“We found the paintings,” I said.
Jerrold halfway stood again. “You have them?”
“No. I said we found them. We know where they are but there are complications.”
“What do you mean, ‘complications’?” He settled back down, recognition in his eyes. “A shakedown, is that it? Now that you have them it’s going to cost me?”
I sat back in my springy chair. “Why is it,” I asked the air, “that everyone involved in this case is so hard to help? So suspicious? But come to think of it, maybe this is a shakedown. Yes, sure, call it that. It’s going to cost you, Mr. Jerrold. Just not money. A lot of that going around, too. I’ll tell you what we know if you tell us what you know. And you have to go first. Why did you come to me and why use a false name? Why does the State Department care about a dead Chinese artist?”
He stared. “The State Department?”
“You know, if you start denying everything this could take all morning. State Department, Assistant Deputy Director, East Asia Section, China specialist. And speaking of China: the PRC government, why do they care? The phony Mr. Wing is from the Chinese Consulate and I’m pretty sure you know that, and you were supposed to call and tell me and you never did. The real Mr. Jin, is, too, do you know him? Now either tell me what’s going on or take your money back and get out of here.”
Jerrold’s expression was that of a man trying to choose a path through uninviting but unavoidable terrain. He extemporized. “Is it considered professional in your field to talk that way to people who hire you?”
“Is it in yours, to lie to people you hire?”
“He’s a diplomat,” said Bill. “I think it is.”
“That was unnecessary,” Jack said. “Sorry, Mr. Jerrold. But you can see how it’s frustrating to try to do your job when your client doesn’t even trust you to know his name.”
What was this? They were doing Good Cop/Bad Cop without me?
“Whoever you are, I’m not your client,” Jerrold said.
“And you’re about to not be mine in a minute,” I said. “Unless we get some answers.” When Good Cop and Bad Cop are already taken, there’s always Steamroller. “Besides the guy with the gun I told you about yesterday, there’s the matter of the Chinese gangster.”
“Who also had a gun,” Jack said.
“He suggested I stop looking for the Chaus because he has an investment to protect. What investment, Mr. Jerrold? And the so-called Samuel Wing, who made the same suggestion, though he wouldn’t say why, and the mysterious Mr. Jin, who’d also rather these paintings didn’t see the light of day. Who are all these people and what the hell is going on here?”
The question, besides being phrased in stronger language than I generally use, was admittedly disingenuous. I had, in essence, the information Jerrold had paid me to get: where the paintings were. And the bonus fact, that they were fakes. Nevertheless, we waited, all three of us staring my client down.
Dennis Jerrold drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “How did you find out my name? Where I work?”
“Oh, please, Mr. Jerrold. You’re a diplomat, we’re investigators. Would I be surprised if you negotiated a treaty, or whatever it is you people do? Okay, nuts to the whole thing.” I spun in my chair to reach my safe, which doubled as the sideboard with the tea set I wasn’t serving Dennis Jerrold tea from. Turning my back on a client isn’t something I consider good practice, but it’s great drama and with Bill and Jack there I wasn’t worried. I ran the dial, extracted the envelope holding Jerrold’s thousand dollars and tossed it on my desk. “If this is the level of trust we’ve got going you’ll be happier with some other PI anyway.”
He made no move to take it. “The paintings,” he said. “Were you able to ascertain whether they’re real?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
I waited a moment, then gave it to him: “They’re fakes.”
He visibly relaxed.
“But they’re about to come on the market as real. Authenticated by an expert. Next week. Asian Art Week, Beijing/NYC.”
“But you say they’re fakes. What expert would put his reputation on the line like that?”
“That’s not really the question. The question is, how bad would it be for you if it happened?”
After a moment he gave a soft laugh. “The funny thing is, it wouldn’t matter. In my situation, I can be a hero—though that’s looking less and less likely—but I can’t really be the goat. Nice work if you can get it, huh? No, keep the money, Ms. Chin. If it’s true you’ve found the paintings. It would be nice if we could keep them from hitting the market, but if they’re fakes the authentication won’t—”
“We might be able to.”
“What?”
“Keep them off the market. Or maybe not, but we can probably discredit them with a bang. And the person who’s going to be selling them. If we had a reason to. Would that work for you?”
He leaned back in his chair. “Do tell.”
“No, you tell. Give us that reason. What so-called heroics are you engaged in here and how was I supposed to be helping?”
“Well,” he said. “Well.” He looked around. “I suppose it’s reasonable to hope for a certain amount of discretion from all of you, even though I’m only paying Ms. Chin?”
“Actually, you’re paying Bill, too. And Jack’s one of us, so don’t worry about it.” I didn’t look to see who was smug-smiling whom.
“Fine. Not that it really matters. I wasn’t doing anything wrong, just … unauthorized. Going to you could earn me a reprimand, or, on the other hand, a commendation for creativity. If I tell you what I know—which I can already see won’t answer all your questions—then what? You’ll tell me where the paintings are?”
If I’d had any doubt Jerrold was a diplomat I’d be over it by now. Everything was a negotiation. I decided to stonewall.
We sat in silence; then Jerrold smiled. “Okay. Point made.” He crossed one leg over the other, settling in more comfortably. “As you surmised, I’m with the State Department.”
Surmised? We knew his job title.
“I’ve been there eight years. I’m not an art collector, in fact I’m not in the visual arts at all. Literature’s my field. But we all talk, and you hear things.”
“We all talk, who?”
“State Department staff, and our Consulate counterparts. In my case, the PRC Consulate. That’s where I heard about the Chaus, at a reception. Buzz in the air, worried looks, things like that. The Cultural Attaché, Jin, had heard rumors and he wasn’t happy. They have that Beijing/NYC show coming up, the whole Asian art world’s watching. If the PRC gets embarrassed here in New York it’s on Jin’s head. Xi Xao, the guy at my level in the visual arts over there, dismissed the whole thing. He tried to persuade Jin not to worry about it. He said no one could possibly take these paintings seriously, everyone knew Chau was dead. I guess he changed his mind, though, or at least, he couldn’t convince Jin, because I think Xi’s who came to you as Samuel Wing.”
“Older, skinny, receding gray hair?”
“Yes.”
“I’m still not clear. If they decided to look for the paintings after all and asked you for help, why did Xi come to me to get me to lay off?”
“They didn’t ask for help. First off, it wouldn’t have been me, it would’ve been one of our visual arts people. But they didn’t. Jin just scowled and Xi tried to jolly him up and they both drank scotch. No, what happened was, I was watching Xi fawning on his boss—a guy at least ten years younger than Xi, and nowhere near as educated or as smart—and my boss came over to join us and I had a lightbulb moment. It hit me that if I didn’t watch out I’d be Xi before I knew it. You know the difference between staff jobs and line jobs?” I shook my head. Bill and Jack, I noticed, both nodded. “Well, it’s what it sounds like.” Seemingly instinctively, Jerrold offered his explanation to all three of us, so I wouldn’t feel like the only dummy in the room. Very diplomatic. “Line does. Staff supports. At State you almost always start as staff but, like anywhere, line’s where the action is. Eight years, I suddenly realized, was borderline too long to still be staff. There’s a point beyond which you don’t get promoted because you haven’t been promoted, and I’m getting near it. I needed to make a move.”