Chapter 19

Christine was right; there was quite a bit of information about the theft on the web.

Publicity was a double-edged sword for the insurance company. Making sure everyone knew the painting had been stolen made it hard to sell, but — when you're talking about million dollar works of art — it also had the negative impact of letting the more elite collectors know that the piece might be available. There were always those buyers that didn't care how they got the piece, as long as they got it, and then there were also the one's that liked the added thrill of owning a stolen work. As long as they were not going to display it publicly, it wasn't a problem. For some it would actually add prestige.

One interesting thing I noticed was that the house it had been stolen from was for sale. A quaint little two story, five bedroom shack located on a two acre lot on the west side. The house was impressive to say the least. The entire structure appeared to be faced in natural stone. That may not sound like much, but when you consider the structure was listed at just over twelve thousand square feet...

I guessed the ceilings at twelve feet; the entryway appeared to go all the way up to an arched ceiling on the second floor. I know it sounds big, but I imagine it could still get a little tricky sneaking past the grand piano. Indoor pool — big indoor pool — ten-car garage, tennis courts, walkways, gazing pools. Then there was ... I guess you'd call it an entertainment room, complete with pool table, sitting area, and full bar. Not a place to mix drinks, a bar; a twelve foot long island complete with brass foot rail. I couldn't tell from the pictures if it was marble or hardwood on top but behind it was a bartenders station complete with two sinks, two small refrigerators, several temperature controlled compartments for wine or other temperamental liqueurs, and racks for a variety of glasses; all in a floor-to-ceiling cabinet that appeared very well stocked and sported what appeared to be a gigantic projection television as a centerpiece. The kitchen was bigger than my entire apartment — so were the bedrooms for that matter — and I don't even want to talk about the bathrooms. Yeah, I was jealous.

The estate took up the better part of a city block, and the realtor's site had included a night shot from the upstairs balcony showing a truly dazzling view of the strip in all its neon glory. I was very interested in seeing where the painting had been hung and what kind of security they had had for it.

Veronica Blake met us at the receptionist desk and offered to escort us into Mountjoy's office to go over the contracts.

"That's okay, Vee," Doreen said with a smile. "I know where it's at. David would like to get started right away, so why don't you two go ahead and get started, and I'll find my own way. You are going to be taking him around and introducing him aren't you? He'll also need copies of all the latest in-house reports; if you could ask Celia to get copies together, I'll pick them up on my way out."

"Doreen," I said. "You're here for contracts. I can take it all with me when I go, or — if it's not ready — I can have Christine swing by and get it."

"David, don't be silly; I'm already here, and I know what we need, so I'll know if they leave something out. Oh, what am I saying? I meant if they forget something."

Veronica turned her head and covered a smile before saying, "Very well, then, Mr. Malcolm, I assume you'd like to start with the house?"

"Seems like the best place to begin; I'd also like to meet as many of the family, staff, and grounds-people as possible."

"We've already interviewed everyone that had access," she said.

"Apparently not everyone or you would have found it already," I joked. "I'm sure the reports will be interesting, but I'd rather meet the people myself, talk to them, get a feel for them ... rather than rely on information gathered by someone else."

"I understand, I just thought in the interest of saving time..."

"I'm not trying to save time, Ms. Blake; I'm trying to get into Intersure's pocket for three hundred grand. I'm not going to do that saving time. While I'm sure the statements will be helpful, if the information we need was in there, you wouldn't have called me in the first place. I don't care whose car we take, but — since I'm still new in town — I think it would be best if you drove. Shall we?"

Even with traffic it was only a twenty-minute drive to the estate. Wow! Impressive doesn't begin to do it justice. It was like an island oasis in a desert of concrete, asphalt, and steel. The trees and lush landscaping almost seemed out of place in the heart of the city, making it seem more like a large park than a residence. I couldn't even imagine what the maintenance and upkeep for the place must have been.

We were greeted by a woman dressed in a very conservative three-piece, skirt-suit. It was a pale gray with pinstripes, and had obviously been tailored for her; the shoes and belt went so well with the outfit, they had to be made specifically for that purpose. I put her age somewhere in her early thirties.

"Ms. Blake," she said politely, "what a pleasant surprise. I do hope you are coming with good news."

"Not yet," Veronica said coolly.

"Well, I don't see a briefcase, so I doubt you've given up and brought a check."

"No, not quite yet."

"Good," the woman said, "because Mr. Ceres would much rather have the painting back. He waited a long time for it to come up for sale, and it means a lot to him. And you are?"

I stuck out my hand, "David Malcolm, Finders Incorporated."

The name got her attention. "Susan Barth. I'm Mr. Ceres's personal assistant. An interesting choice of names," she said, one eyebrow raised.

"I thought it would eliminate the, 'So, what is it you do?' questions," I said. "You're not likely to forget it tomorrow, are you?"

"Very true," she said with a nod. "So, that makes you their last ditch effort?"

"If by that you mean I'm the last one they'll need, then yes, I certainly hope so."

"Brash," she admonished.

"Confident," I corrected her. "And — as much as I enjoy a good bout of verbal jousting — as you pointed out, we are getting down to the wire here, so if we're going to continue the word games, perhaps we could do it while you show me around. I'd like to meet as many of the people — family and staff — as possible, anyone who had access."

"Of course," she said. "Right this way." She turned and escorted us past the piano and stopped facing the north wall. It was instantly clear why she had stopped; there was a distinct sense of absence to the space. The hardware that had secured the painting was still in place. There was even a title plaque identifying the work.

"I'm surprised," I said.

"How so?" she asked.

"Your comments suggested that the piece had significant personal value to Mr. Ceres. That being the case, I'm surprised to find it hung in such a public area. I would have expected it to be someplace more intimate. The bedroom or den perhaps, where he could spend more time with it."

"Very good, Mr. Malcolm," she said. "I'm impressed. You're the first one to question the location of the piece. To answer your question, Mr. Ceres favorite form of relaxation is the piano. The Lady was hung here so that he could play for her."

"In that case it makes perfect sense," I said. "I'm sure it's all in the reports I'm going to be reading later, but perhaps you could show me the various security measures that were in place at the time of the theft?"

"An interesting choice of words," she said.

"I would assume that after a loss of this scale, you would have added additional security precautions."

"You surprise me Mr. Malcolm," she said. "Forgive me, but at first glance I simply couldn't take you seriously. You don't look old enough to have the experience necessary for a job like this. You force me to reconsider my initial opinion."

"Don't let it bother you. I'm used to it."

"I can imagine," she said. "Ms. Blake can give you far better information on the security system than I could — after all, Intersure set it up. Ms. Blake, I have some business for Mr. Ceres to attend to. I'll be in the office when you're ready to continue."

Doreen called to let me know the contracts were all in order and signed, and that she was in the process of gathering all the pertinent files.

Veronica went over the security systems for the house in general as well as those specifically dedicated to the missing painting. They were impressive. Either we were dealing with a real pro, or it was in inside job. I was inclined to believe the former — since the latter would have been everyone's first assumption and the focus of most of the investigation to date. Fortunately, I had the advantage in that area. Several times while we were talking, servants passed through. I made a point of introducing myself whenever possible. With everything that was going on, I figured they were under a lot of stress, so I did my best to set them at ease, and yes, that included doing my best to radiate calm reassurance when I shook their hands. I didn't ask a lot of questions of the staff, mostly just asking if they had perhaps remembered anything that they may have left out of their original statements to the police and other investigators that had been through.

"Thank you, Maria," I said to one of the maids. "I'm really sorry you have to go through all of this, and I hope you understand that the primary focus is to rule you out as a suspect, not to accuse you of anything."

It was the same line I had used on all of them, and so far most had accepted it as graciously as it had been intended. The chef was so pissed off at even being considered a possible suspect that he didn't even bother to try and disguise his hostility. I suspected that Mr. Ceres would be in need of a new chef soon regardless of how it turned out. Most of the staff seemed genuinely fond of Mr. Ceres, and I was leaning more and more towards a professional job, which was a bad thing since it made it a lot harder for me to track down the person responsible. It was too soon yet, but by tomorrow morning I would know if any of the staff I had come in contact with was involved, or if they knew more than they were saying. The same would be true for Ms. Barth.

We came across Mr. Ceres on the back patio while Ms. Barth was escorting us around the grounds. He was having breakfast with a young man who looked to be in his mid-to-late twenties. Mr. Ceres was a very distinguished older gentleman. I guessed him somewhere in his mid to late fifties and, apparently, in excellent health. I didn't try to shake his hand since Ms. Barth had warned me he preferred not to.

"So, David," he said conversationally, "I take it you represent their last ditch attempt to recover my painting?"

"I hope to be the last one they need, at least," I said. "You have a beautiful home here, Mr. Ceres. I'm sorry that all this has disturbed what must be a peaceful existence in gentler times."

"Well put, young man," he said. "Can I offer you anything? Coffee? Juice? Have you had breakfast?"

"Perhaps a glass of orange juice, if it's not too much trouble."

"Ms. Blake?" he asked, extending the offer.

"Nothing for me, thank you Mr. Ceres," she replied.

"Very well. Paul, could you ask Maria to bring Mr. Malcolm some juice, please?"

A lot of people would have taken offense, but Paul took the request in stride, excusing himself and returning a few moments later.

"She'll be right out, Mr. Malcolm," he said when he returned.

"Thank you, Paul," I said, extending my hand. "And please, call me David. Mr. Ceres, Ms. Barth has indicated that it took you some time to acquire The Lady in the first place."

"Indeed," he replied, swallowing a large bite of pancake and dabbing his mouth with his napkin. "I was amazed when it finally came up for sale. If not for the unfortunate failing of the previous owner's business, I might have never had the pleasure of her company."

Maria showed up with my juice, and I thanked her for it. His staff was nothing if not efficient.

"Were there many interested parties at the auction?"

"Auction? I did not purchase the painting at auction; it was a private sale."

"I'm sorry, when I spoke to Mr. Mountjoy initially, he based its value on the last auction."

"That's because I refused to tell him what I actually paid for it and simply told him what I wanted it insured for. The value he gave you was based on the previous sale, which was indeed an auction. If you ask me, it is a disgusting way to treat such rare beauty. Would you sell the Mona Lisa like a common street whore?"

"I see," I said, "and when it didn't come up at auction, as I'm sure many expected it to, did anyone attempt to buy it from you?"

"Of course," he said. "I made a few enemies that day, I assure you. There were several interested parties, and the offers ranged from the insulting to the sublime." He rolled his eyes as he said the last part. "But I had waited too long to give her up. You're thinking perhaps one of them paid to have it stolen?"

"I'm sure I'm not the only one to wonder," I said.

"No, not by a long shot. I brought it up to the authorities myself, but no one in a position to do so would be foolish enough to be personally involved. If this is the case, then I suspect I will never see my Lady again." There was a note of genuine sorrow in his voice.

"You sound like you have already given up hope," I said.

"David, I suspect that if they were going to find her, they would have by now. No, I am afraid that you are correct, and I do not expect to see her again. Whom then shall I play for in the long evenings?"

"Please, don't give up just yet," I said. "I'm just getting started, and sometimes a new perspective can make all the difference. I promise, I'll do my very best to get her back to you. I would like to ask one small favor, though?"

"What's that?" he asked.

"If ... I'm sorry, when I get her back, I'd like to hear you play for her."

"Bring back my lady to me, David, and I will play for you any time you desire."

"Then I'd better get to work," I said, standing and extending my hand. "Paul, it was nice to meet you. Please thank Maria for the juice for me. Mr. Ceres, I look forward to hearing you play."

"That was very smooth, David," Veronica said as we were pulling away. "I think he likes you. Of course, if that's the case, Paul may not be too thrilled with you."

"He's going to be even unhappier when we figure out how he did it and where the painting is," Jamie said. She had been slipping from person to person as I shook hands around the estate, staying long enough to generate a few little day dreams and see what kind of reaction she got. Apparently Paul was feeling guilty about something related to the painting.

"I would hope that someone in Paul's position would be a better judge of who's competition than that," I said at the same time I was answering Jamie, "Don't jump to conclusions; you can't base everything on one little flash of guilt. I'm sure everyone else has already thought of him, too. We'll read the reports first, then bridge him and see what we find."

"Okay. I'm sorry," she apologized.

I dropped Veronica back at Intersure and spent the rest of the day going over reports with Doreen. It was a brutal afternoon; the volume of misspelled words and grammatical errors was downright distracting.

"Don't they ever proofread this stuff before they file it?" I asked. "Maybe they should dictate the reports and have someone who actually speaks English transcribe them." I suggested.

Doreen just chuckled, "I understand your frustration, but try to remember they don't hire them for their literary achievements. The smart ones have someone like Celia type them up. I used to do Howie's reports myself. He didn't need help in grammar or spelling, but he can't type worth a damn. After they made him pay for the second machine he broke, he started paying me to do them for him."

"So why don't the others do that?" I asked, turning a page.

"Mostly because the girls won't do it for them. You're going to discover, David, that many insurance investigators have serious ego problems. They tend to treat other people as if they are low-grade morons at best. A mere hourly employee is all but beneath their notice, good for nothing but fetching coffee and taking messages. If you were to suggest one of them actually needed help from someone like that, they'd think you were on drugs."