Painted Ladies

“My grandfather was lucky. He got out with his family,” Lloyd said. “And I am here. And I am lucky. I feel that way quite keenly,” he said. “Every day.”

“You religious?” Quirk said.

“No,” Lloyd said. “But I’m Jewish.”

Quirk was silent for a moment.

Then he said, “Were you able to help them?”

“I amassed a considerable precedent file, and I was prepared to litigate for them if it came to that.”

“How many art pieces have they rescued,” Quirk said.

Lloyd sat still for a moment.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “Lady with a Finch has pretty well preoccupied them since I’ve been aboard.”

“Do you know where that is?” Quirk said.

“If it is not blown up, no,” Lloyd said.

“Have they always been here?” Quirk said.

“No,” Lloyd said. “When Ashton introduced me, he told me they’d just moved here from New Jersey and rented the place in Brighton.”

“He say why they moved?”

“No, but I always assumed it was about Lady with a Finch,” Lloyd said.

Quirk leaned over and checked the tape recorder, listened to a moment of playback, nodded to himself, set it back down, and pushed record again.

“Tell me about Ariel Herzberg,” Quirk said.

“His grandfather was not lucky,” Lloyd said. “I believe he died in Auschwitz, where Ariel’s father spent several years of his childhood.”

“Nine to fourteen,” I said.

Everybody looked at me as if I had barged onto the stage during a performance.

“When he was liberated,” Lloyd went on, “his only possession was Lady with a Finch. Which he sold to a dealer in Rotterdam right after the war. The question Ariel wanted answered, with which I was trying to help, was: Did the sale constitute a legal agreement among adults? I thought we could certainly argue that it did not. The boy was fourteen and destitute, recently free after five years in Auschwitz, with no legal guardian. It was our position that the dealer exploited the boy, and that all else in terms of legal possession is tainted by that initial illegality.”

“Who’s financing all this?” Quirk said.

“I don’t know,” Lloyd said. “The foundation seems to have enough money.”

“Didn’t you have to lend them a car?” Quirk said, as if he was puzzled.

Lloyd smiled.

“That, I think, had more to do with low profile,” he said, “than money.”

I glanced at Belson. He seemed to be sitting blankly, looking at Lloyd. But I knew he heard every word.

“They do any fund-raising?” Quirk said.

“No, I don’t think so,” Lloyd said. “I offered to introduce them to philanthropic members of the Jewish community, but they said they didn’t want to be beholden.”

Quirk nodded.

“But they had money,” Quirk said.

“Apparently,” Lloyd said.

“Do you know where they got it?”

“No,” Lloyd said.

Quirk nodded again.

“Tell me more about Ariel,” he said. “Did you think his dedication was real?”

“To the point of obsession,” Lloyd said.

“Would he kill someone?”

“Kill someone?” Lloyd said. “He’s trying to do good.”

“So he wouldn’t kill anybody?” Quirk said.

“No,” Lloyd said. “Good God, of course not.”

“So what are you scared of?” Quirk said.

I smiled to myself.

Gotcha.

Lloyd was silent. It wasn’t a silence of pondering the question. It was a silence of I don’t know what to say. He had relaxed as he talked, feeling more and more lawyerly, confident that he could play these cops. Quirk was patient. He waited, letting the pressure of the silence work on Lloyd.

“This seemed personal to him,” Lloyd said finally.

“Enough to kill people?”

Lloyd contemplated his answer for a bit.

Then he said, “If you knew too much.”

“You know too much?” Quirk said.

“I know what I’ve told you.”

“You think he killed others?”

“Prince, and Prince’s wife, maybe,” Lloyd said. “A building supervisor in a building on Marlborough Street.”

“Because they knew too much?”

“Maybe,” Lloyd said.

“What did they know too much about?” Quirk said.

“This damn painting,” Lloyd said.

“Lady with a Finch?” Quirk said.

“Yes.”

“And you?” Quirk said.

“I guess I might know too much about the organization.”

“What?” Quirk said.

“Several former Israeli commandos work for the foundation.”

“How many?”

“Don’t know,” Lloyd said. “I just know that a couple of them often accompany Ariel. I think they are armed.”

“See any tattoos?” Quirk said.

“Yes, some of them, those where I could see it, have a number tattooed on their forearm. Ariel has it, too.”

“Know any names?” Quirk said.

“No,” Lloyd said. “I don’t think so.”

“Joost?” Quirk said. “Or Van Meer?”

“No, I . . . Joost,” he said. “There was a baseball player. . . .”

“Eddie Joost,” I said.

“Yes. I don’t remember him, but my father was a big fan of his,” Lloyd said. “I think he liked the name, mostly.”

“And this other guy Joost worked for the Herzberg Foundation?”

“Yes,” Lloyd said. “Is it important?”

“I think it might be,” Quirk said.

He looked at Belson.

“Frank,” he said, “I’ll look after Mr. Lloyd. Why don’t you take some people and go get Mr. Herzberg.”

Belson nodded. He stood and glanced at me.

“Want to ride along?” he said.

“I’d be a fool not to,” I said.

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