But you know what old American impressionist-style paintings go for now? You could put twenty million dollars in the trunk of your Porsche. I'm not even talking about the biggest names. Painters you never heard of, you have to pay a half million dollars for their work.”
Now he was impressed. He pushed back from the table: “I didn't… I gotta get a book.”
Weather marched on: “This Lash kid, he said she had some old pots, and you said there were smashed pots lying around. They were covering up for what they took. Art Deco pots can go for fifty thousand dollars. Swoopy chairs with leather sets? There are Mies van der Rohe swoopy chairs that go for five thousand dollars each. I know, because Gloria Chatham bought two, and she never stops talking about it. Lucas, they could've taken millions out of this place. Not even counting those diamonds.”
Lucas looked down at his roast, then back up to Weather: “You paid nine thousand dollars for this table? We could have gone over to IKEA.”
“Fuck IKEA,” Weather said.
Letty giggled. “I'd like to see that.”
Sam hit a glass with a spoon; Weather looked at him and smiled and said, “Good boy.”
When they were done with dinner, Lucas hiked down to the Highland Park bookstore and bought a copy of Judith Miller's Antiques Price Guide, which was the biggest and slickest one. Back at home, sitting in the quiet of the den, he flipped through it. Weather hadn't been exaggerating. Lamps worth as much as $100,000; vases worth $25,000; Indian pots worth $30,000; a Dinky truck-a Dinky truck like Lucas had played with new, as a kid, made in 1964! -worth $10,000. Tables worth $20,000, $50,000, $70,000; a painting of a creek in winter, by a guy named Edward Willis Redfield, of whom Lucas had never heard, valued at $650,000.
“Who'd buy this shit?” he asked aloud. He spent another fifteen minutes with the book, made some notes, then got his briefcase, found his phone book, and called Smith at home.
“You catch 'em?” Smith asked.
“No. I've already been asked that,” Lucas said. “By the governor.”
“Well, shit.”
“Listen, I've been doing some research…”
Lucas told Smith about the antiques book, and what he thought had to be done at the murder scene: “Interrogate the relatives. Try to nail down every piece of furniture and every painting. Get somebody who's good at puzzles, go over to that pot cupboard, whatever you call it, and glue those smashed pots back together. Get an antiques dealer in there to evaluate the place. My guys checked her insurance, but there's some bullshit about writs and privacy, so it'd probably be easier to check her safe-deposit box; or maybe there's a copy in one of those file cabinets. We need some paperwork.”
Smith was uncertain: “Lucas, those pot pieces are smaller'n your dick. How in the hell are we going to get them back together?”
“The pots don't have to be perfect. We need to see what they are, and get somebody who knows what he's doing, and put a value on them. I've got this idea…”
“What?”
“If the people who hit the place are big-time antique thieves, if this is some kind of huge invisible heist, I'll bet they didn't bust up the good stuff,” Lucas said.
“I bet there's twenty thousand bucks worth of pots in the cupboard, there's a thousand bucks worth of busted pots on the floor, and the six missing pots are worth a hundred grand. That's what I think.”
After a moment of silence, Smith sighed and said, “I'll freeze the scene, won't allow anybody to start cleaning anything out. Take pictures of everything, inch by inch.
I'll get a warrant to open the safe-deposit box, get the insurance policies. I'll find somebody who can do the pots. I don't know any artists, but I can call around to the galleries. What was that the Lash kid said? A painting that said 'reckless'?”
“I put it in Google, and got nothing,” Lucas said. “There's a guy here in town named Kidd, he's a pretty well-known artist. He's helped me out a couple of times, I'll give him a call, see if he has any ideas.”
Off the phone with Smith, he considered for a moment. The media were usually a pain in the ass, but they could also be a useful club. If the robbery aspect of the murders were highlighted, it could have two positive effects: if the killers were local, and had already tried to dump the stuff, then some useful leads might pop up. If they were professionals, hitting Bucher for big money, it might freeze the resale of anything that was taken out. That'd be good, because it'd still be on their hands when the cops arrived.
There was no doubt in Lucas's mind that the cops would arrive, sooner or later. He looked in his address book again, and dialed a number. Ruffe Ignace, the reporter from the Star Tribune, said, without preface, “This better be good, because I could get laid tonight if I don't go back to the office. It's a skinny blonde with a deep need for kinky sex.”
“You owe me,” Lucas said. “Besides, I'm doing you another favor, and then you'll owe me two.”
“Is this a favor that'll keep me from getting laid?” Ignace asked.
“You gotta work that out yourself,” Lucas said. “What I'm going to tell you comes from an anonymous source close to the investigation.”
“Are you talking about Brown? I got that.”
“Not Brown,” Lucas said. “But to me, it looks like a smart reporter might speculate that the murders and the trashing of the Bucher house were covers for one of the biggest arts and antiquities thefts in history, but one that's invisible.”
Open cell phone: restaurant dishes clinking in the background. Then, hushed, “Holy shit. You think?”
“It could be speculated,” Lucas said.
“How could I find out what they had in there?”
“Call Shelley Miller. Let me get you that number. Don't tell her that I gave it to you.”
“Motherfucker,” Ignace groaned. “The blonde just walked up to the bar. She's wearing a dress you can see her legs through. She's like wearing a thong? In Minneapolis? You know how rare that is? And she wants my body? You know how rare that is?”
“That number is… You gotta pen?”
“Davenport, man, you're killing me,” Ignace said.
“Ruffe, listen: Tell her the story. The whole thing, the murders, everything. Tell her that Deep Throat called. Take her back to your office, drive as fast as you can, scream into your cell phone at the editors while you're driving. Fake it, if nobody's working. Then when you get there, sit her down, write the story, and ask her what she thinks. Then make some change she suggests; joke that she ought to get a share of the byline.”
“Yeah, bullshit. The Ignace doesn't share bylines.”
“Listen, Ruffe, she'll be all over you,” Lucas said. “You'll nail her in the front seat of your car.”
“I got a Prelude, man. With a stick shift. It'd hit her right in the small of the back.”
“Whatever,” Lucas said. “This will not mess up your night. I swear to God. You're good as gold-but try to get it in tomorrow morning, okay? I need this.”
“You need that and I need this-” The phone clicked off.
But Lucas smiled.
He knew his reporters. No way Ignace wouldn't write the story.
And late that night, in bed, Weather reading the latest Anne Perry, Lucas said, “I'm worried about the Kline thing. The governor's got me talking to Mitford tomorrow.”
“I thought you liked him. Mitford.”
“I do-but that doesn't mean that he's not a rattlesnake,” Lucas said. “You gotta watch your ankles when he's around.”
“You've never talked to the girl, have you?” Weather asked. “It's all been that fuckin' Flowers.”
“No. I haven't talked to her. I should. But we've been trying to keep it at the cop level, apolitical. Now Kline's trying to cut a separate deal, but Rose Marie says that's not gonna fly. Nobody'll buy it. I expect I'm going to have to talk to Kline and then we're gonna bring in the Ramsey County attorney. That little chickenshit will do everything he can to turn it into a three-ring circus.”