As the FBI had warned them, Azad Sahakian had an excellent lawyer on retainer.
Remi sat with Daniel across from a bare table in an interrogation room while the art dealer and his attorney whispered in each other’s ear. On the last case she had never been allowed to be present for an interrogation. This time she had insisted, explaining to Daniel that only she had the expertise to catch out Sahakian in a lie.
When they finally stopped whispering, it was the attorney, not the art dealer, who spoke.
“My client has no knowledge of the crime you are referring to,” he told them.
Daniel’s eyes narrowed. “So how did he know Dyson was dead?”
“Dyson’s attorney, Frederick Mitchell, told him.”
Remi and Daniel exchanged glances.
“Mitchell said he didn’t tell anyone except the beneficiaries in Dyson’s will,” Daniel said.
The two went back to whispering. Remi began to grow impatient.
The lawyer turned back to them.
“Technically, my client is a beneficiary. He is on the board of the Harlem Art School, and Mr. Dyson left a substantial donation in his will.”
This man is on the board of a charity? Remi thought, fuming. She struggled to focus on what the lawyer was saying. There were going to be lies in here somewhere, and she needed to spot them.
“So my client wasn’t lying. Furthermore, Mr. Mitchell was concerned about the fact that Mr. Dyson was murdered apparently for a painting he had just purchased from my client. This was a painting of Death by the Flemish artist Jacob van der Veer. My client purchased this painting through regular channels with a certificate of legality and authenticity.”
Remi couldn’t believe what she was hearing. If her Belgian friend had been able to so quickly discover the painting was stolen, Sahakian should have been able to as well. Of course, the painting probably had come with a “certificate of legality and authenticity.” Those looted Iraqi and Afghani treasures probably did too.
The only use those certificates had was as toilet tissue.
Remi supposed they were only admitting to the sale of the painting because there was some sort of paper trail that they figured the authorities would eventually uncover.
The lawyer went on.
“As soon as Mr. Mitchell heard the details of the break-in and murder, he phoned Mr. Sahakian to warn him and ask him about the painting and why that might be a motive in Mr. Dyson’s killing.”
The lawyer turned to the corrupt art dealer and raised an eyebrow. Sahakian gave a little nod, turned to Daniel and Remi, and took up the narrative.
“Mr. Dyson contacted me because I’ve developed a reputation for finding works of art that other dealers cannot.”
I bet you have, thought Remi.
“He had heard through channels that Van der Veer’s painting of Death was in the collection of an elderly heiress named Ursula Boone here in New York City who had recently died. I contacted the estate and convinced them to sell. All of that is aboveboard and I have certificates for everything.”
Someone who is honest doesn’t feel the urge to say that. Twice.
“Mr. Dyson was over the moon,” Sahakian said. “He was so anxious to get a hold of this piece. He must have called me three or four times a day as the deal was being finalized and the paperwork put in order. Finally, I had it, and told him it was in my possession. He drove down that very day and came over personally.”
“Alone?” Daniel asked.
“Yes. Alone.”
“How did he pay?”
“In cash.”
“Did you give him a receipt?”
“Of course.”
Silence hung over them for a moment. If he really did give Dyson a receipt, where had it gone to?
Remi had a feeling Sahakian wouldn’t give up that information so easily, assuming he even knew.
She decided to ask a question of her own. “What did he say about the painting? Why did he want that particular piece?”
The art dealer gave a little shrug. “I’m not sure. He acted strangely. Almost obsessed. When I unveiled it for him, he stared and stared. I warned him that such a minor artist wouldn’t increase in value, but he dismissed that. Mr. Dyson said he wanted it for his personal collection and that it wasn’t an investment. He asked me about the history of the painting and its provenance. There’s really not much information on that. Jacob van der Veer was only one of dozens of artists whose names have come down to us who were active in the Low Countries at that time. Only a few pieces of his survive. A couple of landscapes, a portrait of the wife of the mayor of Haarlem, and a few religious paintings. He was reasonably successful in his lifetime but never achieved real fame. So there isn’t much information on his life. No one has ever written a biography or even a PhD thesis on him.”
“And what about the provenance of the painting?” Daniel asked.
“Ms. Boone, the previous owner, had it in her possession for many years. The heirs found the original receipt among her papers. All aboveboard.”
That’s the third time you’ve tried to convince us of that, Remi thought.
She hated people like Sahakian, parasites on the worlds of art and archaeology. Somewhere there was a family in Europe who should own that painting. In Iraq and Afghanistan, there lay archaeological sites pillaged of their treasures, the scientific knowledge those sites once contained destroyed for the sake of a quick profit that no doubt went into the hands of some local warlord or Islamist militia.
“So why was Dyson so obsessed with this painting?” Daniel asked.
Sahakian raised his hands. “I don’t know. He had asked me about it a couple of years ago and I told him I didn’t know anything about it. I even had to look up Van der Veer; the artist was so obscure. Then he called me about it again a few weeks ago, having heard that Ms. Boone had it. Apparently, he knew she had it and wasn’t interested in selling, but now that she was dead, he thought her heirs might be more amenable to a sale. None of them are collectors. So he had me act as a go-between.”
“Why you?” Remi asked. Dyson was a leading businessman. He didn’t need some sketchy art dealer to do his business dealings for him.
“For my expertise in art and dealing with estate sales.”
More like your expertise in faking certificates.
Remi gave Daniel a significant look.
The FBI agent told the suspect and his lawyer, “We’ll be back in one minute.”
They rose and left. Out in the hall, Daniel turned to her.
“What do you think?”
“I’m not sure what to think,” Remi admitted, “except that he isn’t telling us the whole truth.”
“No, he is not.”
“Have you ordered a search of his home and gallery?” Remi asked.
“Of course. We’ll be going through his stock and his paperwork with a fine-toothed comb.”
“Even if we don’t find the painting, I bet we’ll find some good evidence to bring him up on charges of dealing in stolen goods,” Remi said.
Daniel smiled. “We?”
Remi gave a little shrug, chuckling. “I’m part of this investigation, aren’t I?”
“You sure are, Agent Laurent.” Even though Daniel meant that as a joke, Remi beamed with pride. “We’ll let Sahakian stew for a while. The local police are sure to find something juicy at his place. In the meantime, why don’t you research that painting. I want to know why one of America’s richest men was obsessed by it, and why someone, maybe Sahakian or someone he knows, killed for it.”
“I’ll get to work,” she replied breathlessly. This was turning out like the cryptex case, where an antique had inspired a desperate hunt, and a murder.