Stuart Woods - Quick & Dirty

“So she had no motive for stealing a painting from herself. And it was a painting that some people think is a forgery.”

“Maybe that’s why she didn’t want to auction it,” Dino said. “An auction would have brought more scrutiny to bear, whereas the insurance company had already accepted that the painting was a real van Gogh, so if the painting disappeared, they wouldn’t have a leg to stand on, they’d have to pay the claim.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that,” Stone said. “It’s the first thing you’ve said that makes any sense.”

“Gee, thanks,” Dino said.

“Of course, they had an eighteen-month delay in paying off on the policy.”

“I’ll bet money that neither of the Tillmans knew that. Who reads an insurance policy?”

“You have a point there, too. I still haven’t read my household policy.”

“And that eighteen months must be about to expire?”

“Very soon,” Stone said.

“That’s interesting,” Dino said. “It puts pressure on everybody, and when people are under pressure, they make mistakes.”

“I agree, but let me ask you another question,” Stone said.

“Do your worst.”

“With regard to motive, why would either Pio Farina or Ann Kusch want to steal the van Gogh? If it’s a fake by Angelo, they might very well have known it. Why risk a murder for a forged painting when they could just ask Angelo to paint another one?”

“I’m surprised that Art Masi hasn’t mentioned this,” Dino said, “but big-time art thieves usually have a buyer waiting. That picture could be hanging on some rich man’s wall in Hong Kong or someplace, and the guy wouldn’t be in a position to question the authenticity of the painting. He can’t call the Hong Kong cops and say, ‘Hey, I paid a guy to steal this painting and murder the owner, and the picture’s a fake!’”

“I guess the guy wouldn’t get a very sympathetic hearing.”

“I think,” Dino said, “that what’s going to happen is, the eighteen months will expire, the insurance company will pay the loss, and we’ll never hear from the painting again, unless the guy in Hong Kong dies and somebody notices that it’s a fake.”

“More likely,” Stone said, “his estate will auction it off, and then the picture is a free-floating objet d’art that will end up on some other rich guy’s wall, or in a museum, which is not going to question its authenticity. I’ve been reading Angelo Farina’s book, and that’s how his work ended up in so many museums — he sold his paintings to schmucks who got tired of them and sold them at auction or donated them and took the tax break.”

“You know what I think?” Dino asked.

“What do you think?”

“I think that neither you nor I will ever solve this one.”

“You could be right,” Stone replied.

Pio Farina and Ann Kusch drove back to East Hampton village in separate cars, so they had no time to talk on the way. Once in the house, Pio made them a drink and brought hers to her in her study.

“Okay,” he said, “what did the cop ask you?”

“Probably the same things he asked you,” she said. “Don’t you remember the questions?”

“Like where were you when Mark Tillman died?”

“There you go. I stuck to the plan. It’s not like he can call my mother and ask if I was there. Did you stick to the plan?”

“Georgia — Alabama game. I expect he checked.”

“Isn’t Masi the art squad guy?”

“Yes, he is,” Pio answered. “Dad’s known him for years.”

“Then why is he investigating Mark’s death?”

“Because of the picture, I guess.”

“That was investigated by the regular cops at the time, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, they talked to me, but not to you.”

“Gee, I feel left out,” she said.

“I expect we’ve heard the last of it,” Pio replied. “Drink your drink and forget about it.”

They sat quietly for a while, then the doorbell rang, and a moment later Angelo Farina walked into the room.

“Hi, Dad,” Pio said. “Would you like a drink?”

“Scotch, please,” Angelo replied.

Pio brought it to him.

“How’d your show go?” Angelo asked.

“I sold eight,” Pio replied. “All of Ann’s sculptures went, one of them to Stone Barrington.”

“I’m delighted to hear it,” Angelo replied. “I talked to Abe at the gallery, and he said the police were there.”

“Just one — Art Masi, from the art squad.”

“Is he still looking for the picture?”

“That didn’t come up. He seemed more interested in Mark’s death,” Pio said.

“He talked to me, too,” Ann said, “and on the same subject.”

“Did he give the impression that he had something new to go on?” Angelo asked.

“Not to me,” Pio replied. “They were just routine questions.”

“There was something he asked me that I’ll bet he didn’t ask you,” Ann said.

“What was that?”

“He asked me my height and weight.”

“Ah,” Angelo said, “Art is thinking.”

“Now that I think of it,” Pio said, “he asked me if I had any rock climbing experience. I told him I was afraid of heights.”

“He asked me that, too,” Ann said. “He asked about mountain or rock climbing.”

“And what did you tell him?” Angelo asked.

“I told him yes. He would have found out anyway, and I thought it best not to lie to him.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Angelo said. “If a policeman catches you in a lie, he’ll never believe you again, and I think our credibility is important. Pio, you shouldn’t have told him you’re afraid of heights — that could come back and bite you on the backside.”

“How is he going to disprove that?”

“Suppose he looks up your prep school yearbooks? He’ll find out you were on the rock climbing team.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“If you tell the truth, you don’t have to worry about things like that. Now, if he finds out about the team, he’ll work all the harder to find out about you.”

“He didn’t ask me about the burglaries.”

“I’ve no doubt he already knew,” Angelo said. “That would have required only a few keystrokes. If it ever comes up, admit it immediately — tell him the truth, that you were young and stupid.”

“Please don’t start on that again, Dad,” Pio said.

“I told you at the time that it would come back to haunt you.”

“I know, I know. Please just drop it.”

“I will, if you’ll stop lying to the police.”

“So,” Ann said, “am I a suspect now, because I’m big for a girl?”

“Don’t forget flat-chested,” Pio said sourly.

“That again? Do you want me to have a boob job?”

“Children, children,” Angelo said, “let’s not start opening old wounds. Everyone just needs to be calm. This will be over soon, and life will go on as usual.”

“I’m going to make an appointment with Dr. Bassey, in the village,” Ann said. “Boobs are his specialty.”

Pio started to say something about who the boob was, but he thought better of it. “I like you as you are, but as always, you can do whatever you like.”

“I will,” she replied. “Don’t you worry.”

Angelo tossed off his scotch. “I’m going to leave you two to this conversation,” he said, then left.

“Why did you lie to the police?” Ann asked when Angelo had gone.

“Just a reflex. I’ve never trusted cops.”

“Well, now they’re not going to trust you.”

Art Masi sat at his computer and Googled Pio Farina; he found a website. Art went there and clicked on Bio. Pio had attended a coed, arts-oriented prep school in New Hampshire for four years. He found the school’s website and did a search for Pio; in a moment he had found the school yearbook for his senior year.