Closure: An Eli Quinn Mystery Page 10

  “I’m familiar with the bust,” she said. “What’s your interest in it?” Again, no charm, just business.

  “Several questions, if you have just a few minutes. First, would replicas of the bust be worth much?”

  “Mr. Quinn. We know this piece to be in a private collection. We don’t know who or where. And I don’t know you. Your questions raise suspicions. Why, exactly, do you want to know this information?”

  “A man was killed,” I said. “Caleb Bernstein. Tinker. He’s known as Tinker. You can look the story up on AZCentral.com, the web site for The Arizona Republic.”

  She didn’t say so, but I could hear some keys clack and figured she was looking up the story.

  I continued. “Sheriff doesn’t know why he was killed. Is calling it a random burglary gone bad. But Bernstein had a lot of art, and some sculptures, including the Franklin bust. You won’t find mention of that in the story you’re reading.”

  “You spying on me, Mr. Quinn?”

  “I’m clever,” I said, “but not omnipotent.”

  “Continue. I’m listening.”

  “Three days before he was killed, his place was broken into. They stole his PC, a TV, and apparently nothing else but a few tools. I have a hunch the TV and the tools were taken just to make it look like an ordinary theft. I’m thinking maybe there was something in the PC. This guy was a hobbyist, a maker, and he had a 3D scanner and a commercial-grade 3D printer. What if there were 3D files on that computer, which could be used to recreate the bust in perfect detail? I’m wondering if those would be worth anything.”

  “I’d have to ask a collector,” she said. “But off the top of my head, I suppose the replicas would be worth something to someone. But that’s not really art. It’s like the posters you find in a shop down in the Village, or the prints of sunsets and seascapes at the mall. The fewer made, the more they’d be worth. But soon as someone did that, and assuming this is all black-market stuff, couldn’t other people make copies of the copies?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe you should be a detective.”

  Sally McKann laughed lightly. “I think I’ll stick with my museum job.”

  “I understand the original is worth some three million dollars,” I said. “That sound about right to you?”

  “It does. In fact if we had the opportunity, we’d probably pay that. At auction, it might fetch more, but then we’d be forced to pass and the bust would be back in a private collection. That would be a shame, since almost no one would get to see it.”

  “Would it be difficult to sell the original?”

  “Not particularly. Unfortunately, there is so much black-market trade in art, there are experts in the black market just like on the other side. If they vouch for it, there’s no shortage of people with the means and the desire to own a piece like this.”

  “Could someone pass a fake off as real?” I asked.

  “Not easy,” she said. “I know they use a variety of materials in 3D printing, but I don’t think marble is one of them. They might use paint or other media to try to make it look old, and look like marble. A good artist could probably do a good enough job to fool the average Joe. But any smart collector would instantly know it’s fake. Plenty of black-market experts would be able to tell.”

  “How would one tell?” I asked.

  “First, the weight. Marble is heavy. Maybe a fake would weigh the same, but that would be the quickest way to tell. Second, marble tends to turn yellowish or brownish as it ages. Over the centuries, whenever a piece is handled, skin oil can rub off and cause this. A fake might be abnormally white. Finally, marble has natural imperfections. I would imagine a 3D-printed copy would be homogenous in tone and color. If someone tried to add imperfections, probably even I could tell by looking closely.”

  “If I texted you a photo of a sculpture, would you be able to tell if it were real or fake?”

  “Maybe,” she said.

  Without having to rely on any charm, I got Sally McKann’s cell phone number so I could text her photos of the bust.

  Chapter 18

  Mike Martinson was working the gate to country club. I stopped and said hello when he came out of the guard shack, his big teeth on display as always, shoulders hunched slightly. Solo was watchful, but didn’t growl.

  “Solve the case yet?”

  “Not yet, but I’ve learned some things that point in a very interesting direction. I’m heading up to see Delores Bernstein now, hopefully confirm something.”

  “You think Earl Johnson did it?”

  “Let’s just say you should continue to lay low, not speak about our conversation,” I said. “Earl still coming to work each day?”

  “Yes. He was on the overnight the past couple nights.”

  “Thanks. Can you let me in?”

  “Sure. I’ll just get your license number and write it down, you know?” He did. Then he opened the gate. “Good luck,” he said.

  ***

  I waved to Bill Henshaw, who was parked at the curb in front of the Bernstein house in one of the posse cars—they looked virtually identical to sheriff cars. Beach had posted someone, as promised. Henshaw waved back. I hit the buzzer and Delores let me in.

  “Good morning, Delores. How are you?”

  “Except for having a sheriff deputy parked out there all day and night, and following me everywhere I go, I’m fine.”

  “It’s for your own good.” I explained what was going on. She said she understood. “I’m hoping we can put an end to all this soon. I’d like to see the Franklin bust.”

  Despite the rising heat outside, the house was freezing. She wore a tan cashmere sweater and sharply creased tan slacks. She showed me to the bust.

  I asked, “Have you ever looked closely at this thing?”

  “Not really. I like some of the paintings, mostly the newer, more modern ones, but sculpture has never really interested me much. And I don’t care for busts at all. There’s something kind of creepy about them. The eyes, frozen in time, staring out, the chopped off shoulders. I don’t know. Maybe it’s just me.”

  “I’m not overly fond of busts myself.” I looked closely at Ben Franklin. Asked her to. “Does it look real to you?”

  “Do you think it’s not real? Tinker paid …”

  “I think the real one might’ve been stolen the night Tinker was killed,” I said. “If I’m right, this one was made on a 3D printer, using a file from Tinker’s computer. That’s why they stole the computer, I’m thinking. And that would explain why he was killed three days later. They came back, shot him, swapped the fake bust for the real one, and now they’re trying to sell the real one. They probably figured Tinker would’ve noticed right away, but they were counting on nobody else noticing, at least for a while. That’d buy them some time to get rich, maybe leave the country, before anyone knew there’d been a theft.”

  “You’re sure about all this,” she said.

  “Not at all. It’s just a working theory.”

  “What other theories do you have?”

  “None. But I may be able to find out pretty quickly if this one’s fake.” I used my iPhone to take three photos of the bust: overview, medium and tight—just like photojournalists were trained to do. Texted them to Sally McKann at the Franklin Institute, waited a couple minutes, then called her.

  “I’m looking at them,” she said when she answered. “The photos aren’t very good.”

  “I’m a detective, used to be a journalist. Spent some time on Wall Street. I’m definitely not a photographer.”

  “Still, the pictures took my breath away. I haven’t seen this bust since it was last auctioned off. A beautiful piece. Can’t tell what the second photo is supposed to show.”

  “Medium shot. It’s a technique.”

  “Well, it’s useless. Let me look at the third one.”

  I looked at the area of the bust I’d used for the third photo. It had some discoloration, darker than the surrounding area, and I’d picked it
so she could see an area that had been worked on, if it were indeed fake.

  “You see that browner area,” she said. “That doesn’t look natural to me. But it’s hard to tell in this photo. I can’t be sure.”

  I asked, “How much should this thing weigh?”

  “I don’t know exactly, probably eighty pounds or more. It would not be easy to lift. And in fact it should be secured to the pedestal anyway. If it’s the real thing, the collector would have made sure it was secure.”

  “Hang on.” I set the phone down on the coffee table. To Delores I said, “Mind if I try to pick it up?”

  “Oh my. Be careful. But yes, go ahead.”

  I lifted the bust right off the pedestal. It was heavy, but nowhere near eighty pounds. Maybe thirty or forty.

  “The good news,” I said to Sally McKann, “is you’ve helped me figure this case out.”

  “I’m guessing that the bad news is Houdon’s Franklin bust is missing for the second time,” Sally McKann said.

  “If I find it, I’ll call you. I think you might be interested in speaking with the rightful owner.”

  Chapter 19

  I had met Jess in New York, while I was working in the Financial District. She was in banking, but to her it was a job, not a career. We married just before I quit Wall Street, and she paid the bills while I went back to school. She had no family there, and she was excited to move to Arizona when I got the newspaper job. We had lived modestly, happily at first, and we’d talked about starting a family. She found another bank job, but it was less interesting to her than before. We started having fights. Nothing major, but if good relationships can be compared to spring and summer, ours was starting to feel like autumn. Her family was in Nebraska, and she began hinting that we might be better off there. I wasn’t very interested in Nebraska. We’d had a fight about that the evening before she was killed, and we didn’t say goodbye to each other that morning.

  That’s what I was thinking about as I backed Jess’ Jeep Grand Cherokee out of the garage. The Cherokee hadn’t been used since she was killed. I’d never needed it, but I hadn’t gotten around to selling it. I ran it every few weeks to make sure the battery was charged. Today I needed it. Being a white SUV, it looked like half the vehicles on the road in and around Scottsdale. I was headed back to Bobby G’s house, and I didn’t want Bobby G to notice me. The red Wrangler wouldn’t provide very good cover.

  Solo was in the back, curled up. Without the wind in his face, there was nothing to do but curl up.

  Traffic was light on the 101 Southbound, and I made good time to the Thomas Road exit, went right. Between Hayden and Scottsdale Road I turned right again, then took a left onto Bobby G’s street. Pulled to the curb a block away, behind another car and in front of a vacant lot.

  It was just past noon. I had a chicken-hummus wrap from Amir’s Café, a banana, two granola bars and two bottles of water. I rolled the windows down, turned off the engine. The light breeze kept me reasonably comfortable. I put a Jason Mraz station on Pandora, bluetoothed it to the Jeep’s stereo, volume low. I unwrapped the wrap and took a bite, and settled in to wait. The wrap, lemon and garlic the dominant flavors, was amazing.

  I had no idea if Bobby G was home. And I still didn’t know who had done what, or even for sure who was involved. I had three suspects on my most-likely list, but hadn’t connected any of them to each other. Only Yuri Boiko was a sure bet, but I didn’t figure Boiko for the brains. I couldn’t think of any way to move the investigation forward, and since Bobby G was the one I most strongly suspected of being the mastermind, he seemed the best bet to tail. Plus I knew where Bobby G lived.

  At exactly three o’clock, nothing had happened. By four p.m. I was wondering if I was wasting my time. For all I knew Bobby G was in the Bahamas by now, counting his money. But I didn’t have anything else pressing to do, so I ate the banana and practiced sitting some more. I’d done a few stakeouts as an investigative journalist, and there was only one skill required: patience. It was something I had lots of, so I decided to use some more. In fact, I was rather enjoying myself despite the boredom. I was doing something. OK, it was actually just sitting, and thinking, but at least it was all for a good reason.

  I got out and took Solo over to the vacant lot so we could both do what guys need to do when they’ve been in a car for four hours. After he peed on two small, scraggly bushes, one large rock and a signpost, Solo communicated a desire to play fetch, but I asked him to get back in the Cherokee, and he complied.

  At a little past five o’clock, a black Mustang pulled into the driveway. I was too far away to be noticed, but I slouched down some anyway. Bobby G got out, looking a little more dapper than the last time I had seen him. He wore a gray pinstripe suit with a vest, gold in the back, and polished black shoes. He draped a sport jacket over his arm, shut the car door, and went in the house.

  If Bobby G were home for the night, he’d probably have put the Mustang in the garage. So I had a granola bar and waited some more. A little past seven, the sun went down. I ate the last granola bar and finished the water. A few minutes later Bobby G came out, dressed the same but with his jacket on. He got in his Mustang, put the top down, and drove off. Lucky for me, the Mustang went in the opposite direction. A lot easier to tail someone without being noticed if they don’t drive right past you first.

  I started the Cherokee, pulled onto the street casually, left the lights off. The black Mustang made a couple of right turns, and I let him stay just more than a block ahead. Bobby G had his lights on. The characteristic three vertical bars on each taillight made Mustangs about the easiest cars to tail. The taillights turned left onto Thomas, a four-lane boulevard that was busy. Dusk was turning quickly to night. I turned my headlights on before I turned onto Thomas, stayed about a block behind the Mustang, always making sure there were a couple cars between us.

  As Bobby G’s taillights approached the 101, I backed off. From two blocks back, I’d be able to tell if he went North or South or straight, and it’d be easy to get back on his tail. The taillights went north. I lost him for about twenty seconds, then sped up and found the taillights before the next off-ramp. I slowed down to match the Mustang’s speed and stayed well back.

  The Mustang kept up with traffic, which was mostly moving at about ten miles an hour over the speed limit. I kept the same pace, changed lanes only when I needed to. Tailing at night wasn’t hard. Just don’t get too close, don’t drive like an idiot. Unless the other guy expected someone would be tailing him, he had no reason to suspect you or any of the other six or so cars between you and him.

  Bobby G's Mustang pulled off on Pima Road and continued North toward Pinnacle Peak and Pleasant. There were fewer cars on this six-lane boulevard, but it was fully dark now. I left two cars between us. After a few minutes, the Mustang turned right into a small subdivision called Desert Rose. There was no gate, but the homes were large, probably half a million and up.

  When the Mustang took a left onto a narrower street, I waited. There was no traffic, risky to follow too closely. I turned the headlights off, then sped up and took the left, on Roadrunner Lane, just in time to see the Mustang go right two blocks later. I slowed again, then pulled ahead. The turn was Drinkwater Court, and I kept going. It was a dead-end with a cul-de-sac, so I waited a minute, until I figured Bobby G would be inside whatever house he was visiting, then I turned around and parked on the other side of Roadrunner Lane. I got out and walked into Drinkwater Court. There were five houses on the cul-de-sac. The black Mustang was parked in front of 3434. I went back to the Cherokee and called Jack Beachum.

  “Beach, need a favor. You near a computer?”

  “Sure, Quinn. I’m sitting here surfing porn with my wife. Been hoping you’d call so I could do you a favor.”

  “You’re at the substation, aren’t you?”

  “I am. And I have reports to fill out, all on paper, and a posse scanner to listen to, and a book to read if I get bored, but there’s a computer sitt
ing here that I can use if I must.”

  “Need you to look up 3434 Drinkwater Court. Might be North Scottsdale, might be unincorporated, not sure. Just north of the 101 off Pima. Tell me who lives there.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I tailed Bobby G, this is where he is. Need to know who he’s visiting.”

  “You know I’m not supposed to be working crimes,” Beach said. “I’m just the phone answerer who gets to drive an official-looking sheriff car, then call in backup if anything actually happens.”

  “C’mon, Beach. We break this case you’ll be captain soon.”

  “We?”

  “Please?”

  “Earl Johnson.”

  “No shit?”

  “As God is my witness, says so here, in the official posse computer. Works for Dribbs Security.”

  “Earl Johnson’s the owner of the house?”

  “Says so here.”

  “Hot damn,” I said. “I think we just cracked this case. Earl Johnson makes, what do you figure, maybe twenty-five, thirty-k as a gate guard for Dribbs?”

  “Forty tops.”

  “And he owns a house worth at least half a mil, be my guess. What else can you tell me about Earl Johnson?”

  “Was a cop in Tempe. Fired.”

  “For?”

  “If I’m not careful, I’m gonna get fired. Be careful with this information.”

  “You know I will be.”

  “Let’s just say he was fired for suspicious activity.”

  “Hey Beach, you ever heard of a cop getting fired for, say, theft?”

  “Ha, that’s a good one. I suppose it’s happened before.”

  “I wonder if that’s what happened to Earl Johnson,” I said.

  Beach didn’t say anything.

  “Thanks, Beach. I owe you one.”

  “I probably wouldn’t say no to a glass of Dewar’s in a back yard around a fire pit.”