to share those mysterious secrets while you worked on a case.”
“Hey,” said Jack, “you mean this isn’t just a social call? You come bearing work?”
“We might.” Bill turned to me. “Jack, as he says, may look Chinese, but that’s actually beside the point. He’s an art expert.”
“‘Expert’ is too strong a word,” Jack corrected, with Chinese modesty but an American grin. “But it’s my field. Art history, Asian art concentration.” I’d already taken note of the framed University of Chicago Ph.D. on the bookcase—which included the words “summa cum laude”—so that wasn’t news. “Life plan was to be a big-deal dealer. Came to New York to go the gallery route. But I couldn’t take it.”
“It involves sitting still,” Bill said, in explanation.
“Sad but true. So now instead of selling art, I corral it. Chase down the lost, stolen, or strayed. Bodyguard a vase on its way someplace. Check a bronze’s provenance. Make sure the dish that comes back from the restorer is the same one that was sent to be restored. Much more fun, and it keeps me out of trouble. And out of galleries. Still, galleries have their uses. That’s where I met your partner. At a Soho opening, last fall.”
I said to Bill, “You hate openings.”
“The gallery owner was a friend of mine. He’s helped me out over the years. I had to go.”
“And he’s a client of mine,” Jack said. “So, so did I.”
I looked from one to the other. “And you guys bonded over white wine, Chex Mix, and art?”
“For that show,” Jack said, “‘art’ is too strong a word. Installations made from rusty tools and broken dolls. Pretentious, ugly, and lethal.”
“See,” said Bill, “there’s that Chinese problem you have, where you won’t speak your mind. Same as Lydia.”
I knew he was expecting me to roll my eyes, so I just sat politely, listening to Jack.
“Pretty much everyone seemed to be impressed, though,” Jack said. “A lot of nodding and murmuring. ‘The juxtaposition is thrillingly unnerving.’ ‘He brings out the feminine side of steel.’ I was checking my watch to see if I could leave yet when I spotted a guy having as hard a time as I was keeping a straight face.”
“Not my fault,” Bill protested. “There was a critic waving his hands, going on about a piece made from doll heads and buzz-saw blades. Then he cut his thumb on it.”
“It was the start of a beautiful friendship. Cemented in the bar next door.”
“Though I warn you,” Bill said, “Jack drinks martinis.”
“Does that disqualify me from something?”
“Not by itself,” I said.
“So.” Jack crossed one long leg over the other. “Now that you have my CV, do you know why Bill brought you here? Besides the Chinese trade secret thing? Because if we get into that, of course we’ll have to throw him out.”
“Of course. Let’s save that for later, in case we need it. Tell me, is contemporary Chinese art on your CV?”
Jack glanced at Bill, then back to me. “Up to a point.”
“Ghost Hero Chau. Is he before or after that point?”
“Ghost Hero Chau.” Jack steepled his fingers in front of his chin. “He’s your case?”
“His paintings. Or, some new paintings that are supposed to be his.”
“Re-eally?” Jack drew the word out, giving me an odd look.
“I know, he’s dead. But that’s what my client says. New paintings.”
“Who’s your client? Okay, never mind,” he said in answer to my you-know-better smile. “But is he Chinese?”
“No. WASP, even more midwestern suburban than you are.”
“Ouch,” said Bill.
“But that’s why he came to me. He searched online for a Chinese investigator. He thinks it’ll help.”
“Hmm. Hmm, hmm hmm, hmm hmm,” Jack said. “What’s his angle? He’s been offered them and he wants you to prove the pedigree before he buys?”
“No. He hasn’t even seen them. He wants me to find them.”
“Re-eally.” Again, he drew the word out like taffy. “Why?”
“The thrill of the hunt. And, he’s the new kid in town and wants to make his collecting bones by getting his hands on them.” To the look on Jack’s face, I said, “No, we don’t buy it either. We think he just wants to corner the market and flip them during Asian Art Week. Obviously, he’s gambling they’re real, or the market’s not worth cornering.”
“And you came to me for what? Background?”
“Yes,” said Bill. “And Chinese trade secrets.”
“Which
“He was involved in the Tiananmen Square protests in 1989,” I said. “He was a big deal professor, but he stood with the students. He died when the army came in. After he died, according to my client, he was a ghost, but a hero.”
