Insatiable Appetites (7 page)

Ann Keaton sat in an office in the Executive Office Building, across from the West Wing, and methodically worked her way through a stack of mail that had already been seen by two other senior staffers. Each had a note stapled to it recommending an action of one kind or another. The one in her hand carried the notation:
Decline—person rumored to have Mafia connections
. The handwritten letter to Kate was from Mary Ann Bianchi, a name that meant nothing to her. The name of the “person,” however, had a very familiar ring. Ann gathered up the mail she had already approved for Kate’s eyes, put the Bianchi letter on top of the pile, and went next door to where Kate Lee sat at a big desk, leaning back in her chair, her trousered legs on the desk, reading documents. “Hey,” she said to Ann, “what’ve you got?”

“Standard stuff,” Ann said. “Except for the one on top.”

“Ooh,” Kate said when she had read the note. “I read the obit in the
Times.
Tell ’em I’ll be there.”

“You saw the staff recommendation?”

“Sure, I saw it. Tell Mary Ann I’ll be there, to save me a seat.”

“Let’s think about this one more time,” Ann said.

“Ann, do you remember the cocktail party that kick-started my campaign? The one where twenty-one people gave me a check for a million dollars each?”

“Of course, but I don’t remember Eduardo Bianchi being there.”

“He was there, without being there,” Kate said.

“Maybe that’s how you should attend his funeral.”

“No, I’m going to attend his funeral in person, dressed in black, looking sorrowful, because that’s how I’m going to feel. When you call Mary Ann, tell her I’d be very grateful if I could sit in the family pew. Eduardo didn’t have that big a family—maybe I can flesh it out a little bit.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ann said, rising to go.

“Ann, sit down.”

Ann sat.

“Eduardo Bianchi did things for me when I was at the Agency, and afterward, that nobody else could have done. He could make a phone call and find out stuff it would have taken us a year to unearth. He once got an Agency officer back from a kidnapping by the Naples Mafia, in less than four hours. He was a patriot and my dear friend, and that’s what I’m going to say when somebody sticks a microphone in my face and asks me what I’m doing there. As for the Mafia business, I suggest you read Eduardo’s FBI file.”

“I don’t have that on my desk,” Ann replied. “What does it say?”

“A great deal, but absolutely nothing about the Mafia.”

“Can I tell the press that?”

“Certainly not. You’re not supposed to know what’s in anybody’s FBI file. Anybody asks, tell ’em to make a Freedom of Information request for it.”

“If they do that, will they get the file?”

“Not in my lifetime,” Kate replied. “Maybe not in yours.”

She made a shooing motion with her hand, then went back to reading documents. “Wait,” she said, as Ann reached the door.

Ann stopped.

“Call all the lawyers in the Twenty-one group and ask each of them to give me a list of five names who they think would make a sensational Supreme Court justice, along with not more than five hundred words saying why. And tell them there’d better not be more than two white men on their lists.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Kate smiled. “It’ll give you an excuse for calling Stone.”

Ann laughed, then she stopped. “Why now? Is there a justice with a really bad cold?”

“I saw one at a cocktail party not so long ago who looked like he might not finish his martini. As Fats Waller used to say, ‘One never knows, do one?’”

Ann returned to her office and called Stone’s cell number. “Well, hello there,” Stone said. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“This is official business of the office of the President-Elect of the United States of America.”

“Oh, that. I was hoping you were in town and wanting to get laid.”

“Next week, maybe, if you play your cards right.”

“That’s good news. I can’t wait.”

“There are only about two hundred things that could go wrong, so don’t count on it.”

“I’ll hold my breath.”

“Now, to business: Kate would like you to submit the names of five people who you believe would make a very fine Supreme Court justice. She would like no more than five hundred words in support of each of them, and no more than two may be white males. Got it?”

“Is somebody over at the Court looking a little peaked?”

“Who knows? I think she’s just being prepared—it’s in her nature.”

“Okay, when?”

“Soon. Fax them to me. You already have the number.”

“I’ll give it some thought. Tell me, is your reason for coming up here that Kate is coming to Eduardo Bianchi’s high mass at St. Patrick’s?”

“She is, and she told me to ask his daughter if she can sit in the family pew.”

“I’ll take care of that for you, if you like.”

“Thank you, I’d appreciate that. It seems like rather a personal request for me to be making to someone I don’t know.”

“Consider it done.”

“Okay, I have to get back to work here, the paper level is rising around me.”

“Right. See ya.”

“Oh, Stone, one other thing.”

“Yes?”

“Who the hell is Fats Waller?”

Stone got Mary Ann Bianchi on the phone. “Good day, Mary Ann.”

“And to you, Stone.”

“Katharine Lee’s office has asked me to respond on her behalf to your invitation to Eduardo’s mass. She will be there, and she would very much like to sit with the family, if you agree.”

“We’d be delighted to have Kate with us,” Mary Ann replied.

“I’ll pass that on,” Stone said. “Be prepared for a Secret Service presence.”

“I’m sure St. Pat’s has handled that before.”

“There’s another matter, concerning the estate.”

“What is it?”

“Are you acquainted with the name ‘Charles Magnussen’?”

“Yes, he’s an art restorer, by common consent, one of the best in the world.”

“Has he had, to your knowledge, any contact with Eduardo’s collection?”

“Yes, he restored a number of canvases in the collection over the years. Magnussen and Papa were old friends.”

“To your knowledge, did Magnussen do the restorations at Eduardo’s house or in his own studio?”

“In his own studio. A painting usually took some weeks to restore.”

“Are you acquainted with a tiny check mark stamped on the frames of some of the canvases he restored?”

“I’ve never noticed anything like that.”

“Before he died last year, Magnussen told the dealer who represented him for his original works that he had forged numerous paintings and had stamped the check mark on his forgeries. Yesterday, the art catalogers at the house discovered four paintings in the collection that bore the tiny stamp. I asked them to examine all the paintings and drawings in the house for signs of forgery, and their total now stands at twenty-four oils and watercolors that carry Magnussen’s check mark. They are all among the finest and most highly valued work in the collection.”

Mary Ann seemed to be caught in a stunned silence.

“Are you still there?” Stone asked.

“Yes,” she said hoarsely, “I’m here. You seem to be telling me that Magnussen copied the paintings while he was supposed to be restoring them.”

“That is a very strong possibility. What’s more, if he restored them first, then copied them, the copies would bear the same signs of restoration as the originals, making them virtually impossible to tell apart.”

“My God,” she breathed, “you’re talking about work that probably exceeds hundreds of millions of dollars in value, at today’s auction prices.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“Then I should call the police,” she said. “They have an art squad that deals with this sort of thing.”

“I think it would be better if you let me pursue the matter privately—at least, at first.”

“How would you go about that?”

“I know Magnussen’s dealer. He found me two of my mother’s paintings, which I bought.”

“Is he the sort of person who would know how to dispose of such work as Papa’s collection?”

“I should think so, he’s eminent in his field. I should say, however, that his reputation is beyond reproach. I don’t think he’s the sort of man who would participate in such a crime. Still, I should talk to him, representing the estate.”

“Please do that, Stone, and quickly. We can’t have word of this getting out.”

“I’ll try and call you tomorrow,” Stone said. He said goodbye and hung up.

Stone got into his jacket and an overcoat and stopped by Joan’s desk. “I’m going out for a while,” he said to her. “You can reach me on my cell.”

“Have fun,” she said.

Stone walked to Park Avenue, then to Fifty-seventh Street, where he went west to a large building near Carnegie Hall. The name, etched into the granite facade, read THE PITT GALLERY. He went inside, gave his name, and asked to see Raoul Pitt. He was asked to wait for a few minutes, and a young woman took his coat. He browsed among the expensive paintings and sculptures on display for a few minutes, then Raoul Pitt appeared with another man. They shook hands, and the man left.

“Hello, Stone,” Pitt said, shaking his hand warmly. “Would you like to come back to my office?”

“Thank you, Raoul, yes.” Stone followed him to the rear of the building and his large, sparsely furnished office, which overlooked a sculpture garden out back. Pitt made them both a cup of espresso from a little machine, then sat down in a chair facing Stone.

“Well, now, what can I do for you today, Stone?”

“I’ve come to see you about your late client, Charles Magnussen.”

“Ah, Charles,” Pitt said regretfully. “A very fine painter.”

“And, from all accounts, a very fine forger,” Stone said. “I’ve heard the story about the check marks he placed on the frames of his forgeries.”

Pitt shook his head. “I was shocked when he told me of that in the hospital. He died two days later. How did you hear?”

“I’m co-executor for the Eduardo Bianchi estate,” Stone said. “One of the people cataloging his collection told me about it.”

“Ah, Eduardo. I sold him a few things over the years, but he usually bought at auction, always by proxy. And before bidding, he sent his own experts to examine the works and pronounce them genuine.”

“Twenty-four of the paintings in Eduardo’s collection bear the tiny check marks that Magnussen told you about.”

“Good God!” Pitt exhaled. He looked ill. “What a catastrophe!”

“Eduardo hired Magnussen as a restorer,” Stone said. “Probably right after he got out of prison. He did what, eight, ten years for art forgery?”

“Something like that. I can see where this is going. You’re saying Charles took the works to his studio, restored, then copied them to include the marks of restoration.”

“Something like that.”

Pitt shook his head. “I hope you have taken steps to see that word does not get out. The consequences for the art market could be devastating. There are always rumors floating around the world, saying that one multimillion-dollar painting or another sold at auction was a forgery. This news could make things worse.”

“I had hoped that, with your help, the original paintings might be recovered before that happens.” He handed Pitt a copy of the cataloger’s list.

Pitt read it. “I’ll do whatever I can to help,” he said. “May I make a suggestion?”

“Of course.”

“I think you should send the team working at Eduardo’s house here, to my gallery and the eight floors of storage space upstairs. I will assign staff to help them view every painting in the place for signs of forgery. I do not ever want it suggested that I sold these pictures or had any part in this.”

“Good idea,” Stone said. “I’ll send them to you. In the meantime, if you could put a couple of people to work going through auction catalogs for the past twenty years, to see if anything on the list came up for sale.”

“That will be a huge job,” Pitt said. “May I hire extra help at the expense of the estate?”

“Yes, you may.” Stone stood up and shook the man’s hand. “I’ll be in touch.”

Stone retrieved his coat, left the gallery, and took a cab home. This, he thought, was going to be a mess.