William Lashner - Marked Man

“Sure they are, they pay less taxes. But it was a little queer, your not asking about the second painting. It was as if your collector already knew that Charlie only had access to the one. How would he know that?”

“What he knows doesn’t concern me.”

“And how did you know to contact Ralph and Joey when it seemed your offer to me had gone nowhere? Why those two?”

“Old friends of Charlie’s.”

“But they were more than that, weren’t they? They had a claim on the painting, too, and you knew it. And somehow you also knew about my father.”

“What is your point?”

“I think you’re working for someone who was involved in what went down thirty years ago. I think you’re working for someone who doesn’t give a damn about the painting but is more interested in buying silence. And maybe it’s not enough to pay off Charlie. Maybe you’re required to silence the others. Like Ralph? And Joey, if you could only deal with him in person and not on the phone? Buy the witnesses or kill them off, either/or, just so that everything stays quiet.”

Lav clapped his hands sarcastically. “Aren’t you the clever boy! It is a rather cute theory, except that it is completely and slanderously wrong. If I had killed Ralph, it would have been quickly ruled a suicide, mark my words on that. And as for the painting’s not being of prime importance, false false false. All I care about, I assure you, is getting hold of that Rembrandt. That’s how I get paid, and I will get paid. Finally, as for silence being my client’s main goal here, I can’t tell what is in the recesses of my client’s mind, but I must ask why? I’m no lawyer, but I know enough to know that the statute of limitations has run on the robbery. Why would it be worth a couple of lives for the story to go away?”

I took a photograph out of my suit jacket, tossed it toward him. He picked it up, squinted at it, handed it back. “I never cared for children,” he said.

“Her name is Chantal Adair. The picture’s from thirty years ago. She went missing the same time as the Rembrandt. Never heard from since.”

He looked again at the photograph, bit his lip as he tried to figure it out.

“That’s what your client wants to keep quiet,” I said.

“Is she dead?”

“Maybe, or maybe just kept illicitly, like a stolen painting, kept in a locked room, looked at sparingly. Who knows?”

“But you’re going to find out, is that it?”

“That’s it.”

“Until the money is good enough for you to turn your back.”

“There’s not enough.”

“There’s always enough, Victor, you should know that by now.”

“I don’t think so,” I said as I loosened my tie and started unbuttoning my shirt.

Lavender Hill’s eyes darted around to check out the scene in the bar before he leaned forward. He watched as each button slipped out of its slit. When I showed him the tattoo, his eyes widened, he read the name, and then a huge smile cracked his hardened face.

“My, aren’t we full of surprises!”

“Why don’t we make a deal, Lav, you and I?”

“Oh, yes, let’s.” He rubbed his hands hungrily. “I’ve been wondering when we would start our delicate negotiations. We are of a like mind, I believe. I sensed that from the start. So, Victor, what are your terms?”

“I will mention your offer to Mrs. Kalakos, which is as far as I can go down that street, but she’s a smart enough cracker to get my drift and independent enough that she would make her own decision in any event.”

“Fabulous. You will also have to escort Charles and the painting to me if an agreement is finally reached.”

“I can only take him and the painting to the police.”

“I don’t trust him. For some reason I trust you. If a deal is reached, you will ensure that the painting and I get together like lost lovers. And, of course, by doing so, you’ll also protect your client from my murderous intentions.”

I thought on that a bit. Whatever Charlie decided to do with the painting, I realized, I would have to be part of it. He was just as likely to get himself killed as to get himself a big payday. I had promised Mrs. Kalakos I would deliver him home alive, and I couldn’t renege on that, partly because she terrified me and partly because there was a family obligation.

“Okay,” I said. “If that’s what he decides, I will help effectuate the transfer, but only for the purposes of protecting Charlie.”

“Splendid. And in return?”

“You will go to your client immediately and give him a message for me.”

“And what would that be, Victor?”

“You tell him I’m coming.”

Lavender Hill tilted his head for a moment and then let out a huge, acrid laugh. There was a warning in the laugh, but a real delight, too, and it was loud enough to draw attention, which he never seemed to mind. After his laughter had subsided, the smile remained, even as he shook his head at me as if I were a naughty boy and he was amused at my naughtiness.

“I was completely wrong about you,” said Lavender Hill. “You are a barroom brawler after all.”

Family court, that lastbastion of civility, where mothers and fathers work unceasingly, with goodwill and decorum, to find custodial arrangements in the best interests of their children. Sure, and hockey is played by dainty men with fabulous teeth.

We were in family court, waiting for Judge Sistine to show up, sitting around and killing time. Much of a trial lawyer’s day is spent killing time, which just then suited me fine. It was Bradley Hewitt’s day to testify in his custody suit with Theresa Wellman, and I was a bit short on material.

After Theresa Wellman stepped down from the stand, Beth had spent the intermittent trial days granted us by Judge Sistine putting on a torrent of evidence about Theresa’s rehabilitation, her new job, her new house, her new life. We had shown, about as well as could be shown, that letting Belle live part-time with her mother might not be a total disaster. But the judge would have to decide more than simply whether Theresa could take care of her daughter. She would have to decide whether joint custody, as opposed to keeping Belle with Bradley full-time, was in the child’s best interests. Bradley Hewitt, with his suit and manners, his fine house and his high-paying job, would certainly put on a good show. And, to be honest, I didn’t quite know how to prove joint custody a better solution. But I had a plan, and killing time was part of it.

Bradley Hewitt, self-satisfied and self-assured, was sitting beside his attorney, Arthur Gullicksen, at the counsel table. His entourage was lined up like black-suited ducks on the bench behind them. Gullicksen passed me a confident smile just as the courtroom doors opened.

We all turned and looked. It was Jenna Hathaway.

I turned back and checked out Gullicksen. His face took on a puzzled expression. He knew her, of course he did. I would have told him all about her, except I checked and found out I didn’t need to. One of his clients, an upper-crust Main Liner from an old, distinguished family, had been hiding assets from his wife, which was bad enough, but he had also been hiding them from the IRS. Jenna Hathaway had descended like an avenging angel and banged him into the Federal Correctional Institution at Morgantown for a good seven years. I let Gullicksen sit there and puzzle it out for a moment before I stood and walked toward Jenna.

“Thanks for coming,” I said quietly.

“Are you sure this is a good place to talk?” she said.

“No problem. The judge is forever handling some emergency childcare issue. This case has been held over longer than Cats . Did you look at the cooperation agreement?”