Robert Mondelli hung up the phone and read his notes. His contact at the NYPD had asked him to look into a case that might or might not be his kind of thing. It probably wasn’t. Despite Jimmy La Grange’s occupation, the runner’s death almost certainly had nothing to do with art. Still, Mondelli would spend a day or so to prove it either way.
Mondelli was in law school when his dad, a cop, had been shot and killed by a drug addict trying to break into a doctor’s office. Mondelli dropped out of school and joined the NYPD to support his mother. He’d studied law at night and passed the bar exam, and considered joining a friend’s law practice, but art crimes had fascinated him, and he’d stayed on the job and made them his specialty. He took art history courses and haunted museums on weekends—still did. Three years ago, he’d resigned from the Department to set up his own agency specializing in the recovery of stolen art, and other art crimes. He’d been able to use his knowledge of the law and his experience with the NYPD, and he’d never regretted his decision.
The NYPD or City Hall often called Rob in as a consultant, mostly unpaid, but their referrals led to lucrative private-sector cases. He’d become famous in a small way, and the quality of both his life and his finances had improved. He wondered if he’d still be married if he’d left the police force earlier. The NYPD was notoriously tough on marriages, and many cops were divorced, sometimes more than once. After his own brief marriage ended badly, he had decided he wouldn’t try again.
When the faxes on the La Grange case arrived, he flipped through them, looking for art connections. An unconfirmed tip from a guy at the New York Times that La Grange was the seller of a high-priced Winslow Homer print at auction. Unlikely. La Grange had less than a thousand dollars in the bank, and the police had found no evidence linking him to big money, or to the fancy art crowd. Except for La Grange’s answering machine containing three voice mails from Coleman Greene at ArtSmart. Why was the well-known owner of a successful magazine so anxious to speak to La Grange? There was also a message from Simon, no last name, reachable at the Carlyle Hotel. According to one of the faxes, the police had identified, interviewed, and cleared Simon. Whoever he was, he had a solid alibi.
No paperwork had turned up on the Homer print. In fact, the police hadn’t found any of La Grange’s financial records, except for an invoice for $1,000 from La Grange to the Greene Gallery dated last week, stamped “paid.” The Greene Gallery. Any connection to Coleman Greene? Oh, yeah, Dinah and Coleman were cousins. Uh, oh—that asterisk by Dinah Greene’s name meant “tread carefully.” She was married to Jonathan Hathaway. The Hathaway family had a lot of clout. It was hard to see how Rob could offend the Greene cousins, but he’d keep in mind that he had to tread softly. Unless, of course, they were guilty of something.
Coleman was red-penciling a manuscript when a Robert Mondelli called. He said he was a consultant to the police on the art aspects of the La Grange case, and her name had come up. Could he come to see her? Coleman agreed to see Mondelli in half an hour. That would give her time to run downstairs and pick up an early lunch.
She stood in line at Starbucks—there was always a line at Starbucks—and collected and paid for her coffee and a turkey sandwich. But on her way to the elevators she slipped on a wet spot on the marble floor, and careened into a bulky man emerging from a telephone booth. If he hadn’t grabbed her, she would have fallen. She managed to keep her balance, but her coffee spilled all over both of them.
“God, that’s hot,” he said, trying to clean himself up with his handkerchief. Coleman dabbed at him with the paper napkins she’d collected with her coffee. “I’m so sorry—” Oh hell, the napkins were drenched. She was making it worse, and, not only that, she was patting his crotch. She felt as if she were in an episode of Sex and the City. She snatched her hand back and fled, calling “Sorry” over her shoulder.
After a futile attempt to remove the coffee stains from her beige silk pants, she collapsed in her desk chair and stared at the soggy sandwich and empty coffee cup. The man she’d run into was worse off. She’d probably ruined him for life. Could a man be sterilized or become impotent after being scalded? Coleman hoped he didn’t work in the building. With luck, she’d never see him again.
She’d barely picked up her pencil when the receptionist called to say Mondelli had arrived. She sighed and went out to greet him, Dolly at her heels.
Good grief! It was the man she’d injured. Well, there was nothing for it but to tough it out.
He’d apparently decided on the same strategy—he didn’t acknowledge their previous encounter by so much as a blink. God, he was even bigger than she remembered. She wouldn’t meet with him in her little office, she’d feel too crowded. Not to mention uncomfortable about their earlier encounter.
Coleman stood aside to let him precede her into the conference room. He reeked of coffee—surprise, surprise—and his gray suit was stained. She probably should have offered him money for the dry cleaners. He was maybe forty-five; six feet, or even taller; and husky, nice-looking, if you liked ex-football types, which she didn’t. But she couldn’t fault his thick dark hair slightly graying at the temples, or his heavy-lidded brown eyes. He had a deep mellow voice and a good smile. Still, Coleman was sure she wouldn’t like Mondelli—he was too big, too much a cop. He’d be bossy and overbearing.
She sat down across the table from him. “How can I help you?” she asked, hoping she sounded cool, not like a clumsy oaf—oafess?—who’d spilled boiling hot coffee on a man trying to prop her up.
He said he was investigating whether La Grange’s death was art-connected, or, as the police thought, a date turned bad. The police had given him her name and number because she’d been trying to reach La Grange. “Why were you so anxious to talk to him? Was he a friend?” he asked.
“No, I never met him. I’m working on a story about a man named Heyward Bain who bought a Winslow Homer print at Killington’s yesterday. Since La Grange was the seller, I wanted to interview him. But I never reached him, and then I heard he was dead.”
Mondelli frowned. “What makes you think La Grange was the seller?”
“I heard it from someone inside Killington’s.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Isn’t that information confidential?” His tone was neutral, but she sensed disapproval. Naturally he’d disapprove: he was a cop.
“Yes, but that kind of information often gets out,” Coleman said.
Mondelli made a note. “But it’s also often inaccurate, isn’t it? Is there anything else you can tell me about La Grange?”
Why should she tell him anything? He’d made it clear that he thought she was wrong about Jimmy La Grange being the seller of the Homer. Arrogant know-it-all. He’d learn soon enough that she was right. She’d like to tell him to get lost, but maybe if she gave him a little more information, she’d learn something.
“I mentioned his death to Simon Fanshawe-Davies—he bought the Homer for the Print Museum—and it seemed to make him angry. I couldn’t understand why. Maybe you can explain?”
“Yes, the police have talked to Mr. Fanshawe-Davies,” Mondelli said, capping his pen and standing up. “I don’t think I need trouble you any further, Ms. Greene.”
Coleman scowled. Not only had he ignored her question, he hadn’t the slightest interest in what she thought. “But you don’t believe there’s an art link to La Grange’s death?”
He looked down at her. “There’s no evidence of an art motive or connection, and lots of indications that his death was something else. I gather you disagree?”
She stood as tall as she could, but he still dwarfed her. This guy was not only a hulk, he was as thick as a plank. “I certainly do, but I can see you wouldn’t be interested. This is the first time I’ve ever had dealings with the New York City Police Department, and I have to tell you, I’m not impressed.”
His face remained impassive. “I’m sorry to hear that. Thanks for your time.”
She walked him to the reception room, but only to make sure he left. First Simon, now this guy. The case was crawling with creeps.
Back in her office, she considered what she should do next. Before talking to Mondelli, she had assumed that when the police learned about Jimmy and the Homer, they’d investigate the connectio, and figure out that there was more going on than the sordid story they’d decided to believe. She’d planned to learn whatever they turned up from Clancy, and pass it on to Chick. But it sounded as if the police were going to bury the art part of La Grange’s story.
That was a problem. She couldn’t publish an article telling readers that Jimmy La Grange, seller of the Homer, newly rich by about half a million dollars, was coincidentally killed almost at the same time he sold the print. Too many questions would remain unanswered. She’d look like an idiot. It was time to check in with Clancy.
“Clancy? I talked to Mondelli, the art cop. He seems sure La Grange’s death isn’t art-related. He’s sticking with the cop theory about the sex thing.”
“He’ll have to reconsider. Not only was Jimmy La Grange the seller of the Homer, he was also the seller of The Midget.”
Coleman sat up straight, her eyes wide. “Wow, are you serious? How’d you find out?”
Clancy laughed. “You’re not the only one with contacts. I got it from someone who works at Grendle’s. What did you think of Mondelli?”
“Not much. A lot of muscle and a closed mind.”
“Don’t underestimate him—he’s plenty smart—but so far, the police haven’t found any evidence of an art link to La Grange’s death, except what you and I’ve turned up. They have lots of physical evidence from La Grange’s apartment of what happened. When they pick up the guys who were there, they can nail ’em easily. As far as they’re concerned, even if we’re right, Jimmy somehow found the money—maybe borrowed it—to buy those two prints, and that’s the end of it. His death was something else entirely.”
“But Clancy, there’s no way that poor obscure little dealer could have ‘found’ or ‘borrowed’ the money to buy those two prints. We’re talking hundreds of thousands of dollars here.”
“I know. La Grange must have fronted for somebody who didn’t want anyone to know he was connected to those prints. But why? They can’t be stolen. There’s been so much publicity about them, we’d know it by now.”
“If La Grange was fronting for somebody, the real owner of the print is out of luck. Whoever he is, he’ll never get his money now,” Coleman said.
“Yeah, and if you weren’t on the case, the seller of Skating Girl might not be out of luck. I bet the auction house checks were supposed to go to a PO Box, where the seller has access. But since you discovered that La Grange consigned Skating Girl, and the information got to the police, the check will go to Jimmy’s estate instead. And thanks to me, so will the money for The Midget.”
“Somebody’s bound to be furious,” Coleman said, remembering the expression on Simon’s face when she’d told him La Grange was dead.