“Detective, I have information right now. Trust me, I wouldn’t have wasted either of our time unless I could provide substance.”
Nikki flipped open her pad. “Has someone already tried to fence the paintings?”
“Yes and no,” answered Casper. “Someone did sell just one of the paintings, the Jacques-Louis David. But that sale took place two years ago.”
Nikki began to pace. “What? And you’re absolutely sure of this?”
There was a pause and a half before the dapper art thief replied. “My dear, think of what you know about me and consider if you truly require an answer to that question.”
“Point made,” said Nikki. “I’m not doubting you, I’m just confused. How can a painting be in Matthew Starr’s collection if it was sold two years ago?”
“Detective, you’re smart. How good are you at math?”
“Pretty good.”
“Then your answer is to do some.”
And then Casper hung up.
SEVENTEEN
The receptionist at Starr Real Estate Development popped back on and told Detective Heat that Paxton would be right with her. Nikki felt like she was straining at a leash. Even hearing Anita Baker on the hold music didn’t soothe her. It wasn’t the first time in her life she seemed to be moving at a different pace than the rest of the world. Hell, it wasn’t even the first time that day.
At last, a ring-through. “Hi, sorry about the wait. I’m buttoning up a lot of Matthew’s affairs.”
That could have so many meanings, she thought. “Last call, I promise.”
“It’s no bother, honest.” Then he laughed and said, “Although…”
“Although what?”
“I wonder if it would be easier if I just set up my office over there at your precinct.”
Nikki laughed, too. “You could. You have the better view, but we have nicer furniture. How sad is that?”
“I’ll stick with the view. So tell me how I can help you, Detective.”
“I was hoping you could look up the name of the company that insured Matthew’s art collection.”
“Sure thing.” He paused. “But you recall I told you he had me cancel that policy.”
“Yes, I know. I just want to ask them if they kept documentary photos of the collection I can use to hunt it down.”
“Oh, oh, pictures, right. Never thought of that. Good idea. Got a pen?”
“Ready.”
“It’s GothAmerican Insurance here in Manhattan.” She heard sharp keystrokes and he continued, “Ready for the phone number?”
After she took it down, Nikki said, “May I ask you one more question? It will save me a call later.”
She could hear the smile in his voice when Noah answered, “I doubt that, but go ahead.”
“Did you cut a check for Kimberly Starr to buy a piano recently?”
“A piano?” And then he repeated, “A piano? No.”
“Well she bought one.” Heat looked at the CSI photo in her hand of the Starr living room. “It’s a beaut. A Steinway Karl Lagerfeld edition.”
“Kimberly, Kimberly, Kimberly.”
“These list for eighty thousand. How could she afford that?”
“Welcome to my world, Detective. Not the craziest thing she’s done. Want to hear about the speedboat she bought last fall in the Hamptons?”
“But where did she get the money?”
“Not from me.”
Nikki checked her watch. She might be able to get to the insurance folks before lunch. “Thanks, Noah, that’s all I need.”
“Until next time, you mean.”
“Sure you don’t want to set up a desk over here?” she said. They were both laughing when they hung up.
Heat punctuated her “Yesss!” with a fist-pump when Raley finished his call to the archives manager at GothAmerican. They not only routinely maintained photographic documentation of insured art collections, they held them for seven years following the cancellation of a policy. “How soon can we get them?”
“Faster than you can microwave my leftovers,” said Raley.
She pressed her detective. “Exactly how soon?”
“The archive manager is e-mailing them to me as an attachment now.”
“Forward it to Forensics as soon as it comes.”
“Already had GothAmerican do a cc to them,” he said.
“Raley, you are the czar of all media.” Heat clapped him on the shoulder. She grabbed her bag and hurried out to Forensics, brushing past Rook on his way in without seeming to notice him.
The world still hadn’t caught up to Heat speed. When Nikki was closing in, it had little chance.
Detective Heat returned to the bull pen from Forensics an hour and a half later wearing the game face Rook had seen when she was staging for the body shop raid.
“What did you learn?” he asked.
“Oh, just that Matthew Starr’s art collection was all forgeries.”
He sprang to his feet. “The whole collection?”
“Fakes.” She slung her bag on the back of her chair. “The ones in the insurance pictures are real. The ones in Barbara Deerfield’s camera? Not so much.”
“That’s big.”
“It sure provides a motive for someone to murder an art appraiser.”
He gestured, punctuating with his forefinger. “I was thinking the same thing.”
“Oh, you were, were you?”
“I am a trained journalist. I’m capable of reading clues, too, you know.”
He was getting cocky and she decided to have some fun with him. “Great. Then tell me who had the motive.”
“You mean who murdered Barbara Deerfield? Pochenko.”
“On his own initiative? Doubt that.”
He pondered and said, “What do you think?”
“I’ll tell you what I think. I think it’s too early to go shooting my mouth off.” She went to the board and put a check mark beside her notation to screen the insurance photos. He followed her like a puppy and she smiled to herself.
“But you’re on to something, aren’t you?” he said. She just shrugged. “Do you have a suspect in mind?” Nikki flashed a grin and walked back to her desk. He trailed her and said, “You do. Who is it?”
“Rook, aren’t you doing this whole ride-along so you can get into the mind of a homicide detective?”
“Yeah?”
“Just telling you wouldn’t be helping you. Know what would help you? For you to think like a homicide detective and see what you come up with on your own.” Nikki picked up her desk phone and pushed a speed-dial button.
Rook said, “That sounds like a lot of work.”
She held up a staying palm while she listened to a ring at the other end of the line. He brought his knuckle up and pushed it to his lips, agonized. She loved driving Rook crazy like this. It was fun, and besides, if she was wrong, she didn’t want him to know.
Finally, someone picked up. “Hi, it’s Detective Heat at the Two-Oh. I want to arrange for transport of a prisoner you’re holding. His name’s Buckley, Gerald Buckley…. Yeah, I’ll hold.”
While she was waiting, Rook said, “Aren’t you beating a dead horse? That guy’s not going to tell you anything. Especially with that ambulance chaser of his.”
Nikki beamed a smug grin. “Ah, but that was yesterday in Interrogation. Today, we’re going to stage a little theater.”
“What kind of theater?”
“A play. As in,” she switched to an Elizabethan accent, “ ‘The play’s the thing, Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king.’ ” Then she added, “That would be Buckley.”
“You really wanted to be an actress, didn’t you?”
“Maybe I am,” said Nikki. “Come along and see.”
Heat, Roach, and Rook were waiting in the hallway at the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner in Kips Bay when the corrections officers delivered Gerald Buckley with his attorney in tow.
Nikki looked him up and down. “Coveralls flatter you, Mr. Buckley. Rikers all it’s cracked up to be?”
Buckley turned his head away from Heat the way dogs do when they’re pretending they didn’t deliver the nearby turd to the new carpet. His lawyer stepped between them. “I’ve advised my client not to answer any further questions. If you have a case, bring it. But no more interviews unless you have lots of time to waste.”