college?” Any scrap of information might lead to more.
He laughed. “I’m self-taught about art. I’ve never taken a single art history class.”
But if he wouldn’t talk, he sure could listen. He seemed fascinated by everything she said. In response to his interest, she babbled like an idiot about her career, her childhood in North Carolina, college and graduate school.
At the end of dinner he knew a lot about her, but she didn’t know him one bit better. At this rate her article about him would be as bland and colorless as blancmange , her least favorite dessert at boarding school. But all that mystery made him even more fascinating. When he offered her a ride home—Debbi had her own car and was driving Carswell—she hoped he’d warm up.
But when Bain’s driver stopped the inconspicuous gray Lincoln Town Car outside her building, and Bain said a pleasant goodnight on the sidewalk, nothing had changed. He remained impenetrable. Still, when she glanced back at him from the lobby, she thought he looked after her longingly. But perhaps he was just watching to make sure she got in safely. She’d have to wait and see. She sighed. She hated waiting. If he didn’t call her, she’d try to get Debbi to set up another appointment with him. She wanted to know this man. She must somehow get through to him, if only for the sake of her article.
Nine
Thursday
Robert Mondelli hung up the phone and read his notes. His contact at the NYPD had asked him to look into a case that might or might not be his kind of thing. It probably wasn’t. Despite Jimmy La Grange’s occupation, the runner’s death almost certainly had nothing to do with art. Still, Mondelli would spend a day or so to prove it either way.
Mondelli was in law school when his dad, a cop, had been shot and killed by a drug addict trying to break into a doctor’s office. Mondelli dropped out of school and joined the NYPD to support his mother. He’d studied law at night and passed the bar exam, and considered joining a friend’s law practice, but art crimes had fascinated him, and he’d stayed on the job and made them his specialty. He took art history courses and haunted museums on weekends—still did. Three years ago, he’d resigned from the Department to set up his own agency specializing in the recovery of stolen art, and other art crimes. He’d been able to use his knowledge of the law and his experience with the NYPD, and he’d never regretted his decision.
The NYPD or City Hall often called Rob in as a consultant, mostly unpaid, but their referrals led to lucrative private-sector cases. He’d become famous in a small way, and the quality of both his life and his finances had improved. He wondered if he’d still be married if he’d left the police force earlier. The NYPD was notoriously tough on marriages, and many cops were divorced, sometimes more than once. After his own brief marriage ended badly, he had decided he wouldn’t try again.
When the faxes on the La Grange case arrived, he flipped through them, looking for art connections. An unconfirmed tip from a guy at the New York Times that La Grange was the seller of a high-priced Winslow Homer print at auction. Unlikely. La Grange had less than a thousand dollars in the bank, and the police had found no evidence linking him to big money, or to the fancy art crowd. Except for La Grange’s answering machine containing three voice mails from Coleman Greene at ArtSmart. Why was the well-known owner of a successful magazine so anxious to speak to La Grange? There was also a message from Simon, no last name, reachable at the Carlyle Hotel. According to one of the faxes, the police had identified, interviewed, and cleared Simon. Whoever he was, he had a solid alibi.
No paperwork had turned up on the Homer print. In fact, the police hadn’t found any of La Grange’s financial records, except for an invoice for $1,000 from La Grange to the Greene Gallery dated last week, stamped
He laughed. “I’m self-taught about art. I’ve never taken a single art history class.”
But if he wouldn’t talk, he sure could listen. He seemed fascinated by everything she said. In response to his interest, she babbled like an idiot about her career, her childhood in North Carolina, college and graduate school.
At the end of dinner he knew a lot about her, but she didn’t know him one bit better. At this rate her article about him would be as bland and colorless as blancmange , her least favorite dessert at boarding school. But all that mystery made him even more fascinating. When he offered her a ride home—Debbi had her own car and was driving Carswell—she hoped he’d warm up.
But when Bain’s driver stopped the inconspicuous gray Lincoln Town Car outside her building, and Bain said a pleasant goodnight on the sidewalk, nothing had changed. He remained impenetrable. Still, when she glanced back at him from the lobby, she thought he looked after her longingly. But perhaps he was just watching to make sure she got in safely. She’d have to wait and see. She sighed. She hated waiting. If he didn’t call her, she’d try to get Debbi to set up another appointment with him. She wanted to know this man. She must somehow get through to him, if only for the sake of her article.
Nine
Thursday
Robert Mondelli hung up the phone and read his notes. His contact at the NYPD had asked him to look into a case that might or might not be his kind of thing. It probably wasn’t. Despite Jimmy La Grange’s occupation, the runner’s death almost certainly had nothing to do with art. Still, Mondelli would spend a day or so to prove it either way.
Mondelli was in law school when his dad, a cop, had been shot and killed by a drug addict trying to break into a doctor’s office. Mondelli dropped out of school and joined the NYPD to support his mother. He’d studied law at night and passed the bar exam, and considered joining a friend’s law practice, but art crimes had fascinated him, and he’d stayed on the job and made them his specialty. He took art history courses and haunted museums on weekends—still did. Three years ago, he’d resigned from the Department to set up his own agency specializing in the recovery of stolen art, and other art crimes. He’d been able to use his knowledge of the law and his experience with the NYPD, and he’d never regretted his decision.
The NYPD or City Hall often called Rob in as a consultant, mostly unpaid, but their referrals led to lucrative private-sector cases. He’d become famous in a small way, and the quality of both his life and his finances had improved. He wondered if he’d still be married if he’d left the police force earlier. The NYPD was notoriously tough on marriages, and many cops were divorced, sometimes more than once. After his own brief marriage ended badly, he had decided he wouldn’t try again.
When the faxes on the La Grange case arrived, he flipped through them, looking for art connections. An unconfirmed tip from a guy at the New York Times that La Grange was the seller of a high-priced Winslow Homer print at auction. Unlikely. La Grange had less than a thousand dollars in the bank, and the police had found no evidence linking him to big money, or to the fancy art crowd. Except for La Grange’s answering machine containing three voice mails from Coleman Greene at ArtSmart. Why was the well-known owner of a successful magazine so anxious to speak to La Grange? There was also a message from Simon, no last name, reachable at the Carlyle Hotel. According to one of the faxes, the police had identified, interviewed, and cleared Simon. Whoever he was, he had a solid alibi.
No paperwork had turned up on the Homer print. In fact, the police hadn’t found any of La Grange’s financial records, except for an invoice for $1,000 from La Grange to the Greene Gallery dated last week, stamped
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