113

Aligned Design

Ch 20

"Who else bought policies?" Eames asked, sliding the folder to the right a bit.

Mazurowsky answered with a nod, "Well, the gallery owner, a . . . Dominic Jenese. It's the standard policy insuring the paintings for market value against theft, damage or loss. Again, the market value may vary."

Eames was surprised, "You say this Dominic Jenese is the gallery owner?"

"Yes."

Eames wished she had a photo of Canvettelli. "Can you describe him?"

Mazurowsky blinked twice and said, "Well, sure. He's a short, thin white guy, really pale, about thirty or so. He was dressed really well." He watched the detective process this.

Sounded like the man Bill Jackson described at the shipping lot, the guy asking about Navicky, thought Eames. Why is he listed as the gallery owner and not Canvettelli?

The insurance broker continued, "This is a copy of the policy he purchased. Again, everything is tabbed in purple and green with yellow highlighting the particulars."

Eames smiled as she took the second thick packet and set it on top of the first one. "What about the third policy? Who purchased that?"

"That was purchased by the art broker in St. Louis, Mr. Palmer Tillman. His policy was the same as the gallery owner's, covering damage, loss or theft."

"Ok, Mr. Mazurowsky. If you'll excuse me a moment. I'll be right back. Can I get you anything while I'm gone? Soda, coffee, water?"

"No thank you, I'm fine," he smiled. Eames stood and walked next door to the watch room.

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"Well?" She said to her boss and partner.

"When are you going to ask him the rest of the questions?" Bobby asked.

She looked from Bobby to Deakins and back again.

"Eames, the rest of the questions. . . I gave you some ideas yesterday. You wrote them down."

"I, uh. Remind me what they were."

"You need to ask him what kind of identification, proof of ownership needs to be provided when purchasing a policy under the auspices of ownership. I thought Canvettelli owned the gallery. Find out how the value is determined when the artist dies; what's the formula? Find out how the fair market value is determined; what source data are used? What is the procedure for establishing standards of appraisal? Is there a minimum payout amount on these policies? Does the value differ for each painting? Ask about any riders attached to the policies. What other artists do they insure? Have they –?"

"All right! All right!" Deakins said, hands going up in a Bobby-like way. "Enough, Goren. Eames, I'm sending him in with you. This is his thing – interviewing. Bobby, are you ok with this?" He looked hard at the detective before him.

"Yeah, I'm ok."

Deakins sighed, hesitated and then said, "Bobby, if you feel yourself getting frustrated or angry, I want you to leave, hear me? You walk right out of there. Ok?"

"Ok," Bobby said sadly, softly.

"Eames, you keep an eye on him."

"Bobby, this is a good guy, go easy."

He looked at his boss and followed Eames out the door.

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"I'm telling you, he never clocked in this morning. He should have been here at six to open that container from the pier. It's not like him to not show up." Jackson spoke to the two officers asking for Joe Navicky.

"Did you try his home?" asked one.

"Yeah, I called his house and his cell. No answer either place," Jackson replied.

"We're gonna need his home address and other information."

"Sure, sure. Sarah, get these officers what they need."

Sarah had that 'deer-in-the-headlight' look ever since the two uniformed officers entered the office. She had never been this close to a police officer before. They were so big! The office seemed to shrink when they entered. She wrote Navicky's address and phone on a sticky and handed it to the black officer. He took it with, "Thanks."

"Do you have any idea where he might be?" he asked her.

"No, I have no idea why he didn't come in. He usually calls if he's going to call off or even if he's going to be late." She kept glancing up at the cop, but couldn't look him in the eye.

The officer turned back to Jackson, "Did he know he was going to be picked up this morning?"

"No, the detective said to not tell him. Just change his schedule so he would be here and not on a route."

"Ok, thanks. Give us a call if he shows. Thanks."

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"Sir, you have to come with us," the shorter officer tried to reason with Canvettelli.

"I do not have to do any such thing! I know my rights. Don't you try to bully me. I'm not going anywhere with you." Canvettelli stood, arms crossed behind the small table in his tiny office. The space was actually too small for both officers to remain inside. The taller, broader cop stood outside the office door, peering in.

"What am I being arrested for? Tell me that, will you? What have I done that warrants this kind of treatment?"

The shorter cop exhaled in frustration and said, "Look, I've explained this to you twice already. You have done nothing wrong. You are not being arrested. You are being driven to One Police Plaza to answer questions regarding the six missing paintings you reported. This is a courtesy. The Mayor, the Police Commissioner, the precinct Captain, the officers and your fellow citizens of New York will greatly appreciate your cooperation. Now, sir, will you come with us?"

"The Mayor and Commissioner, huh? They'll know about this, me helping solve this?"

The officer nodded, wordlessly.

"Well, I wouldn't want to disappoint the city's royalty, now would I? All right, I'll go."

"Thank you sir. This way," the cop turned and the two officers passed a look that spoke volumes.

Canvettelli sashayed to the front of his gallery, turning at the door to say, "Pat, I have to help the police for a while. Please look after things for me, will you, dear?" The clerk of uncertain orientation nodded and waved an air kiss to the owner.

The police officer opened the gallery door and Canvettelli swept through.

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Gleason stopped at the desk in the lobby. "Excuse me, Paul, can you tell me if you have an umbrella I might borrow for the day?"

The desk clerk turned around and said with a smile, "Are you going out in this? Oh, Dr. Dear, are you sure?"

Gleason had become fast friends with everyone in front staff. "Yes, I want to go walk around the campus for a bit. I tried to do that yesterday and it didn't work out like I had hoped."

"So I heard. Did you get some breakfast today?"

"Yes, yes, I had wonderful breads left over from last night's feast and a bottle of juice. I am well suited until lunch. Do you have an extra umbrella?"

"I think we can do better than that, let me check something." Paul ducked back through the office door. Gleason watched the rain bounce on the pewter colored sidewalk. Her mind wandered to Bobby. She wanted to talk with him. She knew she wouldn't.

"Here, how is this?"

Gleason turned back to Paul and laughed, "Oh, goodness! Paul!"

He came around the desk holding a raincoat of enormous proportions. "This may be too big. Let's try it."

Gleason set her bag on the black marble ledge of the registration desk and slipped into the raincoat as Paul held it up. It was heavy, but it covered her head to toes. Paul flipped up the basket-size hood and stepped around her.

"You look like a Trappist Monk," he said smiling. "How is it?"

Gleason held out her arms and did not see her hands; she said, with a huge smile, "I think this works, don't you? I certainly won't need an umbrella with this. Thank you, Paul. I shall return it at the end of the day. Alright?"

"Sure thing, doc. Can I get you that cab now?"

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Eames returned to interview two with Bobby in tow. He'd run back to his desk to retrieve his portfolio. She introduced the two and explained that Bobby would be joining them.

"Good to meet you," the insurance broker said, shaking Bobby's hand.

Bobby nodded and sat next to Eames, across the table from Mazurowsky.

"Did each of the paintings have a minimum payout?" he asked, flipping open his portfolio.

"Yes, actually, let me see here . . . yes, Mr. Jenese stood to received a minimum twenty-five thousand dollars per painting and Mr. Tillman would receive a minimum of forty thousand per painting. That is the price before the adjustment due to the painter's death."

"You said a Mr. Dominic Jenese is the owner of the gallery?"

Mazurowsky nodded.

"What kind of proof of ownership does one need to show in order to purchase insurance as the owner?" Bobby asked.

"Well, actually, none. He purchased a standard policy. He mentioned that he owned the gallery. I guess I remembered. It's not noted anywhere."

"You said Palmer Tillman brokered the sale to the gallery. What can you tell us about him?"

"Well, what do you want to know?" asked the Mazurowsky.

Bobby continued to interview the insurance broker without incident. Eames and he slipped back into their rhythm of questioning.

Deakins stood and watched from behind the glass. This is the man I want back, he thought.