The Collection Page 22

  “Len? What do you think?”

  “I like her. I gotta check her out, but I like her. Sounds like she could kick your ass if you need it.” That’s for sure. “You planning to move back there? I can transfer your jacket to Eastern District if you are. Could be good for you, start over fresh.”

  Seriously? It’s that easy? I should’ve done this days ago. Of course, days ago Carson might’ve put me back in the pen just because she could. “I don’t know yet. Lida’s talking about maybe moving out to L.A. We’re still just figuring this out. I’m thinking another week or so? Then we’ll know one way or another. Is that okay?”

  He takes a loud, deep breath. Say yes… “Yeah, I can do that. Now I know where you are.” He growls out the last three words to make his point. “Same schedule as before. Call Monday, Wednesday, Friday, tell me what’s going on. Got it?”

  After Len hangs up, Carson wanders back into the suite’s sitting room, drink in hand. “You’re clear?”

  “Yeah. Thanks a million, you were amazing. Who’s Lida Rodnina?”

  She shrugs. “Old cover from Allyson’s guy.”

  “And what’ll Len find when he checks up on her?”

  “Old addresses, work history, summary possession rap twelve-thirteen years back. She’ll check out.” She polishes off her drink, sets the glass on the table, then squeezes my shoulder on her way out. “If you’d fucked the Italian girl, I’d’ve told you to get her to help you. But you did the stand-up thing. Maybe there’s hope. Get some sleep.” She gently closes the door behind her.

  Chapter 37

  Carson leaves to stake out Belknap after our morning workouts. I’m supposed to relieve her at noon.

  My goal this morning is to find Belknap’s list of purchases and sales, if it exists. This’ll tell me how big his operation is and how he moves the art. Three problems: he’s got over 6200 files, a chunk of them have Italian names, and the English file and folder names aren’t all that helpful.

  I copy the files from Gianna’s thumb drive to my laptop, then search for all the spreadsheets and open the ones with promising names.

  The gallery’s accounts come up, and I take some time trying to figure them out. The credits and debits are coded with five-digit numbers, so while I can see the money coming and going, I can’t tell why. This isn’t exactly exotic; Gar did the same thing for clients on our gallery’s public books (the ones that went to the IRS). But this is supposed to be Belknap’s private data. Insurance in case somebody like me gets to it?

  Some transactions are pretty obvious. The high-four-figure debit in the first three days of each month is probably rent; a weekly mid-three-figure Friday debit is probably Gianna’s salary (and she’s way underpaid). Four- and five-figure credits for even amounts are probably sales.

  I find the list of account codes, which leads to another level of abstraction. Some of the codes are defined in the clear, like Proprietà Monza, Telecom Italia and Gianna (24601, like Jean Valjean—cute). However, the receivables and some of the payables are named after rock musicians. It’s damn unlikely Ray Manzarek—still dead, last I checked—dropped €13,400 in Belknap’s gallery this month. But when I search the files for “Manzarek,” looking for the key, I come up with one hit—this spreadsheet. Shit.

  Could he really have all the code names memorized? I could do it, but smart as he is, Belknap’s brain doesn’t work like mine. Either he hid the key or Gianna didn’t copy possibly the most important file on Belknap’s computer. I sure hope it’s the first, because the second wouldn’t be an accident.

  I go to the backgrounder Allyson gave me and look up the Samuel Palmer sale last year in Shanghai. The shell company involved was Vermögensverwaltung Landeck (Landeck Asset Management), the sale went off on February 12th, and the buyer paid the Chinese dealer $190,000 U.S. I subtract the 25% dealer’s commission, look up the exchange rate for that date, and get €106,461 that should’ve come back to Belknap. Then I look through the gallery accounts for any credit around €100,000 after February 12 last year. Six months of transactions later, I’ve got nothing close to 100K. A search through the files for “Landeck” comes up empty. Shit.

  None of the other four shell-company names pay off, either.

  Two possibilities: these supposedly real accounts aren’t really real, or the sale proceeds went someplace other than Belknap’s gallery. His own shell company in some tropical place? Straight into his pocket?

  Into Morrone’s pocket?

  I pace around the room a few times, swearing and kicking the furniture. It doesn’t solve the problem, but it feels good. While I stumble around, my brain fights through last night’s sensory fog of soft curves and warm lips and reminds me that Gianna showed me an inventory of Morrone’s stuff in storage.

  A search for “Boudin” pulls it up. I’ll need to look closer at this workbook later, but my immediate takeaway is that he’s not coding artist names. Hm.

  I get seven hits on a search for “Palmer.” Two files mention Carl Palmer (of Emerson, Lake &), another code name. The rest involve a certain watercolor-on-board Italian landscape sold in Shanghai last year to somebody who’s now making little rocks out of big ones in some Chinese pen.

  One of these is just what I was looking for: a list of sales. Here’s the Palmer; there’s the other four the client flagged; and here are the other seventy-three sales in the past two years that we didn’t know about. Artist, title, acquisition date, sale date, price, selling dealer (some blank, some five-digit numbers), buyer (many blank, some Italian composers), and an unlabeled column full of L.A. place names.

  Finally!

  There’s no key for the code names, of course, though some of the numbers show up in the accounts. These sales don’t appear in the gallery’s records. Too bad for the gallery—he’s got over €61 million in revenue laid out here. Where’d it all go?

  My bet? Maywood, West Adams, View Park, Crenshaw and all the rest. For seventy-eight sales, Belknap’s got fifty-three different place names. I hope Herr Stoeller in Luxembourg likes the ski villa he bought with the fees for creating and servicing all these shell companies.

  Angelo said about Belknap, “He is not an honest man.” I wonder where the money went… and where it was supposed to go.

  A bit after eleven, my work phone rings. It’s Gianna’s number. Finally! “Gianna, I’m glad you—”

  “Rick, please come to the gallery.” She sounds scared. “Something is not right. Please.”

  “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” Belknap found out. Lucca came back at her. Burim’s got a knife to her throat. This is all my fault…

  “Please, Rick, I need you. Please come.”

  “Hold on! I’ll be there in…” But the line’s already dead.

  I hope she isn’t.

  I call Carson while I throw on some gallery-ready clothes. “Anything happening at the gallery?”

  “Nah, it’s dead. Post came an hour ago. Don’t see Belknap’s car. Why?”

  “Gianna just called. She says something’s ‘not right.’ She sounded terrified. Nothing? No noise, no sketchy visitors?”

  “Zip. Want me to check it out?”

  “Discreetly. See but don’t be seen. Don’t go in unless it looks like Gianna’s in real danger. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  The fifteen-minute taxi ride seems to last three hours. The longer I sit, the more spun-up I get. What’s happening up there? Am I going to be too late?

  The taxi drops me across from the gallery. I call Carson. “Anything?”

  “Not that I saw.”

  “Keep the line open.” I pocket my phone while I cross the street. If things get real bad, maybe Carson can save us both.

  Nothing’s going on behind the gallery’s windows when I get there—no screaming, no shattered glass, no blood, no people. Ever since the call, I’ve been focused on one thing: rescuing Gianna. Now with my hand on the lobby door, staring at the lowered shade, I take a few dee
p, strong breaths to pump myself up for whatever’s waiting in there.

  Anything that’s happened to her is because of me. I have to make it right, whatever that means. Whatever it costs.

  I push through the door. The electronic chime sounds.

  Gianna stands there in a lipstick-pink scooter dress with big, black buttons. Grim face. Those luscious lips pressed flat. “Mi dispiace,” she whispers.

  She’s sorry? What for?

  Belknap steps out of the alcove. His eyes latch on me. They get big, then narrow to slits. “You son of a bitch.”

  Chapter 38

  This had to happen sometime. I just wish it hadn’t happened now, or this way.

  “Gianna,” I say, “go to lunch.”

  Gianna glances over her shoulder at Belknap. He nods. She hurries to her desk, grabs her purse, then trots out. She shoots an indecipherable look at me as she passes.

  “What did you do to her?” I growl.

  “Not a damn thing. Just told her to get you down here, or she’s out of a job. She surprised me—didn’t have to push all that hard.” He barks out a laugh. “Thought I was getting this Hoskins asshole, not you. They let you out?”

  “I served my time. Not like you.” I’m angry enough about him threatening Gianna that I don’t feel like a meerkat yet. Maybe I can keep that up. Not likely, though.

  His fists open and close by his hips. “I kept hoping someone’d shank you in the pen.”

  “I hear you tried to make that happen.”

  He laughs again. “Don’t believe that shit. If I tried, you wouldn’t be here sniffing around my girl.”

  We stand eyeing each other for a few moments. I wonder for the first time if he’s carrying, not that I need something else to worry about. It would make sense with the kind of cash he seems to have here.

  Little bits of what all this means trickle into my brain: my cover’s blown, he knows I’m here, he can tell Gianna, he can tell Morrone. It’s getting harder to keep my anger from turning into terror. Be Rick, dude. Play it like he would.

  “You did okay for yourself.” I spread my hands and swivel to take in the room. “Better than okay. Nice gallery. Pretty assistant. Connected sponsor.”

  He takes a sudden step forward. It’s all I can do to keep from turning and running. “What’re you babbling about?”

  “Come on, Geoff. I know who you work for. I know who owns this place.” I take a step forward with all the confidence I can fake. The farther I am from the door, the less likely I am to use it. “And I know you. You couldn’t go straight if somebody welded you to a ruler.”

  “Fuck you. You’re still a prissy little Boy Scout. Or that’s the act you put on for the feds.” His tone hasn’t changed since L.A. Snide, belligerent, nasty. “That skinny little dyke you were so friendly with. You feed her to them? No? Feds know how many people you let slide?”

  “I let Sierra slide. Remember her? You put that girl in so much shit when you disappeared.” I point out the door. “That your plan for Gianna? Pin it all on her when your world caves in and you run off to China or something?”

  “What do you care? You fucking her?”

  “No. Are you?”

  “I did.” He gives me his evil shark smile. “That’s one prime piece of ass, let me tell you.”

  If I had a gun, I’d shoot him right now. First in the balls, then in the face. “You’re an asshole. You were an asshole in L.A., and you’re still an asshole. That’s why I wanted to put you away.”

  Belknap snorts. “Fucking weasel.” He pulls his phone out of his back pocket. “’Scuse me while I call some people I know. Have you taken out with the trash.”

  “You mean Morrone? You should hear how he talks about you. Him and Lucca.”

  The phone stops halfway to Belknap’s ear. His face freezes between a sneer and a question.

  Did I just let him think I’m buds with the Morrones? Bad me. “Yeah. We had a nice chat. Are you looking under your car, in your back seat, before you get in? Maybe you should start.”

  His phone slowly sinks toward his hip. “What’re you doing here? They send you after me?” Some of his go-to-hell attitude has gone to hell.

  “You? You’re just a pimple on the ass of my project.”

  “Project?”

  “Yeah. I’m after something way bigger than you.” I love rubbing this in, even if it’s bullshit, just for the look on his face. “In case you decide to get cute, let me tell you how this works. Anything happens to me—even if you’re not involved—the next phone call goes to the FBI legal attaché at the Embassy, telling them where you are. You’re still wanted, you know. Then this whole pretty world of yours goes in the toilet.” I hope. Maybe Carson’s still listening. If I get out of here, we need to make contingency plans.

  “Bull. Shit.” He doesn’t sound as confident as all that, though.

  “Try it. Find out.”

  Belknap shakes his head and chuckles. “You’re working with the feds. Should’ve guessed.” He stows his phone. “So who’s that Carson wench? You fucking her? That’s too much woman for you.”

  “She’s my partner.”

  “No shit? No wonder she was so hot for me. Jesus, for a minute I thought she was gonna take me right here, on the floor. Whew.”

  I did not need to hear that. Did she?

  We stare at each other for what seems like a long, long time. I think I’ve got the upper hand so far, which helps keep those meerkat feelings away. How long can it stay that way? He’s got more pressure points on me than I do on him. The longer we stand here, the more likely he figures that out. “What’d you want with Hoskins?”

  He snorts again. “Sell him a canvas. So much for that, unless you got fed money to play with.”

  “What kind of canvas?”

  “A real nice Henri Fantin still life, 1881.” He squints at me. “But you already knew that, didn’t you… Neutra?”

  My heart goes sideways. “What?”

  “Yeah.” He nods to himself. “Guy I got it from says a guy called Neutra set him up to bring it here with a tracker chip in it. He described you.”

  Damn you, Burim. “He described me? What’d he say? Five-eleven, medium build, brown hair, brown eyes? Look out your window, Belknap. One of those walks by every five seconds. Why would I even bother? I told you, I’m not after you.”

  He chews this over for a moment. “It’s a fed thing to do. That’s why I like you for it.”

  “Maybe it’s the Carabinieri. How well do you get along with them?”

  “Pricks.”

  Same as his relationship with LAPD. “Well, I don’t know anything about it. If the Fantin’s so nice, sell it to Morrone. He’s got money.” Maybe.

  “I know what I’ll sell to Morrone.” Again with the shark smile. “You.”

  Whoa, not this again. I manage to swallow the lightning bolt of panic. “Didn’t you catch the part about you on their shit list? Think they’ll listen to you? Even if they do, don’t forget the FBI in Rome. I turn up dead, all this goes away.” I sweep my hand around the gallery. “And you get to spend the next few years fighting extradition in an Italian cell.”

  He shakes his head. “It’s all going down anyway.”

  “What?”

  “You said it yourself. I’m sideways with the Morrones. There’s other players here, too.” He points toward the ceiling. “This ain’t gonna last much longer. If it’s going, I want it to take you with it. Hell, maybe the feds get me back home before Morrone has me hit.” He laughs. “Thought you had me, didn’t you? You never did plan that extra step ahead.” Out comes the phone again.

  I should’ve realized this was going too well. I should’ve known pretending to be on the Morrones’ good side would go only so far. But no, I didn’t think of this. This is why I ended up in Pensacola while Belknap was over here doing the dolce vita thing. Now I have the next few seconds to try to think a step past him while I ignore the sweat w
aterfalling down my back.

  Then I remember all the stuff I read in Belknap’s files over the past few hours. The Morrones think he’s crooked; do they have any idea how crooked? Maybe I can take a little bit of knowledge and a lot of guesswork and wave him off. I’d better be able to.

  “How much have you told Morrone about your sales?”

  Belknap looks up from his phone. His thumb’s bent over the screen. “What’re you talking about?”

  “For instance, those seventy-eight pieces you moved for him over the past two years. The Palmer, the Leibl, the Tissot, all those. They were his, right? How much does he think you got for them? Sixty-one mil, or something less than that?”

  He scowls. “You don’t know shit.”

  “Yeah? Who owns those shell companies you used to catch the proceeds? You know—Toluca, Brentwood, Mar Vista, Inglewood, and the other fifty-some. Those sound a lot better than Landeck Asset Management, don’t they? Are those his… or yours?”

  Some of the color drains out of his face. Not much, just enough to see. My unfounded speculation has some foundation, after all.

  “How much of a commission is he giving you? Or maybe I should say, how much does he think he’s giving you?”

  Belknap’s not paying attention to his phone anymore. “Where’d you get this shit?”

  “It’s out there.” I wiggle my fingers like falling snow. “In the air. The Morrones may have it already, who knows. You’re still alive, so I doubt it. Anything strange happen here in the past few weeks? Break-ins? People hassling your clients or suppliers?” I might as well make Burim pay for screwing me. “How about that tracking chip? The cops aren’t the only ones who can try that. How much do you trust your guy with the Fantin?”

  He puffs out his chest, maybe to try to feel more confident. “He’s a regular. Never had trouble with him.”

  “But things are different now, aren’t they? They froze you out. Maybe he figured out which way the wind’s blowing.”