extemporized. “Is it considered professional in your field to talk that way to people who hire you?”
“Is it in yours, to lie to people you hire?”
“He’s a diplomat,” said Bill. “I think it is.”
“That was unnecessary,” Jack said. “Sorry, Mr. Jerrold. But you can see how it’s frustrating to try to do your job when your client doesn’t even trust you to know his name.”
What was this? They were doing Good Cop/Bad Cop without me?
“Whoever you are, I’m not your client,” Jerrold said.
“And you’re about to not be mine in a minute,” I said. “Unless we get some answers.” When Good Cop and Bad Cop are already taken, there’s always Steamroller. “Besides the guy with the gun I told you about yesterday, there’s the matter of the Chinese gangster.”
“Who also had a gun,” Jack said.
“He suggested I stop looking for the Chaus because he has an investment to protect. What investment, Mr. Jerrold? And the so-called Samuel Wing, who made the same suggestion, though he wouldn’t say why, and the mysterious Mr. Jin, who’d also rather these paintings didn’t see the light of day. Who are all these people and what the hell is going on here?”
The question, besides being phrased in stronger language than I generally use, was admittedly disingenuous. I had, in essence, the information Jerrold had paid me to get: where the paintings were. And the bonus fact, that they were fakes. Nevertheless, we waited, all three of us staring my client down.
Dennis Jerrold drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “How did you find out my name? Where I work?”
“Oh, please, Mr. Jerrold. You’re a diplomat, we’re investigators. Would I be surprised if you negotiated a treaty, or whatever it is you people do? Okay, nuts to the whole thing.” I spun in my chair to reach my safe, which doubled as the sideboard with the tea set I wasn’t serving Dennis Jerrold tea from. Turning my back on a client isn’t something I consider good practice, but it’s great drama and with Bill and Jack there I wasn’t worried. I ran the dial, extracted the envelope holding Jerrold’s thousand dollars and tossed it on my desk. “If this is the level of trust we’ve got going you’ll be happier with some other PI anyway.”
He made no move to take it. “The paintings,” he said. “Were you able to ascertain whether they’re real?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
I waited a moment, then gave it to him: “They’re fakes.”
He visibly relaxed.
“But they’re about to come on the market as real. Authenticated by an expert. Next week. Asian Art Week, Beijing/NYC.”
“But you say they’re fakes. What expert would put his reputation on the line like that?”
“That’s not really the question. The question is, how bad would it be for you if it happened?”
After a moment he gave a soft laugh. “The funny thing is, it wouldn’t matter. In my situation, I can be a hero— though that’s looking less and less likely—but I can’t really be the goat. Nice work if you can get it, huh? No, keep the money, Ms. Chin. If it’s true you’ve found the paintings. It would be nice if we could keep them from hitting the market, but if they’re fakes the authentication won’t—”
“We might be able to.”
“What?”
“Keep them off the market. Or maybe not, but we can probably discredit them with a bang. And the person who’s going to be selling them. If we had a reason to. Would that work for you?”
He leaned back in his chair. “Do tell.”
“No, you tell. Give us that reason. What so-called heroics are you engaged in here and how was I supposed to be helping?”
“Well,” he said. “Well.” He looked around. “I suppose it’s reasonable to hope for a certain amount of discretion from all of you, even though I’m only paying Ms. Chin?”
“Actually, you’re paying Bill, too. And Jack’s one of us, so don’t worry about it.” I didn’t look to see who was smug-smiling whom.
“Fine. Not that it really matters. I wasn’t doing anything wrong, just … unauthorized. Going to you could earn me a reprimand, or, on the other hand, a commendation for creativity. If I tell you what I know—which I can already see won’t answer all your questions—then what? You’ll tell me where the paintings are?”
If I’d had any doubt Jerrold was a diplomat I’d be over it by now. Everything was a negotiation. I decided to stonewall.
We sat in silence; then Jerrold smiled. “Okay. Point made.” He crossed one leg over the other, settling in more comfortably. “As you surmised, I’m with the State Department.”
Surmised? We knew his job title.
“I’ve been there eight years. I’m not an art collector, in fact I’m not in the visual arts at all. Literature’s my field. But we all talk, and you hear things.”
“We all talk, who?”
“State Department staff, and our Consulate counterparts. In my case, the PRC Consulate. That’s where I heard about the Chaus, at a reception. Buzz in the air, worried looks, things like that. The Cultural Attache, Jin, had heard rumors and he wasn’t happy. They have that Beijing/NYC show coming up, the whole Asian art world’s watching. If the PRC gets embarrassed here in New York it’s on Jin’s head. Xi Xao, the guy at my level in the visual arts over
