Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [72]
Having operated on a tip from an informer that Widlitz was in the business of fencing stolen art, the two detectives spent the next day comparing lists of stolen art contained in a publication used by art squads around the world, the Stolen Art Alert, produced monthly by the International Foundation for Art Research, with the canvases in Abe Widlitz’s studio. They came up empty. They then went through their own reports of stolen art from the Los Angeles area and attempted to find a match. There was none.
At the end of the day, they sat in their cramped two-man office and went over their findings, or lack thereof.
“Joey called,” one said, referring to the snitch who’d sent them on their fruitless search of Widlitz’s studio. “The little twerp wants his money.”
His partner’s laugh was half snarl. “Tell him he owes us. You want to call Widlitz and tell him he can go back to work?”
“Sure. Nice old guy.”
“Don’t get soft. Behind that ‘nice old man’ facade could lurk a serial killer. Call him before his lawyer decides to sue the city.”
As his partner made the call, the chief of the art squad started writing a report on their activities on the Widlitz case. He was interrupted by a homicide detective from down the hall. “How’s everything with you two Rembrandts?” he asked.
“All right. You?”
“Good. O’Connell wanted me to give you this.” He tossed a file folder on the desk and sat down.
The art squad chief opened it and began reading.
“It’s that security guard murder they forwarded us from Miami,” the detective who’d delivered the report said. “The perp evidently stole that painting and killed the guard in the process. This guy, Munsch, brought the painting with him to L.A. after the heist, then ended up in Mexico, where our esteemed colleagues south of the border gunned him down by the airport.”
“Yeah, we’ll put it on our list,” the art squad chief said, closing the folder.
His partner, who’d just hung up after informing Abe Widlitz he was free to return to his studio, absently opened the file.
The homicide detective said, chuckling, “You guys ever find a stolen Picasso or Andy Warhol and consider selling it on the side?”
“Sure, we find stuff like that every day. That’s how we got rich and live in Beverly Hills, drive a Jag and a Bentley, and—”
“Un momento,” the other art squad detective said. “Look at this.” He pointed to an item on the list they’d made of what was in Widlitz’s studio.
“Yeah?”
“It could be the same piece, that one rolled up on the table in his place. Columbus on his knees giving something to a king. Yeah, it is the same. Artist, Reyes.”
The art squad chief looked up at the homicide detective. “How long has this been kicking around?”
“Few days.”
“Nice you finally got around to bringing it to us.”
“You say it’s the same one?” the homicide detective asked.
“Sure looks like it.” To his partner: “Widlitz didn’t have any record of who brought it to him, did he?”
“No.”
“Maybe we should call that nice old man again and have another talk—down here!”
“You want a cup of coffee, a soft drink, maybe?”
“No, thank you. I have told you what I know about that particular painting. It was brought to me by Conrad, who asked me to see whether there was anything under it, another painting, perhaps a map.”
“Does this Conrad have a last name?”
“I don’t know it.”
Widlitz sat with one of the art squad detectives and the lead homicide investigator on the Miami case in an interrogation room at LAPD headquarters in Parker Center, on Los Angeles Street. The arrival of the police at his home had upset him. Now, being where criminals were questioned completely unnerved him. He was on the verge of tears; everything he said in response to their questions was delivered as a pleading.
“Tell us what Conrad looks like.”
“What can I say? He is of medium build and height, I think. He has a red beard—neatly trimmed—and wears a white jacket and a straw hat.”
“A real fashion plate.”
Widlitz threw up his hands. “That is all I know about him.”
“No idea where he lives?”
“No. I swear.”