“It’s worth seven on the open market and I have a buyer who will pay me four.”
“So, I’m doing this for you for free?” I ask.
“Not exactly. You’re buying your freedom. No more spying on your girlfriend’s brother. No more making a case against bad guys for the state. You and I are done. I’ll make your file go away and it will never see the light of day.”
“You’re telling me that a prosecutor isn’t going to find me in a year or two and charge me with whatever the fuck you all have on me?”
“Nope,” Art says, shaking his head. “I mean, yes, that’s exactly what I’m telling you.”
I take another bite and mull everything over.
“What proof would I have that you will keep your word after I get this painting to you?” I ask. “That is if I can even get this painting in the first place.”
“You don’t.”
“What if this is just a trap to get me to do this crime so that you can arrest me?”
“What if it is?” he asks.
“Is it?” I challenge him.
“Absolutely not. Besides, I don’t need to trap you. We already have a file on you and that’s why we’re using you as an informant. This is your opportunity to quit being an informant and get your life back.”
I take a sip of my cold, stale coffee and raise the cup in the air for a refill.
We don’t say a word to each other while the waitress fills us up.
“I don’t know anything about stealing paintings,” I say after a while. “I’ve never taken one before.”
“You’re in luck then ‘cause your girlfriend knows all about it.”
This piques my interest.
“Oh, she didn’t tell you?” Art asks, leaning close to me. “Well, let me enlighten you.”
I try to act like I already know but listen intently.
“When she was in college, she stole a small painting, about an eight by ten. It belonged to the mother of a girl she knew from her British literature class. The owners kept it in a house on Cape Cod and she snuck in and took it from their vault.”
I lean back against the back of the booth, trying to fit that into what I already know about Olive and it doesn’t fit.
“She didn’t replace it with anything,” Art says. “Just took it and ran.”
“What happened?” I ask.
“On the way out, she got caught by a security guard who she shot in the leg. Luckily, he survived.”
I watch his face as he moves his fork around his plate and licks his lips.
His eyes slowly meet mine.
I see a strange look of satisfaction in his eyes.
“I’m not sure if that story is supposed to make me feel better but it doesn’t exactly give me a lot of confidence in working with her as a partner.”
“She did better the next time,” Art says with a smile.
“She did it again?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.
“Two more times. Different people around New England. We’re not really sure how she knew all of them. The thing that’s particularly curious is that the owners all refused to press charges.”
“Huh,” I say. “Why is that?”
"The paintings are worth hundreds of thousands of dollars and yet their owners never pressed charges. Why would that be?”
I know the answer as much as he does. I just don’t want to say it out loud.
“They were stolen,” I finally cave.
“That’s right.” He smiles his cocky, arrogant, all-knowing smile.
“Who were the artists?” I ask.
“I don’t know anything about art but they were all big names. Georgia O’Keeffe, Jenny Saville, Frida Khalo. Sound familiar?”
My mouth nearly drops to the floor. These are some of the best-selling and most respected artists around.
Jenny Saville even set a record for a living female artist when her painting sold for almost twelve and a half million in Sotheby’s London.
“So, what happened to these paintings? Sold for a quarter of their value on the black market to some shady collectors who would stick them in a vault and never let them see the light of day?”
“You would think that, wouldn’t you?” Art says, laughing. “Nope. They were snuck back into the galleries and museums from which they disappeared. The art directors found them in their offices all the same week.”
I stare at him unsure of what to say.
I take another sip of my coffee and Art orders dessert.
The conversation is almost over and yet there is so much left unsaid.
Suddenly, I have more questions than I ever had, yet I don’t think the answers are going to be as forthcoming.
“How do you know this?” I finally ask.
“I work for the FBI,” he says under his breath. “It’s our job to know things, or at least do our best to find out.”
“So, you’re telling me that Olive, Olive Kernes? My Olive? Is the one who is responsible for stealing those paintings?”
Art nods his head.
“And now you’re going to ask her to help you steal another one. For me.”
“There’s one little snag in your plan, Art,” I say. “If she really stole those paintings and just returned them to their rightful owners then she’s not going to be too keen in helping me steal a painting for you to pay off your gambling debts.”
“Well, it can’t all be easy, can it? That’s kind of where you come in. It’s your job to convince her that it’s in her best interest to do this. I mean, it will get the FBI out of Owen’s hair, that’s for sure. Oh, wait, she doesn’t know about that, does she?” He laughs.
I stare at him and shake my head in disbelief.
Even now, even when he is coming to me for assistance, he can’t help himself and not be an asshole.
16
Nicholas
When she comes over…
After Art leaves, I sit alone in the booth for a long time. The fluorescent lights flicker above my head but I am too preoccupied to let them bother me.
I am having a lot of trouble processing what Art just told me.
Did Olive really steal those paintings? And if so, how?
Did she really just give them back?
No reward, no nothing?
Why?
The answer to the last question escapes me.
If she didn’t need the paintings, she could’ve sold them.
Yes, they would have to be sold on the black market but so what? They were already bought on one.
Once the paintings went missing from the galleries, their owners alerted all of the authorities and no major or reputable art auction house or art dealer would ever deal with them.
But that doesn’t mean that Olive couldn’t have gotten a nice little nest egg out of it.
My thoughts go in circles until they settle back on Art’s proposition.
I help him steal a painting, he sells it, pays his debt, and lets me off the hook.
I don’t have to spy and report on Owen anymore.
I don’t have to betray Olive anymore or even lie to her.
Running away and hiding out under another identity would be a lot easier if the FBI isn’t after me.