Tampa Bay Noir Read online

  “Do you remember being here?” Jasmine asked.

  “Of course,” Bosch said. “I remember everything.”

  He looked at her and waited. This was the place where she created, where she felt safest. If she wanted to reveal something, it would be now. She looked at her work in progress for a moment and then back to him.

  “You asked about the money—what the painting was worth,” she said. “It’s not about the money. It’s not even about the intruder. That piece . . . that painting is when everything changed for me. I found my art. I found the confidence in what I was doing with my life. It’s a portrait of you but it’s also of me. Coming out of darkness. I don’t know if that makes sense to you but it—”

  “It does,” Bosch said. “I understand.”

  “Then you see. I have to find it. I have to get it back. I’m not sure the local police understand that. That’s why I called you.” She was silhouetted by the light coming through the windows.

  “I’ll do my best,” he said.

  “I believe you.” She came to him and put her arms around him and leaned her head against his chest. “You must be tired,” she said. “You took a red-eye. I have a room set up for you if you want to rest.”

  “I just need some coffee and I’ll be fine,” he said. “I want to call Detective Stone and just tell him I’ll be poking around on this. I also thought maybe I should stay at a hotel or something. I don’t want to im—”

  “Don’t be silly. I have a big house and you can have half of the top floor. You won’t be bothered . . . unless you want to be.” She landed the last line with a tilted smile Bosch remembered very well.

  * * *

  Back inside the main house, Jasmine made coffee while Bosch walked back to the living room, where he studied the wall on which the missing painting had hung. Up close he saw the smudges of fingerprint powder on the plaster. It was good to know the locals had tried but he also knew that a painting could be removed from a wall without having to touch the wall. He expected that the forensic effort had been for naught.

  He turned away and looked out the large plate-glass window to the street. Anybody driving by could have seen the painting and become enthralled by it. Narrowing that down to a suspect list would be impossible. He called to Jasmine, who was still in the kitchen.

  “Were there any cameras?”

  “What?”

  “Cameras. Here or at homes on the street. Did the police check?”

  “They checked. Detective Stone said it was a bust. Cream and sugar?”

  “Black is fine.”

  She entered the room carrying a mug of steaming coffee. “I should’ve remembered. No cream, no sugar,” she said. “Let it cool.”

  She carefully handed him the mug. He was tempted to take a gulp and get the caffeine working inside him, but he followed her directions and stood there awkwardly holding the mug. It said Girl Power on the side.

  He turned and looked out the window again, his gaze carrying to the house across the street. It was another large craftsman-style house with a full porch. But he could tell it was empty. No curtains on any window. And empty rooms beyond the glass. There was a real estate sign on the lawn that said, FOR SALE.

  “When did they move out?” he asked.

  “A couple weeks ago,” Jasmine said.

  “Did you know them?”

  “Not that well. I keep to myself mostly. I know Pat and George next door. We have a drink at Christmas every year—we alternate porches. I have the odd years, they the even. But that’s about it.”

  “Do Pat and George have a spare key to your house?”

  “No.”

  “Does anybody?”

  “Just my manager.”

  “I think I should talk to your manager. Where is he?”

  “It’s a she. Monica Tate. She works out of the gallery on MacDill.”

  Bosch took his first sip of coffee. It was good and fully charged and he thought he could feel the spark hitting his bloodstream, going to work. “This is good,” he said. “Will Monica be there today?”

  “Yes. The gallery hours are eleven to three but she goes in earlier to handle the business end of it.”

  “You don’t like the business end of it?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Bosch took another hit of coffee. “I should go over there then,” he said. “Can I take this or do you have a to-go cup?”

  “I have cups,” she said.

  Bosch followed her into the kitchen and poured his coffee into a foam cup she got out of the pantry. “How long have you known Monica?” he asked.

  “About fifteen years. She changed everything for me. Got my work in front of the right people, opened the gallery. This house, everything I have really, I owe it to her.”

  Bosch knew that many successful artists had trouble accepting accolades and money. Many didn’t care about it and others craved it. He put Jasmine in the former category. When he thought about their past times together, he knew that all she wanted to do was be in a room by herself and paint.

  “Don’t sell yourself short,” he said. “I’m sure Monica is good at what she does, but it starts with the art and that’s all you.”

  “That’s nice of you to say.”

  “What is Monica’s cut?”

  “Do you really need to know that?”

  “I need to know everything. Then I can tell what’s important.”

  “She takes out the gallery expenses, all the shipping, and 25 percent for herself. It’s standard.”

  “Do you know if Detective Stone spoke to Monica?”

  “Yes, he had to speak to her so they could value the loss. The higher the loss, the higher the level of the crime, I guess.”

  “Yeah, that’s how it works. What was the value?”

  “Eighty thousand. But I have to tell you, I’ve never sold a painting for that much. Not even close. Monica said it was worth that because it was a seminal work and part of the artist’s personal collection.”

  “Was it insured for that much?”

  “I have a general policy on all my work. I won’t get that much unless I want to hire a lawyer. The insurance company is trying to say that because it was on a wall in my house, it doesn’t count under the policy for the studio. It’s part of the homeowner’s insurance and included in home furnishings. There’s a maximum payout of twenty-five thousand.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “Tell it to them. I’m not going to fight it. I don’t care about the money. I just want my painting back. I haven’t been able to work since it was taken.”

  Bosch nodded. He knew she wanted more assurance than I’ll do my best. She wanted a promise that he would find the painting and bring it back. But he never made promises like that. When he worked homicides in Los Angeles, he made too many promises like that, telling grieving parents he would find the killers who took their sons or daughters. He never made good on some of them and the promises kept him awake at night.

  “Okay,” he said, “I’m going over there to see Monica. Do me a favor: don’t tell her I’m coming.”

  “I won’t. But if you think she may be involved in this, you are wrong. Monica would not betray me like that.”

  “It’s good that you have somebody like that. But I don’t think anything about anybody right now.”

  * * *

  Bosch took Swann to MacDill and turned south toward the air force base the street was named for. He knew from prior visits that Tampa didn’t rely solely on tourism like most of the cities that crowded Florida’s coastline or sat in the middle of the state where only an iconic mouse could draw people on humid summer days. Tampa was unique. It was a peninsula that had water views and beauty from almost all angles—he had been reminded of this as he drove along Bayshore while getting up the courage to knock on Jasmine’s door. It was also a military town. MacDill AFB was the location of CENTCOM, from which the country’s most recent wars were directed. The base took up the entire southern tip of the peninsul
a and it was not unusual to see fighter jets and huge Stratotanker refueling planes on maneuvers in the sky over Tampa Bay.

  But long before MacDill Avenue reached the end of the peninsula, it moved through a small art district where there were a handful of galleries and frame shops. On his way, Bosch called the number Jasmine had given him for Detective Stone at the Tampa Police Department.

  “Burglary, Stone. How can I help you?”

  “Detective, my name is Harry Bosch. I got your number from Jasmine Corian. I’m a friend of—”

  “Excuse me, who gave you this number?”

  “Jasmine Corian.”

  “And she is . . . ?”

  “The artist whose painting was stolen off the wall of her living room. I thought it was your—”

  “Yes, yes, sorry—a lot going on here. I know who Jasmine Corian is. What can I do for you, Mr. Bush?”

  “It’s Bosch. As I was saying, I’m a friend of hers and I’m retired LAPD and she asked me to come out and take a look at things regarding the theft.”

  There was a long silence before Stone finally responded. “LAPD—what are we talking about here? Lake Alice Police Department?”

  “No, Los Angeles.”

  “Really. The LAPD. I’m honored.”

  Bosch could hear the sarcasm clearly.

  “How long have you been retired?”

  “A few years.”

  “And what did you do for LAPD?”

  “I worked homicides for about thirty years.”

  “Good for you, but this is not a homicide.”

  “I know that, Detective. Ms. Corian and I have an acquaintance going back twenty-five years or so. She asked me to come out and take a look at this.”

  “A look—what does that mean?”

  “It means I am going to look into the theft of her painting. I just thought you should know and I wanted to see if you want to get together to discuss the investigation.”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Look, I know what it’s like. Crime victims going to private investigators and all of that. You don’t want the headache and I promise you I won’t be a headache. If you don’t want to talk to me, that’s fine. But I’m here and I’m working it. And if I find anything that you don’t have or know, then you will be the first person I call.”

  “Mr. Bush, you already are a headache to me. This is a police matter and it’s under investigation. I respect that you were a police detective—at least you say you were—but stay away from this or you could get yourself into trouble.”

  Now Bosch paused while he composed an answer. “What does that mean? Are you threatening me?”

  “No, I am telling you that if you interfere with a police investigation, there are consequences. Now, I’m in the middle of things here. I have multiple cases and I need to go.”

  Stone disconnected. Bosch held his phone to his ear for a few seconds before dropping it into the cup holder in the center console.

  A few minutes later he pulled into a space in front of a gallery called Jazz, which was how Jasmine signed her work. It was just opening for the day. And as he stepped to the glass door, a woman appeared on the other side and unlocked it. She looked at him for a moment through the glass as though she knew him. She pulled the door open.

  “You’re him,” she said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re him. The one in the painting. I recognize you. Jasmine said you were real but she never told me about you.”

  “Can I come in?”

  “Of course.”

  She stepped back and he stepped in. It was not a large gallery. A square with a display wall running down the center. It allowed for four walls holding two paintings each. At the back was a desk in front of a doorway that led to what Bosch assumed was a storage and packaging area.

  The paintings on display looked to be part of a linked series of studies of a woman. It took Bosch a moment before he realized they were self-portraits. Though each was unique in terms of pose and color—ranging from shades of black, gray, and red—the eyes in each painting were unmistakably Jasmine’s.

  “Are you Monica Tate?” he asked.

  “Yes. We haven’t met though. I would remember.”

  “Harry Bosch. I’m here about the painting. The one that was stolen.”

  “She told you.”

  “Yes, she asked me to look for it. I’m a detective.”

  “You mean like a private eye?”

  “Yes. Who do you think would have wanted to steal it?”

  Tate shook her head like it was stupid question. “Anybody who knows her work,” she said.

  “But why that painting?” Bosch asked. “It’s never been for sale. How would people know about it?”

  “It’s been in a few catalogs. Jasmine wasn’t happy about it, but I convinced her. The painting is powerful. I put it on the cover of one catalog. It drew people in. They would find out they couldn’t have it, but then they would pick something else. It’s also been on the website. It’s a sales tool. It has that rare thing. People who know true art want it.”

  “Any customers who wouldn’t take no for an answer?”

  “You mean who would then steal it? No, none. That’s insulting. I don’t deal with people like that.”

  “Good to hear. Where is your key to Jasmine’s home?”

  “Are you suggesting that I took the painting?”

  “No. I just want to confirm that you still have the key. If you don’t, then we may have a clue to what happened. Because there was no sign of forced entry. Whoever took the painting either walked in through an unlocked door or had a key to unlock it.”

  Tate turned with a huff and walked to the desk at the back of the gallery. She took a set of keys sitting on top of it and used one to unlock a drawer in the desk. She then opened the drawer, reached in, and held up a key.

  “Happy?” she asked.

  Bosch stepped over to the desk. “You keep it in the desk rather than on your own key chain,” he said.

  “Yes, it’s not my key. I have it in case there’s an emergency or she locks herself out. I don’t carry it with me everywhere I go.”

  “Have you ever used it? In a case of emergency or if Jasmine locked herself out?”

  “No, never.”

  “And you can’t think of anyone you’ve dealt with who might take it upon themselves to steal that painting after you told them it was not for sale?”

  “No, no one.”

  “Is there anyone who has bought more than one of her paintings? Anyone obsessive about her or her work?”

  “I don’t know about obsessive, but it’s not unusual in the art world for collectors to have multiples of the artists they love. Sometimes it’s investment and sometimes it’s purely love of the art.”

  “Who does Jasmine have that’s like that?”

  “I would have to look through the books. I’ve been selling her paintings for fifteen years. There have been many people who have come back for more. One man on Davis Island has four or five paintings.”

  She pointed past Bosch to the center wall. He turned and looked at a painting that depicted the artist sitting huddled over, cradling her face in her hands, one eye peeking between two splayed fingers. It was painted in black and gray gradations. It was haunting, as were all of the self-portraits.

  “He just bought that one, in fact,” Tate said.

  “Did he ever ask about The Guardian?”

  “I’m sure he did but I don’t remember.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “I’m not going to give you his name. Not unless Jasmine tells me to.”

  “She will. Thank you for your time.” Bosch headed toward the door.

  * * *

  In the living room at the house on Willow, Bosch reported to Jasmine that he had alienated both the detective assigned to the painting theft and her gallery manager. He also told her he wanted the name of the collector who had purchased multiple paintings by her.

&n
bsp; “Can you call Monica?” he asked. “She said she’d give the name to you. He lives on Davis Island, wherever that is.”

  “That would be Paul Danziger,” she said. “I don’t need to call her. I know him.”

  “Where is Davis Island?”

  “It’s right across the bay. You take the bridge by the hospital. It’s actually called Davis Islands—it’s three islands connected by small bridges.”

  “You have his address?”

  “Yes, but he didn’t steal the painting.”

  “How do you know? I need to—”

  “I know he didn’t. I know Paul very well. He didn’t take the painting.”

  Bosch studied her. There was something else there. “How well do you know him?” he asked.

  “We had a relationship. It ended five or six years ago.”

  Bosch waited. Silence was often the best way to tease out information.

  “Even though the relationship is over, he still buys my paintings to support me,” she finally said. “He would not steal from me.”

  “Okay. Who ended the relationship?”

  “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “That has nothing to do with this. It’s private and painful and you don’t need to know.”

  “Okay, then did you ever discuss the painting with him?” He pointed toward the empty wall.

  “We might have,” Jasmine said. “I don’t remember.”

  “Sure you do,” Bosch prompted.

  “He liked the painting. But he liked all of my paintings and has bought several. For himself and as gifts to others.”

  “Did he know who was in the painting? Did you tell him about me?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “I think you do.”

  “Okay, yes, I probably told him the story, okay? I told him who it was a portrait of.”

  Bosch stepped away and moved to the front window. He saw a white van pull into the driveway of the house across the street. On its side panel was a sign that identified it as part of a fleet from a commercial cleaning service. Two men in white overalls got out and started unloading equipment and supplies from the back of the van. Then a Range Rover SUV pulled in behind the van. A man got out of the car, acknowledged the other two, and walked to the front door. A key lockbox was attached to the knob on the front door. He started working the combination.