“No, never.”
“And you can’t think of anyone you’ve dealt with who might take it upon themselves to steal that painting after you told them it was not for sale?”
“No, no one.”
“Is there anyone who has bought more than one of her paintings? Anyone obsessive about her or her work?”
“I don’t know about obsessive, but it’s not unusual in the art world for collectors to have multiples of the artists they love. Sometimes it’s investment and sometimes it’s purely love of the art.”
“Who does Jasmine have that’s like that?”
“I would have to look through the books. I’ve been selling her paintings for fifteen years. There have been many people who have come back for more. One man on Davis Island has four or five paintings.”
She pointed past Bosch to the center wall. He turned and looked at a painting that depicted the artist sitting huddled over, cradling her face in her hands, one eye peeking between two splayed fingers. It was painted in black and gray gradations. It was haunting, as were all of the self-portraits.
“He just bought that one, in fact,” Tate said.
“Did he ever ask about The Guardian?”
“I’m sure he did but I don’t remember.”
“What’s his name?”
“I’m not going to give you his name. Not unless Jasmine tells me to.”
“She will. Thank you for your time.” Bosch headed toward the door.
In the living room at the house on Willow, Bosch reported to Jasmine that he had alienated both the detective assigned to the painting theft and her gallery manager. He also told her he wanted the name of the collector who had purchased multiple paintings by her.
“Can you call Monica?” he asked. “She said she’d give the name to you. He lives on Davis Island, wherever that is.”
“That would be Paul Danziger,” she said. “I don’t need to call her. I know him.”
“Where is Davis Island?”
“It’s right across the bay. You take the bridge by the hospital. It’s actually called Davis Islands — it’s three islands connected by small bridges.”
“You have his address?”
“Yes, but he didn’t steal the painting.”
“How do you know? I need to—”
“I know he didn’t. I know Paul very well. He didn’t take the painting.”
Bosch studied her. There was something else there. “How well do you know him?” he asked.
“We had a relationship. It ended five or six years ago.”
Bosch waited. Silence was often the best way to tease out information.
“Even though the relationship is over, he still buys my paintings to support me,” she finally said. “He would not steal from me.”
“Okay. Who ended the relationship?”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“That has nothing to do with this. It’s private and painful and you don’t need to know.”
“Okay, then did you ever discuss the painting with him?” He pointed toward the empty wall.
“We might have,” Jasmine said. “I don’t remember.”
“Sure you do,” Bosch prompted.
“He liked the painting. But he liked all of my paintings and has bought several. For himself and as gifts to others.”
“Did he know who was in the painting? Did you tell him about me?”
“I don’t remember.”
“I think you do.”
“Okay, yes, I probably told him the story, okay? I told him who it was a portrait of.”
Bosch stepped away and moved to the front window. He saw a white van pull into the driveway of the house across the street. On its side panel was a sign that identified it as part of a fleet from a commercial cleaning service. Two men in white overalls got out and started unloading equipment and supplies from the back of the van. Then a Range Rover SUV pulled in behind the van. A man got out of the car, acknowledged the other two, and walked to the front door. A key lockbox was attached to the knob on the front door. He started working the combination.
“Is that your old neighbor?” Bosch asked.
“No, that’s the realtor,” Jasmine said. “Charlie. I used him when I bought this place.”
Charlie opened the door with a key from the lockbox and went inside.
“Pat next door told me that they left the place a complete mess,” Jasmine said. “Food rotted in the refrigerator when they turned off the power. Holes punched in the walls. Toilets clogged, the whole nine yards.”
“Why would they do that if they’re trying to sell the place?” Bosch asked.
“They’re not. The bank is. It’s a foreclosure.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. It was a husband and wife, no kids. He had some sort of business that went under. Remember when the stock market dropped a thousand points on Christmas Eve? He had just made some kind of move with their investments and lost everything. His wife left him, he stopped paying the mortgage, the bank took the house.”
Bosch thought about that as he watched one of the cleaners carry a water vacuum into the house. He saw the realtor’s full name on the For Sale sign. Charlie Hounchell.
“Did Paul Danziger stay here at night?” he asked. “Or did you go to Davis Islands?”
“Harry, please. It’s none of your business.”
“Just tell me his address and I’ll stop asking questions.”
“You can’t go over there. If we falsely accuse him of this, he’ll be very hurt.”
“And what, stop buying your paintings? Look, if I have to call a friend and run his name through the police computer to get his address, it will leave a flag on his record. Would you rather me do that?” It was a lie but Bosch doubted she would know it.
“Fine,” Jasmine said. “He lives on Ladoga. I’ll have to look up his exact address because I don’t remember it.”
“Fine. Look it up. Then I want you to call Monica and tell her to pack up the painting she has at the gallery for Danziger. Tell her to call him and say it will be delivered today.”
“She won’t want to do that. It will break up the series she has on display. It may hurt her ability to sell through. She says that when people see that one painting is sold, it makes them feel better about buying their own.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of that. Just tell Monica to get it ready and I’ll deliver it. I’m going to sleep for an hour and then I’ll be by to pick it up. Can you show me to the guest room?”
Bosch drove over the curving bridge off Bayshore that took him past Tampa General and onto Davis Islands. He was following directions on his cell phone app. They took him down Davis Boulevard and then over another bridge, this one spanning a canal that apparently separated two of the Davis Islands. After the bridge there was a hard right onto Ladoga. Paul Danziger lived at 520 Ladoga. Bosch pulled into the driveway of a Gone with the Wind — style mansion that was fronted by six two-story pillars.
He arrived at a cobblestone parking circle in front of the door. He studied the facade of the house for a few moments before getting out.
He removed the painting from the backseat and lugged it toward the door. Its wooden crating — designed to keep the painting safe in transit — easily outweighed the painting twenty-five to one. Bosch was huffing when he got it to the door.
Danziger answered himself. A man nearing seventy with a completely shaved head to hide his baldness in plain sight. He looked surprised to see Bosch. “You’re not the usual guy,” he said.
“I’m filling in,” Bosch replied. “A favor to Monica.”
“Do you need help with that?”