Number 5, Rue Goethe holds the offices of Knoedler & Preiss, the law firm that’s also the headquarters for all five companies involved in the stolen-art sales. It’s on the south side of the street’s easternmost block, just another in a line of tidy turn-of-the-century façades. Carson and I cased the place late last night and agreed that breaking in from the outside is a stupid plan.
Stupid Plan Number Two: we’ll have to break in from the inside.
The firm’s receptionist—a severe young blonde in a severe black suit that pretends to be Hugo Boss—leads us to a small conference room that overlooks Rue Goethe and the back end of the neo-Renaissance State Savings Bank across the street. The bank’s cylindrical clock tower looks like something swiped from a Ruritanian castle. The morning overcast is just starting to break up.
The building might be circa 1900 outside, but the inside’s been completely gutted and rebuilt along spare, modern lines. The only thing that lets on that this used to be a residence is the antique fireplace with a figured cast-iron firebox splitting the conference room’s sponged side wall.
Carson’s sitting next to me in one of the black ergonomic office chairs. She looks more corporate than I ever imagined she could: conservative navy pantsuit, white button-front blouse, quiet black pumps, and a single, short strand of pearls peeking out from under her open collar. She’s even dabbed on some lip gloss and brushed out her hair so it lays flat. I almost didn’t recognize her this morning.
“What’d you see?” I whisper.
“Alarm contacts on the front door. No toilets in the common areas. No fire stairs. Camera in the lobby. Alarm on the office suite.” She fiddles with her small black-leather attaché on the table. “Just keeps getting better.”
The only way we get a next step is to find out who’s behind the shell companies that sold the stolen art. I try to look thoughtful while I sort through the swamp in my head. “Okay, like we planned. Go to the restroom after we get started. See if you can find the file room.”
She shrugs noncommittally and starts swiveling her chair, examining every inch of the room.
A reedy guy with a graying goatee opens the door and glides in. English-cut slate-gray pinstripe, safe tie, oxblood portfolio. “Här Hoskins, please?”
This is Rick Hoskins’ first public appearance. I’d thought all night about how to play him, how to act like a rich guy. I can’t go into full asshole mode; that’ll make me too memorable. I’d settled on direct, decisive, businesslike. We’ll see how that works.
I bounce out of my chair. “That’s me.” We shake hands. “My assistant, Ms. Carson.”
“Här Hoskins. Madame Carson.” He nods a little bow over Carson’s hand. “Please, I am Gunther Stoeller. I shall help you today. Please, be comfortable. Did Berdine offer coffee or tea to you?” He has a mild German accent and holds himself like he’s trying to be the smallest target in the room.
Right on cue, the severe blonde appears with two square, white porcelain coffee cups on a stainless-steel tray. The rest of us sit, Stoeller on the other side of the black laminate table from Carson and me.
Once Berdine disappears, I say, “Thanks for seeing me with such short notice. My travel plans changed at the last minute.”
He nods oh-so-politely. “Ah, yes. It is so difficult to keep a schedule these days. May I ask how you chose our firm?”
“One of your clients recommended you.” I’m betting he won’t ask who. Name-dropping doesn’t encourage repeat business.
“Excellent. Shall we begin?” He opens his portfolio and materializes an ice-blue Mont Blanc from somewhere. “Please, what is the purpose of your corporation? This is so we can choose the correct structure for your needs.”
“You mean the real purpose?”
Stoeller smiles like I just said something witty. “For now, please, yes. We can discuss later the public purpose.”
“I need to park assets discreetly in a tax-advantaged locale. An SARL, maybe.”
Three of the five fronts that sold the stolen art were SARLs. A Société à responsabilité limitée is a limited-liability partnership used in Francophone countries. It’s like an LLC in America.
“Yes, of course, an excellent choice. Please, the name for your firm?”
“Chiaroscuro Holdings.”
I give him props; he doesn’t ask how to spell it. Then the Twenty Questions part of the program starts: should Knoedler & Preiss act as registered agent? (Yes.) Nominee service? (Straw directors and shareholders—I wonder how many corporate boards Berdine sits on.)(Yes.) Mail service? (Yes.) Corporate email address? (Yes.) And so on.
Carson leans forward, clutching her stomach a bit more dramatically than I’d expected. “Excuse me, Herr Stoeller. Where’s the ladies’?”
Stoeller looks up from his notepad, a bit uncomfortable. “Oh, yes, of course. Go to the reception desk, then to the back of the office. Please, I can have Berdine show you?” He reaches for the phone on the far end of the table.
“No, thank you, I’ll manage.”
Both Stoeller and I stand when she bolts from her chair and hurries out the door. She’s practically running by the time she hits the hallway. I feel like I should explain this, but my brain’s scrambling to catch up. “She picked up a bug on the flight over.” I hope I sound calmer than I feel. “Poor thing. She’s been miserable.”
Stoeller nods sadly. “Flying can be so unpleasant these days.”
Twenty Questions takes another fifteen minutes. My master’s study of anonymous corporate structures at the gallery (and later at PEN) helps a lot; I don’t think I sound too dumb. Stoeller takes my passport to scan (“only a formality, I assure you, monsieur”), glances at Carson’s empty chair, then glides out as quietly as he came to “begin the process.”
Yes, Carson’s still gone.
I pace to the window, beat my fingertips against the black-slate sill, and watch the lack of activity on the street. She was supposed to make it fast, gone five or ten minutes at most. It’s been over fifteen. An Amazon like Carson is going to stand out. There’s only so long she can wander around in here before somebody gets suspicious.
Did she try to break into the file room? Did they bust her?
Is she still here?
Outside, a white BMW with an orange nose and rocker panels stops in front of the building: the local cops. Carson’s got the car keys and a phone. It only takes a minute to call 113 for the police. I can hear her report to Allyson now: Yeah, stupid bastard got busted the first day. But I can do this on my own. I’ve got a few ideas…
Sweat creeps down my sides. I hold my breath until the cop car turns right at the corner.
Should I go look for her? If she’s been caught, I could end up handcuffed to her, or whatever they do in law firms that set up money-laundering vehicles. If I don’t chase after her, they’ll wonder why. Shit.
Two sharp raps on the door. Carson edges in.
I never thought I’d be relieved to see her. I zoom in on her and grab her elbow. “What happened?” I whisper. “Where were you?”
“Found the file room.” She yanks her elbow away. “Next to the toilets. Keypad entry, fire door. Thought I’d hang around a couple minutes, maybe pick up the combo from someone going in. Had a long fight with my boyfriend on the phone.” Carson has a boyfriend? Poor bastard. “Of course, nobody fucking shows up ‘til two minutes ago.”
“Did anybody see you?”
She rolls her eyes. “Of course they saw me. Heard me, too. Kept moving ‘til the file clerk rolled in. Anyway, four-digit code. Got the first three numbers.” She makes it sound so easy. Too easy?
How much of that is true? How paranoid do I want to be? “Great. Good job. But next time, let me know what you’re doing. I can cover for you.”
She glares at me. “I’m not the one on a leash here.”
Stoeller returns a few minutes later to wrap up. I sign a bunch of papers, get my passport back. He was able to catch somebody staying late at their pet Singaporean bank (six-hour time difference), so he has an account number already. “Please, you must deposit the minimum share capital before we can complete the registration,” Stoeller reminds me.
Allyson will be thrilled. Not. “No problem. I’ll get that done as soon as we leave.”
“Excellent. Please call to inform us. After that, all is formalities. I can have executed copies of the corporate documents ready for you by this evening, if I may?”
Exactly what I’d hoped for: a reason to come back. We’ll get what we need this evening, or one way or another, we’re finished.