The 19th Christmas (Women's Murder Club #19)(27)

My partner and I, wearing our SFPD Windbreakers over chinos, stood out like soccer players who’d blundered onto the stage at an opera. We ignored the hard stares of the patrons and took in the scene. The gallery was half a city block long with plate-glass windows fronting the street. I counted six exits, a camera over each, and small motion detectors beaming lasers onto the exhibits, set to chirp if someone got too close.

My attention was drawn to a harpsichord in the window. It was a meticulously crafted piece, with a mosaic of inlaid wood. How much was this doggy, anyway?

I stepped in and read the card on a pedestal beside it. I learned that it had been made by an unknown Italian artist in the mid-fifteenth century; the red dot beside the two-million-dollar price tag told me that it had been sold.

I shifted my eyes to other instruments displayed around the large, open room, each presented like one of the queen’s crown jewels. Red dots marked many of the cards, telling me that the money was flowing along with the champagne.

I was beginning to understand. Compared with armored trucks and banks, compared even with the de Young Museum, the Soigne Gallery was vulnerable and as sweet a hit as a chocolate cake with icing roses.

All Loman would need was a half a dozen guys with a couple of vans parked at the rear of the building. And he’d have to have a fence with international connections who could sell this pricey, unusual loot to collectors, a fence with an underground gallery and the ability to keep an illegal haul to him-or herself.

My thoughts were broken by a handsome man in his midthirties wearing a professional smile and an expensive suit calling out, “May I help you?” He came over to us. “I’m Charles Linden,” he said, “operations manager. Has someone left their car lights on?”

If only. I gave him our names and told him our business, after which he reluctantly called over to Soigne’s owner, Renata Fabiano.

Ms. Fabiano, standing to my left in the center of the gallery, was a stunning fifty-something woman in black, buffed and polished to a high shine. She’d been showing off her knowledge of fifteenth-century strings to a rapt couple of richies.

She didn’t like the interruption. She scowled at her manager and then, even though I was a couple of inches taller than her, managed to look down on me as though I were tracking dog dirt onto her carpet.

I apologized, steered Ms. Fabiano to a dead spot in the gallery, and told her that we’d received a tip that her gallery was a target of an armed robbery.

For a moment I had her complete attention. She didn’t even give Conklin a glance. First time I could remember a female failing to take a long look at Inspector Hottie.

But her attention to me was fleeting. “Talk to Charles,” Fabiano said. “He knows all about our security systems.” Then she returned to her prospects.

The manager took his cue and led Conklin and me to his office just behind the gallery display space. After we all sat down, he said, “How do you know about this impending robbery?”

Conklin said, “Mr. Linden, how we know isn’t important. What we know is that the party who may be targeting this gallery is a pro. When he stages a hit, he gets what he came for. And he has a signature. He leaves dead bodies behind.”





CHAPTER 36





“WE HAVE AMAZING security,” Charles Linden told us. “Cameras at the exits, vibration sensors on paintings, and many of the sculptures and alarms are connected to a central station. Our employees have been vetted and their pass cards are registered.”

I said, “You’re not checking packages and bags at the door. You don’t have screening apparatus.”

Linden shrugged. “Our patrons wouldn’t stand for it. You can see that, can’t you?”

Conklin said, “I’d like to look at a list of your employees.”

“Why do you need that?”

“Often big-ticket robberies are inside jobs,” said Conklin. “I can’t force you, but you should let me have that list and the names of anyone who left your employ in the past year.”

Linden gave Conklin a cold look, then tapped on his keyboard. The printer on his credenza came to life.

I said, “What other security measures do you have, Mr. Linden? Saturation motion detectors?”

“Yes, in the main gallery, but not in the other wings. I don’t see how we could rewire the place every time we have a new exhibit.”

Conklin walked over to the printer. “Okay for me to take this?”

Linden said, “Be my guest.”

I thought, What a jerk, but didn’t say it.

Conklin took the list of employee names from the tray and said to me, “I’ll be back.”

While Conklin was running the list through our car’s computer, I told Linden, “Here’s what I think. You’ve got a good system, but it won’t withstand a serious professional assault. If I were you, I’d call your security company, have them place three or four guards on premises twenty-four/ seven for the next couple of days. And if they have canines, bring them in overnight.”

“Uh, I’ll talk to Renata.”

“Also, since you don’t know who is coming in or what they’re carrying, I’d close up shop now.”

“Our customers, clients, they’re making big purchases. We could sell more before Christmas than we will in the next six months.”