Read Online JM02 - Death's Little Helpers aka No Way Home by Peter Spiegelman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Peter Spiegelman
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of mine from Oyster Bay. And besides the business about Danes being on leave, she told me not a single thing.
“Did he actually tell someone there that he was going on leave, Nancy?”
“I’m afraid I just can’t say, John.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
She laughed. “I’m sorry, John.”
“Can you say when you last spoke with Danes? Was it any time in the last five weeks?”
She laughed again and didn’t bother with an answer. “Perhaps you can tell me, John— who is it that you’re working for?”
It was my turn to chuckle, after which I hung up.
Through the open windows the breeze had picked up, and there was a bite to it now. Rain was coming. My coffee was cold again, but I drank it anyway and watched some clouds slide by. Three people with nothing to say. I called Dennis Turpin.
An assistant answered, took my name, and asked me to hold. I didn’t hold long.
“I know who you are, March, and I know what you’ve been up to,” Turpin said, when he came on the line. He had a faint New England accent and an irritated, scolding tone. “You’ve harassed three of my people today with your questions, and we don’t appreciate that around here.”
I was surprised that Turpin knew about my other calls so quickly; Neary was right about Danes having his management spooked. And I was surprised by Turpin’s choice of words. Harassed? I wasn’t even warmed up yet. And my people? That was a rather pompous construction for a mere in-house lawyer.
“I’m not trying to harass anyone. I’d simply like to get in touch with Gregory Danes.”
“And I believe you’ve been told— more than once— that Danes is on leave. But you don’t seem satisfied with that answer.”
“That answer is fine, as far as it goes. It just happens not to go very far. Do you expect Danes back anytime soon? Has anyone there actually spoken to him since he’s been away, or gotten messages from him, or e-mail? How about a postcard?”
Turpin made a puffing noise. “You have no standing,” he snapped. “We’re not obliged to put up with this.” He went silent then, and I got the distinct impression he was counting to ten. He sighed loudly.
“Maybe you want to answer some questions yourself, March— like who you’re working for on this. Maybe we could do a little horse-trading.” Turpin was trying for conciliatory, even friendly, but it came out sounding sneaky. Still, his offer was my best bet for getting into Pace-Loyette, at least for now.
“I need to talk to my client first,” I said.
Turpin snorted. “You do that,” he said, “and you come see me, tomorrow at one— assuming you’ve got something to trade.” He rang off.
I put the phone down and wondered what Nina Sachs would have to say about my meeting with Turpin. Giving him her name seemed like a small thing to me, considering that the folks at Pace-Loyette already knew that Nina was trying to locate her husband, but I wasn’t sure she’d see it the same way. I punched her number and Ines Icasa answered. She spoke quietly, and told me in her precise accented English that Nina was not available. She asked if I’d like to leave a message. I declined.
I stood and stretched. I was stiff from too much phone time and jumpy from too much coffee and I needed a run to work it all out. And then I needed to go uptown, to Danes’s apartment building. But before that, I had two more dots to connect.
I slid my laptop over and opened a file I’d saved two days ago. In it were the links I’d found when I’d been studying up on Nina Sachs. They consisted mainly of reviews of her shows and announcements of significant sales of her work. I scanned a few of them. In the last three years, Nina had had a half-dozen shows at a SoHo gallery called I-2 Galeria de Arte. I put the gallery name in a search engine.
According to its Web site, I-2 Galeria de Arte had been around for a dozen years and dealt in a wide variety of contemporary art: painting, sculpture, even
“Did he actually tell someone there that he was going on leave, Nancy?”
“I’m afraid I just can’t say, John.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
She laughed. “I’m sorry, John.”
“Can you say when you last spoke with Danes? Was it any time in the last five weeks?”
She laughed again and didn’t bother with an answer. “Perhaps you can tell me, John— who is it that you’re working for?”
It was my turn to chuckle, after which I hung up.
Through the open windows the breeze had picked up, and there was a bite to it now. Rain was coming. My coffee was cold again, but I drank it anyway and watched some clouds slide by. Three people with nothing to say. I called Dennis Turpin.
An assistant answered, took my name, and asked me to hold. I didn’t hold long.
“I know who you are, March, and I know what you’ve been up to,” Turpin said, when he came on the line. He had a faint New England accent and an irritated, scolding tone. “You’ve harassed three of my people today with your questions, and we don’t appreciate that around here.”
I was surprised that Turpin knew about my other calls so quickly; Neary was right about Danes having his management spooked. And I was surprised by Turpin’s choice of words. Harassed? I wasn’t even warmed up yet. And my people? That was a rather pompous construction for a mere in-house lawyer.
“I’m not trying to harass anyone. I’d simply like to get in touch with Gregory Danes.”
“And I believe you’ve been told— more than once— that Danes is on leave. But you don’t seem satisfied with that answer.”
“That answer is fine, as far as it goes. It just happens not to go very far. Do you expect Danes back anytime soon? Has anyone there actually spoken to him since he’s been away, or gotten messages from him, or e-mail? How about a postcard?”
Turpin made a puffing noise. “You have no standing,” he snapped. “We’re not obliged to put up with this.” He went silent then, and I got the distinct impression he was counting to ten. He sighed loudly.
“Maybe you want to answer some questions yourself, March— like who you’re working for on this. Maybe we could do a little horse-trading.” Turpin was trying for conciliatory, even friendly, but it came out sounding sneaky. Still, his offer was my best bet for getting into Pace-Loyette, at least for now.
“I need to talk to my client first,” I said.
Turpin snorted. “You do that,” he said, “and you come see me, tomorrow at one— assuming you’ve got something to trade.” He rang off.
I put the phone down and wondered what Nina Sachs would have to say about my meeting with Turpin. Giving him her name seemed like a small thing to me, considering that the folks at Pace-Loyette already knew that Nina was trying to locate her husband, but I wasn’t sure she’d see it the same way. I punched her number and Ines Icasa answered. She spoke quietly, and told me in her precise accented English that Nina was not available. She asked if I’d like to leave a message. I declined.
I stood and stretched. I was stiff from too much phone time and jumpy from too much coffee and I needed a run to work it all out. And then I needed to go uptown, to Danes’s apartment building. But before that, I had two more dots to connect.
I slid my laptop over and opened a file I’d saved two days ago. In it were the links I’d found when I’d been studying up on Nina Sachs. They consisted mainly of reviews of her shows and announcements of significant sales of her work. I scanned a few of them. In the last three years, Nina had had a half-dozen shows at a SoHo gallery called I-2 Galeria de Arte. I put the gallery name in a search engine.
According to its Web site, I-2 Galeria de Arte had been around for a dozen years and dealt in a wide variety of contemporary art: painting, sculpture, even
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