“It was good. Informative.”
“And you remembered I wrote it?”
“…Yes.”
Then he looked up at her. “Informative.”
In the ghetto of antiques galleries south of Union Square, a dictionary’s toss from the Strand Bookstore, Heat and Rook approached a single glass door between a Shaker furniture house and a rare maps shop. An eye-level door sign in 1940s style gold leaf read, “C. B. Phillips—Fine Acquisitions.” Nikki reached to press the buzzer embedded in the metal frame. “I wouldn’t do that,” said Rook.
“Why not?”
“Don’t insult the man.” He held up a forefinger to say, Wait a sec. It was actually two seconds before the buzzer sounded. Rook said, “He’s Casper. He knew, he always knows,” and pushed the door open.
They climbed a flight of polished blond hardwood stairs through a mellow downdraft, the ghost scent of an old public library. At the landing, Nikki took in the room and was reminded of one of the Truths of New York City: You can never tell from the door what’s behind a door.
The hushed showroom of C. B. Phillips Fine Acquisitions sat one flight of stairs from Broadway but was a time journey across latitudes, to a vast drawing room empty of people and teeming with dark, heavy furniture in velvets, and needlepoints lit low below the tasseled maroon shades of small table lamps and muted ochre wall sconces. Clubby artworks of maritime scenes, bulldogs in military dress, and cherub architects adorned walls and carved mahogany easels. Nikki looked up and was staring at the pattern of the vintage stamped tin ceiling, when the soft voice right beside her made her jump.
“It’s been too long, Jameson.” His words were whiskey soft, carried on candle smoke. In it, there was a hint of Euro-somewhere she couldn’t pinpoint but found pleasant. The dapper old man turned to her. “I apologize if I startled you.”
“You came out of nowhere,” she said.
“A knack that has served me well. Leaving as quietly, that’s a diminishing talent, I’m sorry to say. It has led to a comfortable retirement, though.” He gestured to his showroom. “Please, after you.” As they crossed the thick oriental rug, he added, “You didn’t tell me you were bringing a police detective.”
Nikki paused. “I never said I was a detective.” The old man simply smiled.
Rook said, “Wasn’t sure you’d see me if I told you that, Casper.”
“I probably wouldn’t have. And it would have been my loss.” From anyone else it would have been a laughable bar pickup line. Instead, the dashing little man made her blush. “Have a seat.”
Casper waited until she and Rook took places on a navy corduroy sofa before he folded into his green leather wing chair. She could see the outline of a sharp kneecap through his linen trousers when he crossed his legs. He wore no socks and his slippers looked custom-made. “I have to say, you’re every bit what I pictured.”
“She thinks my article made you sound debonair,” said Rook.
“Oh, please, that old label.” Casper turned to her. “It’s nothing, trust me. When you reach my age, the definition of debonair is that you shaved this morning.” She noticed that his cheeks gleamed in the lamplight. “But one of New York’s finest doesn’t have time to come here simply to visit. And since I’m not wearing bracelets and being read my rights, I can safely assume my past hasn’t caught up with me.”
“No, it’s nothing like that,” she said. “And I do know you’re retired.” He answered with a little shrug and opened a palm, perhaps hoping she’d believe he was still an art thief and cat burglar. And, in fact, he convinced her at least to wonder.
“Detective Heat is investigating an art theft,” Rook said.
“Rook tells me you’re the one to talk to about major art sales in the city. On or off the books.” Again, he answered with the shrug and hand wave. Nikki decided the man was right, she didn’t have the inclination to sit and visit, and dove in. “During the blackout someone burglarized the Guilford and stole the entire Matthew Starr collection.”
“Ho, I love it. Calling that glorified hodgepodge a collection.” He shifted and recrossed his bony knees.
“Good, then you are familiar with it,” she said.
“From what I know, it’s not a collection at all so much as a Cobb salad of vulgarity.”
Heat nodded. “Similar comments have been made.” She handed him an envelope. “These are copies of photos of the collection made by an appraiser.”
Casper shuffled through the prints with undisguised disdain. “Who collects Dufy together with Severini? Why not add a toreador or a clown on black velvet?”
“You can keep those. I was hoping you could look them over or show them around, and if you hear of anyone trying to sell any of the pieces, let me know.”
“That’s a complex request,” said Casper. “One side of that equation or another could involve friends of mine.”
“I understand. The buyer doesn’t interest me so much.”
“Of course. You want the thief.” He turned his attention to Rook. “Times haven’t changed, Jameson. They still want the one who took all the risk.”
Rook said, “Difference here is that whoever did this probably did more than steal art. There’s a possibility of a murder, maybe two.”
“We don’t know that for a fact,” Heat said. “Just to be honest.”
“My, my. A straight shooter.” The elegant old thief gave Nikki a long look of appraisal. “Very well. I know an unorthodox art merchant or two who might be of service. I’ll make some inquiries as a favor to Jameson. Plus it never hurts to pay forward a bit of goodwill with the gendarmerie.”
Nikki bent over to pick up her bag and started to thank him, but when she looked up he was gone.
“What’s he talking about?” said Rook. “I think he still makes a great exit.”
Nikki stood in the precinct break room staring through the observation window of the microwave at the spinning carton of barbecued pork fried rice. Not for the first time, she reflected on how much time she spent in that building observing through windows, waiting for results. If it wasn’t into interrogation rooms at suspects, it was into microwave ovens at leftovers.
The chirp sounded and she took out the steaming red carton with Detective Raley’s name Sharpied on two sides, triple exclamation points included. If he really meant it, he would have taken it home with him. And then she thought about the glamour of the cop’s life. Finishing off the workday with more work, eating a dinner of leftovers that aren’t even your own.
Of course, Rook had tried to press for an evening. The obvious advantage of his generous offer to engage Casper was that the meeting ended at dinnertime, and even on a humid, uncomfortable night, there was nothing like sitting outdoors at the Boat Basin Café with some baskets of char-grilled burgers, a galvanized bucket of Coronas planted in shaved ice, and a view of the sailboats on the Hudson.
She told Rook she had a date. When his face started to rearrange, she told him it was in the bull pen with the whiteboard. Nikki didn’t want to torture him. Yes, she did, just not like that.
In the after-hours quiet of the bull pen, without phones or visits to interrupt her, Detective Heat once again contemplated the facts laid out before her on the landscape of the jumbo porcelain enamel board. Just half a week ago she had sat in this very chair with the same late night view. There was more information for her to look at this time. The board was filled with names, timelines, and photographs. Since her previous night of silent deliberation two more crimes had gone down. Three, if you counted the assault on her by Pochenko.
“Pochenko,” she said. “Where did you Pochenk-go?”
Nikki went meditative. She was anything but mystical, but she did believe in the power of the subconscious. Well, at least hers. She pictured her mind as a whiteboard and erased it. Clearing herself, she became open to what sat before her and whatever patterns formed in the evidence so far. Her thoughts floated. She batted stray ones away and stuck to the case. She wanted an impression. She wanted to know what spoke to her. And she wanted to know what she’d missed.
She let herself travel, gliding above the days and nights of the case using the big board as her Fodor’s. She saw Matthew Starr’s body on the sidewalk and revisited Kimberly surrounded by art and opulence in her faux- preppie grief, saw herself interviewing the people in Starr’s life: rivals, advisors, his bookie and Russian enforcer, his
