driver’s license. Looked like the real thing except for the name Drew Campbell.”
“Did you give him a copy of your driver’s license when he hired you? Maybe he just scanned it and changed the name.”
“No, it wasn’t my driver’s license photo. It was cropped from a picture of Ben and me at Christina Marcum’s wedding last summer.”
The bride had been a childhood friend of theirs. Jeff didn’t know her personally but had attended the wedding as Alice’s plus-one, back when they were officially “on.” Alice wasn’t particularly close to Christina, but she loved that photograph of her and her brother.
“Maybe Drew-or whoever he was-hacked your computer?”
“Well, that’s what I was wondering too. But then I remembered something. May I?” She moved to his side of the desk and pulled out the keyboard tray. “Christina’s sister’s the one who took the picture. I only saw it because she posted it on Facebook.”
Alice pulled up her own Facebook profile and clicked on “Photos.”
“See? There it is.” The picture had a clear, straightforward angle of Alice’s face, perfect for clipping as a head shot.
“Is your profile set to private?”
“What’s that mean?”
“Can anyone in the world see it, or do people have to be your friend first?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
He reached for the mouse and gave it a few clicks. “Your entire profile is public, so Drew definitely could have gotten the driver’s license picture here.” He pulled up her Wall posts, showing the messages Alice and her friends had posted to one another over the past few weeks. “Alice, this is insane to have this public. Anyone, anywhere, can read all of this.”
“Who cares? ‘Happy Birthday. Have a good day.’ It’s all a bunch of nonsense. You mean to tell me I should have anticipated that some guy using a fake name would con me into taking a fake job and then use pictures off my Facebook profile to set me up?”
“It’s not just nonsense, Alice. Look, two days ago you posted ‘Wafels & Dinges.’ To you, that’s a bunch of nonsense, but it’s also an announcement to everyone in the world you’re at the Wafels & Dinges truck.”
“I posted it after I was back at the gallery.”
“Okay? Well, how about this one? ‘Fantastic opening at the gallery. Off to celebrate at Gramercy Tavern. Fifteen minutes until martini time.’”
“Please don’t criticize me right now. Wait. Oh, no.”
“What?”
She didn’t pause to ask permission before taking the mouse from him and scrolling farther down her page. She clicked the Older Posts button at the bottom of her wall. “No, no, no, no. I was just assuming that this was all bad luck. That Drew was running a scam and decided that an out-of-work art history major was a pretty good mark. But look: the morning before the gallery opening where I met Drew? Look at my post.”
“You think Drew went there that night looking specifically for you?”
“Can you honestly tell me that I should have any idea
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I t had been four weeks since Alice’s last visit to the Susan Kellermann Gallery. This time, she headed directly to her destination. She no longer had the luxury of a woman who could pause to admire a building’s architectural details.
A man in white painter coveralls carried a ladder into the gallery, followed by an identically clad man hauling a bucket of paint and two rollers. She caught the door for their convenience, then began to step inside behind them.
“Yoo-hoo. Hello there. I’m sorry, but we’re closed. Come back Tuesday night. We’re getting a Jeremy West exhibit ready now. Great stuff.”
From the neck up, the woman at the back of the gallery resembled the gallery owner Alice had seen a handful of times: same tight black bun, same gaunt pale face, same burgundy-stained lips. But today Susan Kellermann wore a black T-shirt, baggy blue jeans, and clogs. The dichotomy between her head and body brought to mind Mr. Potato Head.
“I need to ask you a question about the Phillip Lipton opening.”
“I’m afraid I don’t represent Phillip any longer. I think he’s a free agent now, if you want to try to contact him directly.”
“I’m not buying art. I’m looking for one of your customers.”
Kellermann’s attention had turned to a five-foot-diameter ball of twine being manhandled by two of her workers. “Careful. There’s nothing holding that together but a few drops of epoxy. About six inches more in this direction.”
“Please, Miss Kellermann. It’s very important.”
She peered at Alice as if she were a black speck tainting a perfectly tidy white wall, but then something in Alice’s face got her attention. “Pull one string loose, and the two of you will roll that thing all the way back down to Dumbo yourselves, where I’ll allow West to wrap you inside it as performance art. Got it?”
“Ah, yes, that handsome devil from opening night. Rough around the edges, but
“He hired me for a gallery job, but now it looks like the entire thing was a con.” She didn’t mention the nagging fact that the man was dead. Hopefully Kellermann hadn’t heard enough about yesterday’s murder at a new downtown gallery to start making connections. “I need to track him down. Do you have his payment information? Maybe the address where the canvas was delivered?”
“If only I did. I’m afraid all I have is a name, a disconnected phone number, and one very pissed-off nonagenarian.”
“I take it the sale didn’t go through?”
“I wouldn’t usually mark a piece as sold without a deposit, but he was very persuasive. He said he was acquiring the canvas for a client. Usually, dealers pay up front and then I take the art back as a return if the client isn’t satisfied with the selection. Steven, however-”
“He told you his name was Steven?”
“Yes. Steven Henning.” It was the same name Drew had used with the property management agent in Hoboken. “He told me he was certain the client would defer to his selection but was absolutely headstrong against letting Steven pay for a piece without his first viewing it in person. Supposedly Steven was going to bring the client in the following day but wasn’t willing to risk the piece being sold in the interim, or the client would have his head for needlessly dragging him around the city. And it was all very mysterious: a wealthy man, a serious collector, like someone whose name I’d recognize if only Steven trusted me enough to share it. He made it sound like he was between a rock and a hard place with a very difficult client.”
The story sounded familiar. It was the same shtick he’d handed to Alice.
“Frankly,” Kellermann continued, “having spent several weeks trying to appease Phillip Lipton, I suppose I empathized a bit too much. The art market’s in the crapper right now, so sometimes you’ve got to bend over backward to make the sale. And, what can I say, I have a weakness for a man who looks like George Clooney.”
“But he didn’t return the following day with the mysterious, wealthy client.”
“Oh, no, he most certainly did not. When he hadn’t appeared by late afternoon, I called the number he’d given me. It was a takeout falafel stand, as far as I could make out through the broken English. No art dealers on premises,” she added with a wry smile. “Unfortunately, our talented Mr. Lipton was not particularly understanding. All artists have unrealistic expectations, but I think Phillip really expected this show to be a comeback that would
