The Collector
Page 38
“He could have afforded it if, one, he had a client in mind, or two, the seller didn’t know the value.”
“It’s possible. Some people have a vastly inflated idea of the value of their grandmother’s Wedgwood. Others see a Daum crane vase as clutter.”
“There’s a bill of sale in his personal papers. For an antique angel figure with wagon. Sold to him by Miranda Swanson for twenty-five thousand.”
“Dear God. Miranda Swanson—that was the client. Her father’s estate. She wanted to sell all or nearly all the contents of his home, and Oliver handled it. He never said . . .”
Vinnie looked back at the egg.
“Would he have known what it was?”
“Even if he wasn’t certain, he should have wondered, checked. Perhaps he did. Twenty-five thousand for this?”
“Hell of a deal,” Ash commented.
“It . . . If he knew, it was unethical. We don’t do business that way. You don’t keep clients that way. But . . . for finding it, recognizing it, I would’ve been proud of him. He could’ve brought it to me. I would’ve been proud of him.”
“He didn’t tell you because you wouldn’t have allowed it. It’s not stealing, not outright. Some wouldn’t even consider it cheating. You would have. He couldn’t tell you.”
Ash paced away when Vinnie said nothing. “He told his girlfriend, and very likely got the money to buy it from her. He hooked into a collector, either through her or from people he knew through your shop. Tried to cash in. Big payday. He’d know what you’d think, what you’d want, but he’d just seen the shine.”
“And he paid a very high price for questionable ethics. You won’t tell his mother.”
“No. I’m not telling anyone in the family except you.”
“That’s for the best. I would’ve been proud of him,” Vinnie murmured again, then shook it off. He straightened, looked back at Ash. “He left you with a mess, didn’t he? A habit of his, I’m sorry to say. Make copies of the paperwork. I don’t want to take the originals. I’ll see about getting them translated, and I’ll make some careful inquiries if you want a true expert to examine it.”
“We’ll hold that for now.”
“I don’t know nearly enough about the history. I know there were fifty Imperial eggs commissioned, and that Lenin ordered the ransacking of the palaces, had the treasures moved during the Bolshevik Revolution. Stalin sold several of the eggs in the thirties, I believe, to raise money, foreign money. This one’s complete, with the surprise—and that adds value. Many of the ones currently in collections are missing the surprise, or elements of it. The eight were lost after the revolution. Stolen, sold, hidden or put in very, very private collections.”
“I’ve been boning up. One of the descriptions of this one’s from the 1917 inventory of seized treasure. Seems like it didn’t actually make it to Lenin’s coffers—or somebody plucked it out later.”
Ash took the papers to the copier.
“Where are you going to keep it while you do this research?”
“I’m taking it to the compound.”
“That’s good. Even better than my vault. But if you put it in the main safe, even telling your father it’s private, and to leave it alone, he won’t.”
“I have a couple of places I can put it, safely.” He found another envelope, put the copies inside. “Let me get you another drink.”
“Better not. Angie will know if I’ve had two. She’s got radar. One’s acceptable between work and home. Two is the doghouse.” His voice was light, brisk, but Ash heard the grief, and worse now, the disappointment. “I’ll get going anyway. I’ll make a call when I get home about the translation. I might be able to have it for you when I get to the compound. You’re going up tomorrow?”
“Yeah.”
“The offer’s still there. Anything we can do.” Vinnie got to his feet, closed the documents in his briefcase. “This is an important find. Oliver did something important, something that matters in the world. He just didn’t do it right.”
“I know.”
“Don’t come all the way down,” Vinnie said, giving Ash another hug. “Put the egg away, safely. Take care of it, and yourself. I’ll be in touch before I leave if I have any information.”
“Thanks, Vinnie.”
“As it wasn’t stolen, doesn’t have to be returned to a rightful owner, it belongs in a museum.”
“I’ll see to it.”
“I know you will.”
With the sorrow back in his eyes, Vinnie gave Ash a pat on the back, then made his way out.
He’d put it safely away, Ash thought, but first he’d leave it where it was while he did more digging.
Miranda Swanson, he thought. Time to find out more.
He sat down again, the egg glittering, and keyed in the name.
Jai considered taking another pass through the brother’s loft. The stop at the bank intrigued her. But the visit by the uncle, that intrigued her much more.
A visit there might be more productive.
“We should take the brother. Squeeze him some, and he’ll tell us what he knows.”
Jai settled on a pair of jade and pearl earrings. Very classy, very traditional, to accent her short, blunt-cut wig. She shifted her gaze to Ivan.
“The way the whore told us before you threw her out the window?”
“I didn’t throw her. That got out of hand, that’s all. We take the brother, bring him here. Quiet, private. Wouldn’t take long.”
Ivan affected a Russian accent. Jai knew—always made it her business to know work associates—he was born in Queens, the son of a second-rate Russian mafia enforcer and a stripper whose love affair with heroin had put her in the ground.
“The idiot Oliver hadn’t been in contact with his brother for weeks. Didn’t I check his phone, his computer? No calls, no e-mails. But the uncle he worked for.”
Though she disliked having Ivan in the room while she prepared, Jai selected the Red Taboo lipstick, carefully painted it on her lips.
He’d tried to touch her once, but the knife she’d held to his balls had discouraged that behavior.
He gave her no further trouble in that area.
“It’s possible. Some people have a vastly inflated idea of the value of their grandmother’s Wedgwood. Others see a Daum crane vase as clutter.”
“There’s a bill of sale in his personal papers. For an antique angel figure with wagon. Sold to him by Miranda Swanson for twenty-five thousand.”
“Dear God. Miranda Swanson—that was the client. Her father’s estate. She wanted to sell all or nearly all the contents of his home, and Oliver handled it. He never said . . .”
Vinnie looked back at the egg.
“Would he have known what it was?”
“Even if he wasn’t certain, he should have wondered, checked. Perhaps he did. Twenty-five thousand for this?”
“Hell of a deal,” Ash commented.
“It . . . If he knew, it was unethical. We don’t do business that way. You don’t keep clients that way. But . . . for finding it, recognizing it, I would’ve been proud of him. He could’ve brought it to me. I would’ve been proud of him.”
“He didn’t tell you because you wouldn’t have allowed it. It’s not stealing, not outright. Some wouldn’t even consider it cheating. You would have. He couldn’t tell you.”
Ash paced away when Vinnie said nothing. “He told his girlfriend, and very likely got the money to buy it from her. He hooked into a collector, either through her or from people he knew through your shop. Tried to cash in. Big payday. He’d know what you’d think, what you’d want, but he’d just seen the shine.”
“And he paid a very high price for questionable ethics. You won’t tell his mother.”
“No. I’m not telling anyone in the family except you.”
“That’s for the best. I would’ve been proud of him,” Vinnie murmured again, then shook it off. He straightened, looked back at Ash. “He left you with a mess, didn’t he? A habit of his, I’m sorry to say. Make copies of the paperwork. I don’t want to take the originals. I’ll see about getting them translated, and I’ll make some careful inquiries if you want a true expert to examine it.”
“We’ll hold that for now.”
“I don’t know nearly enough about the history. I know there were fifty Imperial eggs commissioned, and that Lenin ordered the ransacking of the palaces, had the treasures moved during the Bolshevik Revolution. Stalin sold several of the eggs in the thirties, I believe, to raise money, foreign money. This one’s complete, with the surprise—and that adds value. Many of the ones currently in collections are missing the surprise, or elements of it. The eight were lost after the revolution. Stolen, sold, hidden or put in very, very private collections.”
“I’ve been boning up. One of the descriptions of this one’s from the 1917 inventory of seized treasure. Seems like it didn’t actually make it to Lenin’s coffers—or somebody plucked it out later.”
Ash took the papers to the copier.
“Where are you going to keep it while you do this research?”
“I’m taking it to the compound.”
“That’s good. Even better than my vault. But if you put it in the main safe, even telling your father it’s private, and to leave it alone, he won’t.”
“I have a couple of places I can put it, safely.” He found another envelope, put the copies inside. “Let me get you another drink.”
“Better not. Angie will know if I’ve had two. She’s got radar. One’s acceptable between work and home. Two is the doghouse.” His voice was light, brisk, but Ash heard the grief, and worse now, the disappointment. “I’ll get going anyway. I’ll make a call when I get home about the translation. I might be able to have it for you when I get to the compound. You’re going up tomorrow?”
“Yeah.”
“The offer’s still there. Anything we can do.” Vinnie got to his feet, closed the documents in his briefcase. “This is an important find. Oliver did something important, something that matters in the world. He just didn’t do it right.”
“I know.”
“Don’t come all the way down,” Vinnie said, giving Ash another hug. “Put the egg away, safely. Take care of it, and yourself. I’ll be in touch before I leave if I have any information.”
“Thanks, Vinnie.”
“As it wasn’t stolen, doesn’t have to be returned to a rightful owner, it belongs in a museum.”
“I’ll see to it.”
“I know you will.”
With the sorrow back in his eyes, Vinnie gave Ash a pat on the back, then made his way out.
He’d put it safely away, Ash thought, but first he’d leave it where it was while he did more digging.
Miranda Swanson, he thought. Time to find out more.
He sat down again, the egg glittering, and keyed in the name.
Jai considered taking another pass through the brother’s loft. The stop at the bank intrigued her. But the visit by the uncle, that intrigued her much more.
A visit there might be more productive.
“We should take the brother. Squeeze him some, and he’ll tell us what he knows.”
Jai settled on a pair of jade and pearl earrings. Very classy, very traditional, to accent her short, blunt-cut wig. She shifted her gaze to Ivan.
“The way the whore told us before you threw her out the window?”
“I didn’t throw her. That got out of hand, that’s all. We take the brother, bring him here. Quiet, private. Wouldn’t take long.”
Ivan affected a Russian accent. Jai knew—always made it her business to know work associates—he was born in Queens, the son of a second-rate Russian mafia enforcer and a stripper whose love affair with heroin had put her in the ground.
“The idiot Oliver hadn’t been in contact with his brother for weeks. Didn’t I check his phone, his computer? No calls, no e-mails. But the uncle he worked for.”
Though she disliked having Ivan in the room while she prepared, Jai selected the Red Taboo lipstick, carefully painted it on her lips.
He’d tried to touch her once, but the knife she’d held to his balls had discouraged that behavior.
He gave her no further trouble in that area.
