“Ah. Now chasing something that may not exist starts to make sense. Though I think your client’s being a little cute about his motivation.”
“By which you mean?…”
“The thrill of the hunt, being the new kid in town, wanting the big boys to take him seriously. All that.”
“You think it’s baloney?”
“I think it’s worse than that, but if I use those words I might not get more coffee.” He held out his mug. “You said there was something off about him.”
“Well, there was. I remember the art majors from college. The studio majors were on their own planet, of course, but even the dorkiest history-and-crit major was hipper than this guy.”
“People change. Maybe he swerved to the right after he graduated.”
“Then why is he collecting cutting-edge art?”
“Now he has a little money and he’s loosening up again?”
“What are you saying? You think I’m wrong about something being off?”
“You’re never wrong about that. I’m just giving you a hard time.”
“Oh, good, in case I might forget who you are. So what do we think he’s up to?”
Bill considered briefly. “Well, one possibility: it’s exactly what he said. He’s looking to make an end run around everyone else and snap these paintings up. But—”
“But you think it’s about money, not the pure love of art.”
“That didn’t cross your mind?”
“Actually, it more than crossed it. It lodged there.” I drank some more of my excellent tea. “In our entire conversation, he didn’t once say anything about wanting to see the paintings. Wondering what they were like. How they might be different from the older ones, better or worse. What a thrill it would be if Ghost Hero Chau really were alive, and still painting.”
“So. He may be a collector, but he’s not a lover. He’s gambling they’re real and he wants to corner the market. You’re shaking your head. Why?”
“I don’t think he’s a collector, either. I ran a background. No Jeff Dunbars his age in any of the databases. He gave me a business card with no business on it, only his name and phone number. Not even an e-mail. Now, that could mean he’s rich enough not to work, rich enough he doesn’t want anyone to know who he really is. Collecting art would go along with that, and I guess so would paying my retainer in cash—”
“How much, by the way? Unless it’s none of my business.”
“Since I’m paying you out of it, it can be your business. A grand against two days plus expenses. More after that, or we settle up if I find them sooner.”
“A trustful sort of fellow, handing over cash like that.”
I shrugged. It was a lot, but clients paying in cash are not all that rare. Many people like to avoid a paper trail leading to a PI.
“But the phone,” I said, “is a prepaid cell.”
“Ah. Now that’s damn dubious, I’d say.”
“And the suit didn’t scream ‘too rich to work’ either.”
“Shiny and threadbare?”
“No, no. Perfectly fine, but strictly off the rack. A good rack, but not super high-end. Remember, I’m a seamstress’s daughter.”
“You do your mother proud.”
“Leave my mother out of it. And frankly, if he were a Getty or something—not to display my lack of self-esteem but why is he coming to me? All the big guys have Asians on staff.”
“Because you’re better?”
“But how would he know that? Seriously, I’m thinking he’s just a working stiff, and his work has to do with China. He said he learned Chinese because he thought it would be useful. I bet he’s in import-export, or he’s American legal counsel for a Chinese firm, something like that. That’s probably where he heard about the paintings—at work. He’s using a phony name because he doesn’t want his bosses to know he’s on the hunt, and he came to me, not one of the big boys, out of the same instinct. He’s not the new collector on the block. He’s not on the block at all. He just wants to cash in on the Chaus.” I finished my tea and looked at Bill. It was a sensible theory and he nodded.
“Or,” I said.
“Or.” Bill didn’t stop nodding, but he waited for me to say it.
“Or he’s not looking for the paintings at all. He’s looking for the painter.”
Bill lit a cigarette and dropped the match in the ashtray I keep around for him. “So. Why?” He streamed out smoke. “Chau owes him money? Stole his girl?”
“Twenty years ago, when Chau was thirty-five and Dunbar was ten?”
“Maybe it wasn’t Dunbar. It was his daddy. A multigenerational family feud. Your people go in for that, don’t they? God knows mine do. Maybe this is the Hatfields and the McChaus.”
“Okay. But still. Chau’s well-known to be dead.”
“An obstacle, but not insurmountable. Maybe he’s been reincarnated. Another thing your people go in for.”
“You’re mocking my people.”
“In case you might forget who I am.”
“Fat chance.” We sat in silence for a few moments. Then I said, “Here’s what I propose: we take the case. But, whatever we find, we don’t tell the client until we know what’s really going on.”
“Or, you could tell the client to go climb a tree and branch off.”
“Are you kidding? May I remind you I haven’t worked in nearly a month? There was that fistful of cash, you remember.”
Bill didn’t respond to that. He and I have both sent clients packing, retainer or not, when they were up to something we wanted no part of.
I sighed and looked into my empty cup. “I realized something. While Dunbar was talking.”
“Which is?”
“The collecting thing … I don’t get it. I never have.”
“Okay.”
“But the hunting thing? Being the one to chase something down? Find it first, discover a secret? That I do get. I think,” I admitted slowly, “that’s why I’m in this business.”
Bill cocked his head and grinned. “That’s your big insight?”
“What do you mean?”
“If that’s news to you, you’re the last to hear it.”
I felt myself redden.
“No, come on,” Bill said. “You keep telling me I do this so I can be Sir Galahad, riding in and saving the town. Why can’t you have a less-than-pure motive, too?”
“I never said Sir Galahad. I said the Lone Ranger.”
“The effect is the same, and Sir Galahad doesn’t have to wear a mask.”
“No, just a tin suit. Anyway, my motives are pure and we’re taking the case.”
“So I can be Sir Galahad and you can be Indiana Jones?”
“The Lone Ranger! And Indiana Jones, in case you missed it, is a guy. Why can’t I be Lara Croft?”
“Okay, but she doesn’t have a whip.”
“I’m so not going there. And for your information, we’re taking the case because at the end, when I’ve found the secret and you’ve saved the town, I can keep Jeff Dunbar’s retainer and maybe even send him another big bill. Coffee-making machinery doesn’t come cheap, you know. And a constant supply of beans? Please.”
“Well, if that’s what’s at stake.” Bill finished his coffee. “So okay, boss. What’s our first move?”
I sat back and gazed at the ceiling. “I wish I knew more about Chau. Or Chinese art. I Googled, but Chau’s story is pretty much what Dunbar said it was, and I didn’t find anything else helpful. The only lead I have is this gallery assistant who backpedaled.”
“Well, let’s go lean on him.”
“Sure, but what if he doesn’t give? I don’t have a clue where to go next.”
“Art, according to Dunbar, is not why he hired you. Chineseness is.”
“Yes, but he’s wrong. Seriously, whatever’s going on, who says anyone involved is Chinese except me and Ghost Hero Chau? It’s art I need.”
Bill looked at me for a few moments with something in his eyes I couldn’t read. Then he shifted his gaze to his coffee cup, and the press, and the grinder. “Well, okay,” he said, and took out his cell phone. The coversation was friendly and brief: he ascertained the callee was in and would remain so, and that was that. He put the phone away and stood. “Come on.”