Von Oehson walked away. As soon as he was out of earshot, Landau placed an elbow on the arm of his red chair and leaned toward me. “He doesn’t really have to take a piss.”
“No shit,” I said. “What’s going on?”
“He’s just insulating himself.”
“From what?”
“The conversation you and I are about to have,” said Landau. “His stepping away gives him plausible deniability.”
I deliberately placed my elbow on the arm of my chair, leaning in as he’d done. “I’m not a lawyer, but I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to admit that to me.”
Landau shrugged, chuckling. “No one ever said I was good at my job.”
The man who looked like the before photo in a diet plan ad when I’d first met him on the street with Elizabeth no longer seemed like such a shlub. This was confidence masked as self-deprecation.
“Okay,” I said. “I’m listening.”
“Mathias told me about the Monet.”
“What exactly did he tell you?”
“Everything,” said Landau. “The painting’s entire history, the Hungarian government, how he got it back from them, and now how it’s missing again—like I said, everything.”
“He obviously trusts you a great deal.”
“I’d like to think I’m worthy of it. I’ve known him a long, long time.” He paused, straightening the fork and knife in front of him that didn’t need straightening. “Mathias thinks he knows who has the painting.”
“He couldn’t tell me that himself?”
“I’m sure he could. The problem is the part that comes next, his plan to get the painting back. It’s not exactly legal.”
“I’m not sure if you’ve figured this out yet, but that guy you’ve known for a long, long time? Your old college chum? He’s not exactly a Boy Scout,” I said.
“I know. I’m well aware. Mathias has surely cut some corners along the way. This is different, though.”
“Not exactly legal, as you put it.”
“Let me rephrase that. It’s very much not legal.”
“In that case, don’t tell me what it is,” I said.
“From what I’ve been told, Dr. Reinhart, you’re hardly a Boy Scout, either.”
“Yeah, but that’s because I’m gay. I wasn’t allowed in.”
Landau nodded. Touché. “You don’t even want to know the name?” he asked. “Who we think has the painting?”
“Nope. Not even the initials.”
“Why not?”
“That’s easy,” I said. “Plausible deniability.”
The waiter returned with the menus. “Here you go, gentlemen.”
“I won’t be needing one,” I said.
“Give us a minute, please, will you?” Landau asked, giving the waiter a forced smile.
The second we were alone again he started in with a revamped pitch. I cut him off with a raised palm. “Where is he? Where’s he watching us from?” I asked.
Landau knew better than to play dumb with me at this point. He sighed. “The bar,” he said.
“And you’re supposed to give him some kind of signal, right?”
“When we’re done talking, yes.”
“We’re done talking,” I said. “Wave him over.”
He sighed again. This one was actually more like a huff. Within seconds, it was the three of us again.
Mathias von Oehson had hired me to find his son. Now that Carter was home, I was seeing to the damage that had been done, making sure that the boy would remain out of harm’s way. Carter had been staying out of the public spotlight, and von Oehson’s lawyer had run interference with the police, stalling and muddying up their inquiry as only a fifteen-hundred-dollar-an-hour lawyer can do. Ostensibly, we were all on the same page—or painting, as it were.
“So what did I miss?” asked von Oehson, settling back in his chair.
I could’ve spent an hour bringing him fully up to speed. I could’ve explained why I didn’t need his plan, or even his thoughts on who might have his Monet. I could’ve gotten a free lunch out of it, too. Did I mention I was starving?
Instead, I cut to the chase. The bottom line. Sometimes in life you fly by the seat of your pants. Other times you know exactly what you’re doing.
“It’s like this,” I said. “How many millions are you willing to spend to buy your painting back?”