“If that were the case, why’d they have that bag full of money with ’em?”
She crossed her legs dramatically, kicking one foot high in the air and swinging it over the other. “Did you even bother counting it, Les?”
He looked dumbfounded. “’Course I counted it. I’d be daft not to.”
Her doubting eyes pierced his uncertain ones. “You opened the bag and looked inside. But you didn’t actually count it all.”
Now his story came unglued. “No. I mean… I didn’t count all of it. I checked a few stacks—”
“Les, there was fewer than a couple thousand dollars in that bag. They were going to give you the bag, offer you a ride to any bar or strip club you preferred, and then they were going to execute you in an alley somewhere and dump your body in a trash bin. Maybe a river. My bet was on trash bin.”
Her words sank into the deep recesses of his soul. If she was telling the truth, then Adriana really had saved his life. “Okay, so let’s say I believe you. Why bother with a nobody like me. It’s not like we have a long relationship or something. Unless….”
“Unless what?”
A toothy grin spread across his face to accompany his epiphany. “Unless you’re in love with me. That’s it, ain’t it? I shoulda known.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Les.” She ignored the suddenly crestfallen expression he displayed and pressed on. “I need your help. You’re the best there is in the underground art world. So, as we discussed before, based on what I do, I need someone like you around who is good at finding a particular kind of information.”
He processed what she said and thought for a second. Lester glanced down at the floor and back up like a little boy who’d just had his heart ripped out. “So, not in love with me?”
“Les!”
“Okay, fine. Fine. I get it.” He stood up and hesitated for a second. “Mind if I make myself a drink?”
“Go right ahead.” She waved a dismissive hand.
He turned and traipsed off to the kitchen. The sound of a glass being set on the granite counter rang through the room followed closely by a few ice cubes dropping into the container.
“You want a gin?” he asked, as politely as someone like him could. “Hard to find good gin in this area. They prefer cognac and wine in this neighborhood. To get good gin I had to go about twenty minutes from here. Little store owned by a Geordie on the other side of the river.”
“No thanks.”
“You sure? It’s Hendrick’s. Good stuff.”
“I’m good. I didn’t come here for drinks, and I don’t intend to stay long. I need information, Les.”
The sound of a drink filling the glass resonated off the walls and hard flooring. From the duration of the pour, it sounded like a fairly generous one, especially for a morning drink. Most people were only now finishing their coffee or tea.
“Okay, what kind of information?” he asked, and a second later Adriana could hear the bottle being returned to its cabinet, rattling against other bottles and on the woodwork of the shelving. A moment later, he stepped back into living room.
While he was highly motivated and a genius when it came to getting things other people couldn’t, Lester wasn’t the brightest bulb. That was exemplified by his question. To his credit, he caught himself and corrected course. “I mean, I know what kind you want, obviously. What I meant was, specifically.” He took a sip of the drink and let out a satisfied, “ah.”
Maybe that’s what he meant, and maybe it wasn’t. Adriana didn’t have time to dink around and tease him. The scruffy-looking nomad of the art underworld was her only connection in Paris.
“I’m looking for a painting.”
4
He took another ambitious swig of gin and leaned back in his couch. Lester spoke with a cocky feel to his voice now, after only minutes ago fearing for his life like a pig. “Well, obviously you’ve come to the right place. Who’s the artist?”
She swallowed hard and took two seconds before she told him. “Rembrandt.”
Lester was in mid-sip when he heard the word. Half of the drink in his mouth spewed in a fine, clear mist all over his pants, arms, and stomach. Her expression remained dead serious like a statue sitting in a leather chair. After another five seconds, the clear liquid in his glass still sloshed around from the sudden jolt.
He looked at her as if her head was on fire. “Rembrandt?” Lester repeated the name.
“You’ve heard of him?”
He tilted his head as if to say, “very funny.” Then he drew another sip of the liquor and set the glass on a nearby end table. “Obviously, I know who that is. But that’s no small fish you’re going after. I expected a mid to mid-high-lister. He’s one of the greatest of all time.”
“I’m aware of that.” She shoved her hand into the front pocket of her khaki shorts, fished out a folded piece of paper, and tossed it over to him. It landed in his lap.
His right eyebrow lifted. “What’s this?” he asked, picking up the paper. His fingers made quick work of the folds, revealing an image on the inside. It only took him three seconds to acknowledge what it was. His index finger tapped the page. “You’re going after this Rembrandt?”
Adriana nodded slowly. “Recognize it?”
“Of course, I recognize it. It’s been missing since World War II. And yes, before you say anything else, I know that’s your gig, running around Europe, recovering missing paintings from the war. But this one… this one is tricky.”
“That’s why I came to you. I need you to help me find it.”
His loud laughter boomed throughout the entire apartment. “You’re serious?”
She continued to stare right through him, her eyes never wavering.
“Okay. I guess you are serious. Well, that sort of information don’t come cheap. It’ll cost you.”
“You’ve already made a healthy sum of money thanks to me. And let’s not forget, I saved your life, twice.”
Lester was incredulous. “Twice? Look, maybe you did save my life with the Albanians. I’ll never know for sure. But what other time am I forgetting about?”
“I could have killed you tonight if I wanted. I chose not to.”
He was quick to respond. “Because you need me.”
“The night’s still young, Les.”
From the look on her face, he knew she wasn’t fooling around. And he’d seen what she could do to people who stood in her way. “Okay. Okay. I was just messing with you. I can do a free one. Just this once, though. Besides, I did make a pretty penny on that last one.” He smiled, showing off his crooked teeth once more. He turned his attention back to the paper in his hand.
She could see the gears were turning.
“Not a lot of people have gone after this one,” he said after nearly two minutes of silence. “Probably on account of who they say took it.”
“Goebbels.”
“Right,” he nodded. “No one wanted to mess with Hitler’s boy. Or his possessions.”
“Do you know anyone who might have heard any rumors or stories about that painting?” She leaned forward, putting her elbows on her knees.
Lester scratched the hair on his chin. He looked like he hadn’t shaved in two days. More realistically, it had likely been two weeks. Another fifteen seconds of thinking went by before he gave another nod. “I might. There’s a bloke who lives here in Paris I’ve worked with before. Knows more about Rembrandt than most. He’s no treasure hunter like yourself.” She rolled her eyes at the last comment. “But if there’s anyone in this city who knows more about this painting than me, it would be him.”
“Okay. So, time for the obvious question. If he knows so much about Rembrandt and this painting, I can’t help but wonder why he hasn’t gone looking for it himself.”