“Actually, that’s not true,” she said. “I don’t know enough about art to tell an Orosco from a…” She floundered for a name and gave up. “I don’t know. But my mother does, sir. First, I took her to the Iglesia in Tres Santos last night. I wanted to make sure that my memory wasn’t playing tricks on me. I remember the Jardin de los Tres Santos there from when I was little. I remember always wondering why the saints looked so miserable.” The ghost of a smile touched her features.
“I had the same thought earlier today,” I said.
“When I was sure my memory wasn’t playing tricks, I showed mamá the photo of Raught’s retablo. She looked at it for a long time, sir.” She touched her face under her left eye. “And then the tears started to roll.”
“Teresa knows about the one in Veracruz well enough to recognize it? After all these years? How many times has she actually seen the Orosco piece?”
“Half a dozen over the years.”
“And you?”
“I’ve seen it once, sir. When I was twelve.”
“So there’s an obvious question here.” I handed the photos back to her.
“Yes, sir. What’s interesting is that the original Orosco was stolen four years ago. Thieves hit significant art in three Veracruz locations, major places with showcase religious art. One of them was Los Jardins.”
“Now wait a minute. Have some mercy on my poor, slow brain, sweetheart. You’re claiming that you knew about the Veracruz theft, one that happened four years ago, before we went over to Raught’s home? You knew about the theft and recognized the piece?”
“No, sir. My mother knew about the theft, had heard about it, especially because of the emotional link with the church in Tres Santos.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“No, sir.” She looked puzzled.
“You’re thinking that Raught stole the piece?”
“I don’t know, sir. If it’s the Orosco in the first place. In all these years, it might have wended its way to a dealer in the states…or in Mexico. Mr. Raught has been in both places, sir. He worked in Verzcruz at one time.”
“And in Ohio,” I added. “This was an emotional tug for your mother, then.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So explain to me how she thinks this is the original deal. How can she tell that from a photograph?”
Estelle looked down at the photographs, brows knit. “I don’t see how she could, sir. Except that the level of skill, the level of art? If it isn’t the original, it’s certainly a powerful copy.”
“This kind of thing gets copied? I can see copying a Picasso, maybe. Or a Rembrandt or the ear guy…Van Gogh. I mean, there’s millions at stake there. But this?”
“It’s of significant value, sir.” Estelle reached into the briefcase and brought out a yellowing newspaper clipping.
“Yes, uh huh,” I said, and handed it back. I didn’t read Spanish, but could see that the clipping was dated four years previous.
Estelle flattened it out on my desk, skimmed quickly, and stopped at the third paragraph. She pointed out the figures. “Los Jardins was valued at more than two hundred thousand.”
I whistled in appreciation. “Signed?”
“No, sir. My mother said that Orosco used to say that all of his religious works belonged to God, not to him. That they were done by God’s hand, not his.”
“That makes it a tough nut.”
“Except the piece is well documented, sir.” By now I was expecting a rabbit, but she pulled a manila folder from her briefcase. “Los Jardins is in at least two art books that my mother owns. I have the books in my apartment, but these are fair copies that Ernie Wheeler did for me just this morning.”
“You must have been first at the border gate,” I laughed.
“As a matter of fact, I was.”
I examined the best photocopy side by side with the eight-by-ten. My uneducated eye said they could be the same, but what the hell did I know.
“The proverbial can of worms,” I murmured. After another minute of looking, I handed the material back. “It’ll be interesting to hear what Mr. Raught has to say. If he greets us this time and says, ‘Hey, come back with a warrant,’ we’re toast. What we have is the contents of your briefcase, and what your mother thinks that she remembers.” I smiled at her. “That isn’t much to chase an international art thief with.”
“But we’re not saying that Mr. Raught stole the original,” Estelle said. “There may be a significant possibility that he now owns the original somehow.”
I took a very deep breath and let it out in a loud, long hiss. “So, back on earth…” I slid my notebook toward her and tapped the page. “These are the kiddos that Marilyn Zipoli told us about-the Zipoli skiing and boating club. We want to talk with all these little bastards, and that’s a hell of a challenge. We’ll be over at the high school and that’s another challenge. You’ve met Glenn Archer?”
“Yes, sir. My last year at the high school was Mr. Archer’s first. He was teaching biology that year.”
“And now he’s superintendent and principal of the high school, both jobs rolled into one. Glenn is a good guy, and an ally. But the issue is cops interviewing minors,” I said. “Fortunately for us, the school operates in loco parentis, and Archer will be sitting in on any interviews that we have. We don’t need the parents there, but regardless, we need to be circumspect. For one thing, anything we talk about, we talk about with a blabby kid. His or her version of events is going back to all his friends.”
“It’s interesting that Mr. Zipoli attracted a fair crowd of kids on occasion,” she said.
“Well, a fast boat and a set of water skis will do that. It’s also interesting that a couple of kids were talking with him over on County Road 19 the day before the shooting. We don’t know who that was, but it’s a connection that we need to explore. I mean, if you’re grading a ditch and someone rides or drives by, the usual thing might be a simple greeting-a nod or a friendly wave. I’m surprised that Zipoli stopped what he was doing to shoot the bull.” I sighed. “And we need something, Ms. Reyes. We have nothing but blind alleys so far.” I rapped my ring on the desk. “And now we have the list of kiddos. It’ll be interesting to run them past Jim Raught.” I smiled at her. “No ulterior motives, of course.”
I watched her face for a moment as she appeared to examine a smudge on my desk top. If she thought any harder, her brain synapses would start smoking.
“What?” I prompted.
“It’s difficult for me to believe that Mr. Zipoli didn’t share his stash with youngsters,” she said quietly. “The opportunities were obvious.”
“You think?” I laughed. I would have liked to have heard something a little less obvious than that. After all, I’d had that same thought, and I hardly qualified as a forensic Einstein. “So on this occasion, some homicidal kid asked him for a beer, and he refused?”
“Most likely not that,” she said soberly. “I can’t imagine someone being shot over a can of beer.”
“You’d be surprised how little motivation is needed sometimes.” I snapped the notebook closed. “How’s your great-uncle, by the way? On your way in from down south, did you take a moment to check on him?”
She nodded. “He was sleeping soundly. His truck was still parked on the shoulder.”
“And what time was that?”
“Not long ago. I suppose it was almost six-thirty.” I tried to picture her as a teenager living with her great-uncle, getting ready for school with only a rude sink and sometimes hot water. But for him to actually ponder what his great-niece might need? Not Reubén. I liked the old man, but talking with him was always about Reubén, and what Reubén was doing. He was the solid center of his own universe. A wife would have murdered him long ago.