Painted Ladies

“I do, too,” Kate said. “But we pretty well used her up today. We’ll have a few more rounds with her.”

“Yeah,” Healy said. “Telling the truth exhausted her.”

“She’s not used to it,” I said. “She’s been pretending all her life.”

“You saw the painting,” Healy said. “What do you think?”

“Looks good to me,” I said. “But I don’t count.”

“How’d you get to see it?” Kate said.

“He B-and-E’d her house,” Healy said.

“I never heard that,” Kate said.

58

Susan took power yoga in a gym in Wellesley on Saturday mornings. I normally went with her and lifted some weights, and when she was though we’d go to breakfast. This morning I’d picked her up at nine-ten and we headed out the Mass Pike.

“People pick the damnedest ways to confess,” I said.

“If they need to,” Susan said.

“Rosalind confesses in her public poetry,” I said. “Prince confesses in his doctoral dissertation.”

“You should read mine,” Susan said.

“Maybe I ought to.”

“Be the first human to do so,” Susan said. “Do you have any theory on how this swindle was supposed to work?”

“I’ve been dwelling on that,” I said.

“Wow,” Susan said. “Dwelling.”

“For instance, I’m wondering how long this scheme has been incubating. He had to know for quite a while that Lady with a Finch was at the Hammond.”

“And his father had, at one time, had possession of it,” Susan said.

“And perhaps some claim on it,” I said. “Or a claim that someone like Prince could persuade himself of. And he had a connection to the other claimants.”

“The Herzberg family,” Susan said.

“Which appears to consist primarily of Ariel Herzberg,” I said. “And the family business seems to be finding art taken during the Holocaust and returning it to its rightful owner.”

“So do you have a theory?” Susan said.

“Maybe Prince sought out the Herzbergs,” I said, “citing the historical relationship, and suggested that they steal the painting. He’d authenticate it; they’d get the ransom and split it with him. Maybe he agreed to authenticate a phony, which he could get, being as how it was in his home, so they could get the ransom, keep the original, and probably keep it in the rightful possession of the Herzberg family.”

“And they agreed?” Susan said.

“Say they did, and they stole it. And say that Prince wanted the ransom and the original painting. For whatever reason, including obsession. And he devised a way to swap them, he being the only one involved who could actually tell the real from the phony, and suppose they discovered his plan?” I said.

“How?”

“I don’t know; maybe I’ll never know. But Rosalind would not be my first choice of someone to share a mortal secret with.”

“You think she might have blabbed?”

“Or written a poem, or told someone in confidence.”

“So they went ahead with the ransom plan, and then blew him up,” Susan said.

“And the painting, maybe,” I said. “It at least casts doubt as to its whereabouts, and even its existence.”

We were on Route 16 in Wellesley now. Susan was silent for a time as we drove in Saturday-morning traffic, past the handsome homes and the affluent shops.

Then she said, “You know there is a note of obsession running through this story.”

“Yep.”

“I mean, the Herzberg Foundation has a laudable mission,” she said. “But two generations removed from the Holocaust, they end up killing people, and trying to kill you.”

“They might argue that for a Jew, there is no removal from the Holocaust.”

“They might,” Susan said. “I would understand that.”

“And how would you respond?” I said.

“No one may kill you,” Susan said. “For whatever reason.”

“That seems a good standard,” I said.

“You will have trouble,” Susan said, “proving all of this.”

“Or any,” I said. “Best bet is still to lure him into coming after me, and catching him in the act.”

“Having first prevented him from killing you,” Susan said.

“That first,” I said. “But if we got him for attempted murder, we got something. Attempted murder carries pretty good time. Even if we never get him for Prince.”

“Or the superintendent in your building.”

“We’ll get him for something,” I said.

“Unless he gets you,” Susan said.

“No one has,” I said.

“I know,” Susan said. “I know.”

59

The next morning while I was in my office with the desk drawer open and one eye on my office door, the phone rang. It was Belson.

“Kate Quaggliosi called me, said there was a crime scene in Walford she thought I should see.”

“Who?” I said.

“Rosalind,” he said. “Want to ride along?”

“I do,” I said.

“Ten minutes,” Belson said. “Pick you up on Berkeley.”

Which he did. We drove out Commonwealth Ave.

“Scenic route?” I said.

“No rush,” he said. “Route Thirty all the way. Any traffic problems, I’ll hit the siren.”

“She dead?” I said.

“That’s what they tell me,” Belson said.

“Cause of death?” I said.

“Gunshot.”

“They shut her up,” I said.

“Imagine so,” Belson said.

The traffic was backed up at North Harvard Street in Brighton with cars trying to turn. Belson sounded the siren. The waters parted, and we drove on through.

“Magic,” I said.

“I always like that,” Belson said.