William Lashner - Marked Man

“Really? What was he like?”

“He was an extraordinary man, very fierce and very loyal. He gave me complete authority over all matters pertaining to the trust and its educational mission during his lifetime, and I’ve held that authority since. I’m sure I could help you with any inquiry.”

“Maybe it’s my mistake,” I said. “I thought Mr. Spurlock was the president of the Randolph Trust.”

“That is his title, yes. But, you see, I run things.”

“I’d just as soon talk to the title. Is he waiting for me? I don’t want to be late.”

She fought to control the anger that was twisting her mouth into a thin, wriggly worm. “This way, please,” she said.

Mrs. LeComte led me out of the ground-floor gallery, up a wide staircase, and through an upstairs gallery filled with giant canvas bouquets of wild color.

“Matisse,” I said.

“Yes. We have five of his works in this room.”

I stopped and spun around. “These are amazing.”

“If you want to see the artwork, Mr. Carl, buy a ticket. We are open to the public the second Monday of each month and alternate Wednesdays.”

“Let’s not forget Good Friday.”

“Mr. Spurlock is waiting in the boardroom,” she said, her voice shivering with cold. There is nothing more bracing than a frigid blast of anger, though I couldn’t help wondering where it was coming from and why it was directed at me.

“We should have coffee sometime, you and me,” I said to her.

She stepped back, tilted her head, and gave me the once-over, not like I was a vile specimen in a jar, more like she was determining whether I was a man worth another slice of her time. Whatever she was now, Mrs. LeComte had surely been something once.

“Maybe we will,” she said, “if you behave. Now, come along. It doesn’t do to keep Mr. Spurlock waiting.”

At the end of the hallway, Mrs. LeComte knocked lightly before pushing open one of the double wooden doors and leading me into the boardroom.

Two men waited forus at a great mahogany table in the dark, wood-paneled room. One I recognized as a fixture of the local bar association, Stanford Quick, tall and distinguished, with his gray suit and club tie. Quick was the managing partner of Talbott, Kittredge and Chase, one of the city’s most respected law firms, as well as the trust’s main counsel. He was the kind of old-school lawyer who had inherited his place at the table and seemed most concerned with his table manners. I had grown comfortable dealing with the type, their gentle condescension kept my inbred resentment at a peak. It was Quick whom I had called after my meeting with Charlie Kalakos and who had set up this appointment. The other man was shorter and younger and considerably better dressed, Jabari Spurlock, president and CEO of the Randolph Trust.

“Thank you, Mrs. LeComte,” said Spurlock after she had introduced me.

“I thought I could be of assistance to the discussion,” said Mrs. LeComte, her manner suddenly less imperious.

“Good-bye, Mrs. LeComte,” said Spurlock. He stared at her until she backed out the door and closed it behind her. “Difficult woman, that, but she has been a fixture here from before I was born. Take a seat, Mr. Carl. We have much to discuss.”

“Thank you,” I said as I sat across from them at the long table. “Quite a place you got here.”

“Have you never been to the trust before?”

“No,” I said. “And it’s no wonder, what with your screwy scheduling.”

“Our visiting hours were all specified in Mr. Randolph’s will,” said Quick. He sat at ease at the table, long and languorous, leaning back, seemingly bored. “It is not up to us to change those terms, much as we would like to.”

“We are merely the custodians of Mr. Randolph’s passions and intentions,” said Spurlock. “He believed his art was for the benefit of the working classes, not just the wealthy patrons who had time to tour museums at their leisure. To that end, the times for visitors to stroll the galleries are limited. Instead much of the calendar at the trust is reserved for teaching art appreciation to the less advantaged and the keenly interested, all based on Mr. Randolph’s startling methods.”

“It sounds so very noble.”

“It is, Mr. Carl, and yet, even so, our methods and practices are constantly under attack by the privileged few.”

“You’ve read, of course, Victor,” said Stanford Quick, “of the trust’s battles with its neighbors. And you’ve also read that there is a movement afoot to use the trust’s current economic crisis to move the entire collection into the city and turn its control over to the art museum.”

“It’s been front-page news.”

“Yes, Mr. Carl,” said Spurlock, “unfortunately it has. Which brings us to your visit.”

“I simply mentioned to Stanford that I might have information concerning a missing painting.”

“No, Victor,” said Quick. “You were more specific. You mentioned a missing Rembrandt. The only Rembrandt ever purchased by Mr. Randolph was a self-portrait painted in 1630 that was stolen from the trust twenty-eight years ago. Is that the painting you were referring to?”

“Was it a picture of some guy with a hat?”

“Do you have the painting in your possession, Mr. Carl?” said Spurlock.

“No,” I said. “In fact, I’ve never seen it.”

“But you know where it is,” said Spurlock.

“No, I don’t. I don’t know anything about the whereabouts of the painting, about how it was stolen, or by whom.”

“Then what are we doing here?” said Quick.

“The thing is, I have this client who claims he does.”

“A client, you say,” said Quick. “Who?”

“I need to find out some things first, like how the painting went missing in the first place.”

“It was stolen,” said Spurlock. “There was a robbery.”

“A professional job by a crack group of the highest caliber,” said Quick. “Most likely from out of town. Impeccably planned, flawlessly executed. Taken was Mr. Randolph’s collection of religious icons, made of gold or silver, that he had purchased from all over the world, including Russia and Japan. None of those icons have been recovered, and it is assumed that they have been melted down for their precious metals. Also taken was an amount of currency and a large quantity of jewelry owned by Mr. Randolph’s wife and kept at the trust because of its supposed tight security.”

Thinking of the haul of jewels in my desk drawer, I tried to stop my eyes from widening with interest at that little nugget.

“Any idea of who was behind it?” I said.

“Not really. There appeared to be an inside contact, which was puzzling, because most employees of the trust had been hired by Mr. Randolph and were insanely loyal. A young curator was suspected of being involved, but there was never enough evidence collected to prosecute her. Still, of course, she was let go.”

“What was her name?”

“Chicos, I think,” said Quick. “Serena Chicos. But as for the Rembrandt, its inclusion in the robbery was always puzzling. It is a signal piece, not easily sold, and, in fact, from what we can gather, it has never appeared in the black markets that deal with stolen art. It simply vanished, along with a small Monet landscape taken at the same time. Both paintings disappeared without a trace.”

“Until now,” said Spurlock, “when you come to us claiming to have a client who can return the Rembrandt to us. For a fee, I assume. This is a shakedown, I assume.”

“Why do you assume that?”

“Another part of your reputation precedes you, Mr. Carl.”

“Whatever the circumstances,” said Quick, “we cannot be involved in a shakedown.”