Gallery Pieces: An Art Mystery

Chapter 1

For Julian Peale, the wintry morning in lower Manhattan was beginning in gray tones. More precisely, grays and blacks. Warm and cool blacks, if he looked carefully. He was trying to think like an artist—like a novice painter, actually—as he climbed the subway stairs at Prince Street and Broadway.

The pedestrian traffic was heavy at the intersection. The larger shapes of the urban landscape were muted, still untouched by sunshine. The human figures were dark and distinct. Hard edges defined some, softer lines defined others. Nearly everyone was dressed in some kind of black—the official color of the SoHo culture worker.

Peale pushed his hands into the pockets of his thick coat and began the short walk to Medici Studios, his place of work. As usual, he passed through veils of manhole steam, which seeped into his thick brown hair. A woman in a red scarf suddenly appeared to his left. She matched his stride, and then whisked by, leaving a trail of perfume. Her luminous scarf soon disappeared into the grays of the throng.

Red to the normal eye, he thought. More precisely, vermilion, a warm red.

Peale headed down Prince. After three years commuting into the city, he was pleased with his good luck. This was his chance at mid-life—he was in his forties—to try on a new career. He had landed an interesting job. Something artsy, something his former US Navy buddies could not have imagined. One of them had said, Hey, Peale, I hear art is the last refuge of a scoundrel. It was worth a laugh. Peale’s reply: It depends on what you mean by art.

Peale was still adjusting to SoHo. The neighborhood continued to live off its 1960s reputation. Medici Studios had been around before then. Its owners had seen the neighborhood change from backwater to habitat of the avant-garde. Now it was a gentrified world of upscale shops. Peale had become part of it—part of the geography, at least.

He turned off Prince and went down Greene Street.

Up ahead was a coffee-and-shish-kebab kiosk. It was a large, metallic-gray box-cart with bicycle wheels on the front, manned by a bearded Pakistani. He wore a skull cap and a grimy blue ski parka. Under it was his colorful shalwar kameez, the loose-fitting garb of Southeast Asia, the garb that the locals had worn when Peale was crossing the border into Afghanistan. Whenever he saw the kebab man, his mind went back; he recalled the mortar fire on his last field mission. Then he smelled the Turkish coffee, and he was back in Manhattan.

Next came his favorite eyesore in the neighborhood, the SoHo Pop Art Gallery. The display window was plastered with a large, faded poster of Andy Warhol. It was printed in black and chartreuse—or was it lime green?—and depicted a gaunt Warhol in a wig that exploded like a Fourth of July sparkler. The gallery specialized in fake Warhols. They were counterfeits produced by various friends and followers of the late pop art celebrity, but they still had a brisk market.

Warholmania, still around from the sixties, Peale had concluded. He had looked it up, but there was actually no such word.

In any case, Peale knew that he had something in common with Warhol. They were both survivors—of deadly gunfire, that is. In the late sixties, Warhol had survived being shot by a crazy female groupie. Peale was still in elementary school at the time. He lived in Annapolis and, as it turned out, was destined for a Navy career like that of his father and grandfather. Working on the civilian side, he had been in Navy intelligence, occasionally going into the field to back a SEAL operation. On one of these, he was wounded by mortar shrapnel. His medical recovery gave him time to think; what did he really want to do with the rest of his life?

He eventually found himself in the Manhattan art world. And as he’d least expected, he was comparing himself to Warhol.

Peale reached the studio, which was inside the Greene Street Building. Painted a dull green, the building was part of the century-old Cast Iron District, row upon row of ornate, fireproof edifices, typically rising five stories. He pushed through the swinging-door entrance. The lobby was exposed by its outsized windows, and two elevators serviced the loft-like floors above.

Peale took one to the fourth, where Medici Studios occupied a northwest exposure. Ostensibly it was a specialized laboratory for art restoration, research, and consulting. Peale was barely a notch above apprentice in such skills, but his business card already said consultant. Ah yes, consultant. One of the best all-purpose words. A better term might be fixer. In the Navy it was op. Medici Studios fixed things discreetly in the murky world of the art market. This achievement was thanks to the studio’s second-generation owner, Leonello Medici, an indomitable figure at age seventy-two.

When the elevator door opened, Peale heard Leo shouting.

Leo usually had his reasons. The NYPD was again leaning on him to do a favor. This time around, it was being asked by Joe Castelli, the specialized art cop at the detective bureau. Castelli was the latest in the turnstile assignment, and, in these cash-strapped times, he was working solo on the art-crime beat.

The hallway door of Medici Studios was open, and as Peale entered he joined the conversation between Castelli and Leo Medici.

I understand, Leo, Castelli was saying. He raised his hands in a calming gesture. Look, I’m sure it’s going to work this time.

Peale looked the two men over, one old and the other young, a kind of Italian fraternity that had its own inscrutable emotions. Leo had an aquiline face, olive complexion, and shaggy eyebrows. In the studio, he wore his smock, but on the street, he was always dapper, though he might have telltale paint under his fingernails or on a shoe.

Castelli was in his thirties, shorter than Leo and square-jawed, his dark curly hair trimmed close. While Leo had been born in Florence, Italy, Castelli was from Queens. He had risen from patrolman to detective and now worked out of NYPD headquarters at One Police Plaza. He was inclined to jeans and Reeboks, and had arrived this morning with a police technician in a dark suit.

Medici tolerated Castelli with as much old-world chivalry as he could muster. After all, Castelli had something on Medici, beginning with Medici’s ownership of the building that housed his workshop. To avoid the typical troubles of a Manhattan landlord—zoning and building codes chief among them—Medici put on a cheerful demeanor and lent a helping hand to the cops.

Medici said to Peale, Come over and see this. What do you think?

On a worktable the NYPD technician had pulled back the canvas of an oil painting, removed a small insert of wood, and withdrawn a tiny electronic device that occupied a slot cut into one of the stretcher bars. He checked it, hit some keys on a laptop computer, and a beeping sound arose. The computer showed a GPS map. A blip was pulsating on the screen at the Greene Street address.

Works like a charm, the technician said.

During his time in Navy intelligence, Peale had seen quite an array of homing devices. Now any cell phone had that capacity. The survival of this GPS tracker depended on who handled the painting and how paranoid they were. Or how much they enjoyed scrutinizing the canvas close up, from the tacks to the gallery stamps on the back side.

It should go unnoticed, Peale said.

Medici said, Well, as usual, this is taking a lot of our time, but it has always been your call, Julian. I’ve got plenty to do already.

Castelli stood by, waiting for Peale’s confirmation, which was just a formality.

Yeah, I’m ready, Peale said. Fortune is not on the side of the fainthearted.

Castelli chuckled. Is that some kind of proverb?

Of sorts, Peale said. Way back, he had attended St. John’s College in Annapolis, which taught the Greek and Roman classics. The Greek stories, with all their tricks and subterfuges, had stayed with Peale, as did all the pithy sayings from the Western canon, from Homer’s Odyssey onward. An old habit from school days. That’s from Sophocles, fifth century BC. He’s the guy who said, ‘A short saying often contains much wisdom.’

Castelli gave Peale an amused look, and then said, Well, history was never my strong suit.

The detective was instead interested in present-day Russian crime, which had snaked its way into the art world. Today’s target was a small Russian art-smuggling operation. Castelli had secured cooperation from the Russian unit at the NYPD’s Organized Crime Control Bureau and at US Customs, which was looking for smuggling routes in and out of ports and airports. But it was Castelli’s concept—and his to succeed or fail.

The first component was fairly routine, a NYPD street sting, a setup to nab some bad guys. The second component was far more high-tech.

A scam had arisen around New York in which computer hackers stole scheduling information from galleries, jewelers, museums, or other dealers in valuable objects and cash transactions. That information was used to rob the victims in transit. When Castelli heard that it was being done with art galleries, he had an idea: use Medici Studios to set up a painting transfer, allow the Russians to nab a painting, and then follow their smuggling route with a GPS tracker. Based on a tip, Castelli knew that Russian hackers were now engaged in the scam, and he was luring them in by way of Medici Studio emails and cell phones.

On two previous occasions, Peale had carried a valuable painting to a storage vault at the nearby Commerce Bank. Nothing had happened, but Castelli hoped three times was a charm.

Okay, he said. Third try, but let me go over it again. He exchanged a glance with Peale. You can expect a typical grab and run. Remember, you can tussle, shout. But let it go.

Roger that, Peale said.

Medici was tempted to say what he’d said before—There are better ways to catch an art thief, don’t you think?—but he held his tongue.

By now the technician had turned the painting over, faceup on the table. It appeared to be a 1930s work in lyrical color by the late Arshile Gorky. According to the tip-off, the Russians were looking for works by this particular painter to sell to collectors back in Moscow or Saint Petersburg. Hearing about the Russian tastes, Medici had said, Someone in Russia must be pretty dumb if they think Gorky is a Russian. He was an Armenian! Still, Medici looked on the intrigue with some degree of pride. He had made the fake Gorky painting himself, mimicking Gorky’s style and materials, and then produced its counterfeit paperwork, or provenance.

He folded the painting in bubble wrap and then brown paper. Peale put his finger on the knot of the string and Medici pulled it tight. The wall clock ticked loudly.

Watch yourself, he said to Peale.

Nothing to it. What could happen on a trip to the bank?

Peale patted his right abdominal area, a kind of twitch. He still reached for the place where his vital organs had once been torn apart by shrapnel. Compared to a Navy operation, though, this would be a walk in the park.

He moved toward the door, saying, Here we go. Gorky and I.

Chapter 2

The Commerce Bank was located five long blocks south of Medici Studios. As far back as Medici could remember, he and his father had stored valuable paintings there. Most of the time, these required restoration or an authentication process, the kind of work a family in a long line of Italian connoisseurs would do.

When Leo’s parents arrived in the United Stated after the Second World War, they’d gotten a new start, but old ties followed as well. In Italy before the war, Leo’s father had been entangled in the dubious affairs of the Old World art trade. By the time Leo was taking over his father’s studio—inheriting his business and real estate—the Old World pressures were gone, only to be replaced by new ones. When art crime began to rise in the 1970s, the NYPD and FBI turned to Medici Studios for its services.

The Russian sting came at an inconvenient time. Leo had been reluctant to get involved. He was already up to his eyebrows in a job for the FBI. A month earlier, the Bureau had recovered eight paintings stolen from the Manhattan home of a wealthy developer, Milton Kline, also known as Skyline Kline. Under the bright light of scrutiny, the paintings raised questions of provenance and authenticity, not to mention unreported taxes. It was a tangle of investigations. Medici was recruited to sort out the history of the works.

Medici was puzzling over some of this as he accompanied Peale to the elevator. Off you go, Julian, he said.

Peale disappeared behind the sliding doors of the elevator. For today, he’d put on black jeans, black shoes with traction, and a ribbed gray pullover. His jacket was an even darker gray. The black and gray tones of SoHo. A whir and clanking accompanied him down to the lobby.

The stroll along Greene Street went without incident. When he finally turned left, the Commerce Bank was two blocks away. This was a stretch of small alleys and heavy foot traffic. Sunlight began to stream down the east-west canyons. Puffs of steam swirled about in the cold air, which seemed to amplify the sounds: the click or patter of heels and shoes, workmen shouting and taxis rattling by. Then a large accordion door on the street opened with a loud metallic grind.

That’s when it came.

From behind, a man dashed to Peale’s side, grabbed the painting, and whacked him on the back of the neck. Peale felt the blow and could swear the man said something to him in a gruff whisper, something that sounded like the name of that famous Russian ballet company, a phrase like bolshoe spasibo. Peale let go as planned. He held off a few seconds, rubbing his neck, and then went after the assailant, part two of the plan.

Hey, stop, he shouted. You idiot. Stop!

Feigning surprise, Peale kept up his jog, one arm flailing angrily—a show for anyone who might be watching. The assailant wore a sweat shirt, jeans, and a sock hat. Peale focused his eyes but was not sure: did this guy have a blond ponytail coming out from the cap? The runner bolted left at the next intersection, evaporating into the urban sprawl.

Peale walked down to the corner, looked both ways, and cooled his heels for a while. Mission accomplished. By the time he was back at Medici Studios, the throb in his neck had subsided, but the excitement around the little GPS screen on the laptop was rising.

Castelli was obviously cranked up. Okay, we’re on track.

The guy was fast; I give him that, Peale said. Do these grabbers whack old people for purses?

Depends. Castelli was looking over the shoulder of his tech man. The computer showed an active point on the GPS map.

Good news, the tech said. The bug was working. If their luck held, it wouldn’t be found.

A fine piece of subterfuge, Peale, Castelli said. Now I’ve got to check in with Customs. Castelli viewed himself as a tactician. He enjoyed launching small street jobs. With the gamble came the adrenaline. He called in his report to Customs, watched the computer screen for fifteen minutes, and then became talkative. His mood was up.

So, Peale, how’d you get into this work? Castelli asked. We all know about Leo, here.

Medici made a dismissive gesture with his hand. I knew Julian’s grandfather, he said. He comes well recommended, so I hired him. Besides, art is in his blood.

Ah, in the blood. How so?

Peale wanted to dismiss the inquiry but then changed his mind. He went over to his desk and detached a magazine photo from his wall, handing it over to Castelli. The photo showed a painting of a colonial figure holding back a ceiling-high red curtain, and something like a curiosity museum behind it.

This is a guy named Charles Willson Peale, Peale said.

Your relative?

That’s right. An Englishman, one of the first American painters, and a museum builder in Philadelphia. Died in 1827. One of his sons produced my great-grandfather’s line.

As Castelli listened, his eyes darted between the picture, the GPS screen, and the studio, which seemed a pleasant place to be this particular morning.

Sunlight shone through the tops of large windows, mostly blocked by blinds. The floor, made of wide oak planks, was covered by old Persian-type rugs. Medici hung his coat on a tree by the entrance, which had a seating area with stuffed armchairs. Along one wall, a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf was stuffed with volumes. Another wall had racks holding canvases, stacks of paper, and portfolios. A weather-beaten door led to a chemical room with paints and solvents. The place also revealed a woman’s touch, and Castelli presumed this was Bianca, one of Medici’s two daughters.

Peale had just finished his brief summary of the colonial past and was saying, And, my mother’s a watercolorist.

So, you’ve got art in the genes, Castelli said.

The detective had once heard that most artists get it from their mother. He saw echoes in his own life. He’d drawn pictures to please her. She had taken him to art museums, especially the big one in Brooklyn. As contrary evidence, however, it was Castelli’s father who got him a high school job at a furniture shop. There Castelli had seen rough men in love with fine lines and quality work. Either way, Castelli had enough affinity with the topic to fill the detective bureau’s open art-crime slot. He soon found out that these kinds of crimes were hard to prosecute. In both theft and fraud, the aggrieved parties often shunned publicity; they loathed having their private lives revealed in court proceedings. The main task was recovery of the stolen goods.

Today at least, Castelli felt he had some substantial handles. The sting was going after Russian art smugglers. They were doubtless engaged in some form of theft, fraud, and Customs violations. Leo Medici had been skeptical about the setup, but Peale had been willing from the start. So what if Peale was quoting Greek stuff at him, like some unemployed professor; Castelli appreciated his willingness to do some dirty work.

We’re taking this back to the cop shop, he said. We’ll keep you informed. The detective looked at Peale and said, If it works, you’ve made history. When Peale almost looked pleased at the thought, he added, So, when are you going to get a real job?

Yeah, good question, Peale said. Got my resume in at IBM. Maybe NYPD. Your job, maybe.

At this point in Peale’s life, there was no such thing as a real job. He had studied hard in college. Served his country. Done his painful best to try to save his marriage, but it was not unknown for young Navy wives, fed up with absentee husbands, to bolt for greener pastures.

Now he was writing his own job description.

Chapter 3

A brief flurry of snow, almost imperceptible, passed through upper Manhattan the next morning. John Saville splashed warm water on his face, pushed back his coal-dark hair, and waited for his brain to start working. He had a lot of Russian stuff today, and foremost he was