Remi had never liked New York City. She had found it too enclosed, too busy. It lacked the wide boulevards and ornate architecture of Paris.
And then there was that horrible accent—nasal, brash, even worse than the usual American accent.
But she couldn’t deny there was a certain energy to this place that many other American cities lacked. The people here, instead of being sealed in their cars, were crammed together on bustling sidewalks. The smell of cooking and the shouts of street hustlers filled her senses. A black man in a Tupac t-shirt started rapping at them while waving his homemade CDs over his head, hoping for a sale.
They were in lower Manhattan, a place of giant high rises and giant fortunes. Their first stop in the city was to see Frederick Mitchell, who had served as Montgomery Dyson’s attorney for the past fifteen years. A liveried doorman opened the door for them, and they found themselves in a gleaming foyer of marble and mirrors. A man in a suit at a front desk took their names and gave them directions to the 35th floor.
As they went up the elevator, Daniel turned to her and said, “Give me the info on that painting again.”
Remi’s Belgian friend had confirmed what she had suspected: that the painting was stolen.
“The painting was done by a minor 17th century Flemish artist named Jacob van der Veer. It was reported stolen in 1923 and has not been seen since. There’s only one photo known of it.”
Remi brought up the photo on her phone. While the photo wasn’t of the best quality, it showed Death riding through the night sky. A village and larger house could be seen in the landscape below. The painter had emphasized the night sky, and even in the grainy, secondhand black and white photo, the stars showed up clearly. Death’s scythe framed a constellation that Remi reminded herself to look up.
“Looks like Death is heading for that big house in the corner,” Daniel said. “A rich man’s house. I’m thinking our killer wanted to recreate the painting before he stole it.”
Remi felt a prickle of fear. Growing up with her father, she was accustomed enough to tales of murder. This, however, went a step beyond. It wasn’t just a crime of passion where an enraged husband picked up a knife against his wife and her lover, or some gang member shooting another over drug turf. No, this was preplanned, dramatized, and probably unnecessary. The police report said Dyson was an older man and not in the best of health. The younger man who appeared to have little problem climbing over a fence and wielding a heavy farm implement would have had no trouble subduing the billionaire if he had wanted to.
But he hadn’t wanted to. He wanted to cut Dyson down as the figure of Death itself.
“Send that to me,” Daniel told her. “I’ll forward it to the East Hampton police and see if Dyson’s staff can confirm it’s the same artwork.”
Just as she did so, the elevator pinged. They emerged into a quiet, corporate hallway and padded along thick carpet to an oak door bearing the attorney’s name on a plate of burnished brass.
The reception room was of subdued tones, the walls decorated with photos of yachts moored off some glittering Caribbean island. Remi wondered which of those yachts were Mitchell’s. Probably the biggest one.
An attractive woman in her thirties sat behind a desk. Daniel showed her his FBI identification. She did not seem phased, treating them both to a professional smile that lacked depth.
“Mr. Mitchell is expecting you. Go right in.”
They passed through another oak door and into a large office. Mitchell rose from the desk, a healthy, robust-looking man in his fifties with a fresh tan that showed he had been on his yacht down by that island recently. Behind him, a floor to ceiling window offered a breathtaking view of Manhattan.
“Thank you for coming,” he said, his face somber. “Such a tragedy.”
He shook Daniel’s hand, and then hers.
“Sit. Would you like me to get you coffee? Tea?”
Remi felt a mixture of amusement and irritation at this offer. He made it sound like he would be the one to prepare it, and not the woman outside.
“No, thank you,” they replied.
They sat. Mitchell leaned back in a spacious leather chair and studied them a moment.
“How may I help you?”
“First off,” Daniel said, “we’d like to know the details of Mr. Dyson’s will.”
“Certainly,” the attorney said, pulling a thick set of papers out of a folder. “Although I’m afraid you won’t find a suspect that way. The details of the will were kept in strictest confidence between Mr. Dyson and myself.”
Daniel glanced through the pages. “Who are the main beneficiaries?”
“It is complicated, isn’t it?” the lawyer said in a voice that sounded slightly condescending. “Fifty-three pages. A large portion goes to his sister, his only close relative, as well as a trust for her two children. Other assets go to various charities. There’s also a generous payment to each member of his staff.”
“What about Rebecca Holsen?” Daniel asked.
Remi remembered Daniel mentioning her.
Mitchell chuckled, glanced at Remi and said to Daniel. “Well, an extra generous portion to her. For services rendered, eh?” He tapped the side of his nose.
Pig.
“So no one knows of the terms of this will?” Daniel asked.
“No one. Well, now it’s going through the process, but at the time of his murder”—Mitchell made a little shudder. Remi could not tell if it was genuine or not—“no one did. He told me several times that he never revealed it to anyone. Not even little Rebecca.” Pause. Mitchell looked off into space. “I should give her a call. Not just about the good news, but to comfort her for her loss. Yes. I should definitely call her today.”
Remi noticed a photo on the desk of Mitchell with a wife and two children.
“While I suppose you’ll need to tell the beneficiaries,” Daniel said, “I’d appreciate you not mentioning Mr. Dyson’s death to anyone else. I’ve found that in murder investigations, the fewer people who know, the less chance the knowledge will compromise the investigation. People change when they hear someone has been murdered. Even if they aren’t the culprit, they often get tight-lipped and defensive.”
The attorney smiled. “It’s the same with managing a will. Once word gets out, you get inundated with calls from people who think they should be beneficiaries or who claim the deceased owed them money. Don’t worry, Mr. Walker, I haven’t told anyone I haven’t absolutely needed to tell.”
Now it was time for Remi’s part of the discussion. She leaned forward a bit to get his attention. So far, he had only been addressing Daniel.
“The motive for the killing was to steal a painting Mr. Dyson had purchased just that same day,” she said. “We know he consulted you on the terms of major purchases, and we were wondering if he spoke to you about this painting. He seemed very excited about it.”
Mitchell smiled. It came out flat. “Mr. Dyson was a connoisseur of the arts. I don’t know much about that, I’m afraid. I’m more of an outdoorsman.”
“But you helped him to purchase art, to get the art through customs and arrange the legal details of the deal. Some of the paintings in his personal gallery are worth millions. He would have needed you.”
Mitchell looked away for a moment before remembering himself and retaining eye contact. “Oh, certainly. I helped arrange purchases once or twice.”
“Did you help with this most recent painting? It was a 17th century Dutch piece showing one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Death.”
Another of those flat smiles. “I’m afraid that comes under attorney/client privilege.”
“You showed us the will,” Remi said, her irritation growing.
“That’s becoming public. There are more than twenty individuals and institutions named as beneficiaries. It’s hardly a private matter at this point. Mr. Dyson’s purchases, however, are of a more private nature.”
“This is a murder investigation,” Daniel snapped.
Mitchell nodded. “I am fully aware of that. I am also aware that if you wish to see those records, you need to go through the proper channels.”
“You mean a warrant?” Daniel said. “Sure, we can do that. Then we can go through every record, every receipt. What will we find there, Mitchell? You sure everything is aboveboard? Because we know that painting circulated on the stolen art market. You want to be brought up as an accessory to that?”
“I have no knowledge—”
“Yeah sure, you don’t. And really, does it matter if you did or not? Think what the papers will say about it. They’re already going crazy about the murder. If your name gets involved …”
Mitchell leaned back in his chair, looking unsettled for the first time in the interview.
“We just want to know about the painting,” Remi said in a soothing voice. “We’re concerned about catching the murderer. That’s all. If you can help us with that, we don’t need to look into all these other matters.”
Mitchell stared at her as if seeing her for the first time.
“Are you FBI?”
“I’m a civilian consultant for the FBI.”
His eyes flicked to Daniel and, seeing no help there, sized up Remi again.
“What sort of consultant?”
“Investigating art theft and bringing to justice those who steal it.”
“You’re an academic.”
Less and less each day, it feels.
“When I’m not gathering evidence for arrests, yes I am.”
Mitchell thought for a moment and said, “I didn’t know the piece was stolen, but the dealer who sold it to him has a rather unsavory reputation. I could give you his contact information if …”
Remi glanced at Daniel, who didn’t speak.
Do I have the authority to make deals like this?
Well, he isn’t stopping me.
“We just want to bring the killer to justice, Mr. Mitchell,” she said. “This will help speed up our investigation. We aren’t concerned about investigating anything else.”
The lawyer relaxed a little. “Very well, his name is Azad Sahakian. An Armenian immigrant with ties to the old country. He made his fortune in the ‘90s selling Soviet art when that was a boom after the Berlin Wall fell. Now he deals mostly in fine art and antiquities.” Mitchell started tapping away on his computer. “Let me find his information for you. But I warn you, he’s a very slippery character. It won’t be easy to get any information from him.”
As Mitchell occupied himself with his computer Daniel flashed her an approving smile.
Remi flushed with pride. She had just negotiated her first deal for the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
I really do have a talent for this. Now that I’ve dealt with a shady attorney, let’s see how I deal with a shady art dealer.