Simple and clear, that answer; and I'd made my decision. I said, "There are some things I'll need."
"What things?"
"Descriptions of whatever was in the trunk. And I'll need to bring someone else in."
She stiffened. "Why someone else? No."
"If I'd stolen your stuff, I'd forget about selling the paintings—assuming I didn't know what they were worth— and try to unload whatever looked valuable: silver, old photographs, things like that." And probably dump everything else in the county landfill, but I didn't tell her that. "But if I were smart enough to know what the paintings were worth, I'd also know I couldn't sell them up here. I'd take them to New York. I want to call someone, check that out. I could go down there myself, but I think I'm more useful up here."
She was silent for a time, her eyes roving over the sloping lawn, the drive, the tangles of forsythia. "All right, she said quietly. "I'm hiring you as a professional. If you think this is necessary, do it. But understand that total discretion is as important to me as the return of those paintings."
I couldn't help grinning. If I hadn't gotten that message already it would have been a good time to tear up my license and go fishing.
Chapter 3
It was early for lunch at Antonelli's. Tony was alone inside except for two T-shirted guys wolfing down beers, burgers, and a mountain of fries. Tony, leaning on the bar, looked up from his newspaper as I came in.
"Jesus," he said. "You look like hell."
"And you don't. Why is that?"
He grunted. "Clean livin'." He folded the paper, put it aside. "You okay?"
"Sure," I said. "Just thirsty. Let me have a Genny Cream." He opened a bottle and put it on the bar with a glass. "Listen, Tony, I need to talk to Jimmy. Where can I find him?"
"Trouble?" His mouth tightened.
"No. Just something I need to know."
"From that punk?" He gave a humorless laugh. "If you can't drink it, drive it, or steal it, he don't know nothin' about it."
"Oh, Christ, Tony, there are some things he's good for, if you'd cut him a little slack. He cooks as well as you do. And he's better than anyone I know with a car." I was sorry the minute I said it.
Tony's face flushed. "Yeah. He can fix 'em, smash 'em, or cool 'em off if they're hot."
Oh well, I was in now. "That what Frank Grice was here about last night? Something to do with the quarry?"
"That's none of your fuckin' business!" He slammed his open hand on the bar. The T-shirts looked up from their fries. Tony shifted his eyes to them, then back to me. He dropped his voice. "You saved my ass last night. I owe you, okay? But keep out of this. I can handle Grice."
"His type doesn't handle, Tony. You give him what he wants or you shut him down."
"What the hell do you know?"
"Not much," I said. "I only know Grice by reputation. But I've met a lot of guys like him. I do it for a living."
"Then stick to the payin' customers."
I drained my glass, turned it slowly between my palms. Tony gestured at it. "You want another?" I nodded. He opened a bottle, filled my glass. I drank.
"I'm sorry, Tony," I said. "I have trouble minding my own business. And guys like Grice make my skin crawl."
"Forget it." He took the empty bottles, put them in slots in the cardboard case under the bar. "Jimmy's been workin' a coupla days a week at Obermeyer's garage over in Central Bridge. Call over there, maybe you can get him."
"Thanks." I stood. "Okay if I tie up the phone for a while?"
He shrugged. "It ain't rang in two days."
I took my beer over to the pay phone against the back wall. I thought for a minute, about Tony, Jimmy, Eve Colgate's pasture, and some paintings she hadn't seen in thirty years; about how things change and how they don't. Then I slipped in some quarters, dialed Lydia's office number in New York.
I got the bounce-line message; so she was on the phone; either actually in her office or at home on the line that rings through. Normally I would have just left a message of my own, but calling me back up here wasn't all that easy. I took a chance and dialed the other number, the one that rings at home, in the kitchen. It's not a number I call often, but it's engraved deep in my memory just the same. I lapped my fingers on the old, scarred woodwork as the phone rang and rang.
Finally a woman's voice answered in Cantonese, using words I recognized, though I didn't understand them. I gave her my dozen Cantonese words: a respectful greeting and a request. There was silence, then a snort; then the phone clattered in my ear and I could hear the voice calling to someone else.
A few moments later came another woman's voice, this time in English. "My mother says you should stop trying to impress her; your Chinese is terrible."
"What did she call me this time?"
Lydia said, "The iron-headed rat."
"What does it mean?"
"'Iron-headed'—you know, stubborn, willful; sometimes stupid. I guess it could mean gray-haired, too."
"You think she meant that?"
"No. In Chinese that's a good thing."
"Great. Why rat?"
"Don't ask."
"Someday she'll like me. Listen, are you real busy, or can you take something on?"
"She'll never even tolerate you. I'm tailing a noodle merchant whose wife thinks he's messing around with her younger sister, but it's not as engrossing as it sounds. But I thought you were up in the country."
"I am."
"You never call from there. Are you all right?" A slight quickening came into her voice.
"I took a case."
"Up there?" Now, surprise. "I thought you—"
"It's a long story," I said, even though as I said it I realized it wasn't; or at least, not the way that's usually meant. "I got a call from someone up here; that's why I came up. Can you work on it?"
"Um, sure." Her tone told me she wanted to ask more, maybe hear the long story, but she answered the question I'd asked. "What do you need?"
I told her about the burglary, what was stolen. I didn't say from whom. She whistled low. "Six Eva Nouvels? My god, they must be worth a fortune."
"Maybe two million, together," I agreed. "Could be more: they're unknown, uncatalogued."
"How unknown?"
"The client says completely. I don't know. But right now I'm not thinking anyone came looking for them. It was probably just a break-in, kids. They may even have junked the paintings by now, just kept the stuff that looked valuable to them."
"That's a cheerful thought."
"I'm going to try some other things, but if nothing turns up it may be worth a trip to the county dump. But just in case, I want you to look around down there. I don't think anyone will try to sell those paintings in New York; they'd ship them out to Europe, maybe Japan. If that's happening I want to stop them."
"What were they doing in a storeroom? Six paintings that valuable?"
" That's where the client kept them."
"Okay, funny guy. And who's the client?"
" I can't tell you."
She skipped half a beat. "You can't tell me?"
"Now," I said. "From here. Over the phone."
"Oh." That single word held a dubious note, as though my explanation was logical but not convincing. "Are there other things you're not telling me?"
"Yes," I said. "But when I tell them to you, you hang up on me."
"For which not a woman in America could blame me. What do I do if I find a trail? Are the police in on this?"
"No, and that's important. I don't want anyone who doesn't know these paintings exist to find out from us."
"Top-secret paintings stuck in a storeroom by a top- secret client in the middle of nowhere. And I thought it was all trees and cows and guys who shoot at Bambi up there. Silly me."
"I'll call you later," I told her. "If anything turns up, you can try the cell phone, but you might not get through up here."
"I'm surprised you even took it with you."
"You told me I had to carry one. I always do what you tell me."
"Uh-huh."