Dominic's Art

by Robert Wangard

When I hung out my shingle as “Nilsen Investigations,” I wasn't foolish enough to expect a stacked blonde to stroll into my office on the first day, plunk down a wad of c-notes, and hire me to find some fabled jewel-encrusted statue. At the same time, I'd promised myself I wouldn't work the bottom end of the food chain just to make a buck. Meaning domestic surveillance cases. The kind where one spouse wants the goods on the other, backed by nine-by-twelve glossies.

But after a month in business, my resolve was being tested. The landlord was hounding me for the second month's rent, my phone bill had just arrived and the only opportunities in sight were three of the pooh cases I'd hoped to avoid.

Then Birley Girnwood showed up in my South Wabash office, clutching one of the flyers I'd been circulating in select circles to get the word out about my talents. He plopped into one of my molded plastic guest chairs and appeared to give me the once over with close-set dark eyes. With his hawkish features, hunched shoulders and bony frame, he reminded me of some outsized bird of prey.

Birley also owned Girnwood Galleries, located on Chicago 's tony Gold Coast. He was convinced that his junior partner, John Huber, had been stealing from him and wanted me to investigate. Junior partner was a misnomer he quickly added in his faux English accent; Huber was really just an employee.

Titles aside, my eyes lit up like one of the slots on a riverboat casino at the prospect of a real case. After letting Birley ramble on for five minutes, I decided I'd shown enough cool. I grabbed his retainer check and hustled it down to my bank before he could say Whistler's Mother.

The following morning, fortified with a jumbo cup of coffee from Kyros Diner next door, I began to scour the records Birley had left with me for signs of wrongdoing. I tackled the financial ledgers first. After three hours, the only conclusion I was able to reach was that double-entry bookkeeping, the accepted standard everywhere, was not widely practiced at Girnwood Galleries. I moved on to the art inventory records and found they consisted mostly of scraps of paper with a few scribbles, typically in Huber's handwriting.

“Have you discovered anything, Mr. Nilsen?” Birley asked after he'd popped into my office unannounced late that afternoon. “By the way, do you mind if I call you Halvor?”

That was my name, Halvor Nilsen. Scandinavian to the bone in a profession that seemed to be dominated by the Irish and Italians. “Hal will do just fine,” I said, donning my everyman hat. “But to answer your question, no, I haven't found anything yet.”

Birley flicked at his gray tweed suit a couple of times and studied his buffed fingernails. “I'm sure something is going on,” he said, looking at me with his sharp eyes. “Our cash is low and we seem to be missing a few pieces of art. I believe it's Mr. Huber.”

“Possible,” I said. “But I can't tell just from your records. If you don't mind me saying, they're a bit of a mess.”

He waved one hand. “I know, I know,” he said. “It's just that I'm totally into art. That's what makes me vulnerable. But I expect you'll be able to come up with the proof we need, Hal. Mind you, I would prefer to handle this confidentially with Mr. Huber and not take it to the authorities if I can avoid doing so.”

After he left, I propped my feet on the gunmetal gray desk I'd inherited from the previous tenant, tried to ignore the peeling paint on my ceiling, and did what every good detective is supposed to do – cogitate. An epiphany didn't reveal itself, but my decision to have a first-hand look at Girnwood Galleries was a start.

* * *

The next day, after catching up on some paperwork, which consisted mostly of sorting through a handful of flyers that had been slipped under my door, I grabbed a bowl of soup and some baklava at Kyros and then took a cab north to visit Birley.

Girnwood Galleries was on Oak Street , a block west of Michigan Avenue . One glance told me the gallery was doing its part to uphold neighborhood standards. Pricey-looking oils that could have been painted by the old masters filled the walls; there wasn't a poster or print in sight. Birley hovered at the far end next to a dowager with, I swear, blue hair. Her eyes were glued to a landscape painted in soothing autumnal colors.

When Birley spotted me, he frowned and was at my side in two bounds of his whippet-like body.

“Hal,” he said in a barely audible croak, “you didn't tell me you were coming over.”

“I thought I should have a look at the scene of the crime, so to speak,” I said, sweeping the room with my eyes. “Very impressive.”

“I can't talk now,” Birley said in his hoarse whisper. His eyes darted about as though he were fearful of being seen with me. “We're very busy today.”

“No problem,” I said. “I'll just look around and then let myself out.”

“Okay,” he finally whispered, “but don't call attention to yourself. And don't bother any of my customers.”

I moved slowly around the gallery, trying to look like a man with a keen appreciation for the visual arts. Then I saw him. Dominic Ambrosi. The mug shots I'd seen back in the days when I worked homicide for the Chicago PD didn't do him justice. His gray suit matched his slicked-back hair and screamed two thousand bucks. The guys flanking him looked straight from central casting for The Sopranos.

Birley saw him at the same time I did and was at his side before I could hum a tune from my favorite goodfellas movie. Ambrosi stood in front of a portrait of a regal woman who wore a simple blue dress with a scooped neckline that displayed just a hint of cleavage. She had wide-set oval eyes, a long straight nose and a heart-shaped mouth. Her dark hair trailed down her back in soft ringlets. With my keen eye for these things, I wondered how I'd missed the piece.

Birley whispered in Ambrosi's ear and pointed at the painting. Ambrosi nodded, but like a man who was only half listening. After more whispers and gestures, Birley touched Ambrosi's sleeve, raised an index finger and skittered back toward blue hair. Ambrosi's eyes never left the painting.

I tapped Birley's arm as he passed. “Isn't that Dominic Ambrosi?” I asked.

His eyebrows inched up his pasty forehead. “Yes, that's Mr. Ambrosi. Do you know him?”

“Only by reputation from my old job. He's connected as I recall.”

Birley's eyes betrayed his anxiety. “Would Mr. Ambrosi recognize you?”

I shrugged. “Unlikely, but I suppose it's possible.”

“Hurry,” Birley said, nudging me through a drapery-covered doorway, “go in back. I'll let you know when he's gone.”

Safely sequestered, I looked around the room. It was a jumble of frames, blank canvasses and packing crates. Paintings of various sizes rested against the walls, many draped with protective coverings. I snuck a look at some of them. One, a portrait of a lady in a blue dress, caught my eye, possibly because it was similar to the piece Dominic Ambrosi had been eyeing so intently. Maybe the same artist, I thought. Possibly a companion portrait.

I was flipping through some art and antiques publications when Birley stuck his head through the curtain, looking more relaxed, and gave the all-clear sign. “I'll call you in the morning,” he said.

“Did he buy it?” I asked.

Birley looked back and his lips curled into as much of a smile as I'd seen from him. “He has it on hold.”

When I reentered the main gallery, he was writing a sales slip for blue hair and wore the expression of a man who'd had a good day.

* * *

My phone was ringing when I opened my office door the next morning. It was Birley. He took me to task for showing up at the gallery without checking with him first, and then pumped me about whether I'd spotted anything useful during my visit. Nothing that would incriminate John Huber, I said. Then I added a gratuitous quip about not knowing he was an art purveyor to the mob. He didn't seem amused.

That night, I staked out Huber's apartment in a building just off West Randolph . One of the reasons I'd gotten out of police work was that I hated stakeouts. But there I was, at it again, and in February no less.

Huber finally showed about nine, just when the temperature inside my old Corolla had reached frostbite levels. I slid out of the car as quietly as I could and moved up behind him as he fumbled with his keys.

“John Huber?” I said.

Huber jerked upright like he'd been jabbed in the back. The keys dropped from his hand and clattered on the concrete steps. When he turned and saw me standing five feet away, his eyes widened. “What do you want?” he asked. There was a tremor in his voice.

“I'm Hal Nilsen. A private investigator. I'd like to ask you a few questions.”

He blinked a few times. “About what?”

“Oh, missing artwork, pilfered cash, things like that. I work for Girnwood Galleries.”

He looked at me for a moment and seemed on the verge of regaining his composure. “Birley hired you? That's ridiculous. I have nothing to say.” He folded his arms across his chest.

There are a few things I can't tolerate, and one is to be jerked around by a guy I'm trying to engage in a reasonable conversation. Something about John Huber's manner suggested he might need a little extra incentive to reciprocate my reasonableness. I unzipped my jacket and let it fall open to expose the Glock.

“We need to talk,” I said, squinting at him in the dim light. “Inside.”

Fear returned to Huber's eyes at the sight of the Glock. “You're not going to hurt me, are you?” The tremor in his voice had returned. “I didn't do anything.”

“I just want to talk to you, John.”

Huber hesitated for a moment and then picked up his keys. He fumbled with the lock, hands shaking, while I waited as patiently as I could, freezing my butt off. He managed to get the door open just as I was about to grab the keys and do it myself.

Huber's apartment was a large open loft with a living area in one corner. The rest of the space was cluttered with easels, paintings and art supplies.

“I didn't know you were an artist,” I said. He just scowled.

Most of Huber's paintings were abstracts in depressing shades of black and gray. But two pieces on adjacent easels stood out. One was a small oil painting of a traditional landscape. The other, as best I could tell, was identical. I stared at the pieces for a few moments and then shifted my gaze back toward Huber.

The scowl was still there but his hands gave him away. Finally, seeming uncomfortable with the silence, he said, “There's nothing wrong with practicing brush technique by studying another piece.”

I continued to stare at him and said nothing. Images from my visit to Girnwood Galleries flashed through my mind.

“I've had enough of this!” Huber said, exhibiting another mood change. “Get out or I'll call the police.” He walked toward the phone, face flushed, and jabbed a finger in my direction. “And I'm going to press charges against you for threatening me with a gun.”

I'd learned long ago that if you were going to threaten a man, it was best to do it when your hands weren't trembling like aspen leaves in a stiff breeze. Huber obviously lacked the same life experience.

“First of all,” I said, “I'm licensed to carry this gun and I never threatened you. But go ahead and call. I'll be curious to see how you explain your interesting art studies. And the missing cash at the gallery.”

Huber's mouth opened as though he were going to reply. Then his shoulders slumped and he dropped into an old wing chair that looked like it had come from the Salvation Army reject pile. I took a seat on a couch that was even less upscale and waited for him to collect himself. After staring into space for a while, Huber opened up and bared his soul. Then he sat back, moist-eyed, and pleaded his case. Maybe he was a slime ball, but my softer side took over and I offered some personal thoughts on redemption, just for what they might be worth.

* * *

Being played always upsets me and I'd decided to get away before I did something stupid. Birley hadn't been pleased when I told him I was going to Myrtle Beach for a week to look in on a sick aunt. And he'd become nearly apoplectic when I said I needed another check to replenish his retainer. His mood did seem to improve a bit when I told him I thought the investigation could be wrapped up shortly after my return.

Myrtle Beach was just the tonic I needed. I never did manage to locate that aunt, but had met a woman who played a nice game of golf. She even helped me lower my own scores by a few strokes. Maybe it had something to do with her talent for working the kinks out of my body after each round. Her sommelier's knowledge of Oregon pinot noirs was a real plus, too.

My first morning back in the office, I checked in with John Huber. He assured me he'd followed through on his vow, which made me feel a little better about human nature. Then I began work on my report to Birley. I finished the report the following day and dressed it up in a nice cover I'd purchased from OfficeMax. It was my first case, and I wanted things to look professional. I made the obligatory stop at Kyros and then headed for Girnwood Galleries.

It was after hours and Birley was waiting to let me in. He seemed more interested in my report than social pleasantries, so I dove right in and told him that John Huber had admitted to borrowing cash a few times and to occasionally taking home a painting or two. Birley seemed pleased to hear of the confession, but when I added that Huber claimed Birley had known about everything in advance, his noggin began to shake like a bobble-head doll with a serious malfunction.

“Not true, Hal, not true. I've had my suspicions, as you're aware. But if I'd known exactly what Mr. Huber was doing, why would I hire you?”

I resisted the temptation to answer and watched as Birley walked over to a desk and unlocked a drawer. “Look,” he said, returning with a log book. “Everyone who takes art from the gallery, if it's not a firm sale, must sign for it. Even me.” He pointed to his signature in several places. “This is one area where we do keep good records, Hal. Do you see Mr. Huber's signature anywhere? And no one can take a cash advance without my approval and giving the company a note.”

I scanned the log but didn't see Huber's signature. “Well, it's all in here,” I said, tapping my report. “If I were you, I'd take this to the States Attorney's office and see if they'll prosecute.”

Birley raised his hand. “No, Hal, people make mistakes. I'm sure I can work things out with Mr. Huber now that the facts are known.”

I nodded. “It's up to you, of course.” Then I pointed to where the portrait of the woman had hung. “You must have closed the sale to Mr. Ambrosi.”

His lips curled into that half smile again. “Yes,” he said, “I had to give him a nice discount, but it was still a six-figure sale.”

I whistled. “He must have really liked it.”

“Very much,” he said, “but it is a very fine piece by a prominent American portrait artist of Italian descent.” Then he added with another little curl of his lips, “And of course it didn't hurt that the lady in the painting looked like his maternal grandmother when she was younger.”

I winked at him. “You're the best. By the way, just between us, which painting did you sell him?”

His eyebrows rose. “What do you mean? I sold him the portrait. Lady in Blue.”

“Yes, I know,” I said. “But which one? The piece that was hanging on the wall or the one you've been storing in back?”

Birley's eyes narrowed. “I don't follow you, Hal.”

“Sure you do,” I said. “John Huber has quite an operation in his loft. He takes art home with your approval, produces copies and you sell them in your gallery, or sometimes in galleries you're affiliated with around the country if it seems too risky to do it here in Chicago .”

“That's absurd,” Birley said. “I have no idea what Mr. Huber does in his loft, but it has nothing to do with me. A man like that will do or say anything.”

“I can't attest as to Huber's character,” I said, “but I did see a duplicate of Lady in Blue in your back room when you shooed me out of sight that day. Is it still there?”

Birley's mouth twitched. “Your baseless allegations are becoming very offensive, Mr. Nilsen. And that aside, do you really believe I'd be foolish enough to sell forged art to a man like Mr. Ambrosi? Besides, he had the piece vetted before he purchased it.”

“Ahhh. Then I assume he took the painting with him immediately after it was vetted.”

“Of course not,” Birley said, plainly disgusted with my ignorance. “We always carefully pack valuable works of art so they won't be damaged in transit. That's one thing Mr. Huber is very good at.”

“So the fake could have been packed up and delivered to Mr. Ambrosi.” I shook my head. “I'd check if I were you.” Birley's eyes instinctively flicked toward the back room, but he didn't take my bait and have a look-see. I knew he would later on, though, and would have given part of my fee just to watch the expression on his face as he searched madly for the other Lady in Blue.

“I think it's time for you to leave, Mr. Nilsen.”

“Okay,” I said, rising to my feet, “here's my report. Everything is in there. I don't think you'll find it much use to coerce John Huber into continuing with your forged art scheme, though. That's why you really hired me, isn't it?”

I watched Birley flip through the report, fumbling with the pages, and then added, “I also understand a local gossip columnist is onto a story about some Chicago gallery selling forged art.” Birley's head snapped up and it looked like he was about to cry.

The cold air felt good for a change. I spotted a mailbox, and after fingering the envelope in my pocket for a moment, slid it into the slot. When I reached Michigan Avenue , I walked south, lost in thought. I wondered whether Dominic Ambrosi was the kind of man who liked to receive mail. And if John Huber had packed the right piece. Then memories of my week at Myrtle Beach crowded out all other thoughts.