Insatiable Appetites (8 page)

Stone and Dino met for dinner at a new restaurant, the Writing Room, which was located in the old Elaine’s premises on the Upper East Side, at Second Avenue and Eighty-eighth Street. It was their first time there, and they walked into a place that was unrecognizable as the site of the old joint.

The bar had been moved into the smaller of the two main rooms, and the new dining room was much larger than the old. They were greeted as old friends by the new owners and seated in the rear room, designed as a library.

“Where did they find the space for this room?” Stone asked.

“This was the outdoor space where the garbage cans were kept,” Dino said. “Not bad, huh?”

Their drinks arrived unbidden. At least that hadn’t changed.

“Something’s come up,” Stone said.

“Tell me.”

“A crime may have been committed, but I’m not sure yet.”

“Well, I’m the police—tell me.”

“You can’t treat this as a crime, until I know more.”

“Come on, Stone, give.”

“It looks as though twenty-four of the best paintings in Eduardo’s collection are forgeries.”

Dino choked on his drink. “Impossible,” he was finally able to say. “Nobody could get a forgery past Eduardo, let alone two dozen.”

“That’s not how it happened. Eduardo hired a well-known art restorer to work on these pictures. It looks as though he returned forgeries to Eduardo. Since they were all supposed to be restorations, Eduardo may have been taken in. At ninety-four, his eyesight might not have been what it was.”

“What have you done about this?”

“I went to see Raoul Pitt.” Stone told him about the check marks. “He’s very concerned, and he wants the estate to audit all the paintings in his studio and in storage, so that no one will suspect him of being involved.”

“Does anybody outside the family know about this?”

“Only Mary Ann knows—I had to tell her. The others have no idea, and at some point, Mary Ann, Ben—plus Dolce, if she’s capable—are supposed to choose twelve pictures each as part of their inheritance. The others are supposed to be left in the house. Eduardo wanted arts organizations to be able to bring small groups to view the collection.”

“How good are the forgeries?”

“The forger, one Charles Magnussen, had a long history of making undetectable copies of paintings. He was finally nailed and did some time. After that, he made his living as a restorer. I guess he finally had a conscience at the end, because he told Raoul on his deathbed about the check marks. When word gets out, collectors all over the world are going to be taking a magnifying glass to their canvas frames.”

“Anything I can do to help in all this?”

“Just keep your mouth shut for the time being. I’ll let you know when to turn it over to the art squad.”

“Whatever you say.”

Their dinner arrived, and they pronounced it pretty good.

Riding home in Dino’s departmental armored SUV, Dino took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I can think of another scenario with these pictures,” he said. “I feel bad about even bringing it up.”

“Go on.”

“When the searching starts for the originals, you’re going to have to take a look in Mary Ann’s town house.”

Stone was shocked. “Are you kidding me?”

“I hope I’m wrong, but she’s avaricious enough to want them for herself, instead of touring groups of art lovers. After all, those people are not going to know the difference between an original and a forgery. She thinks that way.”

“I can’t believe she’d do that.”

“Look at it from her point of view: she would figure she’s not hurting anybody, and if the secret didn’t get out, she might someday be able to sell some of them privately, or just leave them to Ben.”

“I was just thinking this afternoon that this is going to be a terrible fucking mess, but if Mary Ann is involved, it’s going to be exponentially worse.”

“Not necessarily,” Dino said.

“What are you talking about?”

“Mary Ann is smart enough to have a way out of this. If she gets caught, she can just give the pictures back and it would all be kept in the family. No one would want the publicity that would come from prosecuting her.”

“You have a serpentine mind, Dino.”

“Not I—Mary Ann. Trust me, she has a
very
serpentine mind. She was always a step ahead of me.”

“You know, when I think about it, this might be the most favorable explanation.”

“Favorable?”

“In the sense of resolving it while making the fewest waves.”

“Careful, Mary Ann will be one step ahead of you, too.”

Stone was at his desk the following morning, working on the Bianchi estate financial statement, prior to giving it to the accountants to help them prepare a final tax return for Eduardo and an estate tax return.

Joan buzzed. “There’s a guy on the phone who says he has some important information for you, but he won’t give his name.”

“How crazy does he sound?”

“Not very.”

“Oh, all right.” He pressed the other line button. “This is Stone Barrington. Who’s this?”

“I can’t tell you that now, Mr. Barrington—maybe later. A meeting took place last night in Washington, and what was discussed there has shocked me to the core.”

“What kind of meeting?”

“I guess you could call it a strategy session,” the man said.

“Who attended?”

“About two dozen Republican senators and congressmen. It was held at a private residence in Georgetown.”

“Were you there?”

There was a long pause. “Let’s just say that I have an intimate knowledge of what was discussed.”

“What was discussed?”

“Henry Carson was the de facto chairman. He shared the chair with the about-to-become-former Speaker of the House. These people are extremely angry about losing the presidency and furious about not having control of either House.”

“Are you a Republican, Mr… . ?”

“I’d rather not say which party I belong to.”

“Go on, tell me what transpired.”

“Carson spoke to the group, and he was right up front. He said the party strategy in Congress would be to oppose and obstruct—he actually used those words—every bill that was introduced by the new administration, and they would issue talking points to the group about what to say to the press and media when the new administration announced policy initiatives.”

“Every bill? Every policy? No matter what?”

“Every single one. They said they would find ways to peck to death any bill or policy. The rationale for each set of talking points will be created and laid out in the circulated memo.”

“Well, that shocks me, too,” Stone said. “They don’t even know what policy initiatives she’s going to issue.”

“They can guess from Mrs. Lee’s campaign speeches.”

“What do you want me to do with this information?” Stone asked.

“I want you to get it into the press and media. I want to create a big to-do about this, and I want to blunt their tactics.”

“Those are noble aims,” Stone said, “but you’re going about this in the wrong way.”

“Then how should I go about it?”

“Do you have a pencil?” Stone rummaged in a desk drawer for a business card.

“Yes.”

“Write down this name and number: Carla Fontana. She’s the Washington bureau chief for the
New York Times
.”
He gave the man a number. “That is her private cell number. She’s in a position to do what you’re suggesting, but you have to understand, she’s going to have to know who she’s dealing with.”

“I’m afraid of talking to someone like that on the phone,” the man said.

“Then do this: go to an electronics store and buy two pre-paid cell phones. Mail her one with a note saying you will call her at a specified hour, and that if she takes your call, you’ll have a major story for her. The phones will be untraceable, and if you’re worried about taps, you can always throw them away and buy new ones.”

“That sounds good.”

“But she’s going to need to know your identity. Will she recognize your name?”

“Probably.”

“My advice is to be straight with her—don’t lie to her and don’t conceal your identity from her. She has to trust you if this is going to work.”

“May I tell her you referred me to her?”

Stone thought about that. “Yes, but tell her I don’t know who you are.”

“All right.”

“One more thing,” Stone said. “I’m glad you’re being careful, but are you doing that because you fear some retribution? If they find out, will they destroy your career?”

“If they find out, they may destroy more than that.”

“What does that mean?”

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Barrington.” The man hung up.

Stone was left staring at his phone.

Stone was picked up at home by Dino, and his driver took them to a side entrance of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, where the block had been closed to provide parking for the many limousines of the attendees to the high mass for Eduardo Bianchi.

Inside, a boys’ choir was singing something from Beethoven, and there was the quiet hum of influential people greeting one another.

“I’m not sitting with the family,” Dino said.

“Why not?”

“I wasn’t invited, and if I had been I wouldn’t have accepted. It would have caused too much talk.”

“See you afterward, then. Are you going to the house?”

“That, I’m doing.”

“I’ll ride with you, then back with the kids.”

Stone walked to where the two front pews had been set aside for the family and their friends. Stone walked to where Mary Ann sat next to her son, Ben, on the aisle, in the front pew, greeted her quietly, and murmured some words of condolence. Stone took a seat in the front pew, next to his son, Peter, and his girlfriend, Hattie Patrick.

A moment later, the president-elect entered from the Fiftieth Street side of the cathedral, and Stone rose to greet her. She spoke briefly to Mary Ann, then came and sat by Stone. She squeezed his arm, then sat with her hands in her lap, her head bowed.

The cardinal had just finished his prayer when there was a small stir behind where Stone sat, and he was aware of someone taking a seat in the pew directly behind him, but he did not turn to look.

A procession of the city’s prominent persons—the mayor, the chairmen of the boards of the Metropolitan Museum of Art and two other important museums, and Tom Donnelly, Dino’s predecessor as police commissioner, now a candidate for mayor, all spoke of what Eduardo had meant to their work and to the city. There followed another performance by the choir, then the cardinal gave his benediction and the service ended.

Stone stood and chatted with Kate for a moment.

“Can you and your kids come to the Carlyle for dinner tonight at seven?” she asked.

“We’d love to,” Stone said, then the Secret Service escorted her to where the cardinal waited to say goodbye, then led her out the way she had come—a slow process, since everyone wanted to shake her hand.

Stone turned to look at the people behind him, then froze.

Dolce was sitting quietly in the pew directly behind him. She rose and held out her hand.

“Hello, Stone,” she said softly, holding out her gloved hand.

Stone took her hand. “Hello, Dolce,” he said. “How are you?”

“Much better than the last time we met,” she said.

Stone recalled that, on that occasion, she had been carrying a butcher knife. “I’m so glad,” he said.

“Will you be coming back to the house?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Perhaps we might talk for a moment there.”

“Of course.” She was the last person on earth he wished to speak to.

She left the pew and spoke to a few attendees. Then Mary Ann approached her, they air-kissed and spoke for only a moment.

People lingered to schmooze in the pews and aisles, but gradually the crowd dissipated, and Stone made his way back to Dino’s car. Peter and Hattie got into the Bentley, with Fred at the wheel. Mary Ann and Ben were driven in a black Mercedes.