the clock might have sold for even more if the catalogue had provided better or more detailed research.”
Alverez nodded and flipped through the remaining pages. After a moment, Alverez asked, “So if you wanted to set prices for the Cezanne or the Matisse, how would you go about it?”
“Same as I did here,” I answered, shrugging. “I’d do research.”
“Can you give me a ballpark?”
“Millions, but I couldn’t say how many millions.”
“Not even a wild guess?”
“No. I know a Cezanne sold for more than sixty million in 1999, but that was during the Internet bubble, so it’s probably not relevant.”
He nodded. “Just for the sake of argument, if ten million was a reasonable estimate for a sale of a Cezanne at auction, how much would you ask a private buyer to pay… five million?”
“No way.”
“A million?”
I thought about it for a minute. “I’m pleased to say that I have no experience in this arena. That said, I should think you’d have to offer an even greater discount… say half a million, or even less. Think about it. You’re limited to a certain kind of wealthy buyer. It has to be someone who is okay with never displaying the painting in public. In fact, they can never even admit they’ve seen it. I mean no disrespect when I say that a lot of collectors buy expensive pieces so they can display them. I mean, part of the fun is showing what you got.”
“So who would buy it?”
“I can only speculate. Someone who loves art and doesn’t care about showing it to anyone else. Someone with a lot of cash-because I should think you’ve got to be careful about withdrawing that large of a sum from a bank account. Again, I don’t know, but with the Patriot Act, after nine/eleven, I should think a big withdrawal sends up a red flag.”
Alverez nodded. “Continue. What else would you assume about a private buyer?”
After a pause, I said, “Well, actually, when I think about it, a rare masterpiece would be a pretty good hedge against inflation. And a good way to launder money.” I smiled. “So, you’re looking for a rich guy with a lot of cash lying around who wants to balance his portfolio. Or someone in the mob. Or a crooked dealer who knows people like that.”
Alverez drummed the table. “Well, that narrows the field,” he said dryly. “Here’s the thing. I’m hoping that you’ll research the value of either the Cezanne or the Matisse, and offer to sell it privately.”
“What?” I exclaimed. “To whom?”
“Let me get this right-” Max began, but Alverez put up a hand and interrupted.
“Once we agree on Josie’s involvement, I’ll give you full details.”
“I can’t advise Josie to put herself in harm’s way,” Max said.
Alverez looked at me. “You’ll be in no danger,” he assured me.
I found myself unable to look away. His eyes were seductive, and I felt my breathing slow as I relaxed, gazing deeper and deeper into his eyes, feeling safe in his presence. I swallowed. “I don’t understand,” I said. “You want me to research one of the painting’s value, and then do what?”
He paused. “Help us a catch a killer.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I sat, stunned, unable to think of how to respond. After moment, I turned to Max and raised my eyebrows, silently soliciting his reaction.
“Tell us about it,” Max said to Alverez.
Alverez leaned back, balancing his chair momentarily on two legs, then righting himself to address Max. “Well, I’ve already told you that the first thing I need is for Josie to research the under-the-table sales price of either the Cezanne or the Matisse.”
Max looked at me, tilting his head, silently asking if I was game.
“Sure,” I said. “I can do that.”
“How long will it take you?” Alverez asked.
“It depends on how easy it is for me to access relevant data. Anywhere from a couple of hours to a couple of days.”
He nodded and tapped his pen on the edge of the table. “Obviously, sooner would be better than later.”
I nodded. “I’ll get started as soon as we’re done. Do you have a preference-the Cezanne or the Matisse?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head.
“Then what?” Max asked.
“Then we’ll make an offer that I hope won’t be refused.”
“To whom?” I asked.
Alverez shook his head. “One step at a time.” He stood up. “Let’s get the paintings back here.” He reached over and punched the Off button on the recorder and pulled out the tape. “I’ll get Cathy to make a copy of this while we’re gone.”
Max and I waited outside under thickening clouds while Alverez spoke to Cathy. When he was ready, we drove in his SUV to the Grant house, greeted Griff, standing guard on the porch, and made our way down the basement steps. Walking through the shadowy light of the solitary hanging lightbulbs, we entered the small room that housed the leather trunk. Retrieving the two paintings was anticlimactic.
They lay untouched, as I’d positioned them. The three of us stood silently for several moments looking at the Cezanne, which rested on top. Alverez rolled them up, one at a time and placed them in a military-style duffle bag he’d brought with him.
I watched as Alverez extracted the receipt Cathy had prepared and Max had approved from an inside pocket. We watched as he signed it and handed it over.
“Fax me a copy,” Max said as I accepted it. “Okay?”
“Sure.”
With no further conversation, we left. We said good-bye to Griff and walked around the house to the side alley. As Alverez drove along the ocean to the Rocky Point police station, I looked up at the sky. The clouds were leaden, and the air smelled like rain.
After depositing the paintings in the police station safe, Alverez followed us to the parking lot. Max patted my shoulder, shook Alverez’s hand, and walked to his car. Alverez and I watched without speaking as he pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward Portsmouth.
“You okay?” Alverez asked.
I nodded. I thought I felt a drop of rain, but it was hard to tell. The air was thick with moisture. “Yeah. Things just feel kind of strange, you know?”
“In what way?”
“Giving you the paintings. Not understanding what’s going on.” I shrugged. “I don’t know. The entire situation.”
“Things will straighten out pretty soon.”
“You think?”
He nodded. “Yeah, I do.”
I wondered whether he was offering standard-issue polite reassurance or if he meant it. I didn’t know him well enough to gauge his attitude toward providing skittish women support. Maybe he mouthed words of comfort with the same insouciance that I answered “Fine” when a stranger asked “How are you?”
Glancing at him, I found his eyes on me, watching me intently. No, I thought, whatever else might be going on, I had to believe that his comments were personal to me, and that he intended me to feel safe and cared for.
I smiled. He smiled back, and we stood like that, leaning against my car, looking at one another, smiling, until the rain began in earnest.
“It’s raining,” I said, realizing that I’d left my umbrella upstairs in my office. “I’d better go.”
