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None of the other boroughs offer such a nice boat ride, I’ll say that. The Staten Island Ferry is a free half-hour boat ride across New York Harbor, and on a warm October afternoon, standing in the front of the boat with the fingers of sea breezes combing your hair, it’s hard to feel derisive about your destination.

The breeze was helping to calm me. The encounter in the barbershop and realizing I’d had the whole killing thing wrong had me shaken. I felt real bad for Jocko getting killed. I had to wonder how many he may have made vanish with his razor. Maybe his death was as much a result of a damaged karma as anything else. He sure recognized an assassin when he saw one. Jocko was quick as lightning with that razor when he saw Gustav.

Anyway, Gustav would be licking his wounds for at least a little while, what with that slash across his face. So I felt a little safer in the short term. And after all this ruckus and three murders in broad daylight, you would think that the NYPD might have been able to find Gustav in short order, wouldn’t you? Anyhow, I felt like I had at least until Saturday before I had to be looking over my shoulder. That would give me breathing room. I inhaled deeply the salt air. I must have done my tantric exercise ten times on the front of that ferry.

I had wanted to pressure Frank Buckley first, but I couldn’t locate him. He didn’t answer his bell. The owner at Traviata said Frank didn’t come on shift until five. I called the museum to set something up with Atkins, and they said he went home at noon on Fridays. So with almost five hours on my hands I decided to take the subway into Manhattan and walk to the ferry. There’s a giant new ferry terminal there. Like the old one, it’s full of pigeons for some reason. Architects, smart as they are, can’t outwit pigeons. I’m just saying.

The abode of Timothy Atkins was a few stops down the Tottenville Line. That’s Staten Island’s train, and it looks just like a subway anywhere else in the city except it never goes underground much and is a lot more polite and clean, both in appearance and operation. The conductors aren’t under pressure to deliver millions of commuters to Manhattan in two hours twice a day, so the pace is a little more relaxed.

From the train station, it is a short walk up a gentle hill through a bedroom community, ranch homes like you’d find almost anywhere in suburbia. That’s part of the reason Staten Island gets a bad rap from the other boroughs—no part of it is urban. Sure enough, there’s a downtown, but it has the feel of a county seat somewhere in the Midwest. I could be wrong, but I don’t think there are any buildings in Staten Island over twenty stories, or even ten. These ranch homes are nicely spaced, too, not crammed a car width apart like you’d find out in Queens.

I knew where Atkins lived because he’d invited me to a barbecue back when I was tight with Sheila. I think he wanted to get in good with me to get in good with her. Even then she was on his ass and he seemed desperate to try to secure his job. Somehow he’d held on to it since then. I had his address and phone number tucked into my phone. Thought a surprise visit might be more productive than calling ahead.

Atkins’s ranch home was brick painted white, with an aging Volkswagen parked in the driveway and a life-sized deer lawn ornament. There were also some concrete squirrels and rabbits sneaking around the edge of the bushes. I kid you not, it was like Atkins had a Disney thing going on.

The garage door was open, and there was a wiry woman, midfifties, inside. She had curly gray hair, work clothes, and a rake. She stepped outside as I approached, shielding her eyes from the sun.

“Can I help you?” She held the rake sort of pointed at me. Like I said, sometimes my size intimidates people.

“Hi. I’m an associate of Tim’s, from the museum. My name is Tommy Davin.”

She lowered the rake. A little.

“He went out to Home Depot. Should be back soon.”

“Maybe I should have called first, but I’m investigating an art theft and needed to speak with him.”

“Sure. You with the police?”

“No, ma’am. I work for an insurance company. I try to track down missing paintings and other art. Here’s my card.”

She took the card, and it seemed to make her relax.

“Ma’am, I know you don’t know me, but Tim does. I’ve seen him twice this week at the museum. That’s how I know he works a half day on Friday. He invited me to a barbecue you guys were having a year or more back. I couldn’t come to the shindig but had the address in my phone.”

“You missed a good barbecue.” She was leaning on the rake now. “Timbo makes the best sausage and peppers.”

“Looks like you’re about to do some lawn work. Sorry to interrupt with business like this.”

“That’s why Timbo went to the store. Needed lawn bags. I hate to rake leaves.”

“Anybody who likes raking leaves needs a life.”

“Timbo likes it.”

“Oops, sorry. Let’s rephrase that. Raking leaves is not my idea of a good time.”

“My name is Jan. I’m his wife. You want some coffee?”

“I’m intruding.”

“Why should I rake when there are no leaf bags? He’s the one who likes to rake, so why am I not at Home Depot?”

“I see your point. Sure, coffee is always good.”

I followed the wiry woman through the front door, one in white with three little windows set at a diagonal.

The interior of the home looked pretty much early nineties, lots of reflective surfaces, and more deer, fawn, and rodent statues on shelves above the gray couch. Just much smaller ones. We continued into the kitchen, which was from the seventies, gold and avocado wallpaper, white counters, dark wood cabinets, and white kitchen table. The kitchen window view over the sink was crowded with shrubs.

“Mind if I reheat?” She held up a clear glass pot.

“That’s what I normally do.”

“Sit.” She gestured at the table, and I hunkered down in one of the chairs. Pouring two cups, she put them in an ancient microwave and revved it up by turning knobs.

“So, Tommy, you know art?”

“I have a degree in art history, if that means anything. And I know how much things go for.”

“Is your work dangerous? Do you have to chase criminals?”

“As little as possible.”

“Timbo sure is glad his museum never gets robbed. Doesn’t keep him from worrying about it. Or from worrying about the museum director—you know her?”

“I know McCracken, but it won’t shock me if you don’t love her.” Never robbed?

“Well, she could be nicer, you know what I mean?” The microwave buzzed loudly, and she unlatched the oven door. “Cream and sugar?”

“Just sugar. Four.”

“Dark and sweet. That’s the way my father took it.”

“My pop took it that way, too.”

As she prepped the coffee, I looked at my phone for the time, hoping Atkins would get home with the leaf bags soon. I needed to make Brooklyn in time to push a few of Frank’s buttons before his shift. The coffee arrived, but Jan remained standing.

“Do you appraise art, like on
Antiques Roadshow
?”

“Only fine art.”

“So not Hummels. I have a large collection, you know, a lot of it vintage.”

“You could see what they’re going for on eBay.”

“I wouldn’t trust anybody to send me money on the Internet.”

“There are appraisers who would value your Hummels. Are you looking to insure them?”

“Sure, maybe, but I watch all those people getting rich on
Roadshow
, you know? You have to wonder if your things, just anything around the house, is worth a couple grand, or even a hundred grand, who knows?”

I could almost hear the seconds ticking by on my phone.

“If you had it appraised, you would know.”

“Sure, but you only do fine art. Like paintings and sculpture.”

“I’m not an accredited appraiser, but I would know something valuable if I saw it.”

She crooked a finger at me. “Let me show you something, then.”

In a spare bedroom there was a closet. In the back of the closet were two unframed paintings covered by a sheet. They were fairly large, and she slid them out into the light by the window.

“We picked these up a year ago.” Jan slid off the sheet.

No, it wasn’t the Hoffman or the Ramirez or the La Marr.

Thick black lines separated squares of white and red and blue and yellow. One was mostly white with only a little yellow, red, and blue and a more irregular grid pattern.

I looked at the back, at the canvas and mounting. Paris, for sure. You can tell by the cloven tacks used to secure the canvas to the frame. There were no marks indicating the tacks had been removed and replaced or that the canvas had been restretched. They were signed on the back, not the front, in block letters mondrian. 1914. Also on the back was a patch. Looked like a small piece of canvas covering a small tear, yellowed glue around the side.

“So, Tommy, do you think these are worth anything? Timbo likes them, and when he came home with them I said, ‘Not in my living room!’ So he put them here. I keep saying why not sell them, but he says he likes them even if he can’t look at them.”

My mind was five different places at once. These paintings, though—could only be at one place, not two.

“Jan … I’d hold on to them. These will get more valuable in a few years.”

“Well, I suppose they don’t take up a lot of space.”

“Wait. Put them back in the closet and wait.”

“Sure.”

“You know, Jan, I realize I can’t wait any longer for Tim. But I wouldn’t mention you showed these to me. You know.”

“I know?”

“Men are funny about this sort of thing. He may get angry that you were trying to sell his stuff. I’m just saying.”

“You’re a smart man, Tommy. Sure, he might get mad. How will I know when to sell them?”

“Here’s my card. Don’t sell them without calling me, and if I happen to run into a buyer who will pay top dollar—whenever that may be—I’ll let you know.”

“I’ll tell Timbo you stopped by.”

“Yeah, I’d appreciate that.”

Mondrians. In a closet on Staten Island.

Mondrians. On the wall of the Lee J. Rosenburg wing at the Whitbread Museum.

The same Mondrians both places.

One set was forgeries. The other easily worth a cool couple million.

I wasn’t just thinking about the Mondrians, though. I was also thinking about Gloria the locksmith and the missing Henris. About the timing, both around a year ago. Monkey business over there at the Whitbread.

The sea air ran its fingers through my hair. I had a lot to think about on my ferry ride, Manhattan’s silver blades flashing in the blue October sky ahead.

FRANK’S ABODE WAS IN FAR
west Cobble Hill, near the Gowanus Expressway, which like I said is also known as Interstate 278. A month or so back a truck fire closed I-278. Our quiet streets were turned into a parking lot, Union and Carroll Street bridges stacked with traffic trying to reach Fourth Avenue and a shot at reconnecting with the interstate farther north. There’s a boatload of cars on the expressway, especially Friday afternoons. Like a storm on the horizon, the growing rumble of rush hour echoed down Luquer Street.

I’d come to Frank’s abode because it was still only four in the afternoon and his shift was at five. Traviata was on Court Street five blocks away.

I leaned on the buzzer awhile but got no answer. When I stepped away from the door, I could look up and see his apartment on the top floor, the window partway open and facing a hundred thousand cars on the elevated highway. Must have been noisy up there. I hoped the bell worked, or that it was loud enough that he could hear it. The foyer door was locked, so there was no way in to go knock on his apartment door. I didn’t want to disturb anybody else in the building to try knocking, because if Frank wasn’t there I didn’t want him to find out I knew where he lived and was looking for him. So I backtracked toward Court Street.

My phone buzzed. Incoming e-mail from Blaise. It was the report on McCracken.

I thought McCracken had quit smoking. As much as any smoker really quits, I guessed.

“Excuse me.” A petite strom pushing a double-wide baby carriage was trying to make it past me. I had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, so I stepped to one side.

TGIF. The truth was finally beginning to rub its whiskers on my chair leg. Everybody was tied to Billy Bank: Huey, French, Molly, Robay, and McCracken. I just had to hope that this pattern meant something. Remember how wrong I was about the killings?

Sure, I was on a roll. I kid you not, though, I was tired. I’d started the day way back at the rooster bar, had the confrontation at Jocko’s, and discovered Mondrians in Staten Island all in one screwed-up day. Let’s not even review that whole week up to that point. My mind was drifting to more important matters.

Cocktail hour approached. I was more or less hardwired by that stage in my life to expect a libation on Friday promptly at five. Just a little rule I had. That was the carrot that kept me pulling the cart all week. It wasn’t like I didn’t drink during the week, especially that week, but Friday cocktail hour was the cannon shot signaling that my workweek was over and that I could indulge myself in pursuits other than chasing down the stuff museums and collectors lose. To read up on and savor Sunday’s football games. To sit at the bar in the wood-paneled oasis of Monahan’s, to have one too many martinis and discuss the Giants with Petey B the bartender and whoever else was there. To sit at the bar and devour a Caesar salad, a giant porterhouse, and a pile of fries. I’d barely eaten that week except for that stack of pancakes the other morning, and my stomach ached from stress. What with witnessing three murders, and all the bullshit trying to track down the paintings, I hadn’t exactly been very hungry. Jenny Craig had nothing on this.