Remi sat on a park bench with Daniel eating a horrible American invention—hotdogs. She found the bread too white and too spongey, and the wiener tasted like it was made of carcinogens mixed with plastic. How could Americans eat these things? Daniel had already eaten two, slathered in ketchup, mustard, and relish, and he was considering going back to the little cart on the street corner for a third.
Eating like a pig didn’t stop him from doing his job, however. He was on the phone to the FBI asking about Azad Sahakian, the art dealer Mitchell had named. The agent waited a couple of minutes as they looked him up on the crime database.
“Yeah? Uh-huh?” Daniel said, nodding. Remi watched him, curious. “Really? OK, send over the files. Thanks.”
He hung up and turned to her. “Just as we suspected, Sahakian is dirty. Well-known for dealing in stolen art. That explains why Dyson was sneaking around without his driver and why there wasn’t a receipt. Sahakian has been brought up on charges twice but wriggled out both times. He’s got a good lawyer, so we’ll have to watch our step.”
“Perhaps he wanted to steal the artwork back after selling it,” Remi suggested.
“Maybe. I don’t think so, though. He makes a good living selling art, so why run the risk? Especially with such a high-profile customer. He could probably make more keeping him on as a regular buyer.”
“But the killer knew Dyson had just bought the Jacob van der Veer painting that same day. Who else would know besides Sahakian?”
“Maybe he sells information as well as art.”
Remi thought about this a moment. That could fit.
“So another potential buyer, one who was desperate enough to get the painting that he would kill for it,” Remi mused, “or offered Sahakian enough for the dealer to kill for it in order to retrieve it.”
“But why the showmanship?” Daniel asked. “Why dress up like Death?”
“To steer us down the wrong path? Make us think we are dealing with an unhinged mind?”
“Maybe. More likely we really are dealing with an unhinged mind. When sane people try to shift blame, they do all the standard movie things like make it look like a Mafia hit or jealous lover or something. This is too theatrical.”
Remi shook her head, frustrated. “I need to learn more about policework. My father was a regular patrol officer, walking the streets of Paris and responding to calls. He didn’t conduct investigations. I learned a great deal about drug dealing and drunken brawls, but not much about the mind of a murderer. And I’m afraid my historical background isn’t being all that much help on this case.”
“We wouldn’t have gotten this far if it wasn’t for you. You identified the painting, after all. And got Mitchell to talk.”
“That’s all I’ve done,” Remi said, staring at her inedible hotdog. Why did she think she could be brought on to work for the FBI full time? A silly fantasy. She was a professor and that’s what she would probably be for life.
Daniel nudged her. “Don’t be so glum. And don’t be so impatient. These things take time. You cracked the last case, and I have a feeling you’re going to be instrumental in this one.”
Remi smiled. “You think so?”
“I wouldn’t have requested you otherwise. And your knowledge will come in handy for our next step. We’re going to Sahakian’s gallery and pose as buyers.”
“How do we do that?” she asked, surprised.
Daniel shrugged. “Simply walk in there, take a look around, and pretend we know what we’re doing. That’s where you come in. We’ll bring him around to talking about the Van der Veer painting and see how he reacts. But slowly. We have to get his confidence first.”
“I don’t know how to pose as a billionaire.”
“You’re French. You all act upper class.”
Remi clicked her tongue. “You never met some of the French people my father did.”
“Good point, but somehow I think you had better people around you growing up, or did you deal crack in high school? No? Didn’t think so. Here’s what we do. We’re buyers for a rich client. You’re the art expert and I’m the bodyguard. I’ll act like I’m carrying the cash and have come along to guard the painting once we make a purchase.”
“That should work,” Remi said, her heart beating faster. “Let’s stop off at the hotel. I have a better dress and some jewelry I can put on. It won’t be enough to play the role, but it will help.”
Could she manage it? Acting wasn’t one of her talents. The last time she had played a role she had been on stage in high school. In school plays, she was always given some minor role as the more extroverted boys and girls got the leads. And now she had to play a role in front of someone who might very well be a murderer, or in league with one.
She felt in over her head, and that worried and exhilarated her in equal measure.
* * *
Azad Sahakian’s gallery was on a second-story walkup in an old brick building on the lower east side. From what Remi had seen in movies, this part of New York had been a rough area thirty years ago, full of punk rock venues and cheap bars, but had now been thoroughly gentrified. Everyone looked healthy and prosperous. Lots of designer labels and vacation suntans. The ground floor of the building housed an antique shop featuring Colonial furniture. A chic café, almost as good as the ones in Paris, stood next door, alongside a couple of high-end boutiques.
Sahakian buzzed them up without question and waited for them at the top of the stairs as they ascended. Remi saw a short, squat Armenian man with salt and pepper hair, a broad face, and more muscles than any art dealer she had ever met. In that part of the world, men all prided themselves on their physical strength.
“Welcome to Sahakian Art and Antiquities. How may I help you?” Sahakian’s voice carried only the slightest accent. He had obviously lived in the United States for some time.
Remi decided to take the lead. “We’re here for our employer. Just browsing at the moment.”
“Certainly,” Azad Sahakian said ushering them in. “Are you looking for any period in particular?”
Remi didn’t answer at once. She scanned the room, a high-ceilinged place with tall windows that had probably once been a warehouse. Paintings of various periods hung on the walls, and in Perspex display cases were various ancient artifacts. Remi noted that the majority came from Iraq or Afghanistan. A little clay Sumerian votive figure of a man in a wool skirt, hands clasped in prayer, took a place of pride. Remi could not even estimate what such a museum-quality piece would cost. Nearby was a stack of glazed bricks imprinted with cuneiform, probably bearing the name of the king who commissioned the building. Another display case contained a bronze Buddha, the pose and clothing looking Greek rather than Eastern. This hailed from the civilization of Gandhara, which thrived in Afghanistan two thousand years ago and was an heir to the conquests of Alexander the Great.
Iraq … Afghanistan … two of the largest sources of illegal antiquities. And here he is showing them off to members of the public.
A small sign on the wall read, “Sahakian Art and Antiquities takes its obligation to international law seriously. Customers can be confident that all are antiquities are fully documented and sold with strict adherence to international antiquities regulations.”
Remi just barely managed not to scoff.
“This is a fine piece,” Sahakian said, coming up next to her and gesturing at the Buddha. “Is your employer interested in archaeological artifacts?”
“He’s more interested in Early Modern painting. Especially from the Low Countries.”
“Always a solid choice for investment,” Sahakian said with a nod.
“Oh, he doesn’t look at his collection as an investment, more as a field of study. He has a great interest in the symbolism that goes into paintings.”
“Then perhaps he’d be interested in some alchemical prints from the 17th century?”
“He would be. Could we see them?”
While that wasn’t the right medium, it was the right century and perhaps the right general theme. Flemish painters of that century often put alchemical symbolism in their paintings, and she was beginning to suspect the painting of Death might contain some symbolism Dyson had been interested in. Remi decided to play along, seeing where it might lead her.
Sahakian led her to a bureau with several wide shelves. Opening one up, he started to bring out 17th century engravings richly decorated with allegorical figures.
“Here’s one from by Michael Maier from the Tripus Aureus of 1618.”
“The Golden Tripod?” Remi asked, remembering her Latin.
“That’s right. It was a collection of three alchemical treatises. Here you see two virgins riding lions confronting each other. Both carry hearts in their hands from which sprout a sun and a moon. This represents the purity and balance required to make true mixtures. The figure of the knight with his sword upraised on the edge of the print symbolizes—”
“Do you have anything with more astronomical and astrological symbolism?” Remi asked, staving off a lecture. “Our client is especially interested in such representations from the period. He’s a student of such symbolism.”
Sahakian didn’t bat an eyelid. He put away the print and opened up another drawer.
“Here we have some excellent maps of the night sky. Note the quality of the figures representing the constellations.”
“These are very nice,” Remi agreed. “Did you have anything with a bit more of a religious bent, anything relating to the Book of Revelation?”
“I think I have a woodcut from the 14th century. I’ll have to look in the back.”
Daniel cut in. “That sounds like something he’d be interested in. Let’s see.”
“One moment,” the art dealer said when Daniel tried to follow him. The agent gave her a rueful look as Sahakian disappeared through a door. It appeared they would not get a free peek at the back of the shop.
They walked around a minute, looking at the art and Remi wondering how much of it was legal. Every piece was good enough to be displayed in a top-tier museum. In fact, this gallery was like a museum in miniature. Cyril would love to see it.
Oh dear. Cyril. I haven’t called him after our fight.
Well, he hasn’t called me either.
But I should make the first move. I was being more unreasonable than he was.
Sahakian returned with a small woodcut slipped inside a sleeve of chemically inert clear plastic.
“Oh, I think he’d like this,” Remi said. “It looks German. I’d say quite late in the 14th century. Perhaps even early 15th judging from the decoration on the border.”
“Yes,” Sahakian agreed. “It’s a bit rare so I’m afraid I couldn’t part with it for less than $3,000.”
“That’s fine. If you could set that aside I think he’d be happy with it. He’d also prefer something a bit later, perhaps the 17th century. That’s his main focus.” Remi decided to stop beating around the bush or she’d be here all day. “I heard that a painting of one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse by Jacob van der Veer has recently been put on the market.”
“I’ve heard of the artist, but I wasn’t aware he painted the Four Horsemen,” Sahakian said, glancing between Remi and Daniel and back again. “I haven’t seen anything by him on the market in a long time.”
Remi smiled, and leaned forward a little, speaking in a conspiratorial voice. “It’s just that our employer wants to get it before another person who we know is interested. He’s always had a rivalry with Montgomery Dyson.”
“But he’s dead!” Sahakian blurted, then froze, as if regretting his words.
Daniel cocked his head. “And how would you know that if it hasn’t been in the press?”
“I, um I mean … his attorney told me. We’ve done business in the past and he called this morning to inform me.”
Daniel shook his head. “We just talked with Mitchell, and he hasn’t told anyone.”
Daniel pulled out his FBI identification. “Azad Sahakian, I am placing you under arrest on suspicion of the murder of Montgomery Dyson.”
Remi took a step back, putting her hand in her purse and grasping her pepper spray.
But the art dealer didn’t resist. He stood there, silent and stony faced as a statue, as Daniel put the cuffs on him.
We’re done so soon?
Remi’s satisfaction was overwhelmed by regret. She’d be back to teaching undergraduates tomorrow.