The Collection Read online

  It’s kind of strange but kind of nice, talking about something I know. I’ve been away from this world for four years, but it’s all coming back like I’d walked out the gallery door last week. I don’t know what I’m doing yet—I was never a detective—but so far it’s better than slinging coffee.

  Carson’s up-and-back pacing has turned into an ellipse between the bed and the opposite wall. She’ll wear a track in the carpet pretty soon. “But… I get ripping off museums. Those paintings are always worth a zillion bucks. Don’t get this shit. Not worth the risk.”

  “Those museum paintings aren’t worth the risk. Only an idiot steals big-name art. Think about it. Somebody swipes the Mona Lisa or The Scream. It’s a world treasure, everybody’s looking for it. Then some dude shows up at the back of your gallery and tries to sell it to you. Even the crookedest dealer’ll tell the guy to get lost. Gar—my old boss—used to call it ‘headache art.’ Could you sit down? You’re making me nuts.”

  She glares at me. “Sat on my ass for ten fucking hours to get here. No.” She changes directions, just to rub it in. “Got anything on the seller?”

  I lean back in the desk chair and rub my eyes. I woke up at two body time this morning. Jet lag’s the best. “It’s not random crooks selling these pieces. This guy’s really careful. He probably buys from the thieves or a middleman and stays in his niche to keep from getting screwed too bad. He marks up the prices to make a profit, but also to sell fast. All the pieces went for around three-quarters the low auction estimate. That means the buyers totally knew there was something sketchy, but bought anyway.” Which brings up a question that hadn’t crossed my mind until now: out of all the crooked art deals in the world, why’d the client pick up on these five? I’ll have to think on that.

  Carson turns a couple laps before she says anything. “What’s your play?”

  This is the part I’m a little fuzzy about. “I’d love to find out what the client knows—”

  “Forget it.”

  “Yeah, I got that. We need to find out who’s behind these shelf companies.”

  “You mean shell companies.”

  “No, shelf. The names are totally generic and random. I think these are the kinds of shell companies you buy pre-made, off the shelf. You can get them for less than a grand if you don’t want a credit history with them. A custom product costs up to five grand in Luxembourg depending on what you want done.”

  For a moment, Carson stops charging around and stares at me. “You just know that?”

  “I looked it up. Besides, I used to see these things all the time in my gallery. Anyway, if we can find the beneficial owner, we find the seller, and maybe the rest of the art, if there is any.”

  She shakes her head and starts off again. “No fucking way you can do that.”

  “Not legally.”

  That slows her down. She stops at the top of her racetrack and peers at me. I can see the wheels going behind her face. “Gotta hear this.”

  Chapter 7

  We spend an extra day in Brussels so I can get through more of the background information and Carson can get adjusted to the time. She’s MIA at breakfast the next morning, then shows up at my room in sweaty gray sweats. “Got a number for that lawyer?” is how she says “hello.”

  “Um… why?”

  “Gonna need an appointment, right?”

  I can just hear her on the phone with the Luxembourg lawyer’s office we’ll visit tomorrow—“I need a fucking appointment now, goddamnit!”—but she insists, and I don’t feel like a hospital visit, so I give her the number.

  Then something truly weird happens. “Good morning. I’m calling for Mr. Richard Hoskins.” Her voice has dropped half an octave and turned smooth as butter on glass. “Mr. Hoskins will be in your city tomorrow and would like to speak to someone about forming a corporation… yes, that’s right… as early as possible, please… yes, English would be best… that would be perfect. Mr. Hoskins will be there at nine. Thank you so much.”

  “Who are you,” I ask, “and what did you do with Carson?”

  “Fuck off.” Back to her normal voice. “Nine tomorrow. Leaving at five tonight. Get ready.” Then she disappears for the rest of the day.

  The E411 from Brussels to Luxembourg City is pretty enough—green trees, green grass, green fields—for the first half-hour or so once you leave the city, but it gets old fast. Especially when the other person in the car isn’t talking.

  Carson’s driving a silver E-class Mercedes sedan she got from somewhere I probably shouldn’t ask about. She’s wearing black jeans and a sky-blue, long-sleeved tee, tight across her chest and shoulders. Other than cussing out a couple drivers, she hasn’t said a word since we started.

  Once we pass the R0—the sort-of ring road around Brussels—and we’re into the exurbs, I take another shot at breaking the cold front. “Look, I’m sorry about last night. I just couldn’t sit inside anymore. I needed to take a walk. It won’t happen again.” No response. She slides us around an Opel like it’s standing still. “Have I said something? Done something?”

  She turns her head about two degrees and glances at me out of the corner of her eye. “What’s wrong now?”

  “I’m wondering why you’re not talking to me.”

  “Do I need to?”

  It takes a few moments to figure out how to answer that. “We’re going to be working together. We’re going to be in this car for another couple hours. The radio sucks. Maybe we should talk, find out about each other, like normal people?”

  She snorts and blasts us past a silver Ford Transit.

  “What did Allyson tell you about me?”

  Another tiny head movement, another sideways glance. “You were inside.”

  “So that’s it? That’s what’s bugging you?” No answer. “Interstate transportation of stolen property. Is that badass or what?”

  “Don’t give a shit you were in prison. Half of Allyson’s people did time.”

  I digest that for a beat. “What did you do before Allyson got you?”

  “None of your fucking business.”

  The last woman I met who had a mouth like hers was in a holding cell. “So you can know about me, but I can’t know about you?”

  “Don’t get it, do you?” That comes at me like a punch. “Not here because I want to be. Don’t want to be your buddy. Wanna know how the system works?”

  “Uh… sure.”

  “Allyson prices out projects based on how many man-hours she thinks they’ll take, plus expenses. But there’s two parts to this job and we each get one. Far as she thinks, we’re one body, so you and me, we split the budget. I’m burning the usual time and getting half my usual take.”

  “That’s not fair.” I get one of those if-looks-could-kill looks. On the upside, it’s the longest she’s spoken without saying “fuck.”

  The sun’s down by the time we check into the Meliá, our hotel in Luxembourg City, and wash up from the drive. Carson had said we should eat dinner before we go out again “in case we get arrested,” but when I call her, she tells me she’s having room service.

  Shit. Ever since we met, she’s been refusing to have anything to do with me unless she can’t avoid it. Carson’s going to tell Allyson if I’m worth keeping on, but has she already decided?

  I go to Aqua, the hotel’s glossy Mediterranean restaurant. From my terrace table I can see the sharp, white planes and angles of the Luxembourg Museum of Modern Art next door. Its pyramidal glass dome glows amber in the twilight.

  For the first time since I got Allyson’s package five days ago, I have time to think. That’s not always good for me.

  The project description on the flash drive—I won’t call it a contract, since nobody had to sign it and there aren’t even any names on the thing—says I’m getting €500 a day for up to twenty days, plus approved expenses and travel days. Ten thousand euros. Eleven thousand dollars. A year’s worth of feeding caffeine addi
ctions, plus three full (good!) meals a day and the nicest bed I’ve slept on for four years. And this is half pay. Carson’s bitching about that?

  It gets better, though. If I finish early, I get to keep the full twenty days of pay as a bonus. But if I take longer, I lose €500 for each extra day. The clock started running when I cleared Immigration at Brussels’ airport. Seventeen days left.

  Can I do it? No clue yet.

  The downside? I could get arrested doing something illegal and go to jail over here. My PO could figure out I’m not in New York and kick me inside again—for all my remaining sentence, plus time for busting my release agreement and whatever else the system can think of. That would suck.

  My paella arrives, still steaming from the pan. It smells great. Unfortunately, I’m thinking myself into not being hungry. I dive in anyway, hoping momentum will keep me plowing through the food. Sometimes that works.

  Another downside to the job—always a possibility when mass art theft’s involved—is that Allyson could have me going up against some real heavies who’ll chop me into dog food. That would totally suck.

  Worth it? The upside’s awfully good, and my life isn’t especially great right now.

  The thing is, the feds probably won’t put me back in PEN (reform school with razor wire) if I violate out. I’ll end up in a medium-security federal cage with criminals whose collars aren’t so white. Not wanting to go in with the animals was the prime reason why I was such a model inmate. There’s a name for people like me in places like that: lunch.

  And dying? I have to admit, there’ve been a few times over the past four years when that didn’t seem like such a bad deal—that first night in a cell, for one. Chloe talked me down from another right after I moved in, one more reason I’ll love her forever. I’m not there now, though, and it’s because of this job. If I get this right, there’s hope; I won’t be buried in debt forever. If I blow it, there’s no Plan B.

  I realize I’ve gone through half my plate and only tasted the first few forkfuls. The part I remember was pretty good, too. This is why I need to be around people—so I don’t do this shit to myself.

  Bottom line: I have to suck up to Carson and impress her with my supposed awesomeness. But how do I do that when she won’t talk to me?

  Maybe some inside dope will help. I hit the encryption app on my phone and pick the contact labeled “Mom.”

  “Hello?” Neutral, a bit guarded.

  “Olivia?”

  “Who is this, please?”

  “One-Seven-Nine.” We all have numbers, not names. Security. I guess it makes sense if you worry about eavesdroppers.

  “Good evening. How may I help you?” Olivia sounds like Allyson’s British sister, a velvety voice with a plummy Oxbridge accent I’ll hear in my dreams.

  “Um… I need to ask you a question. It’s about One-Two-Six.” Carson’s number.

  She tsks. “You understand I can’t give you any personal information.”

  “I know. I’m not looking for her blood type or her Social Security number. I just need to know… what does she like?” Silence. “You gotta keep track. Whether we’re vegetarian, if we like window or aisle seats, that kind of thing. Right?”

  “I… do.” It’s like she’s confessing a felony. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Because she hates me.” That’s close enough to true.

  “That’s not unusual for her.”

  Great. “Look. I really need this to go well. I need to keep this job. But my partner or guard or whatever she is keeps blowing me off. We can’t do a good job if we can’t even sit down and talk. I need to break the ice. Can you help? Please?”

  “Hm.” A keyboard clicks in the background. “This is, of course, important to the success of your project, is it not?”

  “Sure. It really is. Team cohesion, improved communication, all that.”

  “Yes, of course. There’s a cost, you know.”

  I should’ve known. “How much?”

  “Not money. I’ve no information on your likes and dislikes, and I detest empty data fields.”

  “You need to get out more, Olivia.”

  “Sadly, yes. You can start now.”

  I’m surprised Allyson didn’t analyze all my online purchases over the last ten years to get this info. So what do I like now? Eating regularly. Not sleeping under a bridge. Probably not what she’s after. “Um… old movies. Museums. Art Nouveau. Window seats on airplanes. That what you want?”

  “It’s a start. One-Two-Six, then.” More clicking, then a long exhale. “Well, a good steak wouldn’t be amiss,” she murmurs, half to herself. “There are two ice rinks in your location, but they’re a bit remote.” Ice rinks? Carson skates? “Ah, this may help. She enjoys street markets. Off you go, then. Is there anything else?” Her tone tells me I won’t get anything else.

  “No, that’s great, thanks. I appreciate it.” As we say our goodbyes, I wonder, what do I do with that?

  While I’ve been talking to Olivia, I had another thought: what happens if Carson goes off and does this job on her own? I handed her all the background last night. She’s been doing this way longer than I have. Would she keep all the money? Would she tell Allyson to dump me? See? You don’t need him, you’ve got me…

  Chapter 8

  Number 5, Rue Goethe holds the offices of Knoedler & Preiss, the law firm that’s also the headquarters for all five companies involved in the stolen-art sales. It’s on the south side of the street’s easternmost block, just another in a line of tidy turn-of-the-century façades. Carson and I cased the place late last night and agreed that breaking in from the outside is a stupid plan.

  Stupid Plan Number Two: we’ll have to break in from the inside.

  The firm’s receptionist—a severe young blonde in a severe black suit that pretends to be Hugo Boss—leads us to a small conference room that overlooks Rue Goethe and the back end of the neo-Renaissance State Savings Bank across the street. The bank’s cylindrical clock tower looks like something swiped from a Ruritanian castle. The morning overcast is just starting to break up.

  The building might be circa 1900 outside, but the inside’s been completely gutted and rebuilt along spare, modern lines. The only thing that lets on that this used to be a residence is the antique fireplace with a figured cast-iron firebox splitting the conference room’s sponged side wall.

  Carson’s sitting next to me in one of the black ergonomic office chairs. She looks more corporate than I ever imagined she could: conservative navy pantsuit, white button-front blouse, quiet black pumps, and a single, short strand of pearls peeking out from under her open collar. She’s even dabbed on some lip gloss and brushed out her hair so it lays flat. I almost didn’t recognize her this morning.

  “What’d you see?” I whisper.

  “Alarm contacts on the front door. No toilets in the common areas. No fire stairs. Camera in the lobby. Alarm on the office suite.” She fiddles with her small black-leather attaché on the table. “Just keeps getting better.”

  The only way we get a next step is to find out who’s behind the shell companies that sold the stolen art. I try to look thoughtful while I sort through the swamp in my head. “Okay, like we planned. Go to the restroom after we get started. See if you can find the file room.”

  She shrugs noncommittally and starts swiveling her chair, examining every inch of the room.

  A reedy guy with a graying goatee opens the door and glides in. English-cut slate-gray pinstripe, safe tie, oxblood portfolio. “Här Hoskins, please?”

  This is Rick Hoskins’ first public appearance. I’d thought all night about how to play him, how to act like a rich guy. I can’t go into full asshole mode; that’ll make me too memorable. I’d settled on direct, decisive, businesslike. We’ll see how that works.

  I bounce out of my chair. “That’s me.” We shake hands. “My assistant, Ms. Carson.”

  “Här Hoskins. Madame Carson.” He nods a
little bow over Carson’s hand. “Please, I am Gunther Stoeller. I shall help you today. Please, be comfortable. Did Berdine offer coffee or tea to you?” He has a mild German accent and holds himself like he’s trying to be the smallest target in the room.

  Right on cue, the severe blonde appears with two square, white porcelain coffee cups on a stainless-steel tray. The rest of us sit, Stoeller on the other side of the black laminate table from Carson and me.

  Once Berdine disappears, I say, “Thanks for seeing me with such short notice. My travel plans changed at the last minute.”

  He nods oh-so-politely. “Ah, yes. It is so difficult to keep a schedule these days. May I ask how you chose our firm?”

  “One of your clients recommended you.” I’m betting he won’t ask who. Name-dropping doesn’t encourage repeat business.

  “Excellent. Shall we begin?” He opens his portfolio and materializes an ice-blue Mont Blanc from somewhere. “Please, what is the purpose of your corporation? This is so we can choose the correct structure for your needs.”

  “You mean the real purpose?”

  Stoeller smiles like I just said something witty. “For now, please, yes. We can discuss later the public purpose.”

  “I need to park assets discreetly in a tax-advantaged locale. An SARL, maybe.”

  Three of the five fronts that sold the stolen art were SARLs. A Société à responsabilité limitée is a limited-liability partnership used in Francophone countries. It’s like an LLC in America.

  “Yes, of course, an excellent choice. Please, the name for your firm?”

  “Chiaroscuro Holdings.”

  I give him props; he doesn’t ask how to spell it. Then the Twenty Questions part of the program starts: should Knoedler & Preiss act as registered agent? (Yes.) Nominee service? (Straw directors and shareholders—I wonder how many corporate boards Berdine sits on.)(Yes.) Mail service? (Yes.) Corporate email address? (Yes.) And so on.

  Carson leans forward, clutching her stomach a bit more dramatically than I’d expected. “Excuse me, Herr Stoeller. Where’s the ladies’?”