The dean had been and gone, the desk clerk told me. “He seemed a little put out,” she said, eyeing my damp slacks. I could imagine what “a little put out” translated to, and didn’t envy the clerk. A maid had been in the room, picked up the mess of papers I had scattered in my rush to get going, and turned down the covers. No chocolate on the pillow, alas. No call from Dickie either. I guessed the lacrosse match was a thriller. After a hamburger and fries downstairs that I didn’t enjoy as much as I had a right to, I fell into bed and slept fitfully again, replaying the wild ride down the hill, and woke up with a jerk from dreams of falling through black space. When I gave up and took a hot shower at six the next morning, I told myself to get a grip. If I wanted to get back home where I would feel safe, I had to see what the dean wanted that was so important, return the call from Geoff’s contact, drill down into the short list of undocumented art purchases, and give Brennan a report of some kind.
I wanted to lead with the Lichtenstein painting that Bart Corliss gave Vince for services rendered. The first hint I had that something was wrong was seeing the laptop lid raised. Surely I had closed it when I left the day before, and I hadn’t used it last night because I’d been so tired. The auction sheet should have been on top of the pile of papers on my desk, but after a five-minute search I knew for a fact that the page was gone. It couldn’t have been the maid.
My neck and shoulders protested as I stood up after looking under the bed. I was going to feel the after effects of the accident for days, even if the damage was only superficial. But I had to accept that someone with a specific objective had been in my room while I had been on the golf course. Someone who could have looked at the map and guessed where I was going. I was obviously close to finding something important.
The day manager assured me that none of their housekeepers would have touched my papers except to move them to make my bed. Was anything else taken, jewelry or valuables? I said I wanted to talk to whomever was on duty at the front desk last night. She was gone too, but the manager was able to get her on the phone. She had seen nothing, heard nothing. My only announced guest was the dean of Lynthorpe, but she had reported that to me right away.
“Did he go up to my room?”
“No. He sat in the lobby for about fifteen minutes, then got up and told me to say he’d left.”
“Did you see him leave?” I persisted.
“Well, sure, at least I assume so. I mean, I don’t remember seeing him go out the door, but after he left the message, he didn’t sit back down and I’m sure he didn’t head to the elevator. That I would have remembered.”
“Could anyone talk their way into my room?” I said to the manager. “Your receptionist seems pleasant, but maybe she’s too nice, and tried to be helpful? And now she doesn’t want to admit it?”
He got a little huffy and insisted that would never happen. He told me I could fill out a report and describe what had been taken, but suggested I search one more time.
“It’s easy to overlook something, especially in a strange room. If you like, I could come with you.”
I thanked him but said I was sure and would get along without the missing paper. I debated calling Detective Kirby, but there wasn’t anything concrete to say about the car that tailed me for a few minutes, certainly no useful facts about make, model, license plate, or driver. Charlie was on my side. Dickie was in the vicinity, although that was not necessarily a benefit. I had a lawyer. But now I was on my side too.
I was too nervous to wait around for the police to figure out what was happening. The phone call proved I was a target, even if the tailgater didn’t, and the missing page cemented my conviction that I was on a criminal’s radar. I was going to get to the bottom of the puzzle surrounding Vince Margoletti’s proposed gift, no matter what President Brennan wanted.
I looked at my watch. Plenty late in the morning to call Charlie in San Francisco. I wanted to tell him what happened, and ask him what I should do about it.
“For one thing, forget about driving. Stick close to your hotel room if you have to stay in that town another day. Cabs only, and let the bellman call them for you so the dispatcher doesn’t have your name. Keep your cell phone with you all the time. Promise you won’t get any fancy ideas, and I’ll get there as soon as I can.”
“I prom…wait. Get here? What do you mean?”
“This is the last straw, Dani. One hit and run could be anything. The car tailing you could just be kids, but on top of the threatening phone call and someone getting into your hotel room, I’m not ready to dismiss it. To tell the truth, I don’t like the way this investigation’s going. Kirby’s honest but he’s not very aggressive.”
“But what can you do? You can’t investigate on your own.”
“No, and I don’t think they’d like me showing up in any official capacity, but I can’t sit around and watch while you’re in danger. At the least, I can keep you company. That car thing sounds fishy. I’m going to get someone to cover for me and fly to Boston tonight.”
“Charlie, really you don’t need to. I have a lawyer, and I will take your advice and stick to cabs. I intend to get the hell out of here tomorrow or the next day with the lawyer’s help. By the time you got here, I’d be at the airport. Honest, I’m not taking any chances.”
His job barely gave him enough free time to go to a movie, and coming all the way to Lynthorpe would mean several days off with no advance notice in a police station decimated by budget cuts and high case loads. We compromised. I would call him every evening and morning I was still at Lynthorpe to check in. I also agreed to give his name to Quentin.
I didn’t tell Charlie that my ex was staying nearby. For one thing, it would hardly ease Charlie’s concern. Dickie saved my life once, even if it was sort of by accident, but he’s not cautious where danger is concerned. For another, I wasn’t sure that Charlie would understand how disinterested I was in Dickie, with or without the presence of his new girlfriend.
****
An hour later, the hotel phone rang. After a moment’s hesitation because I didn’t want to hear proof that the car that followed me was driven by the same man who threatened me, I answered. It was Coe Anderson. I explained that I’d gotten lost while exploring the area, leaving out my trip to the golf course and leaving out my speculation about him worming his way into my room to steal the documents that held the clues to Gabby’s death.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, although his tone of voice suggested there was some fault involved on my part. “When can you come in for a brief meeting?”
“Your office? But it’s Saturday.”
“Welcome to the life of an administrator.”
“You can’t tell me on the phone?”
“The president and I met with Vince. There’s no time to lose.”
It sounded urgent. I was, after all, a paid consultant here, and I was curious to see what could possibly have ratcheted up the pressure beyond what it already was. Maybe I was simply a glutton for punishment. I agreed to take a cab over in an hour. Setting my concerns about Coe Anderson aside, I turned to the list of tasks still waiting for me. First, I called Quentin’s office, expecting to get a recorded message. To my surprise, his assistant answered. She explained there was a trial beginning Monday morning. “We’re all in,” she said, resignation strong in her voice. I asked if the lawyer could see me, and she said she’d check when he got out of his conference, but it would be tough unless it was urgent. I told her I wasn’t sure how urgent it was, but a short conversation with him might answer the question. She laughed and said she’d try and I should call back later.
Then I sat down to think through the tough part of the Margoletti gift memo. What do I include, I asked myself? Describe the problem attached to the auctioned paintings given to Vince Margoletti? Explain the two lists and recommend they be reconciled before the gift was finalized? No one would want that delay, but I’d be derelict not to point it out. Mention Margoletti’s mixed reputation as a P.R. issue to be faced and planned for? Given Rory Brennan’s stern rebuke, there wasn’t much sense including it. He’d just tell me to ax it before he signed off on the report.
My other assignment, born out of the tragedies and underscored by the threats against me, was to collect, interpret as best I could, and hand over to Detective Kirby the clouded, dark aspects of this situation. Gabby’s face when she told me that Larry Saylor was dead flashed in front of me. She had turned big brown eyes on me, the kind that are hard to refuse, and asked me to help make sense of the executive’s findings. Even then, a little voice inside my head had warned me it might be sticky. Now it was too late to back away.
By the time I had to leave for campus, I had figured out how to get the important stuff into the report with the goal of letting them sign off on the basic gift with a set of stipulations. I outlined it well enough so I could finish the text pretty quickly from my notes and the material that had piled up since day one. I didn’t know what to do about the auction sheets, since I didn’t have them and they obviously hid a clue about the puzzling issues, other than to describe what I could and list the artists’ names. I set that problem aside for now.
Coe Anderson was twitching as he escorted me into his office. He jumped right in. “Rory and Vince want this business settled now, no more delays. Vince will make a stock transfer to Lynthorpe that will net enough cash to hire an architect and get started. We need your report today.” He leaned across his desk and emphasized his point by lifting his index finger in the air.
Something about finger pointing sends me into resistance mode every time. “It might be hard to get it to you today, although I’m aiming for Monday morning. My plan is to send an email draft to the president tomorrow at the latest. I need to add a section about some specific works of art, and I’m missing some information for that.” Hint, hint, you wouldn’t have it by any chance?
He rocked back in his chair. “How hard can this be? A man wants to give us a lot of money, he’s not a crook, and you keep bringing up imaginary problems.” He looked mad enough to bite a hole in the table. I was surprised into silence, and he went on. “Frankly, I don’t care if it upsets Geoff Johnson or not. We want you to turn in what you have by the end of today, along with the materials you worked from. Vince is set to bring in his P.R. team Monday morning.”
“ ‘We’ is you and Vince, or you and Rory?”
“All of us. It wasn’t your fault that Larry died, or the development assistant, but if you had finished your report sooner, perhaps…” He let his implication sit there while my face got hot.
“You can’t mean you think I am somehow responsible for Gabby’s death,” I said, fighting to keep my voice as cool as his.
“No, but I don’t think any of us realized that having someone outside the college involved would complicate the process so much. I’m sure your report will be valuable, will give us some pointers going forward. And I’ll be happy to recommend you to my higher education colleagues, of course.” His smile was as phony as his gesture of professional courtesy. At least to my ears, his voice was patronizing and dripped with insincerity.
“And if I report a problem with the gift, something that may be related to Larry’s and Gabby’s deaths?”
“God forbid. You can’t do that.” He jumped up and started pacing the small space behind his desk. “Let me be quite candid here.” More finger pointing, this time at me. “Vince sat in that chair early this morning and said we either accept the collection now, or he withdraws the offer. So you see, my hands are tied.”
Interesting, that choice of words. Tied? He couldn’t do, or had to do, what? “Then let me be candid too.” The dean sat down again, so hard his chair squeaked. “There’s something wrong about a few of the artworks, something that’s related to Gabby’s death. I will have to go to the police with what I’ve learned if it’s at all possible that it’s related to the events around here.”
“The police?” he said, his eyebrows almost reaching his hairline. He looked frightened.
“They know about the project Gabby and I were working on. They may not think it’s relevant but I decided after talking to an attorney that I couldn’t withhold it.”
“You weren’t supposed to divulge our confidential business,” he said, his voice rising. “How much did you tell them?” Without waiting for a reply, he continued, “Rory and Vince will be unhappy to hear about this. Send Rory your report, and make your plane reservations at the same time.”
His words were tough, but the expression on his face didn’t match. Yes, he was afraid of something. If he was trying to cover up his involvement, this might be my only opportunity to force him to show his hand. I kept my voice pitched low. “What do you know about a Georgia O’Keeffe painting?”
His brows contracted and he became very still. “What?”
“How about Roy Lichtenstein?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Artists, I know that.”
“Do you think Lynthorpe is going to receive major works by them? Is it on the list you’ve seen?”
“I don’t remember. Are we supposed to?”
Not believable. Of course he knew. Two major American artists and two extremely expensive pieces of art, and the dean of the college that would get them didn’t know? Give me a break. “Good question. There’s one in storage. The accountant lists it. But it’s not on the master list.”
Coe Anderson looked carefully at me. “You realize there are more than fifty pieces in this gift, and that Vince may not be giving us all of his collection? And, that he has accountants, not curators, in charge? With that set-up, it’s easy to lose track of one, another reason to nail this transaction without more delay.”
I was interested. “Do you think Vince’s accountants have lost a twenty million dollar Roy Lichtenstein? Is that even possible?”
Coe shrugged and continued to stare at me. “Was that one of Larry’s suspicions?”
“I need to talk to Vince Margoletti.”
“That’s a very bad idea,” Coe said.
“I’m not sure I have a choice. We’re talking about extraordinary assets that either are or are not coming to Lynthorpe. Surely you want to know.” Are you baiting a tiger? my inner voice cautioned. No, but it was that or walk away from Larry’s and Gabby’s deaths. I couldn’t turn the issue over to Kirby until I knew enough to help him investigate.
“It sounds as though you have some ideas already,” he said, punctuating his disapproval with a sharp exhale. “If it’s because some of these damned duplicate lists you looked at are inaccurate, I can understand why it may have confused you. That’s one reason I wanted to get all the paperwork into one place.”
In his office, where he could control what I saw? He went on, underscoring every word, his eyes riveted on my face. “But you absolutely cannot speak to Vince. You will be responsible for Lynthorpe losing this once in a lifetime opportunity.” He forced a smile. “Ultimately, we can only go with what Vince’s lawyers provided, right?”
Coe knew there was something fishy. Was he pressuring me on his own behalf, or on Vince’s? I stood up, putting my hands in my pockets so the dean couldn’t see they were shaking. “I have to get back to the report so I can meet my deadline. I’m genuinely sorry the consulting hasn’t been what you all expected.”
“Will you recommend we accept his generous gift?”
I didn’t answer.
Coe looked up at me and I could see him weighing my silence. He escorted me to his outer office door without another word and stayed in the doorway watching me as I walked away. Had my mention of the two paintings set off some kind of alarm with him? I didn’t have much time, and I didn’t like the tone of Coe’s voice. At least, if he was behind all of this, I’d drawn him out.
****
I eased myself into the hotel’s desk chair, feeling a small stab of pain in my neck, the only physical reminder of the hit and run attack. I wanted to get to Vince Margoletti before Coe Anderson did, but as I searched for his business card, my cell phone rang. It was the California lawyer who had called me several times at the Devor, and he got right to the point.
“I’ve been trying to reach you for more than a week,” he said, impatience in his voice. “Geoff Johnson is a friend of mine and he said you needed to hear from me. I thought you’d call me back since it was so important.”
I opened my mouth to explain, maybe apologize, but he wasn’t in a waiting mood. “I’m the lead attorney for Loros and Geoff says you need to know if Vince Margoletti or his firm is currently providing the company with legal services. The answer, Ms. O’Rourke, is no, emphatically no. Loros changed attorneys a few months ago. I’m not in a position to say more, but I promised Geoff I would confirm that for you.”
Loros. The company started by Bart Corliss, the man who went under the train, the man who gave Margoletti a magnificent work of contemporary art he had purchased at a glitzy art auction house. “Can you tell me anything about the decision to change law firms?”
“As I said, I can’t tell you anything more except, perhaps, to say that my firm handled everything to do with the company’s IPO from the moment the board decided to go public. Margoletti had absolutely no role from that date on.” IPOs, or Initial Public Offerings, move companies from private to public, shareholder-owned status. If the company looks strong, investors swarm all over it, running the initial share price up fast at the opening and making the people who owned pre-public shares rich, at least on paper.
“Wasn’t he on the board? Was he at that meeting?”
“He was not at that meeting. The board’s actions regarding his role as an outside director were made in executive session and I cannot comment on that except to say he is not on the board now.”
“Did he profit from the company’s decision to go public?”
“I suppose so. The company bought back his preferred shares at the estimated price per share they would fetch in the IPO.”
“So he would have walked away with…?”
“A few million dollars. That’s more than I should tell you, but Geoff’s a friend. I have no idea why you’re asking, Ms. O’Rourke.”
I wasn’t sure I did either. Not fifteen minutes before she was murdered, Gabby had come across a note Larry Saylor meant to give her, in which he asked her to check out an IPO related to his research. She hadn’t told me then, but it must have been Loros, and Saylor had figured out what connected Loros—or its founder—to one of the donated paintings. Something that tainted Vince Margoletti’s gift enough to distress him deeply.
“I hate bringing this up, but Loros Corporation’s CEO died recently. Geoff may have told you I’m consulting with a small college that will be the beneficiary of Vince Margoletti’s art collection.” I was talking fast because I could sense that the attorney was impatient, probably because he didn’t have a client he could bill for the minutes. I had a vision of a gigantic clock with a bright red arrow clicking off each wasted instant. “I’ve been reviewing the history of some of the pieces he’s donating in order to make sure the assessed value is correct. I came across the Loros founder’s name as the previous owner of a very valuable painting, which he bought through a New York auction house.”
“Of course I know Bart Corliss died. I wouldn’t know anything about his private purchases, however. I am the attorney for the company, not Mr. Corliss’s personal attorney,” he said, cutting me off.
“Yes, but I wonder if he ever said anything about the painting. You see, it looks as though he gave the painting to Mr. Margoletti.”
“Gave?” The lawyer snorted. “I rather doubt that, Ms. O’Rourke. Relations between Mr. Corliss and Mr. Margoletti were strained, shall we say, for the past four months at least. Unless the gift was long ago.”
“No, I think it was recent. It’s worth quite a bit, about twenty million dollars,” I said.
“Twenty million?” Burgess was incredulous. I’d broken through his impenetrable veneer with that number. “And bought at Sotheby’s or Christie’s? Well, you’ve got hold of some bad information there, Ms. O’Rourke. As I said, I’m not Corliss’s personal attorney, but it strains credibility to think that Bart Corliss would buy, much less give away, a major work of art. I seriously doubt he knew more than the names of the art auction places back East.”
“Why?”
“Look, the Loros corporate offices are downscale spaces in a slightly run down building on New Montgomery Street. They’re decorated with framed photographs of their products. Cheaply framed photos. Bart Corliss was a brilliant, intense, ambitious man, but he never showed an ounce of interest in anything cultural in my presence and certainly not to the tune of twenty million dollars. I’ve been to his house, and, believe me, it could use a little upscaling. He sank every cent he had into the business and didn’t even draw a salary until after the IPO.” He barked a laugh into the phone. “I’d bet real money your information is wrong.”
Puzzled, I tried a few other angles, but Mr. Burgess wasn’t a lawyer for nothing. He had said all he intended to and within a minute (that’s sixty seconds in billable time) he informed me briskly that he had another call waiting, asked me to let Geoff know he had returned my call, and was off the phone.
So now I had the Lichtenstein that Corliss had given to Vince and the O’Keeffe that was lost or not to investigate, and I wasn’t going to get any help from the college. My inner voice pointed out there was a more immediate concern. Had I just stirred up a killer’s instincts?