Antenna Syndrome (23 page)

Natalie shook her head. “When Marielle was born, he
came clean with my mother. It was her choice to forgive him or
condemn him. She chose divorce, and he managed the best he could
with the consequences.”

“Alright, then.” My conscience was clear, so long as
I wasn’t an unwitting pawn to skewer Jordan. This mayoralty race
was shaping up to be a game-changer for New York politics, a
classic showdown of fundamental values. If public sentiment turned
against Jordan, who’d be left to wage war against organized crime?
“So, no story.”

“I just want my sister found, back home safe where
she belongs.” Her voice quavered. “Why can’t you find her?”

I brought her up to speed. Myers was hospitalized
with a poisonous spider bite. Crabner had dropped out of sight, his
former roommate LeVeen murdered. Vivien’s ransom payment had been
picked up by a swarm of giant hornets. Marielle’s paintings had
been stolen. Jack was in debt to Russian loan sharks. Walker had
been killed by an unknown assailant. And the man Marielle may have
approached for prosthetic surgery was the genius Dr. Globik...

“Is there anything I can do. Do you need to recruit
extra help?”

“Maybe it’s time to call in the FBI. If it’s really
a kidnapping, they’ve got more clout than me…”

“Can you give it one more day?” She seemed to take
it for granted that murders might obstruct my search for Marielle.
“I’ll double your bonus if you can find her by the weekend.”

“Who are you doing this for – Marielle or your
father?”

“Family,” she said. “In the end, that’s all that
matters.” There were genuine tears in her eyes as she clutched my
hand and squeezed it.

I stood up. “Thanks for the reminder.” Gwen and Lily
were never far from my mind, and I’d have gone to hell and back to
rescue my family.

I retrieved my Charger from the hotel valet service
and headed for the Village. Like everything else these days, the
pursuit of truth was an urgent proposition.

Chapter 40

The Schiller Gallery was on Greenwich Ave. I found
parking a block away. Walking to the gallery, I saw a band of Hare
Krishna devotees, orange-robed and head-shaven, all wearing white
painter’s masks, an inexpensive form of environmental protection.
They were jamming on a street corner with flutes, bells, drums and
tambourines, chanting a muffled version of
Hare-hare,
rama-rama-ding-dong
.... Some things never change.

The gallery didn’t look like much from the outside,
just a few paintings in the front window featuring barnyard animals
whose dull expressions reminded me of commuter train passengers.
Inside, the walls were filled with works of several artists, all
graduates of the hyper-realism school.

A man in a white linen suit rose from a desk at the
rear and approached me. He had a nice tan and moved with the
athletic grace of a tennis player. “Good morning.”

“Mr. Schiller?”

“Yes.” He cocked his head at me. “Have we met?”

“No, but I was given your name by Jack Randall.” I’d
decided to play Schiller a bit before I solicited his cooperation,
run him around the court a little before I slammed one into his
offside.

“I don’t believe I know anyone by that name.”

“You know his wife, Vivien.” I paused for effect.
“Tall Nordic beauty, platinum blonde, the woman who represents
Marielle.”

He flushed. “What’s this about?”

“My name’s Keith Savage.” I gave him one of my
cards. “I’ve been hired to make a few discreet inquiries...”

He stared at my card. “You’re a private
investigator?”

“Also an exterminator. It doesn’t say that on my
card, but I like to let people know. If you have vermin of any
kind, call me. I’ll check out your property and give you a quote.
My rates are aggressive. You don’t want termites eating your stock,
do you?”

“I don’t have any bug problems.” He pocketed my
card. “What do you want with me?”

“When did you last talk to Mrs. Randall?”

He looked flustered. “Well, I don’t know... It’s
been a while.”

“That’s not what her husband thinks.”

“Look, Mr. Savage, I don’t want any trouble. If
Vivien... I mean, Mrs. Randall... is having some sort of trouble at
home, I have nothing to do with it. I’m a married man, you
know.”

“Yes, I do. Your wife’s name is Sarah. You have two
daughters named Helen and Rebecca. You have a nice house in
Gramercy Park.”

“How do you know all that?”

“Didn’t I just give you my business card? This is
what I do for a living. Investigate. And exterminate.”

He shook his head. I knew that look. It was classic
denial.
This can’t be happening to me
. But it was... And he
had guilt written all over his face.

“Let me ask you again. When’d you last see Vivien?
And don’t fabricate anything to protect anyone. The truth is the
simplest.”

He rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Maybe there was
an answer written on the ceiling, or maybe he was looking to God to
throw him a lifeline. “Last Wednesday evening.”

“Any phone calls since then?”

“No.”

“Okay, good. Let’s sit down. You look a little
shaky.” I herded him back to his desk in the corner and sat in one
of the chairs opposite.

He gestured to a cartridge coffee machine on a
counter behind him. “Do you want something? An espresso?”

“Sure.”

He made the coffee and served it in small Italian
cups with a wrapped chocolate in the saucer and a glass of water on
the side. I felt like I was in a Fellini movie. If a 21-year-old
Sophia Loren walked in right now, my day would be complete.

“Mr. Schiller, I’d like to be transparent with you.
But the quid pro quo is that our discussion must remain completely
confidential. Agreed?”

“Yes.”

“Here’s what’s happening. The other day, there was a
break-in at Marielle’s studio and a couple of her paintings were
stolen.” That was an understatement, and not completely transparent
of me, but Schiller didn’t need to know the extent of the
crime.

“Oh my God! Is Marielle okay?”

“Yes. She was out at the time.”

“Which paintings did they take?”

“I don’t have photos with me, but they were both
finished paintings.”

“Has Vivien... Mrs. Randall... filed a police
report?”

“No. There are some... um... complicating
circumstances.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m sorry I can’t tell you more. Suffice to say,
I’m conducting an investigation into where the paintings may have
ended up.”

“Surely you don’t think I have anything to do with
this?”

“Of course not. You’re already Marielle’s agent, and
from what Mrs. Randall told me, you’re an ethical man.”

He smiled as he nodded, relieved I didn’t regard him
a suspect, or pleased that Vivien had endorsed his good character.
“How can I help you?”

“Regarding the theft, I assume three possibilities.
They were stolen for a private collection, for resale into the
general art market, or it was just a theft of opportunity. I
discount the last because other things of value weren’t taken. It
seems the thieves were only interested in her art.”

“Her paintings are worth a lot,” Schiller nodded.
“Demand is high because we’ve been releasing them slowly.”

“You know people in the art world,” I said. “Any
private collector who’s expressed frustration at not being able to
acquire any of her work on the open market? Or a gallery owner who
may have tried to offer Marielle better representation?”

“I can think of a few prospective buyers, but none
so venal as to engage burglars...”

“Know anyone who drives a white Cadillac?”

“Well, yes, a few people, I suppose...”

“Who’s also a collector, or an art dealer?”

Schiller stared into space. Suddenly he slapped his
hand on the desk, hard enough to make the water in my glass ripple.
“Rossikoff.”

“Who?”

“Vladimir Rossikoff.” Schiller made a face. “He’s
Russian. And a hoodlum.” Schiller lowered his head and rubbed his
face with both hands. “He’s a caricature, the kind of crooked art
dealer that embarrasses the rest of us.”

“What’s he done?”

“Easier to ask, what hasn’t he done? Gouged clients
for evaluation, storage, display, insurance and transport fees.
Reneged on sales and marketing agreements. Promoted the sale of
counterfeits. Bought and sold stolen art. You know what they call
him? Bad Vlad.”

“He ever express any interest in Marielle’s
art?”

“He bought a couple of her earliest pieces. He
wanted more but even he was surprised, I think, at how quickly her
work appreciated, and he balked at paying market rate. He offered
to give her a solo show at his gallery, but Marielle turned him
down.”

“Where’s his gallery?”

Schiller took a tablet from his desk drawer, fiddled
with it a few moments, and read off an address for the Realistik
Gallery in SoHo.

“And he drives a white Caddie?”

“Trades up every year.”

I thanked Schiller for his time, and reminded him
not to discuss this with anyone. “And for the time being, please
don’t call Vivien. Things are tense in the Randall household these
days. We don’t need you rocking the boat.”

He held his hands in the air, indicating he
understood. “What about Marielle?”

“Until I get to the bottom of this, observe the cone
of silence, okay?”

Chapter 41

I drove down Sixth to Prince Street in SoHo. I found
the Realistik Gallery, but its entrance and front window were
sealed with a retractable grille. A plaque on the door said
business hours were 10-6 on weekdays, 11-5 on weekends. I checked
my watch. I had some time to kill, so I drove over to Tribeca to
look for trouble.

I parked a block from the Avatar Clinic and shuffled
through my extensive collection of fake business cards. In the
course of my various investigations, I sometimes adopted an alias
to gain access to a property or a person. I’d developed a wide
range of personae – insurance adjustor, vehicle inspector, plumber,
sanitation engineer, probation officer – with business cards and
contact numbers for each, even websites for some.

Several years ago, Skype had used their clout with
the Department of Communications to secure dozens of new area codes
for the burgeoning market in on-board vehicle phones. In one of
their early promotions, they’d offered blocks of individual numbers
at low prices, and I’d bought 16 of them. Subsequently I’d assigned
numbers to each of my aliases, set up voice-mail systems with
off-the-shelf robotic software, and printed up hundreds of phony
business cards.

If anyone called one of my alias numbers, they’d end
up talking to a robot on voice-mail, or get routed to speak with
me, depending on whether I was busy or not. It was a sweet system
and got me into places to talk to people who otherwise wouldn’t
have given me the time of day.

Today’s objective was to get beyond the clinic
receptionist, meet Dr. Globik and, God willing, get a walk-through
of the building. I wasn’t naïve enough to think I’d find Marielle
that easily, but maybe I’d get an idea if she was resident
there.

I retrieved my disguise bag from the trunk and
selected a pair of horn-rimmed glasses with a goatee. The glasses
had a micro-lens and a wireless feed to my iFocals. I synced the
pair and slipped my goggles into my jacket pocket. I looked in the
mirror and decided I looked functionary. I carried my attaché case
to the clinic, rang the bell and got buzzed in.

A different receptionist from two days ago was at
the front desk. This one was actually working. The translucent
screen between us wasn’t tuned to any TV show, but displayed a
dense block of text into which she was appending words at a fierce
rate. Without pausing, she looked at me through the screen. “Do you
have an appointment?”

The lighting didn’t do her justice. Total darkness
would have been better. Her skin was the color of a Camembert left
too long in the fridge. Her shag haircut, feathery around her small
pointed ears, looked like cobwebs. She had an oval face and large
unblinking eyes with centipede eyelashes. Her dress fit snug around
her neck but fell loose and shapeless from a pair of blunt mounds
on her chest. Her arms were slim, her fingers long and twitchy. I
couldn’t see her legs and didn’t want to. She looked like she’d
crawled out from under a rotten stump.

“No.” I gave her an alias card from the New York
Building Maintenance Office. “We don’t provide advance notice of
site visitations.”

“Let me see if the Director’s available.” She tapped
her headset and had a brief exchange in what sounded like Russian.
She pointed me to a passage on her left. “Down this hall, last door
at the end.”

I went down the hall, measuring it by steps. On
either wall were display cases of insects – beetles and ants and
flies and mites and things too small to identify. At the end of a
20-foot corridor was an L-shaped room where a man behind a large
desk beckoned to me.

“Please take a seat, sir.”

“Dr. Globik, I presume?” I placed my card on his
desk.

He plucked it up with an elegant hand, read it and
looked at me with more than normal curiosity. I realized I hadn’t
put much thought into my disguise. We were both wearing goatees. I
hoped he believed imitation was the sincerest form of flattery.

I sat in a straight-backed chair and took a tablet
from my attaché case. In the corner behind Globik, a six-foot
translucent globe was suspended from the ceiling. Inside, like two
yolks in a monstrous egg, were two spheres the size of basketballs.
A large red spider, the same kind that had bitten Joey Myers,
emerged from its nest and bounced around inside the globe. Others
soon joined in, and in moments a dozen were jumping like popcorn in
a hot pan.