Spotted Cats (18 page)

‘Well, I didn’t want anything to do with them. I told him that. That was it. I haven’t heard from him again.’

‘Did he describe the pieces to you?’

‘Sure. They were gold jaguars. Mayan, fourteenth century. With emerald eyes.’

‘Bingo,’ I said. ‘It has to be Jeff Newton’s jaguars.’

Masters paused. ‘He wanted five hundred thousand for the lot,’ he said, finally.

‘Is that a good price?’

I heard Victor Masters chuckle. ‘Based on his description, assuming, of course, that the pieces are genuine, that is an unbelievable price. That is about one-third the value of the lot. That, Mr Coyne, is why I turned him down cold.’

‘Because the price was too good?’

‘If he had been legitimate, he would have been asking a legitimate price. I simply told the man I was not interested. He was polite. He thanked me. As I said, I haven’t heard from him since, and I had more or less forgotten the whole thing. The other day Maria mentioned a theft, and that reminded me of that call.’

‘This man,’ I said. ‘Did you meet with him?’

‘No. He called me on the phone.’

‘Can you recall the conversation?’

‘Just generally. It was brief, businesslike, as if he had a list of names he was calling and I was on his list. He said he had these jaguars, described them, assured me they were genuine, mentioned his price, said it was not negotiable, and asked if I was interested. I thanked him and said no. That was it.’

‘Do you know where he was calling from?’

‘No.’

‘His voice. Was there anything distinctive about his voice?’

‘I didn’t notice any particular accent, if that’s what you mean.’

I thought for a minute. ‘Talking to me, Mr Masters, do you find anything distinctive about my voice?’

He laughed quickly. ‘Of course I do. You’re a Bostonian, aren’t you?’

‘I think I told you that.’

‘I would have known. You do a peculiar thing with your R’s.’

‘So this man you spoke with on the phone, the man trying to sell the jaguars—’

‘He’s probably a westerner, Mr Coyne. Like I said. Nothing distinctive about his voice.’

I tried to remember the voices of the two men who amused themselves by threatening me with a knife. They were wearing ski masks. Their voices were muffled. They could have been westerners. Or Bostonians.

‘One more thing, Mr Masters,’ I said. ‘Did this man on the phone mention how many pieces there were in the collection he wanted to sell you?’

‘Sure. He said there were seven of them. Is that—?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘My client owned seven jaguars. Can you think of anything else?’

‘Actually…’ He was silent for a moment. ‘No, I’m afraid not,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Well, if something should occur to you, will you call me?’

‘Of course. As a collector, I have a stake in seeing that art thieves are brought to justice. Of course I’ll call you.’

I gave him both my home and office numbers, thanked him, and hung up.

I pondered what I had learned for the rest of the evening. It was interesting, but it didn’t seem to lead anywhere. So the thieves planned their burglary at Jeff’s ahead of time. So they knew what they were after. So they knew the names of some people who collected Central American Indian art. I had already surmised as much.

And maybe they were westerners, which very conceivably related to the phone calls from Montana, though I couldn’t figure out how.

Martin Lodi’s motorcycle was registered in Montana. But Lodi was in prison.

I kept coming back to Lily. Except in my gut I didn’t believe she’d had anything to do with it, which no doubt qualified me as naïve to the extreme. She told me it wasn’t she, and no woman who slept with me could ever lie to me. That’s how my reasoning, such as it was, went.
In sex veritas.

Dumb, masculine ego.

I went to sleep wondering about it.

The telephone beside my bed jerked me awake. I fumbled for the light switch and glanced at the clock. It was ten of one. I picked up the phone.

‘Coyne,’ I mumbled.

I heard a chuckle. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Coyne. I forgot about the time difference. You were sleeping.’

‘Oh. Mr Masters.’ I yawned and hitched myself into a semi-sitting position in my bed. ‘What’s up?’

‘I can call you tomorrow.’

‘I’m awake.’

‘I wasn’t going to tell you this.’

‘Tell me what?’

‘I mean, normally I don’t give any credence to rumours. And this is a rumour. But I got to thinking. And I decided I would tell you, and you could decide for yourself.’

I extracted a Winston from the pack on my bedside table and managed to light it one-handed with a match. ‘Go ahead. Please.’

‘A lot or rumours circulate among collectors. Who’s buying, who’s selling, who got a good deal, who got a bad deal. Each of us, we like to think we’re the shrewdest. Most of these rumours you learn to discount. And, to tell you the truth, this one I’m calling you about I discounted when I heard it, and pretty much forgot about it. I just didn’t make the connection.’

‘Does this have something to do with the jaguars, Mr Masters?’

‘Well, I don’t know. If I knew, I certainly would’ve made the connection before now. Talking with you earlier this evening got me to thinking, and it reminded me of this rumour.’

The cigarette tasted awful. I stubbed it out, mildly annoyed at the habit that had caused me to light it in the first place. ‘What is this rumour?’ I said.

He cleared his throat. ‘The rumour is that a collector got himself an awfully good deal on some Mayan artifacts recently. The rumour is that the deal might not have been entirely aboveboard.’

‘Jaguars? Were they gold jaguars with emerald eyes?’

‘I don’t know what they were, Mr Coyne. Just that they were Mayan artifacts, and very valuable. Pre-Columbian.’

‘You don’t know the name of this man, do you?’

‘Yes, I do. It’s one of the reasons I hesitated to call you. Because I knew you’d want his name. And, as I said, I don’t like to spread rumours.’

‘But you did call me.’

‘Yes. I decided I’d tell you his name. It’s a man I have met. A real estate developer. Very wealthy. Builds condominiums. Rather tasteless condominiums, in my opinion. Sells time-sharing on them. He’s only started collecting recently. He collects for the same reason he builds condominiums. Investment. Profit. He doesn’t love art. He buys it and sells it. From what I hear, he has considerably better taste in what he collects than in what he builds. And his scruples in both pursuits are dubious. His name is Timothy McBride.’

‘Hang on a minute, Mr Masters,’ I said. I fumbled on my bedside table and found a scrap of paper and a pencil. When I’m awakened by a phone call in the middle of the night, I don’t trust myself to remember anything I’m told. I wrote down Timothy McBride’s name. ‘What else can you tell me about him?’

‘That’s all I know,’ said Masters. ‘Just this rumour. I connected that phone call I got with the rumour about McBride acquiring some Mayan pieces. Anyone who’d know enough to call me would also probably call McBride. The timing of it all seemed to fit, so I decided I’d pass it on to you.’

‘He’s into real estate, you said.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Real estate in the West, I understand, is not very lucrative these days.’

‘That is very true.’

‘Do you have any idea where this McBride lives?’

‘He lives in West Yellowstone, Montana, Mr Coyne.’

I wrote that down too. Not that I needed to. There was no way I’d forget that Timothy McBride lived in West Yellowstone, Montana.

I
HAD THE COFFEE
brewed by the time Julie came into the office the next morning. I filled her mug, added sugar, and handed it to her. She accepted it with arched eyebrows but didn’t say anything. She sat behind her desk and lifted it with both hands to her mouth.

I stood in front of her desk, watching her.

After a minute she looked up at me. ‘So what do you want?’ she said.

‘What do you mean, what do I want?’

‘You want something. I can tell. The way you gave me the coffee. The way you’re standing there with that little-boy look on your face.’

I shrugged. ‘When you’ve finished your coffee.’

‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Had a cup before I left this morning. Let’s have it.’

‘Well, OK,’ I said. ‘The thing is, I have to go to Montana for a few days.’

She nodded. ‘I thought as much. I knew it’d be something like that. The way you’ve been moping around. You and who—Mr McDevitt? Dr Adams? Trout, right?’

‘This is business. For Jeff Newton. My client. Who’s now lying comatose in a hospital bed, being kept alive by machines.’

‘Who you really ought to visit,’ she said, peering up at me.

‘You’re probably right,’ I said. ‘Though I don’t see why. He wouldn’t know the difference, and it’d just depress me.’

‘They say sometimes people in comas know.’

I shrugged. ‘Maybe. Somehow I doubt it. Anyway, now I’m in a position to do some real work for him. A business trip, Julie.’

She rolled her eyes, ‘A business trip to Montana. Sure.’

‘Those jaguars that were stolen from him? I think they’ve showed up in West Yellowstone.’

‘West Yellowstone. Absolutely.’

‘I know how it sounds.’ I stopped. ‘Why do I feel that I need your approval?’

‘Because you feel guilty.’

‘I’d go if it happened to be Detroit, where’s there’s no clean water, or San Diego, where there’s no fresh water at all, never mind trout. It just happens to be West Yellowstone—’

‘Where there’s all kinds of clean fresh water full of trout,’ she said. ‘You’ve told me all about Montana. I know how you love it out there. So what do you want from me, Brady? It’s your law practice, if you want to abandon it. Your clients won’t mind. They’re probably used to it by now.’ She sighed in a heavy, exaggerated way, then cocked her head at me and grinned. ‘I do love to give you a hard time.’

I smiled and nodded. ‘Me, too. I love it when you give me a hard time. It’s one of your important responsibilities. I depend on it. When you do it, I don’t have to. It saves all kinds of wear and tear on my conscience. So see if you can clear the calendar for next week and get me reservations into Bozeman. Oh, and arrange for a car rental at the airport. I’ll need a Cadillac, or at least a Lincoln—’

‘Pardon me?’

‘I said—’

‘I heard what you said, Brady. I just don’t believe it. A Cadillac?’

I nodded. ‘Yes. Or a Lincoln.’

‘You always want compacts when you rent cars. From places like Cheepo Flybynight Rentals.’

‘Well, for this trip I want the biggest, glitziest car they have. I’ll need a room, too.’

‘A big and glitzy room, too?’

I grinned at her. ‘Exactly.’

‘You are the boss, I suppose.’ She shrugged. ‘What about your friends?’

‘Doc and Charlie? They’re not going. This is business. Really.’

Julie got up and walked out of my office. As the door shut behind her, I heard her mutter, ‘Cadillac. Holy shit.’

Later in the morning I called Lily at the bungalow in Orleans.

‘Lily,’ I said when she answered. ‘It’s Brady.’

‘Oh.’ There was a long pause. ‘Well, hi.’

‘How have you been?’

‘Just fine, thank you. You?’

‘OK.’ I paused. I hadn’t spoken with her since she drove away from me in Scituate. ‘Look—’

‘Brady, it’s all right. I’m sorry how I reacted that night. I guess you had a right to ask those questions.’

‘Well, I’m sorry, too. But that’s not why I called.’

I heard her exhale into the receiver. ‘I guess I knew that. You’re not one to apologize.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Forget it. So why did you call, then?’

‘I got a line on someone in Montana who might’ve bought Jeff’s jaguars from those guys who stole them.’

‘Does this mean I’m no longer a prime suspect?’

‘Look,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what to think, and I really didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. It’s just that—’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said quickly.

‘Well, anyway, I just wanted you to know. So if Jeff…’

‘He’s not going to regain consciousness, if that’s what you mean.’

‘Well, they say sometimes people in comas can hear things. Tell him I’m working on his cats.’

‘Can you tell me more than that?’

‘Not really. My friend Dan LaBreque—he’s a curator at the MFA—he has a friend in Phoenix. I called her, and it turns out she has a friend who heard a rumour, so…’

‘That’s it?’

‘That’s it.’

‘A rumour?’

‘That’s all.’

She didn’t speak for a moment. ‘What’d you have in mind, Brady?’

‘I thought I’d go,’ I said. ‘Check it out.’

‘Why?’

‘Why?’ I paused. ‘Jeff can’t very well go himself.’

‘How quixotic of you.’

‘That’s what Julie thinks, too,’ I said. ‘She thinks I’m going out there because it’s trout mecca.’

‘You’re not?’

‘Remember how Jeff looked when we found him that morning?’

‘I’m not likely ever to forget.’

‘Remember me, when you found me in bed?’

‘Yes.’ She hesitated. ‘It was pretty scary.’

‘It sure was.’

‘I’m sorry, Brady. It was a nightmare. Still is.’

‘I haven’t lost my thirst for revenge, Lily. I want those bastards. For Jeff. And for me.’

‘So you’re going to go riding out there with your spear and your banner.’

‘If you want to look at it that way. Julie looks at it that way, I think.’

She was silent for several moments. Finally she said, ‘So exactly why are you telling me?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe it is sort of an apology. Anyway, I thought if you visit Jeff, talk to him, you could tell him. If anything is registering, it might make him feel better.’

‘You could tell him yourself, you know.’

‘He’d probably rather hear it from you.’

I heard her snort a quick laugh. ‘Well, have fun. I’ll tell Jeff.’

‘I’ll call when I get back.’

‘Sure you will.’

Around noon Julie scratched on the door and came into my sanctum. She had a manila folder in each hand. She sat in the chair beside my desk. She put one folder on the desk and opened the other one. She sighed heavily. That sigh reminded me of Gloria, back when we were married, sitting beside me in the den of our Wellesley home after I returned from a day’s work. She would hand me a gin and tonic, take a tentative sip of her own, give me that weary sigh, and share ‘her day’ with me. She told me little tales with no climax about faulty mechanical devices, supermarket ripoffs, neighbourhood squabbles. I would listen politely. It was, after all, her day, and all her days taken together constituted her life. And whether she intended it or not, there was a purpose to her telling me about it. It took me a while, but I finally got Gloria’s point. Her life was as pointless as her stories. Mine, by extension of her implied logic, was exhilarating and infinitely fascinating.