“I’d rather surprise her,” Nesha said.
“I’m assuming you have her apartment number.”
“Follow me,” he said.
The foyer must have been grand once, marble floor and rounded columns. But the weave of the two chesterfields was smooth where it should have been nubbly and the Chinese area rug had been crunched under by too many feet.
They took the elevator to the fourth floor. The geometric broadloom in brown and blue triangles felt prickly with static. Rebecca followed him down the hall with misgivings. What could they possibly say to Isabella that would convince her to let them in? Nesha stopped in front of Isabella’s door. Voices were barking inside. Glancing around, he brought his ear to the wood.
He didn’t need to; she could hear them from two feet away. A man and woman were bellowing at each other in Spanish.
“Those messages she left on his machine were fake,” he whispered. “She’s a good actress. Why didn’t I think of it before? He’s here! He’s really here!”
His eyes widened and his mouth turned down; Rebecca hardly recognized him.
He began to pound his fist on the door. “Open up! Open the door!”
The voices inside stopped. Isabella, still combative, asked, “¡Quien es! What do you want?”
“Open up now! You can be charged with harbouring a fugitive. We’ll call the police if you don’t let us in now!”
The door flew open. Isabella, reeking of liquor, wavered in the doorway in red silk pyjamas and bare feet. Without her heels she was much smaller than Rebecca remembered.
“Who are you?” she said looking at Nesha.
Rebecca pulled her attention away. “We met at the club a few nights ago.” It was enough for him to push past Isabella into the apartment.
“Where is he?” Nesha cried.
Isabella stared at him, dumbfounded. Her oily black hair hung thin and limp around her shoulders. Old mascara smudged the skin beneath her eyes.
“Who?”
“Who do you think? Your boyfriend. We heard you outside.” He began to head toward a closed bedroom when the door opened. A man stepped out.
“I think we are all looking for the same person,” said the Capitán.
“Who the hell are you?” said Nesha, poking his head into the empty bedroom.
“Capitán Diaz, at your service.”
Nesha observed his well-oiled dark hair and suavely-cut suit. “You’re the guy who runs the money-laundering operation.”
A shadow passed over the Capitná’ s eyes. “You are mistaken, sir. I run a legitimate establishment. Leo would tell you so if he was here.” He stepped toward Isabella.
“But he isn’t here. So where exactly is Leo?”
“If I knew where he was, would I come here? I have a business to run. People want to get paid. He must write the cheques. But he doesn’t come in for two days on a weekend, when everyone is standing at my door with their hands out.”
He reached into an inside pocket of his jacket.
Nesha, wound up like a coil, swung his arm around his back and whipped out the gun.
Diaz froze. He held the pose in a tableau, one arm fixed across his chest like a street-corner mime, fingers curled around a package of cigarettes.
They all watched the gun, waiting.
“A smoke!” said Diaz. “I just wanted a smoke.”
Isabella stood precariously, one hand gripping the frame of the red velvet sofa, the other holding a cigarette that threatened to nosedive into the carpet.
“As you can see,” said Rebecca, “my friend’s a little irritable. It might help if you told us what you know about the paintings.”
“If he puts away the gun.”
Rebecca caught Nesha’s eye. He lowered the gun but held it at his side.
“May I...?” Diaz lowered his gaze toward the mannequin arm.
Nesha gave an impatient nod.
“What do you want to know?” said Diaz, taking out a cigarette.
“Where’s the money coming from?” Rebecca asked.
“What money?”
“The money that the club is a front for. The money you’re laundering at the restaurant.”
Diaz stared sullenly at her. “I just run the club. It’s Leo’s place. Leo’s business.”
“What business?”
Nesha’s hand began to rise slowly.
“Art,” he said finally. “Stolen. You wouldn’t believe how big it is. Even the Mafia’s doing it.”
“Stolen from where?” she asked.
“Anywhere. Galleries, private collections. Museums are harder, unless they’re small. Most of the big museums have modern safeguards. You’d be surprised how casual most people are about paintings hanging in their homes.”
“The club isn’t just a front, is it?” Rebecca said, “He also finds clients there, Argentinians who came with money, or maybe something to sell...?”
“Business is where you find it.”
“What about the paintings in his apartment?”
“A lucrative sideline. Leo only deals with people he knows for those.”
“He must have a hot little black book,” Nesha said. “What do you know about the Edelweiss Club?”
Diaz sighed. “Sometimes he meets clients there. It’s a small place and they respect his privacy.”
Rebecca questioned Nesha with her eyes.
“They wouldn’t give me his number,” he answered. “And I wouldn’t give them mine. It was a stand-off.”
“Why do all the people selling the paintings live in Argentina?” Rebecca asked.
“Those are his connections. They trust him, he knows them. The paintings are very valuable. They can’t sell them to galleries because they were stolen. From before.”
“They’re looted, aren’t they?” she said. “From the war.”
“This is an old story,” he said. “Everyone steals during war.”
Nesha said, “A lot of Nazis went to Argentina after the war. These people selling the art are Nazis, aren’t they? Selling art they stole from Jews.”
Diaz blew smoke out of his nose, but he was thinking. He seemed surprised at the turn of the questioning. “Nazis, yes. Maybe they’re Nazis. Nazis are respected in Argentina.”
“You don’t care, do you?” said Nesha. “As long as you make your money, you don’t care who you’re dealing with.”
“I’m a businessman, sir. I must make my money where I can. I must live, like everybody else. You have no idea how hard....”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about your business. Your partner is a murderer, a war criminal. Your partner murdered my family. That’s all I care about.”
“Leo is many things, but he is not what you say. You are mistaken.”