Майкл Коннелли - Tampa Bay Noir

“Okay,” he said, “I’m going over there to see Monica. Do me a favor: don’t tell her I’m coming.”

“I won’t. But if you think she may be involved in this, you are wrong. Monica would not betray me like that.”

“It’s good that you have somebody like that. But I don’t think anything about anybody right now.”

Bosch took Swann to MacDill and turned south toward the air force base the street was named for. He knew from prior visits that Tampa didn’t rely solely on tourism like most of the cities that crowded Florida’s coastline or sat in the middle of the state where only an iconic mouse could draw people on humid summer days. Tampa was unique. It was a peninsula that had water views and beauty from almost all angles — he had been reminded of this as he drove along Bayshore while getting up the courage to knock on Jasmine’s door. It was also a military town. MacDill AFB was the location of CENTCOM, from which the country’s most recent wars were directed. The base took up the entire southern tip of the peninsula and it was not unusual to see fighter jets and huge Stratotanker refueling planes on maneuvers in the sky over Tampa Bay.

But long before MacDill Avenue reached the end of the peninsula, it moved through a small art district where there were a handful of galleries and frame shops. On his way, Bosch called the number Jasmine had given him for Detective Stone at the Tampa Police Department.

“Burglary, Stone. How can I help you?”

“Detective, my name is Harry Bosch. I got your number from Jasmine Corian. I’m a friend of—”

“Excuse me, who gave you this number?”

“Jasmine Corian.”

“And she is...?”

“The artist whose painting was stolen off the wall of her living room. I thought it was your—”

“Yes, yes, sorry — a lot going on here. I know who Jasmine Corian is. What can I do for you, Mr. Bush?”

“It’s Bosch. As I was saying, I’m a friend of hers and I’m retired LAPD and she asked me to come out and take a look at things regarding the theft.”

There was a long silence before Stone finally responded. “LAPD — what are we talking about here? Lake Alice Police Department?”

“No, Los Angeles.”

“Really. The LAPD. I’m honored.”

Bosch could hear the sarcasm clearly.

“How long have you been retired?”

“A few years.”

“And what did you do for LAPD?”

“I worked homicides for about thirty years.”

“Good for you, but this is not a homicide.”

“I know that, Detective. Ms. Corian and I have an acquaintance going back twenty-five years or so. She asked me to come out and take a look at this.”

“ A look — what does that mean?”

“It means I am going to look into the theft of her painting. I just thought you should know and I wanted to see if you want to get together to discuss the investigation.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Look, I know what it’s like. Crime victims going to private investigators and all of that. You don’t want the headache and I promise you I won’t be a headache. If you don’t want to talk to me, that’s fine. But I’m here and I’m working it. And if I find anything that you don’t have or know, then you will be the first person I call.”

“Mr. Bush, you already are a headache to me. This is a police matter and it’s under investigation. I respect that you were a police detective — at least you say you were — but stay away from this or you could get yourself into trouble.”

Now Bosch paused while he composed an answer. “What does that mean? Are you threatening me?”

“No, I am telling you that if you interfere with a police investigation, there are consequences. Now, I’m in the middle of things here. I have multiple cases and I need to go.”

Stone disconnected. Bosch held his phone to his ear for a few seconds before dropping it into the cup holder in the center console.

A few minutes later he pulled into a space in front of a gallery called Jazz, which was how Jasmine signed her work. It was just opening for the day. And as he stepped to the glass door, a woman appeared on the other side and unlocked it. She looked at him for a moment through the glass as though she knew him. She pulled the door open.

“You’re him,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re him. The one in the painting. I recognize you. Jasmine said you were real but she never told me about you.”

“Can I come in?”

“Of course.”

She stepped back and he stepped in. It was not a large gallery. A square with a display wall running down the center. It allowed for four walls holding two paintings each. At the back was a desk in front of a doorway that led to what Bosch assumed was a storage and packaging area.

The paintings on display looked to be part of a linked series of studies of a woman. It took Bosch a moment before he realized they were self-portraits. Though each was unique in terms of pose and color — ranging from shades of black, gray, and red — the eyes in each painting were unmistakably Jasmine’s.

“Are you Monica Tate?” he asked.

“Yes. We haven’t met though. I would remember.”

“Harry Bosch. I’m here about the painting. The one that was stolen.”

“She told you.”

“Yes, she asked me to look for it. I’m a detective.”

“You mean like a private eye?”

“Yes. Who do you think would have wanted to steal it?”

Tate shook her head like it was stupid question. “Anybody who knows her work,” she said.

“But why that painting?” Bosch asked. “It’s never been for sale. How would people know about it?”

“It’s been in a few catalogs. Jasmine wasn’t happy about it, but I convinced her. The painting is powerful. I put it on the cover of one catalog. It drew people in. They would find out they couldn’t have it, but then they would pick something else. It’s also been on the website. It’s a sales tool. It has that rare thing. People who know true art want it.”

“Any customers who wouldn’t take no for an answer?”

“You mean who would then steal it? No, none. That’s insulting. I don’t deal with people like that.”

“Good to hear. Where is your key to Jasmine’s home?”

“Are you suggesting that I took the painting?”

“No. I just want to confirm that you still have the key. If you don’t, then we may have a clue to what happened. Because there was no sign of forced entry. Whoever took the painting either walked in through an unlocked door or had a key to unlock it.”

Tate turned with a huff and walked to the desk at the back of the gallery. She took a set of keys sitting on top of it and used one to unlock a drawer in the desk. She then opened the drawer, reached in, and held up a key.

“Happy?” she asked.

Bosch stepped over to the desk. “You keep it in the desk rather than on your own key chain,” he said.

“Yes, it’s not my key. I have it in case there’s an emergency or she locks herself out. I don’t carry it with me everywhere I go.”

“Have you ever used it? In a case of emergency or if Jasmine locked herself out?”

“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?”