“Love to. What would you like to do after dinner?”
Stone laughed.
“So would I,” she said. “The opening starts at six. Pick me up at six-thirty.”
“Certainly.”
By the time they arrived the gallery was full of people drinking cheap wine, talking to each other, and ignoring the art.
“Would you like a drink?” Stone asked Morgan.
“Of that stuff? No thanks.”
“Then let’s look at the work. Maybe we’ll start a trend.”
Pio’s abstracts covered the walls, and Ann’s sculptures were scattered about the gallery on pedestals. Stone was only mildly interested in abstract painting, and not on this occasion. The sculptures, however, interested him.
They were small bronzes, and of tools: here, an ax, embedded in a tree trunk; there, a hammer, driving a nail; and over there, a sledgehammer, smashing a rock. “What do you think of the sledgehammer?” he asked Morgan.
“I’ve had enough of sledgehammers,” she said. “I finally got my car back, and I’m afraid to take it out of the garage.”
Stone wasn’t attracted to the sledgehammer, either. He flagged down a gallery worker and bought the ax.
“A good choice,” the young woman said. “It will be available at the end of the show, next week.”
“Please send it,” Stone said, handing her a credit card and his business card.
“Certainly,” she replied.
They went over to where Pio and Ann stood and greeted them.
“Are you enjoying the work?” Ann asked.
“I am. I just bought your ax.”
“A good choice.”
“That’s also what the gallery worker told me, so it must be true.”
They moved on so that others could meet the artists, then Stone looked up and saw Art Masi walk into the gallery.
“Do you know that man?” he asked Morgan.
“He was in my apartment right after Mark’s death,” she replied.
“He was probably there more recently than that,” Stone said.
“Executing a search warrant?”
He nodded. “Let’s go to dinner.”
Art Masi had a look around, and when the crowd began to thin out he walked over to Pio Farina and showed him a badge. “May I speak with you in the manager’s office?” Art said.
“Of course,” Pio replied, and the two of them walked to the rear of the gallery and sat down at the manager’s small conference table.
“What can I do for you?” Pio asked. “I can promise you that none of the art here is stolen.”
“I’m more concerned about another piece of art,” Art said. He mentioned the date of Mark Tillman’s death. “Where were you on that day?”
Pio took an iPhone from his pocket and consulted the calendar app. “Let’s see, that was a Saturday. I was at home in East Hampton, watching a football game. It’s right here, on my schedule.” He held up the phone.
“Who was playing, and who won?”
“The University of Georgia and Alabama. Alabama won. I forget the score, but it was close.”
“Anyone watch it with you?”
“No, Ann was visiting her mother in Connecticut. I watched it alone.”
“Have you ever visited the apartment of Mark and Morgan Tillman?” Art asked.
“Yes, a couple of times. Once for a drink, once for dinner.”
“On what dates?”
Pio consulted his calendar again. “Drinks on July fourth, two years ago. Dinner two nights before Mark died.”
“Did you take any notice of the art in the apartment?”
“Oh, yes. Mark had a very good collection, mostly impressionists and post-impressionists.”
“Do you recall seeing a van Gogh among them?”
“Of course. It would have been impossible to miss. A fabulous work, if a little small for van Gogh.”
“Small enough to put in a backpack?”
“I expect so.”
“Do you own a backpack, Mr. Farina?”
“I do.”
“Can you describe it?”
“Beautiful leather, nut brown, from Ralph Lauren.”
“Mr. Farina,” Art said, “have you ever done any mountain climbing or rock climbing?”
“Once, at a big sporting goods store, I climbed a wall installed there.”
“On any other occasions?”
“No, I didn’t enjoy the experience. I’m afraid of heights, even the twenty or so feet of the store’s wall.”
“Can anyone attest to that?”
“My girlfriend, Ann, can. She was there. Ann is more adventurous than I — she’s fearless.”
“Would that be Ms. Kusch, whose work is being shown?”
“Yes, she was standing next to me when we met.”
“I’d like to speak to her,” Art said.
“Alone?”
“Yes, please. Would you ask her to join me here?”
“Of course. I’ll be right back.”
A moment later, Ann Kusch appeared in the doorway. “You wanted to speak to me?” she said.
Art stood. “Yes, please. My name is Masi, I’m with the art squad of the NYPD. Please have a seat.”
She sat down.
“Ms. Kusch, where were you on the day that Mark Tillman was killed?” Again he cited the date.
“Let me see, I believe I was visiting my mother, in Washington, Connecticut.”
“Can she confirm that?”
“Sadly, no, she died four months ago.”
“Was anyone else present at your meeting with her?”
“We had lunch at the Mayflower Inn, in Washington. Perhaps the maître d’.”
“Did you see any other people who knew you?”
“I’m afraid I don’t remember,” Ann said. “You see, my mother had asked me to come to see her because she wanted to tell me that she was ill and had only a few months to live. That sort of conversation tends to concentrate the mind and shut out everything else.”
“I quite understand,” Art said. “Thank you for speaking to me.” He stood as she left. “Oh, Ms. Kusch,” he said.
“Yes?” she asked, turning.
“May I ask, how tall are you?”
“Five feet ten inches, in my stocking feet,” she replied.
“And forgive me, but your weight?”
“A hundred and forty pounds,” she replied.
“One more question. Have you ever done any mountain or rock climbing?”
“Both,” she replied. “I enjoy risky sports.”
“Thank you. Good day.”
19
Joan buzzed Stone. “Art Masi on one.”
Stone pressed the button. “Good morning, Art. Did you enjoy the opening?”
“I like Kusch’s sculptures,” he said. “Pio’s stuff was good, too. You left as I arrived.”
“Yes, we were going to dinner. How long did you stay?”
“Long enough to interview both Pio and Ann.”
“With what result?”
“They’ve both visited the Tillman apartment on a couple of occasions.” He told Stone of their claimed whereabouts on the day of Tillman’s death.
“Do their stories hold up?”
“There was a Georgia — Alabama game on that day, and Alabama won by three. That doesn’t mean he stayed home and watched it, though.”
“Where was Ann?”
“She says her mother invited her to Washington, Connecticut, to tell her that she had only a few months to live.”
“I know the town, I used to have a house there.”
“Do you know the Mayflower Inn?”
“Of course.”
“Ann says they had lunch there, but I spoke to the maître d’ this morning. He knew both mother and daughter, but he has no record of a lunch reservation for them on that date. It’s a busy place, reservations are usually necessary, especially on a weekend, and that was a Saturday. And her mother died four months ago, so she can’t help with her daughter’s alibi.
“Washington is about an hour-and-three-quarters drive from where Tillman lived. Even if she was telling the truth about the lunch, she still could have easily made it to the Upper East Side by late afternoon.”