Carson leaves to stake out Belknap after our morning workouts. I’m supposed to relieve her at noon.
My goal this morning is to find Belknap’s list of purchases and sales, if it exists. This’ll tell me how big his operation is and how he moves the art. Three problems: he’s got over 6200 files, a chunk of them have Italian names, and the English file and folder names aren’t all that helpful.
I copy the files from Gianna’s thumb drive to my laptop, then search for all the spreadsheets and open the ones with promising names.
The gallery’s accounts come up, and I take some time trying to figure them out. The credits and debits are coded with five-digit numbers, so while I can see the money coming and going, I can’t tell why. This isn’t exactly exotic; Gar did the same thing for clients on our gallery’s public books (the ones that went to the IRS). But this is supposed to be Belknap’s private data. Insurance in case somebody like me gets to it?
Some transactions are pretty obvious. The high-four-figure debit in the first three days of each month is probably rent; a weekly mid-three-figure Friday debit is probably Gianna’s salary (and she’s way underpaid). Four- and five-figure credits for even amounts are probably sales.
I find the list of account codes, which leads to another level of abstraction. Some of the codes are defined in the clear, like Proprietà Monza, Telecom Italia and Gianna (24601, like Jean Valjean—cute). However, the receivables and some of the payables are named after rock musicians. It’s damn unlikely Ray Manzarek—still dead, last I checked—dropped €13,400 in Belknap’s gallery this month. But when I search the files for “Manzarek,” looking for the key, I come up with one hit—this spreadsheet. Shit.
Could he really have all the code names memorized? I could do it, but smart as he is, Belknap’s brain doesn’t work like mine. Either he hid the key or Gianna didn’t copy possibly the most important file on Belknap’s computer. I sure hope it’s the first, because the second wouldn’t be an accident.
I go to the backgrounder Allyson gave me and look up the Samuel Palmer sale last year in Shanghai. The shell company involved was Vermögensverwaltung Landeck (Landeck Asset Management), the sale went off on February 12th, and the buyer paid the Chinese dealer $190,000 U.S. I subtract the 25% dealer’s commission, look up the exchange rate for that date, and get €106,461 that should’ve come back to Belknap. Then I look through the gallery accounts for any credit around €100,000 after February 12 last year. Six months of transactions later, I’ve got nothing close to 100K. A search through the files for “Landeck” comes up empty. Shit.
None of the other four shell-company names pay off, either.
Two possibilities: these supposedly real accounts aren’t really real, or the sale proceeds went someplace other than Belknap’s gallery. His own shell company in some tropical place? Straight into his pocket?
Into Morrone’s pocket?
I pace around the room a few times, swearing and kicking the furniture. It doesn’t solve the problem, but it feels good. While I stumble around, my brain fights through last night’s sensory fog of soft curves and warm lips and reminds me that Gianna showed me an inventory of Morrone’s stuff in storage.
A search for “Boudin” pulls it up. I’ll need to look closer at this workbook later, but my immediate takeaway is that he’s not coding artist names. Hm.
I get seven hits on a search for “Palmer.” Two files mention Carl Palmer (of Emerson, Lake &), another code name. The rest involve a certain watercolor-on-board Italian landscape sold in Shanghai last year to somebody who’s now making little rocks out of big ones in some Chinese pen.
One of these is just what I was looking for: a list of sales. Here’s the Palmer; there’s the other four the client flagged; and here are the other seventy-three sales in the past two years that we didn’t know about. Artist, title, acquisition date, sale date, price, selling dealer (some blank, some five-digit numbers), buyer (many blank, some Italian composers), and an unlabeled column full of L.A. place names.
Finally!
There’s no key for the code names, of course, though some of the numbers show up in the accounts. These sales don’t appear in the gallery’s records. Too bad for the gallery—he’s got over €61 million in revenue laid out here. Where’d it all go?
My bet? Maywood, West Adams, View Park, Crenshaw and all the rest. For seventy-eight sales, Belknap’s got fifty-three different place names. I hope Herr Stoeller in Luxembourg likes the ski villa he bought with the fees for creating and servicing all these shell companies.
Angelo said about Belknap, “He is not an honest man.” I wonder where the money went… and where it was supposed to go.
A bit after eleven, my work phone rings. It’s Gianna’s number. Finally! “Gianna, I’m glad you—”
“Rick, please come to the gallery.” She sounds scared. “Something is not right. Please.”
“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” Belknap found out. Lucca came back at her. Burim’s got a knife to her throat. This is all my fault…
“Please, Rick, I need you. Please come.”
“Hold on! I’ll be there in…” But the line’s already dead.
I hope she isn’t.
I call Carson while I throw on some gallery-ready clothes. “Anything happening at the gallery?”
“Nah, it’s dead. Post came an hour ago. Don’t see Belknap’s car. Why?”
“Gianna just called. She says something’s ‘not right.’ She sounded terrified. Nothing? No noise, no sketchy visitors?”
“Zip. Want me to check it out?”
“Discreetly. See but don’t be seen. Don’t go in unless it looks like Gianna’s in real danger. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
The fifteen-minute taxi ride seems to last three hours. The longer I sit, the more spun-up I get. What’s happening up there? Am I going to be too late?
The taxi drops me across from the gallery. I call Carson. “Anything?”
“Not that I saw.”
“Keep the line open.” I pocket my phone while I cross the street. If things get real bad, maybe Carson can save us both.
Nothing’s going on behind the gallery’s windows when I get there—no screaming, no shattered glass, no blood, no people. Ever since the call, I’ve been focused on one thing: rescuing Gianna. Now with my hand on the lobby door, staring at the lowered shade, I take a few deep, strong breaths to pump myself up for whatever’s waiting in there.
Anything that’s happened to her is because of me. I have to make it right, whatever that means. Whatever it costs.
I push through the door. The electronic chime sounds.
Gianna stands there in a lipstick-pink scooter dress with big, black buttons. Grim face. Those luscious lips pressed flat. “Mi dispiace,” she whispers.
She’s sorry? What for?
Belknap steps out of the alcove. His eyes latch on me. They get big, then narrow to slits. “You son of a bitch.”