“I think he’s got a closetful of Chaus from the Art Institute days. They’d lose value if there’s been a miracle, the guy’s alive, these new ones turn out to be real and more keep coming.”
I thought about that. “Is he a collector?”
“No. He has some nice pieces in his office, probably a few more at home. But he’s an academic. He advises collectors, but he can’t afford to collect in a major way. What that means, though, is that if he does have a stash of Chaus, they’re probably his whole retirement fund.”
“So if these new ones are frauds, he’ll want to expose them. If they’re real, he’ll want to know fast, so he can unload what he has.”
Bill said, “Then why not say that? Protecting his investment by exposing frauds wouldn’t be illegal, or even immoral. He might even be doing someone else a favor. Like Lydia’s client.”
“Who is who, by the way?” Jack asked. “I did show you mine.”
I raised an eyebrow but played it straight. “Jeff Dunbar. Freelance rich guy. Sez him.”
“You don’t think so?”
“He’s invisible in the databases. His cell phone’s a prepaid. And he doesn’t look all that rich.”
“Hmm. So what’s up?”
“I think being found sniffing out these paintings would get him in trouble with someone, and he doesn’t trust his PI’s discretion.”
“I hate that in a client. And I have another question. Don’t take this wrong, because I know you’re kick-ass and all. But why didn’t he come to me?”
“Nice guy, your friend,” I said to Bill. “Too bad he’s so insecure.”
“You say he chose you because you’re Chinese. I’m Chinese
“But,” Bill said, “anyone not in the art world searching online for a Chinese PI would have nothing to go on but a Chinese name.”
“Which Chin looks like, and Lee, not necessarily.”
“Plus,” I said, “it comes earlier in the alphabet.”
“She’s very competitive,” Jack said to Bill. “Is she insecure?”
With great dignity I ignored that. “So Jeff Dunbar’s likely not a player in the art world. We’d figured that out, thank you very much. Still, he could know the value of these paintings and be hoping to make a quick buck.”
“Why not just tell you that? Why the song and dance?”
“Good question.”
“But you didn’t ask?”
“Not yet.”
“Because?…”
“The whole situation intrigues me. If he knew I hadn’t bought his lies he’d drop me and find someone else. That would be no fun.”
Jack’s gaze rested on me, level and appraising. He broke into a big grin. “You’re right,” he said to Bill. “Kick- ass.”
“Hey, listen,” I said. “Your client’s not so straightforward, either. If all he’s doing is protecting his investment, why did he give you a story?”
Jack looked surprised. “Face,” he said, as though it were obvious. “Come on, he knew the guy. Chau died standing up to the tanks, Yang’s making a cushy living in the capitalist heartland. Sounds better to tell me he’s offended at the crass attempt to cash in on Chau’s rep than to admit he doesn’t want his nest egg to take a hit.”
“A very Chinese motive,” I admitted. “So. Interesting situation.”
“Generally, or specifically?”
“Both. Specifically: I wonder what your client will do if we find the paintings, and it turns out they’re real?”
“Be unhappy. Just like yours will be, if it turns out they’re fakes.”
* * *
We shook hands in the cool spring sun outside the cafe, wished one another luck, and headed off in opposite directions.
“Nice guy,” I said to Bill. “We’ll clobber him.”
“One of your best qualities,” Bill said. “Your cooperative spirit.”
“I cooperate. I share.”
“You didn’t share our other theory. That Dunbar’s not looking for the paintings at all, just the painter. And you didn’t tell Jack we have a lead on that gallery assistant.”
“You’re his friend, and you didn’t either.”
“I’m your partner. Your case, your choice.”
