Sarg greeted Drayco with crossed arms and a scowl outside the entrance to the Sackler Gallery. As Drayco approached, Sarg drained the last liquid from a cup in his hands and hurled it into the trash.
Drayco checked his watch. “I’m five minutes early. You been here a while?”
“Got a call from Halabi a half hour ago. After listening to him rant for five minutes, I think it’s safe to say we won’t be invited to the police ball anytime soon. At least, you won’t. Or Brock.”
“What did he say?”
“Oh, just a little conversation he had with Brock about your mother and that letter she sent to him after she was declared legally dead. Brock neglected to mention it when he was first interviewed by the PD.”
Drayco stared at Sarg, hardly blinking. “Looks like you can add yourself to the forgot-to-mention club. Brock told me you called him. About Iago and Brisbane.”
Sarg leaned against a tall trash can beside him. “And I’m not going to apologize for it. You’ve already got one sword of Damocles hanging over your head. And I have a feeling Brisbane could nail you if he wants, uncle or no.”
Drayco glanced over at the multi-colored banners hanging on the front of the Sackler. The lettering touted an exhibition on ancestor veneration in Asian cultures, with objects from family shrines. He wasn’t feeling the veneration love right now. “Did Brock tell you he knew about the existence of Brisbane already?”
“No, he didn’t.” Sarg frowned. “Exactly how long had he known about Maura’s notorious twin?”
“Long enough. I don’t know which of the two has lied to me more, Maura or Brock.”
“You know what my sweet little college-senior Tara told me? That lies are at the heart of all relationships.”
“They teach her that in Philosophy 101?”
“Money well spent, don’t ya think?”
Drayco frowned, prompted Sarg to add, “I was kidding.”
Drayco replied, “Do you have a cold?”
Sarg gaped at him. “Never felt better. Why?”
“Oh, it’s nothing. Your voice just sounded different.” Everyone’s voice had started sounding different to him, their usual colors, shapes, and textures off-center. And it wasn’t just voices, it was all sounds, something that hadn’t happened to him since the stress following the Cadden twins tragedy. Without his normal palette of 3D sound, the world was a less interesting place, more like gruel than a five-course meal.
It was Sarg’s turn to look at his watch. “We better go meet Agent Hanlon, or we’ll be late.”
After presenting their credentials to the gallery receptionist, she pointed them through the long hallway, past ancient statues made of travertine and limestone from Persia, Yemen and Syria, and down the stairs to one of the smaller galleries.
Sarg had met other members of the FBI’s art fraud division, but Hanlon was new. They’d been told to look for a blonde woman in brown leather boots, but it was moot, since she was the only person in the room.
When she turned to greet them, Drayco could feel Sarg’s posture stiffen and guessed he was trying as hard as Drayco not to stare at the woman’s face. Unlike most people following major facial cancer surgery, Agent Holly Hanlon didn’t try to hide her scars behind heavy makeup. From the looks of the slightly sunken cheek and missing right nostril, he guessed more plastic surgery was in her future.
She shook their hands and got down to business right away. “I checked our art theft database after you contacted me. The art broker you mentioned, Giovanni Nardello, did pass away recently as you were told by Faust Marchand.” She shook her head. “We’ve had our eye on Marchand for a while, but Nardello was clean. Near as we could tell.”
Sarg said, “I don’t suppose there’s any chance we could get our hands on Nardello’s ledgers?”
The facial scars made it difficult for Hanlon to smile, but she flashed some teeth as she reached into the large portfolio case slung over her shoulder and pulled out a cloth-bound book. “Nardello was the old-fashioned kind. No computers.”
Drayco exchanged a hopeful glance with Sarg and tried to contain his excitement as Hanlon continued, “The painting you described—that Chinese calligraphy. It was sold on February tenth.”
Two days before Jerold’s murder. “Did Nardello note the buyer’s name?”
“He used a number, not a name.”
At Drayco’s disappointed look, she flashed more teeth again. “But after talking to Nardello’s daughter, we learned he kept a separate unlabeled log in a wall safe, with numbers linked to buyer names. His way of protecting the privacy of rich clients.”
She pulled a second, smaller book out of the portfolio and opened it to a bookmarked page, pointing at one entry. “The painting was bought in the name of an LLC.”
She put the book down and walked them over to a nearby gallery with an exhibit of Chinese calligraphy paintings, nodding at one in particular. “Is this similar to your painting?”
Drayco examined it. “All I know is our missing piece is Song Dynasty.”
“So is this one, from around AD ten eighty-two. They should share characteristics, in case you come across it, yourself.”
She stood next to the painting and pointed out the brush strokes of the thin, elegant script. “Calligraphy is like a mirror for each artist, a silent reflection of the soul. Each artist had his own technique.”
“Enhancing its value,” Drayco said.
She nodded. “I couldn’t find info your piece was sold to a museum yet, but we’ve tagged it in the database in case it is. Whether the buyer knew it was stolen or not, there’s still a crime involved. That is, if your young art owner wants to press charges. His word is the only proof we have it was stolen in the first place.”
Sarg asked, “What’s your recovery rate of stolen artworks?”
“Still only about a third. And we get new reports of missing pieces all the time. The elderly are particularly vulnerable, especially once dementia kicks in.”
They thanked Hanlon for her time and snaked their way through the maze of rooms to the first floor. Drayco paused at a case that was part of the ancestor exhibit to look at the row of small statues, reading the description.
In certain Chinese cultures, it was believed offerings for the deceased provided for their welfare in the afterlife, and in turn, the dead influenced the fortunes of the living. What would Jerold Zamorra have to say to him right now? Or to Ashley or Edwin?
Once Sarg and Drayco were back outside the gallery, Drayco felt drawn to those banners and couldn’t stop looking at them. “Did you see the name of that LLC?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Same one Brisbane used to buy his island home.”
Sarg whistled. “I guess it’s possible Jerold had more than one fraud scheme going. Not just a scam lottery but a stolen artwork ring. Maybe he teamed up with Gogo and got cut out of the deal.”
“And Maura was involved, so Brisbane covered up the scheme.”
“Hell, maybe Ashley was part of it, too.”
Drayco added, “Like you said, a circle of theft and fraud. All of our suspects in one, giant theft ring. A family of con artists, like my own.”
Sarg put his hands on his hips. “I gather you don’t think that’s a possibility.”
“Why?”
“Because you have that little twitch thing going on.”
“Twitch?”
“When you don’t buy an idea. You get this little twitch on the right side of your face.”
Drayco stared at him. “Are you making that up?”
“Nope. Never said anything because me knowing and you not knowing came in handy at times. But in the interest of our newfound openness and honesty,” he tilted his head up at Drayco, “I thought I’d share.”
Drayco rubbed a hand through his hair. He’d never thought he was like his father in any way. Before he could dwell on that little tidbit of unwelcome insight, Sarg added, “I contacted the TSA chief. That former friend of Jerold’s you told me about, Barney Schleissman? Found out the address of the home he’s in. You interested?”
Having taken a taxi to the Sackler, Drayco only hesitated briefly before accepting Sarg’s offer of a ride. Their recent case together a few months ago had gone a long way toward bridging the chasm that opened up after Drayco took the fall for Sarg on a case and left the Bureau. But any bridge can develop cracks.
He didn’t doubt Sarg had his best interests at heart. But practically everyone close to him had lied. Drayco was beginning to think that whole not-trusting-thing Maura had going on wasn’t such a bad philosophy to have.