LITMIR.BIZ

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she’s sold were forged. But they were not fakes when the gallery acquired them.”

      I returned a bite of crab cake to my plate and sat back. “Whoa.” I didn’t know much about art, but that didn’t sound good. “What did the cops say?”

      “She hasn’t contacted the cops.”

      “Why? Something was stolen from her, right? The paintings would have to be stolen before they were replaced with fakes.”

      “Right, but the CPD doesn’t have an art crime division. Almost no local police departments do. And it can take decades for a stolen piece to show up on the market again. Plus, Saga doesn’t want anyone to know this is happening. Reputation, for an art gallery owner, is everything.”

      “What about security cameras? Did she have them?”

      “Yes and no. She didn’t at the Bucktown gallery, but when she built out the new space, they were installed. I’ve analyzed the video for her. Nothing strange. Just Madeline in and out all the time, people she had working with her, customers.”

      I continued eating my crab cake.

      Mayburn looked deeply troubled. “The worst part,” he said, “is that whoever is stealing the paintings is trying to hurt her.”

      “What do you mean? Was she attacked?”

      “Not yet. But things have been weird—finding doors open at her house that she swore she’d closed and locked. Things that seem moved around in her office, although she can’t be sure. And then there’s the fact that anyone who knows Madeline knows that taking her paintings away would cause her great pain.”

      I noticed he referred to the paintings as if they were her children. “Sounds complicated.”

      “It is.”

      I thought about it. “You know what’s interesting? A lot of jobs you’ve had me on have dealt with your love life.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “A lot of these cases have had to do, in one way or another, with Lucy or Madeline.”

      “Look who’s talking!” He was clearly annoyed. “You came to me last year because of Sam, when he up and disappeared. And then last year? You had me on Theo’s case. Both involved were your boyfriends. One was your fiancé, if I remember correctly.”

      Zing. That hurt. The relationship with the fiancé—Sam—was done, fault of no one. And the boyfriend—Theo—had taken off to Thailand.

      Mayburn saw my look. “Sorry,” he mumbled. He picked up his sandwich and began eating again.

      “It’s okay,” I said. I put my fork down. “So this thing with Madeline Saga, you really need me?”

      “I do. I need you to work as her assistant in the gallery.”

      “I know absolutely nothing about the art world. You sure you want to throw me into this?”

      “I need someone on the inside. We need to figure out who would have access to the paintings and any pertinent info on those paintings, plus we need ideas of anyone who might want to hurt Madeline.”

      I thought about Maggie. I could talk to her. “How long would you want me?”

      “Shit, I don’t know. Two weeks. Max.” He looked across the restaurant, past the net curtain festooned with shells. “God, it would just kill me if something happened to Madeline or her business.”

      “Kill you?”

      He shot me an irritated glance. “Hey, I might not be in love with the Saga anymore, but…” He took another bite of his lobster roll. He chewed, shrugged. “I just want her to be happy, okay? It’s like…I don’t know. This is hard to explain. But Madeline draws energy from everyone around her. Really. Everyone. And even though I don’t see her much, she’ll sense if I’m gone. She’s like that. And I want her to be content, settled, before I can totally move on to Lucy.”

      “It still sounds complicated.”

      “It is.” A pause. “Which is why I need you. For two weeks at the gallery. Cool?”

      Because he was a friend now, because he had helped me out of more than one bind, I nodded.

      2

      If I was going to take a temporary gig with Mayburn, I had to talk to Maggie.

      The next day, in a cab after visiting a new client (a prominent doctor accused of writing prescriptions for cash), I called Q. “Where is she?”

      “Trial,” he said. “The Cortadero case.”

      Q had been my assistant at Baltimore & Brown, the big civil firm where I’d formerly worked. We had long ago dropped the pleasantries and adapted the skill of being able to talk in shorthand. Now Q and I worked together at Bristol & Associates.

      “Nice! Good for Maggie,” I said, smiling. Then I paused and frowned. How had I come to a point in my life and my law practice where I was praising my boss for trying a case on behalf of a Mexican drug cartel? Alleged cartel, I corrected myself.

      “Closings today,” Q said.

      “Nice!” I said again. Now, that was truly something to get excited about—a closing argument by one of the best lawyers I knew, who also happened to be my best friend. I leaned forward and asked the taxi to change directions and take me to 26th and Cal.

      The epicenter of Chicago’s criminal/legal world was at 26th Street and California Avenue. It housed, in addition to a dozen jails, the busiest criminal courthouse in the country.

      The cab driver, who was talking on his headset in a language I did not understand, said nothing in response to my request. Instead, he calmly swung the cab around in the middle of LaSalle Street, crossing three lanes of traffic. The move drew a few perfunctory honks from other drivers, but mostly everyone went on talking in their own earpieces or singing to the radio. Chicagoans didn’t get particularly aggrieved by poor or even aggressive driving. Everyone seemed to realize we were all just trying to get somewhere, that was all.

      The driver headed west. Outside, the January sky was moody and heavy, but with teasing glimpses of a distant sun-lit blue sky. But as we approached 26th and Cal, the weather made up its mind—distinctly cold and smothered with gray.

      I hurried up the steps when we reached the courthouse. Inside, I flashed my ID, calling, “Hey, Tommy!” to a sheriff I knew well by now. I hurried up to the fifth floor and found the grand courtroom where Q said Maggie would be.

      Inside, it was quiet and still. The only inhabitants were Maggie, standing at the counsel’s table, and two guys who looked like state’s attorneys. (You could tell—it was something to do with the inherent cockiness they exuded, mixed with friendliness. And why shouldn’t they have such an attitude? The state won the vast percentage of criminal cases in Cook County.)

      Maggie was eight months pregnant, but as I walked toward her, I noticed that she barely looked as if she was nearing childbirth. She had a round bump, but she was still tiny everywhere else.

      “Great cross,” I heard Maggie say to one of the guys. “Really. And that shit you pulled with Officer Cooper? Hysterical.”

      Maggie was complimenting the state’s attorneys, which could only mean one thing—the jury was out. I took a breath, waved and walked toward her.

      Ah, the sweet, sweet—sweet—time between when a jury is sent to deliberate and when they return with a verdict. The law, which has names for nearly everything—voir dire, res ipsa loquitur and so forth—has no name for this odd bit of time. It’s not exactly purgatory. It’s not limbo, either. It’s something much more…hopeful. When a jury is out to consider the verdict—to mentally duke it out in an airless back room when the attorneys’ jobs are over—anything is possible.

      Which meant it was

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