“Count on it.”
“They say who the high roller is who wants to buy the painting?”
“No, but Ralph showed me a couple hundred-dollar bills he received up front. That’s how I knew about the money clip.”
“And now they’re gone. What did you tell them?”
“I told them the painting legally belonged to the museum.”
“And?”
“And I wasn’t going to be involved in anything illegal.”
Slocum looked at me impassively, withholding judgment as to whether I was being only partially insincere or was flat-out lying.
“Spare us the act,” said McDeiss, not withholding anything. “We’ve both known you too long.”
“How’d they take your rejection of their deal?” said Slocum.
“Not so well.”
“But you gave him your card,” said McDeiss.
“I’m a businessman,” I said. “I give my card out to panhandlers and delivery boys, to babies in strollers.”
“Why did this Ralph Ciulla fellow and that Joey Pride think they had the right to get a piece of that painting?” said McDeiss.
“From what they told me, it was because they were in on the theft.”
Slocum and McDeiss turned toward each other, as if the theory had already been discussed.
“What does your client say about it?” said Slocum.
“Whatever he says is privileged,” I said.
“But as far as you know, the only people who knew about the hundreds were you, the guy who gave them to Ciulla, and this Joey Pride.”
“Do you really think Ralph was killed for a couple hundred bucks?”
“You been in this job as long as I have, Carl, you’d be amazed at how cheap a life can be measured by a guy on the trigger side of a gun.”
“We’d like to talk to your client,” said Slocum.
“You want to talk to my client, you get Hathaway to get off of her high white horse. It’s getting dangerous here, and she’s not helping.”
“I’ll talk to her.”
“Good.”
“What are you going to tell Charlie?” said Slocum.
“When I get hold of him finally,” I said, “I’m going to tell him the truth. That things have escalated in a very bad way, that murder is afoot, and maybe his best bet is to bury the damn painting and stay the hell out of Dodge.”
26
She was waiting for us by the front door, long and lean, pretty and hard, blond hair, black roots, hoop earrings dangling, bracelets jangling, lips painted bright red, the darting, vicious eyes of a middle linebacker. Her portfolio was brown leather, her heels were black and high, her silver Escalade was parked out front. When she saw us approach, she glanced at her watch and tapped her toe, and she terrified the hell out of me, just standing there. But of course she did.
She was a Realtor.
“I think you’ll adore this one, Beth,” she said in a tight, energized voice as we climbed the cement steps in front of the narrow row house. “I know it was a little sudden, but I wanted to get a jump on some other buyers who are coming to look this afternoon. The interest in this house is through the roof. It won’t be available much longer.”
“Thanks, Sheila,” said Beth.
“And is this your boyfriend?”
“Just my partner, Victor,” said Beth.
“Just,” I said.
“Nice to meet you, Victor. Are you life partners or something like that? It’s so hard to keep the nomenclature straight.”
“Legal partners,” I said.
“Oh,” she said, placing a hand lightly on my forearm. She smelled edgy and dangerous, like she had doused herself in a new perfume from Revlon called Barracuda. “It’s nice of you to come and provide support. So are we ready?”
“I think,” said Beth.
“Now, use your imagination, Beth,” said Sheila as she fiddled with her keys. “The buyers haven’t prepped it for sale, so it will look a little dingy, but that’s to our advantage, because it will keep the price down. You have to envision it with fresh paint, sanded floors, new fixtures throughout, especially the sconces.”
“The sconces?” I said.
“Oh, the things they have now are simply beastly. But with something a little art deco and bright, maybe some frosted glass, the walls will look fabulous.” She found a key that fit, twisted it, shouldered open the door. “Let’s take a look.”
A blast of must hit us from the open door, as if the place hadn’t been inhabited in years. I was ready to duck in case a bat flew out.
Sheila the Realtor walked in with authority, switched on the lights, opened a window. Beth and I followed warily, stepping directly into a living room. There was a ridge running across the dirty wooden floor, the walls were scuffed, the fixtures hung by frayed wires, the windowsills were rotting, the ceiling had a great crack tearing through it.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” said Sheila. “Isn’t it thrilling? Varnished floors, maybe some flocked wallpaper. A leather couch, something bright on the wall. The potential here is outrageous. And you should see the kitchen – it’s bigger than some condos I sell.”
There was an archway to a small grimy dining area devoid of windows and then another arch leading to the kitchen, which was big but sparse, too, with just a few counters, a stove collapsing on itself, and a refrigerator with rounded edges that belonged in a museum. The linoleum floor, a filthy brown, was coming apart at the seams.
“Lovely, just lovely,” said Sheila, admiring the wreck of a kitchen. “It gets morning light, which is really a fabulous feature. You have enough room for an island and a breakfast nook. This is the house’s single best feature.”
“This?” I said.
“Oh, yes, Victor,” said Sheila. “I have clients in half-million-dollar homes who would kill for a kitchen like this. The possibilities are endless. And whatever you put into a kitchen, you will get out twice when you sell, especially a kitchen as big as this.”
“It does have potential,” said Beth.
“You see, Victor, Beth has vision. Beth can see beyond the current condition to what this kitchen can be. State of the art. A Viking stove, a glass-fronted refrigerator, granite countertops, walnut cabinets.”
“I like walnut,” said Beth.
“You could do the whole thing in walnut, with pin lighting from the ceiling. I could see this kitchen in Philadelphia magazine.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely. Now, there are two floors above us. Three bedrooms on the second and a bedroom and an attic space on the third. Plus a full basement,” she said, gesturing to a door in the kitchen.
“Finished?” said Beth.
“You could,” said Sheila. “Why don’t we take a look upstairs first? I thought, for you, the third-floor bedroom could be a home office. It gets a tremendous amount of light, and there’s a view of City Hall. Oh, Beth, I think this place is perfect for you, just perfect. And I know there’s some leeway on the price.”
“You want to come up with me, Victor?” said Beth.
“In a minute.”
I stood with Sheila as Beth wandered back through the dining area and toward the stairs in the living room. As she climbed them, the stairs creaked like an arthritic old man trying to straighten his back.
“It’s a little run-down,” I said to Sheila the Realtor.
“It admittedly needs some work,” she said, the manic edge gone from her voice.
“It’s a pit.”
“Her price range was limited.”
“Are there really people coming to look at it this afternoon?”
“There are always people coming to look in the afternoon. What’s your situation, Victor?”
“Single,” I said.
She laughed, leaned back, flicked her hair. “I meant housing,” she said.
“Oh, right. I rent.”
“You could just throw your money out the window, it would be more efficient. Do you ever think of buying?”
“No, not really.”
“It’s a good time, Victor, while interest rates are still low.”