his eyes. “You have to truly love art to want to do that.”
“And you don’t?”
“I appreciate art for what it represents, and that’s money.”
“I’m surprised, I figured all you Yale types were into that.”
“Harvard.”
“Excuse me,” Mark said.
“I went to Harvard Business School.”
“Oh.”
Mark had thought that was the case but was pleased to have it confirmed for him without raising Trevor’s suspicions.
“Was your father working on any restoration projects for clients when he was killed?”
“No, there was nothing in his studio,” Trevor said, blinking rapidly.
He’s lying , Mark realized.
“I respect his creed that art should be for all the people. I get that’s where the bulk of his business came from, but did he have any really high-end clients? Either for private sales or restoration projects?”
“Not since my father took over the store. I believe my grandfather had a more exclusive clientele and dealt in pieces that were a bit more pricey, but my father changed the business model once it was his sole responsibility.”
Just by listening to the emphasis he placed on his words Mark had the distinct impression that Trevor preferred his grandfather’s approach. Maybe in the Haverston family snobbery skipped every other generation.
“And now you’re shutting it down.”
“I don’t care to own a business like this,” Trevor said. “Too much work, not enough reward.”
“Your sisters feel the same way?”
“Of course. Now, what does all this have to do with the new lead you’re following?”
“Probably nothing,” Mark said.
“Well, if there’s nothing else, I really am very busy getting ready for the sale,” Trevor said.
“Of course. If I can just get the name of that art restorer from you.”
Trevor moved around the desk, opened one of the drawers, and a minute later handed him a card with the information. “Good luck with your wife’s painting, Detective.”
“Thanks. You know, cleaning it is probably going to cost more than the thing’s even worth. It’s a picture of a bunch of dogs playing poker.”
He swore he saw the nerve under Trevor’s eye twitch.
“I’m sure if it has sentimental value to your wife it will be well worth the cost.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
Mark left, nodding to the lady from the auction house as he passed by her on his way out of the store. She had her cell phone out, looking at it, and she acknowledged his head nod with a tight-lipped smile.
Mark went over the conversation with Trevor in his head. There was something truly fishy, but he needed to put a few more pieces of the puzzle together before he could haul Trevor down to the precinct and accuse him of anything.
He had purposely decided not to mention Heinrich so as to avoid tipping his hand too much. He wondered, though, what would have happened if he had.
Jeremiah was never going to finish the translation work before Rosh Hashanah. He could probably finish reading it to himself by then, but not speaking it into the recorder. He was losing his voice and he couldn’t afford to have it gone completely. Not at this time of the year.
He called Mark again.
“Find something?” the detective asked.
“No, you?” Jeremiah whispered.
“Maybe. You sound worse.”
“Can you get a video recorder?”
“I’m sure I can scrounge one up for you. I can have it over there in about an hour or so, maybe less.”
“Thanks.”
Jeremiah hung up, not wanting to waste more words than he had to. He had to sit and rest his voice for a few more minutes before he could resume. He grabbed a glass of water and had a seat in the writing room, in the corner farthest from where the body had been. As he sipped the water he glanced around the room and let his mind wonder.
Rosh Hashanah was the Jewish New Year and was a two-day event. It was the beginning of the ten-day period referred to as Yamim Noraim, the Days of Awe, which some also called the Days of Repentance. The ten
“And you don’t?”
“I appreciate art for what it represents, and that’s money.”
“I’m surprised, I figured all you Yale types were into that.”
“Harvard.”
“Excuse me,” Mark said.
“I went to Harvard Business School.”
“Oh.”
Mark had thought that was the case but was pleased to have it confirmed for him without raising Trevor’s suspicions.
“Was your father working on any restoration projects for clients when he was killed?”
“No, there was nothing in his studio,” Trevor said, blinking rapidly.
He’s lying , Mark realized.
“I respect his creed that art should be for all the people. I get that’s where the bulk of his business came from, but did he have any really high-end clients? Either for private sales or restoration projects?”
“Not since my father took over the store. I believe my grandfather had a more exclusive clientele and dealt in pieces that were a bit more pricey, but my father changed the business model once it was his sole responsibility.”
Just by listening to the emphasis he placed on his words Mark had the distinct impression that Trevor preferred his grandfather’s approach. Maybe in the Haverston family snobbery skipped every other generation.
“And now you’re shutting it down.”
“I don’t care to own a business like this,” Trevor said. “Too much work, not enough reward.”
“Your sisters feel the same way?”
“Of course. Now, what does all this have to do with the new lead you’re following?”
“Probably nothing,” Mark said.
“Well, if there’s nothing else, I really am very busy getting ready for the sale,” Trevor said.
“Of course. If I can just get the name of that art restorer from you.”
Trevor moved around the desk, opened one of the drawers, and a minute later handed him a card with the information. “Good luck with your wife’s painting, Detective.”
“Thanks. You know, cleaning it is probably going to cost more than the thing’s even worth. It’s a picture of a bunch of dogs playing poker.”
He swore he saw the nerve under Trevor’s eye twitch.
“I’m sure if it has sentimental value to your wife it will be well worth the cost.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
Mark left, nodding to the lady from the auction house as he passed by her on his way out of the store. She had her cell phone out, looking at it, and she acknowledged his head nod with a tight-lipped smile.
Mark went over the conversation with Trevor in his head. There was something truly fishy, but he needed to put a few more pieces of the puzzle together before he could haul Trevor down to the precinct and accuse him of anything.
He had purposely decided not to mention Heinrich so as to avoid tipping his hand too much. He wondered, though, what would have happened if he had.
Jeremiah was never going to finish the translation work before Rosh Hashanah. He could probably finish reading it to himself by then, but not speaking it into the recorder. He was losing his voice and he couldn’t afford to have it gone completely. Not at this time of the year.
He called Mark again.
“Find something?” the detective asked.
“No, you?” Jeremiah whispered.
“Maybe. You sound worse.”
“Can you get a video recorder?”
“I’m sure I can scrounge one up for you. I can have it over there in about an hour or so, maybe less.”
“Thanks.”
Jeremiah hung up, not wanting to waste more words than he had to. He had to sit and rest his voice for a few more minutes before he could resume. He grabbed a glass of water and had a seat in the writing room, in the corner farthest from where the body had been. As he sipped the water he glanced around the room and let his mind wonder.
Rosh Hashanah was the Jewish New Year and was a two-day event. It was the beginning of the ten-day period referred to as Yamim Noraim, the Days of Awe, which some also called the Days of Repentance. The ten
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