An Insignificant Case

Chapter Eleven

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Guido had traded his caftan for a paint-stained sweatshirt and jeans, and he was painting a portrait of Saint Francis of Assisi when he heard a car drive up to his barn. He walked into the yard and saw a man dressed in pressed jeans, a blue shirt, and a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches walking toward him. The man was average height and had a slender build. His ginger hair, mustache, and goatee looked like they had been cut and trimmed by a professional.

“Mr. Sabatini?” the man inquired.

“Sì.”

“I’m Rene LaTour. I just flew in from San Francisco, and I would be grateful if you could spare me a few moments of your time.”

Guido couldn’t think of any reason anyone would fly from San Francisco to see him, so he led LaTour into the barn to solve the mystery.

LaTour walked over to Guido’s easel and studied the work in progress.

“This is really good, Mr. Sabatini,” LaTour said. “And your exceptional paintings are the reason I wanted to meet with you.”

“Yes?”

“I’ll get right to the point. I represent a wealthy art collector who has been following your case. He’s seen photographs of your artwork on your website, and he has been very impressed. He wants to purchase several of your paintings.”

“Who is your client, signor?”

LaTour smiled. “He prefers to remain anonymous, and he trusts me to select the paintings for him. He is willing to pay good money for them.”

“You have my attention. How much money are we talking about?”

“In the neighborhood of fifteen thousand dollars for each painting.”

Guido nodded. Then he frowned. “I may be interested, but tell me. You say you represent a private collector. Will he be keeping my paintings in his residence, where no one can see them?”

LaTour smiled. “We know that you want to have as many people as possible admire your artistry. I have a gallery, and we plan to display your work so everyone can admire it.”

Guido smiled. “Ah, bene . Do you wish to see my paintings?”

“Of course.”

LaTour spent the next hour in the stalls where Guido kept his finished work. By the time he was through, LaTour had settled on six paintings he said he would recommend that his client purchase and had taken a photograph of each of them.

“I’m going to return to San Francisco tonight, and I’ll call you tomorrow after I confer with my client.”

“I look forward to hearing whether your client appreciates what I have accomplished.”

“I’m certain he will. And now, before I go, there’s one more article we would like to purchase.”

“Oh?”

“You’re charged with liberating a painting of a Venice canal from La Bella Roma restaurant.”

“Yes.”

“I understand that you also took a flash drive from Miss Hall’s safe.”

Guido stopped smiling.

“My client will pay another sum for the flash drive, which will be in excess of what he will pay you for your exceptional paintings.”

Guido took a moment to respond. “It is obvious that you have no interest in my work, Signor LaTour. It is this other item that you believe I have that has brought you to my farm, is it not?”

“My client does admire your paintings, but he has a personal reason for acquiring the flash drive, and he is willing to meet your price, if it is within reason.”

“And if it is not or I refuse to part with this drive—which, by the way, I do not say I possess—what then?”

“You don’t want to go there, Mr. Sabatini. Let me make this clear. My client prefers to pay you for your trouble, but it can be very dangerous to turn down his offer.”

Guido nodded. “Thank you for your honesty. But I must decline your offer. And now I want you to leave so I can return to my painting.”

“Don’t make a rash decision, Mr. Sabatini. I’ll call before I fly home. Think about our offer and the downside of rejecting it.”

LaTour made certain that he was out of sight of the farm before he parked on the side of the road and made a call.

“I just left Sabatini. He caught on right away.”

“I’m not surprised,” Max Unger said. “The guy’s no dummy. What did he say?”

“As soon as he realized that we wanted the flash drive and didn’t care about his paintings, he closed down.”

“He wouldn’t sell the drive?”

“I’m calling him later, after he’s had time to think. I’ll let you know how that goes.”

Brad and Brent Atkins worked at the loading dock at a big-box store.

“Hey, did you see this?” asked Brad, who had been reading the local news while they were on their lunch break.

“See what?”

Brad showed his brother a photograph of a man who looked like Jesus Christ walking out of a courtroom.

“No. Why should I care?”

“Doesn’t he look familiar?”

“Well, yeah. I saw him every time Mom took us to church.”

“No, you idiot. Picture him in jeans and a plaid shirt, wearing a Mariners baseball cap.”

Brent leaned into the screen and stared. Then he straightened up. “It’s the dude who took our money.”

“That’s what I think.”

“Why is he in court?” Brent asked.

“It says his name is Lawrence Weiss, but he’s an artist who calls himself Guido Sabatini. He’s charged with breaking into an Italian restaurant and stealing a painting he sold to the owner.”

“Look him up. See if they say where he lives.”

Brad did an internet search on his phone.

“Holy shit,” he said when he was through.

“What?”

“Weiss is a math genius, and he’s been banned from all the big casinos for card counting. It sounds like he’s a World Series of Poker–level player.”

“Motherfucker,” Brent swore. “I knew something was off about that guy. He’s got no business playing in a local game like the one Frank runs at the gun store.”

“I don’t get this deal with the Jesus outfit,” Brad said. “It sounds like he has a screw loose.”

“Does it say where he lives?” Brent asked.

“Yeah. It’s a farm out in the country. Why?”

“I’m gonna pay that asshole a visit and get our money back.”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea. He was packing at the poker game.”

“He got the drop on us. That won’t happen again.”

“I think you should forget it. He didn’t rob us. He’s just a real good poker player.”

“No, Brad. Weiss is a major leaguer who took advantage of two dumb shits who were just trying to have some fun.”

“Please don’t do anything stupid.”

Brent was quiet for a minute. Then he smiled. “Lunch break’s over. Let’s get back to work.”

“Brent, leave it alone.”

Brent got up and walked back to the loading dock without answering.

Guido Sabatini had watched the movie on the flash drive he’d taken from Gretchen Hall’s safe, and he’d found it disturbing. When it started, a beautiful blond girl was sitting on a bed in a small room. Guido thought that she looked very young, possibly just in her teens. The door opened, and the girl looked very anxious. Her anxiety increased when a man in a mask walked in. There wasn’t any sound, but the man said something, and the girl scuttled to the back of the bed, only stopping when her back was against the wall. The man attacked his victim, ripping her clothes and hitting her when she resisted. Then he raped the girl and strangled her.

Guido felt sick when the film ended. He knew that he should show it to the police, but he had no intention of turning it over to the authorities. If he did, he would become a witness in a court proceeding, and that would mean time away from his painting. That was why he had decided to return everything to Gretchen Hall once she agreed to hang his painting in La Bella Roma’s dining room. That didn’t mean that he was oblivious to the precarious position he’d put himself in when he stole the flash drive from the safe.

Guido’s IQ was comfortably above the minimum it took to be considered a genius. He knew that just because he had decided that he would not be a threat to the people involved in the sex trafficking ring didn’t mean that those same people would not see him as a problem. Rene LaTour’s veiled threat had supported his conclusion that dangerous people wanted the drive.

There had been a time when Guido’s earnings from his poker and blackjack exploits had made him wealthy. These exploits had also made him the object of threats from the people who ran the casinos he had scammed and some shady individuals who had resented being cleaned out in backroom poker games that were contested in the shadows. When he was still able to afford it, Guido had purchased the farm and installed a top-of-the-line security system.

As soon as Guido watched the film, he started leaving on lights that operated on a timer in his house and sleeping in a stall in his barn that housed the security camera feeds. Guido was not a pacifist. Renaissance painters like Caravaggio were not averse to violence. But Guido believed that God protected him. How else to explain the many times he had not suffered consequences when he’d liberated his paintings from ungrateful purchasers?

On the evening before he was supposed to meet Gretchen Hall, he was awakened by a motion sensor on the periphery of his property. Guido turned to the pictures his security cameras were sending, and he saw a man he recognized as one of the brothers from the gun store poker game sneaking through the woods toward his farm.

Guido sighed. He took out his gun and was preparing to head off the fool before anyone got hurt when he saw a masked figure dressed in black clothing closing on the brother. They didn’t look like they were together. Guido found this disturbing.

Guido had an escape route that started at the back of the barn. He grabbed his portfolio, the Venice canal painting, and the flash drive and hurried to the car he’d parked on a back road.