Neil Olson - The Black Painting

“Tell me about it,” said Morse, massaging the bridge of his nose. “Conjecture away.”

“He didn’t believe the groundskeeper was the thief. Or if he was, he acted on someone else’s behalf.”

“We all suspected that,” the attorney said dismissively. “But whose?”

“There was a collector who wanted the work very badly,” Dave replied, violating his own conditions. “A man named Charles DeGross.”

“That’s right. He made my father at least two offers. Generous offers, I understood.”

“You encouraged your father to sell to him,” Dave stated, rather than asked.

“And that makes me suspect? My mother, my brother and his own lawyer encouraged the exact same thing.”

“Yes, but they didn’t meet secretly with Mr. DeGross. You did. Twice.”

Morse took a deep breath. Far from looking angry, he seemed relieved to have arrived at the heart of the matter.

“It wasn’t secret. For heaven’s sake, we were in a restaurant.”

“You were in a private room. Alone except for the waiter. And on at least one of those occasions you lied to others about where you would be.”

Morse sighed again and shook his head.

“Your memory is better than you claim,” he said ruefully. “Fibbing to my secretary is not a crime. It was essential that it be kept private. I was, in fact, acting in my father’s interest.”

“Just without his knowledge or permission,” Dave replied.

“You have no idea,” the attorney said sharply. “Or maybe you do.”

“About what?”

“His finances. My father didn’t understand money, and he ran through it at an alarming rate. He paid high prices for works he wanted, and hardly sold a thing. It wasn’t sustainable. Ten million dollars would have gone a long way toward curing his problems.”

“He felt the painting was worth many times that,” said Dave.

“To whom?” Morse asked, tossing his hands up. “You’re not a dealer, but you must understand the market a little. That kind of money was a delusion. No one has ever paid that for a Goya, and certainly no one would without a clean provenance.”

“You think your father acquired it illegally?”

“I don’t know, nor do I care. That painting...” The attorney became glassy-eyed for a moment. As if he went away from the conversation, away from the bright room to some other, darker place. “That painting was never going to a museum,” he rasped, his gaze slowly finding Dave again. “Anyone who would take it for a good price and keep it hidden was doing our family and the world a service.”

Dave held his tongue. They had come to what he cared about, but the questions he wanted to ask would take them away from the lawyer’s concerns, and expose his own. He mastered himself.

“What was your purpose in meeting DeGross?”

Morse nodded, as if he, too, had forgotten the point and was grateful to be brought back to it.

“The first time was after his initial offer. Seven million. I convinced him that my father swearing not to sell was a bluff, that he should go higher. I’m the one who got him to ten million. Not that Dad would have thanked me for it.”

“Which of course he couldn’t,” Dave pointed out, “because he didn’t know. Why the second meeting?”

“DeGross asked for that. After my father rejected the higher offer. He wanted to know if there was any point in continuing. If there was anything left to try.”

“Like stealing, for instance,” Dave baited him.

“DeGross may have been behind the theft,” Morse answered evenly. “But he didn’t share his plans with me. I did not have anything to do with that, Mr. Webster. And I still don’t understand why you stopped the investigation.”

He sounded sincere, Dave had to admit. He might be a good liar, or he might have talked himself into his own innocence. People did that. Or, Dave conceded grudgingly, he might be telling the truth.

“Your father suspected DeGross. I could tell from his questions. But I couldn’t find a link to the groundskeeper or any of the other help. I didn’t investigate the caterers closely, that was another thing I was going to get to. The suspicious behavior I did uncover involved members of the family. Especially you.”

“You mean those meetings with DeGross.”

“That was the worst of it,” Dave confirmed. “Your father was determined to solve the case. He put all his energy into it. When I told him about those meetings, well, the steam went out of him. He didn’t even want to hear about my other findings. He just asked me to leave. The next day he called to say he was ending the investigation.”

They were both quiet for a time. The attorney was so deeply wrapped in thought that the sound of a car pulling into the driveway did not rouse him.

“I understand this is painful for you,” Dave said, risking the other man’s wrath. “And I’m not accusing you of anything. But one way to look at this is that your father was trying to protect you. As important as that painting was, it was more important to him not to implicate his son in any wrongdoing.”

Morse stared at him with a curious expression, and Dave considered the possibility that for once in his life he had said the right thing. A car door slamming erased any response the attorney might have made. He rose quickly and went to the window.

“What the hell does she want?”

Three seconds later the kitchen door banged open and a woman in tight jeans and a baggy coat swept in. Curvy, blond and flushed. And obviously a Morse. She barely paused to throw a contemptuous glance at Philip, but she stopped short when she saw Dave. He stood up fast, banging his knee on the table.

“Sorry, did I interrupt something?” she asked, not sounding sorry. More annoyed that the presence of a guest required a halfhearted courtesy. “Who are you?”

“What are you doing here, Audrey?” Philip snapped. The girl made him nervous, though Dave could not guess why.

“Clothes,” she said.

“Clothes?”

“For the funeral and, like, the next few days. It’s four hours round-trip to my apartment, without traffic. And the cops want us to hang around.”

“I wasn’t aware,” said Philip suspiciously, “that you had left clothes at my house.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said, making silly sound like a humiliating condition. “Cynthia and I wear exactly the same size. Nice to meet you...”

“Dave,” he said, taking her offered hand. Her blue eyes had a warmth missing from her uncle’s, and her smile seemed genuine, if not exactly kind. She had a firm handshake.

“I’m Audrey,” she replied, brushing against him as she passed. More closely than the space required. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“Wait, have you spoken to Cynthia?” Philip called after her.

“She won’t mind,” Audrey declared, already in the hall and headed for the stairs. Philip went as far as the kitchen door in pursuit. Then stopped, shoulders sagging.

“My niece,” he said in resignation.

“I remember,” Dave replied. She was a mouthy teen when he last saw her. The children had been off-limits for questioning. Which was appropriate, yet frustrating, as three had been in the house during the theft. One of them had actually been in the room. A boy, in therapy for some trauma. Dave could guess the source of that trauma, but none of the adults would speak of it. He’d met Audrey because she sought him out during her father’s interview. Flirting, he guessed. Or wanting to know what was up, the way teenagers did. She was cute, but fifteen-year-olds were not his thing, and he hadn’t given her a second thought. She was all grown-up now.

Morse shuffled back to the table. Audrey’s entrance had severed the brief bond between the men, and Dave sensed a dismissal. But the attorney sat down again.