Authors: Joseph Wambaugh
When he was dressed in the same jacket, shirt, and pants he'd worn to the cybercafe, he joined her in the kitchen, running a comb through his hair. It looked to Megan like a sopping mound of straw. Like they'd mucked out of the stable back in Bend, where she'd taken riding lessons that her mother couldn't really afford, a lifetime ago.
It was growing harder for Megan to believe that she'd ever been attracted to Jonas. But at times like this, when some inner defense mechanism allowed her to think and remember her past life, she could realize and admit that it had never been Jonas, it had been the ox. They had both mounted the ox and had ridden it into the arena that was Hollywood, and after that wild ride, her world had changed.
She said to him, "I know you're running the game, but I think we should go right to that man Nigel Wickland and collect our money and make arrangements for him to pick up the paintings."
He stared at her and said, "You do?"
"Yes."
"And if he's told the cops about us and they're all staked out there, or maybe have the place wired, then we're busted, right?"
"I don't think we have to worry about that," she said.
"Oh, you don't?"
"No, in fact, I'll do it."
That made Jonas push the calico cat off the kitchen chair and sit. He couldn't believe this new boldness he was hearing. He said, "Yeah, you must be smoked out."
"Yes, you always say that," Megan said. "Maybe I am, and of course you aren't, because you can handle it. Well, what do you have to lose? I'll go in and get the money and tell him where to find the paintings."
"And if it's a setup and the cops move in and bust you, what am I supposed to do, fly to Rio? They'll put you in a room and you'll spill your guts and we'll both be sleeping in jail tonight."
"I give you my word that if it's a police setup, I will not involve you. I'll go to jail and say nothing. My mother's address is on my driver's license, not your address. And she doesn't know your last name or anything about where we live. You'll be safe."
"Megan," he said, "what makes you so positive that the guy didn't tell the cops that I phoned him? Jist tell me that."
"I think he doesn't want to lose his paintings. I think they might be worth a few thousand more than he told you. I think he wants them back, no questions asked."
"How much do you think they're really worth?"
"More than he says."
"And you're willing to risk getting arrested by walking in there and collecting our twelve large?"
"Yes."
Megan could almost see his thoughts whirling. She got some cat food from the cupboard and fed Cuddles, then refilled her water dish. She gave the calico cat a bonus saucer of skimmed milk and stroked her until Jonas finished thinking.
Finally Jonas said, "Here's what I'll do. I'll drop you a block from the gallery. Go in there and talk private with him and tell him if he wants his goods, he has to give you half the money right now to show good faith."
"Six thousand?"
"You got it. And tell him the next meeting will be for the balance and we'll have his property with us. Tell him he'll get instructions by phone. Get his cell number. I ain't going through that official ... officious bitch again."
"You'll be close by?"
"Right. I'll be parked somewhere and watching. And if this is
a s
etup, I'm leaving you there. And I'm trusting that you'll take the heat and you won't rat me out. I'm trusting you, Megan."
"Okay, you can trust me," she said.
"I never been in jail except once for DUI," he said.
"I've never been in jail for anything, but I'll take a chance," she said. "I think I can do this."
"If he don't have the twelve grand after the talk we had today, then there's something wrong, and you better leave and walk west on Wilshire. Keep walking till I pick you up."
"Let's get going before the gallery closes," Megan said. "I'm getting burbly thinking about it."
Chapter
Twenty-Two.
RUTH WAS GETTING ready to lock up when Megan walked into the Wickland Gallery.
"We're about to close," Ruth said. "May I help you?" "Yes," Megan said. "I'd like to see Mr. Wickland."
"I can help you," Ruth said.
"I'd really like to talk to him personally," Megan said. "Please tell him that I've been sent by the gentleman he spoke to on the phone this morning."
Ruth said nothing but turned and walked through a door behind the showroom to the gallery owner's office and said, "Nigel, there's a young woman to see you. She claims she was sent by someone you spoke to this morning."
He started to jump to his feet but caught himself and said, "Send her in, Ruth. And you may go home. I'll lock up."
"Is this something I should know about?" Ruth asked.
"A man has inherited some art that may or may not be valuable,"
Nigel said. "There are other parties involved in the family's will an
d t
hey want a secret appraisal. Mum's the word, and all that."
Ruth said, "Oh, one of those hush-hush appraisals. Okay, se
e y
ou tomorrow."
When Megan entered the office, Nigel didn't get up. He said, "Close the door, please."
Megan sat in a client chair in front of Nigel's desk and he studied her. "You're not what I expected," he said.
He was pretty much what she had expected: a tall, elegant older man with a mane of snowy hair. She thought that his hands, with long, tapered fingers and manicured nails, were the most beautiful hands she had ever seen on a man.
She did her best to project sophistication and confidence, but her legs were trembling. She smoothed her dress down, trying to cover her knees, but the shirtdress was so short it was hopeless. Her lips were parched and felt stuck to her teeth when she said, "I've come for the reward money."
"Where is my property?"
"Did you get your van back?"
"Yes, but where is my property?"
Megan said, "I believe my partner told you to have the reward money today."
"Yes, you'll get it," Nigel said, looking at this ... this child who was brazenly extorting him in his own office!
"I'll have to have it now, Mr. Wickland," she said. "Those are my instructions."
"Does your partner really think I'm going to hand over twelve thousand dollars and let you walk out of here with it?"
"I think you will, Mr. Wickland," she said. "And I think you'd be better off talking only to me and not to my partner."
Nigel didn't speak for a moment. Then he smiled sardonically and said, "Young woman, you interest me. I cannot imagine what you could be thinking, but I do find you interesting. What are you trying to tell me?"
Megan said, "I'm trying to tell you that I'm willing to deliver your paintings, but it will cost you the twelve thousand that you had better have with you today. As well as a bonus."
"I might have known," Nigel said with a sneer. "I told your partner that this gallery is on the verge of bankruptcy, and that's the truth."
"Yes, I know what you told him," she said. "The recession has been hard on everyone. But I'm still going to require a bonus."
His fury was mounting, and he gripped the edge of his desk so hard, his knuckles went white, alarming Megan Burke. "And how much of a fucking bonus do you require?" he said, feeling a tremor in his voice. He knew then that he was capable of killing both of them, given half a chance. He kept thinking of the 9-millimeter pistol in his middle drawer.
She said, "One hundred thousand dollars."
He didn't know whether he should laugh in her face or play it differently. He sat back and said, "What could you possibly be thinking?"
Megan said, "I'm thinking that one hundred thousand dollars is a small price to pay for staying out of jail and completing the theft of the two paintings you stole from the home of Leona Brueger."
She watched the blood drain from his face. When he went pale he looked older, and his mane of white hair almost seemed to fade to the gray of his flesh. She was aware that her own heart was hammering in her chest. She was suddenly very frightened of this man, and she said, "My partner is watching this gallery right now, and if I don't walk out of here with the money, you'll be in jail before the night's over."
When he could find words he said, "You little bitch. You fucking little bitch. What're you talking about?"
"The Bruegers have paintings that're worth a lot of money," she said quickly, her teeth clicking together. "They have a very valuable collection."
He thought he understood now. She'd seen the identification tickets that the framers had stapled to the stretcher bars. Perhaps she'd taken the paintings or photos of the paintings to someone who knew or thought he knew their provenance.
"Whoever you've consulted has grossly inflated the value of those paintings," he said. "You can try to sell them, but you'll get arrested when the art dealer calls the police."
"We agree with the second part," Megan said. "That's why we're selling them back to you."
"Young woman," he said. "You are being absurd. I truly don't understand what you think you know about these paintings."
Megan took a breath and said, "I think I know about the pictures in Leona Brueger's house that are identical to the paintings that my partner has safely put away." Then she said, "Well, not identical but almost. They don't feel the same when you touch them, but you did a good job of reproducing them, however you did it."
Nigel Wickland felt that he might faint. All he had to do was open the desk drawer and take out the gun. But there was the other thief, the fucking idiot partner.
She was terrified by the look on his face now. Her voice rose when she said, "Believe me, my partner is watching this gallery, and if I don't return safely to his car, you're finished, Mr. Wickland."
He wished he had a glass of water. He loosened his necktie and unbuttoned his collar. He took the inhaler from his pocket and took a puff, holding it in his lungs for a moment, and then said, "Who are you ?"
"I'm the partner of the man who has your paintings," Megan said. "And you need them. And you need to keep your plans a secret. That's okay with me. I don't need to know anything about your plans. I don't care how much you sell the paintings for. That's your business. I agree that we'd get arrested if we tried to sell them to a gallery owner like you. So the best thing to do is sell them back to you. I'm not being greedy in charging you one hundred thousand."
"You have been in the Brueger house?" He couldn't believe it, but he said it again. "You have actually been inside Leona Brueger's house?"
"Yes," she said. "And her brother-in-law is in the hospital with a stroke. I believe his name is Marty. Would you like me to describe the house and where the fake paintings are hung?"
Nigel said, "And has your partner been in the house, too?" "No," she said. "And it'd be better not to talk to him about it if he calls you again. Just do all business through me."
"Yes, I see," Nigel said with a hiss. "You are the one with the brains. He is obviously a cretin. Yes, I shall deal with you."
Megan almost jumped up and bolted when he opened his desk drawer. But he removed a fat envelope and tossed it across the desk. "A hundred and twenty hundred-dollar bills," he said. "Just as your half-wit partner demanded." Nigel added, "Before his ambitious little partner devised a way to increase the reward considerably."
Megan picked up the envelope and put it into her purse, saying, "Thank you. Let me have your cell number, please, and wait for a call from me. If you get a call from my partner on your business phone, just disregard whatever he says and wait for a call from me."
"I think I understand," Nigel said. "Would you happen to know a man named Raleigh?"
"Mr. Dibble's very nice," Megan said. "I met him today."
"Yes, I thought as much," Nigel said. "And how may I reach you?"
"You can't. Just wait for my call."
"And your name?"
"Valerie," she said.
"Does your partner know about your meeting with Raleigh?" "No, I did it on my own," Megan said.
"Well, Valerie," Nigel said. "Since you and I both seem to be partnered with imbeciles, it does appear that you and I should exclude our partners from all future dealings. I take it that you will never see or speak to Raleigh again?"
"Of course not."
"Then if Raleigh thinks that the paintings have been kept by the thieves and lost forever, nobody would ever tell him any different?" "Not me," she said.
"And not your partner?"
"He's not part of my bonus plan," Megan said. "He'll be very happy to settle for the twelve thousand that you promised him. He believes the paintings belong to you and he knows nothing about the Bruegers."
"And if I am able to get a mortgage on my home and manage to scrape together one hundred thousand dollars, that bit of business will remain between you and me, correct?"
"Correct. So whatever you get when you sell the paintings will not have to be shared with Raleigh," Megan said. "But that's your business."