook her head.
“What’s bothering you about it?” she said.
“An exchange like this,” I said, “they gotta be sure they get the money before they give you the painting. You gotta be sure you get the painting before you give them the money. They gotta be sure that once they give up the painting the cops don’t swoop in and bust them.”
“Difficult,” Susan said.
“And their side gets to call the shots,” I said.
“Which you don’t like,” Susan said.
“Which I don’t like,” I said.
“Ducks,” Susan said. “You don’t like anyone else calling the shots on what tie to wear.”
“Except you,” I said.
Susan smiled.
“Of course,” she said. “Always except me.”
A group of pigeons was pecking at some popcorn that had been thrown on the ground for them. Pearl chased them off and ate the popcorn. A mature woman in a leopard-skin coat stood up from the bench where the pigeons had gathered and walked toward us.
“Madam,” she said, “control your dog. That popcorn is intended for the pigeons.”
Susan smiled.
“Survival of the fittest,” she said.
The woman frowned.
She said, “Don’t be flippant, young woman.”
“Yikes,” I murmured.
Susan turned slowly toward the woman.
“Oh, kiss my ass,” Susan said.
The woman took a half-step back. Her face reddened. She opened her mouth, and closed it, and turned and marched away.
“They teach you ‘kiss my ass’ at Harvard?” I said.
“No,” Susan said. “I learned that from you... Pearl likes popcorn.”
“At least she called you ‘young woman,’ ”I said.
Susan was glaring after the woman.
“By her standards,” Susan said.
Suddenly Pearl stopped scavenging the popcorn and stood motionless, her ears pricked, as if she were pointing. Which she wasn’t. She was staring.
Coming toward us was a yellow Lab with a massive head and a broad chest. He was wagging his tail majestically as he trotted toward us, as if he was one hell of a dog and proud of it. He stopped about a foot in front of Pearl, and they looked at each other. They sniffed each other. They circled each other, sniffing as they went. Pearl didn’t suffer fools gladly, so I stayed close. In case. Then Pearl stretched her front paws out and dropped her chest and raised her hind end. The Lab did the same. Then Pearl rose up and tore around in a circle. The Lab went after her. The circle widened, and pretty soon the two dogs were racing around the whole of the Public Garden. Occasionally they would stop to put their heads down and tails up. Then they would race around some more. An attractive blonde woman was standing near us, watching.
“Your dog?” Susan said.
“Yes,” she said. “Otto.”
“Mine is Pearl,” Susan said. “They seem to be getting along.”
The woman smiled.
“Or would if they slowed down,” she said.
We watched as the flirtation continued. The two dogs began to roll on the ground, mouthing each other in make-believe bites, unsuccessfully trying to pin each other down with a front paw.
“Do you bring Pearl here regularly?” Otto’s mom said.
“Quite often,” Susan said.
“We’re in from New York, staying across the park.”
Otto’s mom nodded toward the Four Seasons.
“They seem so taken with each other,” she said. “Do you have a card or something? I could call you. Maybe they could meet again while we’re here?”
“Please,” Susan said. “Pearl will be thrilled.”
Susan gave her a card.
“Otto doesn’t mind that Pearl is spayed?” I said.
“Otto’s been neutered,” his mom said.
“Men!” Susan said to me. “This is love, not sex.”
“Both are nice,” I said.
The two dogs stood, panting, tails wagging, looking at each other.
“You should know,” Susan said.
Today, Prince had on a gray tweed suit and a polka-dot bow tie.
“We’re supposed to go west on Route Two,” he said when I got in his car. “They’ll call me on my cell phone and tell me where to go next.”
The car was an entry-level Volvo sedan, which was a little tight for me.
“Do they know I’m along?” I said.
“I told them I was bringing a friend because I was afraid to come alone,” he said.
“And?”
“They said you’d have to stay in the car and not get in the way.”
I nodded.
“Do you have a gun?” he said.
“Of course,” I said.
“Have you ever used it?” he said.
“Yes.”
“To shoot somebody?”
“Mostly I use the front sight to pick my teeth,” I said.
He smiled a little.
We drove west on Storrow along the river. It was bright today, and pretty chilly. But the boat crews were hard at it, as they would be until the river froze. To our left, we passed the former Braves Field, now a BU athletic field. The old stucco entrance was still there on Gaffney Street, and maybe vestiges of the right-field Jury Box. An elevated section of the Mass Pike ran above the railroad tracks outside of left field.
“When the Braves played there,” I said, “an outfielder named Danny Litwhiler is alleged to have hit a ball that cleared the left-field wall and landed in a freight car headed to Buffalo, thus hitting the longest measurable home run in baseball history.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t believe I understand what you’re saying,” Prince said.
“Never mind,” I said.
No one was tailing us as we went west on Route 2. Or if they were, they were better than I was. Which seemed unlikely to me. Probably had somebody set up to spot us when we got to a certain point, and then they’d call. I looked for a spotter. But I didn’t see one.
We were approaching Route 128, which in this section was also known to be Interstate Route 95. The phone rang. Prince answered and listened.
After a minute of listening he said, “Okay.”
He looked at me.
“Cross the overpass on One twenty-eight and turn around on the other side and start back, driving slowly,” he said.
I glanced back. The spotter was probably standing on one of the cross-street overpasses. We crossed above 128 and drove on into Lincoln until we found a place to turn around, and then we drove toward where we’d been. Prince had the cell phone to his ear. He nodded.
“Stop under the first overpass we come to,” he said. “Okay... I get out with the money... Okay... And climb up with it and stand in the middle of the bridge.”
Prince looked at me.
“You’re to stay in the car or there’s no deal.”
I nodded.
We pulled over to the side under the first overpass. He swallowed audibly and got out of the car. I reached in back and got the suitcase full of money, and handed it out to Prince.
“Break a leg,” I said.
He nodded and turned and lugged the big suitcase slowly up the ramp behind us. A suitcase full of money is heavy.
From where I sat, directly beneath the overpass, I couldn’t even see the swap. I put the windows down and shut off the engine, and listened intently. Cars went by on Route 2. Above me I thought I heard one. Maybe it stopped in the middle. Maybe its door opened. About thirty seconds later, maybe it shut. And maybe the car drove off. I waited. Silence. I looked back at the slope that supported the down ramp. In a moment I saw Prince scrambling down, carrying a surprisingly small paper-wrapped square. Maybe this was going to work out.
It didn’t. Just as he came into sight, the package exploded and blew him and itself into a mess.
I was sitting in the backseat of Captain Healy’s unmarked Mass State police cruiser. Healy sat in front behind the wheel, and beside him was an assistant DA from Middlesex named Kate Quaggliosi. Kate had a fine body and olive skin. Her hair was blond.
“Weren’t too useful, were you?” Kate said.
“I didn’t actually help them,” I said.
“Didn’t do much to hinder them,” Kate said.
“Don’t overstate,” I said.
“Okay,” she said. “You did nothing to hinder them.”
“That’s more accurate,” I said.
“Good,” Kate said. “Glad we got that settled.”
She looked at Healy.
“You know this guy?” she said.
“I do,” he said. “He’s very annoying.”
“I noticed,” Kate said.
“But if he couldn’t have saved this situation, no one could have.”
“Gee, Captain,” I said.
Healy looked at me.
“Shut up,” he said.
He looked back at Kate.
“And trust me,” Healy said to her, “he does not like it that this went down this way on his watch. And he won’t let it go until he makes it right.”
“In whose opinion,” she said.
“His,” Healy said. “Only one matters to him.”
“Susan’s opinion matters,” I said.
“Who?” Kate said.
“Girl of my dreams,” I said.
“So you might as well learn to deal with him now,” Healy said. “Because everywhere we turn on this, from here on in, we’re going to bump into him.”
“Well,” she said. “Annoying and persistent.”
“And sometimes helpful,” I said.
She looked at Healy. He nodded.
“I find it’s better to work with him than fight him,” Healy said.
“You’ve told us everything you know,” she said to me.
“Yep.”
“It’s not very much,” she said.
“I don’t know very much,” I said.
She smiled slightly.
“In this case?” she said. “Or are you speaking more generally.”
“Probably both,” I said.
“Modest, too,” she said.
“I have much to be modest about,” I said.
“Certainly true,” she said, “since I’ve known you. You have any questions for us?”
“You really blonde?” I said.
“With a name like Quaggliosi?” she said.
“I thought maybe it was your married name.”
“My husband’s name is Henderson. Henderson, Lake, Taylor, and Caldwell, attorneys at law. He makes money; I do good.”
“So you’re not really blonde,” I said.
“You’ll never know,” she said. “But thanks for asking.”
Healy drove me back to my office.
“They didn’t improvise that bomb on the spur of the moment,” he said.
“No,” I said.
“They planned to kill him all along,” Healy said.
“Or at least before they left for the exchange,” I said.
“Why?” Healy said.
“You don’t know, either?” I said.
“No.”
“You’re a captain,” I said.
“I know,” Healy said. “It’s embarrassing.”
“Homicide commander,” I said.
“I know,” Healy said. “Why blow up the picture?”
“It’s a painting,” I said.
“Sure,” Healy said. “Why blow up the picture?”
“Maybe it’s not the painting,” I said. “Enough of it left to tell?”
“Crime scene people will let us know,” Healy said. “But I doubt it.”
“He gave them the money and came down the hill with it,” I said.
“When he was up there they could have pointed a gun at him and told him to take it,” Healy said.