Nasty Cutter Read online

  The cops interviewed all the other guests who were at the party that night, including the Taylor twins. Everybody agreed that they were all drinking heavily and had little recollection of what had transpired once they had returned from the beach and gone to the house. They admitted to a lot of ‘making out’ and ‘feeling up’ each other, both in couples and in groups. Not one of the kids could verify Melissa’s story of being assaulted, but one girl did remember Melissa saying at one point that ‘it would be cool to hook up’ with the star baseball player.

  As for the Taylor boys, they both admitted to kissing and hugging all the girls and that Melissa was a willing participant in these pairings. They both said that maybe she felt bad about what she had done and then made up the story about being assaulted. None of the guests – including the Taylors – could account for how Melissa had sustained her injuries. One of the other boys suggested that maybe she had fallen and hit her head while drunk. As for the vaginal injuries, they were a mystery to all interviewed.

  In separate interviews two days later with another detective, the Taylor boys continued to profess their ignorance. Again, they both admitted that they had kissed and ‘felt up’ Melissa but that she was ‘into it,’ and denied any knowledge of her wounds or assaulting her. In fact, the cops now had a statement from Bobby’s girlfriend that she and Bobby had left the party early. She had started to sober up and was angry that Bobby was ‘fooling around’ with the other girls.

  On the third day after Melissa’s accusation, the detectives assigned to the case called the Taylor home and requested a third interview. It was at this point that the Taylor parents hired a lawyer – Marty Stover. Transcripts showed that the subsequent interviews took place at Marty and my father’s office, and that my father was present. Each brother’s account of the night of the party was consistent with the other’s. To me, after reading the statements three times – and ordering a second beer – they seemed a little too consistent, as if they’d been rehearsed with the help of their lawyer. Bobby’s statement was somewhat more polished than Billy’s, and the detectives pushed Billy hard enough to make Marty stop the interview.

  Along with the interviews, Marty had made copious notes about his own conversations with the kids at the party. According to what I read, some of the kids admitted that Billy Taylor had paid particular attention to Melissa. Marty had made a note that he felt an arrest was imminent.

  It never got to that point because, before an arrest could be made, Billy Taylor came to Marty, accompanied by his parents, and admitted he had assaulted Melissa. The alcohol and pot had made it ‘very hard’ for him to remember exactly what had happened that night. What he was sure of was that his brother had left the party with his girlfriend.

  With Marty, his parents, and his brother Bobby, Billy Taylor turned himself in to the detective-in-charge and confessed to the sexual assault of Melissa Miller. In exchange for a reduced sentence, Billy pleaded no contest, thus ensuring that none of the parties involved would have to endure a trial that would have had strong media attention. Billy was sentenced to fifteen years, with the possibility of parole after ten.

  The rest, as some would say, is history. Billy did his time in prison. Bobby went on to make millions in professional baseball and then turned his celebrity status into an extremely successful post-pitching career. Now both Taylor brothers were living their lives, and it was all Melissa Miller could do to leave the house for an occasional movie, trip to the beach, and dinner with her brother.

  Life’s like that sometimes.

  ‘You studying for the bar exam?’

  I looked up to see my girlfriend standing above me. ‘The only bar exam I could pass,’ I said, raising my beer, ‘would involve some of these.’

  She managed a forced laugh. ‘What are all those papers?’

  ‘Melissa Miller’s case against Billy Taylor,’ I said. ‘And, before you ask, no, you may not have access to these.’ I touched the pile of pages. ‘These were procured through less-than-legal means. Fruit from the poisonous tree, as my uncle would say.’

  ‘Edgar?’ she asked and then caught herself. ‘Never mind. I don’t want to know. I would, however, like one of those beers.’

  I signaled for the woman to bring two more beers over, and packed the file away in my bookbag. Allison had a look on her face I hadn’t seen before. Something was bugging her and it wasn’t me.

  ‘How was your visit with the Sterns and Hector?’ I asked.

  ‘Good, good,’ she said. She gave the small restaurant a quick look-around. ‘Does this place have a restroom?’

  ‘In the back, yeah. You want to eat here, by the way? The food’s good.’

  ‘Right now,’ she said, ‘I’d like you to join me in the restroom.’

  Not one to be easily shocked, all I could say was, ‘Excuse me? Is this your way of thanking me for setting today up?’

  ‘Don’t be an ass, Ray. I need to show you something.’

  ‘Something you can’t show me here?’

  She gave me the duh look. ‘Just come with me, OK?’

  The woman came over with our beers. ‘Su novia?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Mi novia. We’ll be right back.’

  If the woman questioned why Allison and I were both heading to the restroom at the same time, she kept it to herself. I’m sure running a restaurant in this part of Williamsburg she’d see a lot of strange stuff. This probably didn’t even register.

  When we got to the restroom, Allison shut the door and made sure it was locked. She made me a little nervous as I waited for her to explain.

  ‘How well do you know the Sterns?’ she asked.

  ‘Not well. I met Joshua and his son a few times, including today, briefly. Why?’

  ‘What do you know about Joshua’s father? The one that Hector works with on Saturdays.’

  ‘Never met the man,’ I said. ‘What’s going on here, Ally? You’re obviously upset about something.’

  She took a deep breath. ‘Well, I just met him,’ she said.

  ‘And …?’

  ‘He’s a … fascinating man.’ She paused. ‘I’m definitely coming back for more stuff on him. He’s a bit shaky on the present, but he’s got an amazing story about his family and getting out of Germany.’

  ‘So what’s bothering you so much?’

  ‘He gave me something,’ she said.

  I remembered my visit to the Sterns’ house. ‘Let me guess. A painting?’

  She looked at me as if I’d just performed a mindreading trick. ‘How could you possibly know that?’

  ‘His son told me he does that from time to time. Just last week, he gave a picture his son had painted to his home health attendant. Is that the same one he gave you?’

  ‘Not quite,’ she said and then reached into her bag. She pulled out a small, framed painting and handed it to me. It was about the size of a composition notebook and framed simply, like the one I’d seen the other day painted by Joshua Stern.

  ‘Why didn’t you say you couldn’t accept it?’

  ‘He insisted. When I tried to give it back, he got all upset and his breathing started getting all labored. He showed me where his oxygen tank was, and he took a few hits from it.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I heard he gets upset if you refuse. That’s why the aide gave the painting back to Joshua. If you’re so upset, let’s just do that.’

  ‘I am not upset, Ray,’ she said. ‘I’m kind of shocked.’

  I looked at the painting I was holding. ‘Why?’

  ‘Look at the name on the painting.’

  I found it in the lower right corner. It was hard to make out, but when I did I could see what had Ally shocked.

  ‘This guy’s pretty famous.’

  She smirked. ‘Is Mariano Rivera pretty famous?’

  Allison had this habit of, whenever she felt I was not understanding something, to put it in baseball terms for me. It usually worked.

  ‘So how valuable is this?’
r />   ‘If it’s real,’ she said. ‘My god, Ray, it’s a Paul Klee.’

  ‘You gotta give this back, Ally. You can’t be running around the city with something like this.’

  ‘I’m not planning on running around the city with it, Ray. I am planning on showing it to an art expert I know to see if it’s the real deal.’

  ‘And what if it is?’

  ‘Then, based on what you’ve told me about the Stern family history and what the elder Mr Stern just told me – and gave me – that family may be sitting on millions of dollars’ worth of art.’

  I took that in. ‘You got all that from this one piece that may or may not be real?’

  ‘You know me better than that,’ she said. ‘I’m just considering all possibilities here. Isn’t that what cops do?’

  That was another thing Ally did when I wasn’t quite there yet: put things in terms of police thinking.

  ‘Where’s this art dealer?’ I asked. ‘And when can he meet us?’

  ‘Us?’

  I returned that question with silence.

  ‘He’s downtown,’ she finally said. ‘On Sullivan. I just got off the phone with him. He was about to close up until I told him what I had. He said he could meet me at six at his gallery, after he finishes up with a client.’

  ‘OK. So we finish our beers and go see your guy. Then what?’

  ‘Let’s see what we find out.’ She took a deep breath. ‘This could be big, Ray. I mean really big.’

  ‘Pulitzer big?’ I asked.

  ‘Remember the part about not being an ass?’ she said. ‘Keep it up.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘Allison, my dear, you are absolutely amazing.’

  The three of us were sitting around Charles Mantle’s computer in his gallery on Sullivan Street. Allison had told me on the subway from Brooklyn that she had met Mantle a few years back when she was writing an article on how the upswing in the economy was affecting the art-collecting world. It turned out Mantle – who, I am glad to report, did not call his shop ‘Mantle Pieces’ – was well informed about art looted by the Nazis and art that had been taken out of Europe before the Nazis could get their hands on it. The piece that Mr Stern had given Allison just might fit into the latter category.

  ‘I don’t see or hear from you for years,’ Mantle said, stroking his black goatee. ‘And then when I do, you bring me this extraordinarily mysterious piece.’

  ‘But is it real?’ she asked.

  Mantle looked back at his computer to a picture of the artwork – Landscape with Rising Moon, according to the text. It had taken him all of five minutes to find it listed on a few sites dealing with looted or missing art from Nazi Germany.

  ‘Allison,’ he said, in an accent that sounded part New England and part British, ‘I know I am your expert, but I cannot determine the answer to that question until I have consulted with my expert.’ He leaned in closer to his computer screen and then looked at the picture in the frame we had brought him. ‘However, from what you have told me, the timeline does seem to fit. This particular piece went missing circa nineteen thirty-seven. It is listed as “confiscated” by the Nazis, but that’s vague at best. And. …’

  We waited for him to finish the sentence. When he didn’t, Allison said, ‘And what, Charles?’

  He looked at us both. ‘With all due respect to Mr Klee,’ he said, ‘this is a relatively minor piece of work. In my opinion, it is not one worthy of forgery.’

  ‘So it’s probably genuine?’ she asked.

  ‘Don’t go putting words in my mouth, dear. I am just saying that if one were to fake a Klee, there are far more worthy candidates than this one. But, if it is indeed the genuine item, it is quite valuable. It is a Klee, after all.’ He looked at it again. ‘And where did you say you found it?’

  ‘We didn’t,’ I said. ‘We’d prefer to keep that confidential at the moment.’

  Mantle studied me for ten seconds and said, ‘I like this one, Allison. He’s got that rough-around-the-edges feel I find quite alluring.’

  Somehow, his appraisal made me feel more like a piece of artwork than a person. I didn’t know whether to feel flattered or objectified, so I let it go.

  ‘When can your expert take a look at it?’ Allison asked.

  ‘Not until tomorrow,’ Mantle said. ‘I called him shortly after you called me about what you thought you had, and he’s driving back from a long weekend upstate. He was quite excited about the prospect and promised to meet me here in the morning. Which tomorrow will be earlier than I usually open.’ He ran his index finger lovingly around the frame. ‘In the meantime, have you two decided what to do with the piece?’

  ‘We were hoping you could help us with that,’ Allison said.

  ‘I can, indeed. I have a safe in the back of the shop. It will be quite secure I can assure you. It’s where I store all my … extraordinary inventory.’

  ‘That works for me,’ Allison said. ‘Raymond?’

  ‘As long as we get a receipt,’ I said.

  It took Mantle a few seconds, but he laughed. ‘Oh, I do like you, Raymond. Yes, indeed. I like you very much.’

  Once again, I was being appraised.

  ‘You know,’ Mantle went on. ‘If this piece is the real thing, it may have been part of the Entartete Kunst.’

  Allison smiled. ‘Charles,’ she said, ‘my German is limited to ordering bratwurst with sauerkraut and a Beck’s.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I can’t help but show off a teensy bit. In nineteen thirty-seven, Hitler and his Nazi cronies put on an art exhibition called Entartete Kunst: “The Degenerate Art Exhibition.” It featured works by Mr Klee as well as Kandinsky and Kokoschka. He also made sure to include some German artists like Beckmann and Nolde.’

  ‘For what purpose?’

  ‘You know Hitler was a failed artist before becoming … a politician, right?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen some of his stuff online. Pretty bad art.’

  ‘Well, poor, untalented Adolf preferred realism to modernism. He liked a good natural landscape or building. He equated abstract and expressionistic art to the moral decay of society and promised they’d never find their way again to the German people. He spun it as one more way to keep Germany pure, but most historians feel it was his way of getting revenge for his own lack of success. The Nazis told those who came to the show – and it toured all over Germany – the work was done by Jews and Bolsheviks.’

  ‘Klee wasn’t a Jew,’ Allison said.

  ‘Most of the artists weren’t,’ Mantle explained. ‘But if Hitler could sell his fellow countrymen on the lack of morals in their art, it would support his view that Jews were evil. This’ – he held up the picture that may or may not have been painted by Klee – ‘is one of the paintings rumored to have been publicly burned by the Nazis. A symbolic cleansing, if you will. The works that were displayed were done so poorly. They were hung askew, surrounded by graffiti; it was all designed to put a negative spin on the art and the artist.’

  ‘Did the Germans buy into it?’

  ‘Some did, the ones who wanted to believe whatever came out of their Fuhrer’s mouth. Others knew it was probably the last time they’d get to see the pieces in the exhibition so they went. Millions of people saw the show. Say what you want about the man, but Hitler knew how to attract a crowd. If he were to curate and promote such a show today, he’d make millions.’

  ‘You sound like you almost admire him,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, no, Raymond. Not him. Just his showmanship.’

  ‘And he made the trains run on time.’

  Mantle laughed for a few seconds longer than my little joke merited.

  ‘Give me your card, Allison.’ She obliged. ‘I’ll call you this evening after my friend calls me. But do be prepared to be here at eight in the morning.’

  ‘I can do that,’ Allison said.

  ‘And you, Raymond?’ he asked. ‘Can I expect to see you here, as well?’
r />   ‘I’ve got my day job, Charles. Sorry.’

  ‘That’s too bad. You two have a good evening then.’ He looked at me again and said, in a tone dripping with sexual innuendo, ‘Don’t be up too late, now.’

  TWENTY-ONE

  The suspension hearing that had been scheduled for Monday morning had been rescheduled for Wednesday morning. I knew this because it was the first thing my principal told me as I walked into school that day.

  ‘I could have used a little heads up, Ron,’ I said to my boss.

  ‘They’ll be here in an hour, Ray,’ he said. ‘That’s your heads up.’ Then he went back to his office to do what school leaders do.

  Must be nice to be the principal. But, in all honesty, I wouldn’t want that job no matter how much more it paid than mine. Too much paperwork, too much time with administrators who wouldn’t know what a student looked like if one were chewing on their leg, and too many daily reminders of how ‘data’ was driving the field of education.

  An hour later, I was sitting in my office with Carlos, his mother, and Elaine Stiles, the school counselor. A little less than two weeks ago, Carlos had made the mistake of bringing a small knife to school. He then made the bigger mistake of showing it off in the lunchroom. One of Carlos’s friends, afraid of what trouble his buddy might get into, informed me of the knife, and Carlos was suspended.

  If we – my principal, actually – wanted to, we were well within our rights to request a safety transfer for Carlos to another school in our district. After discussing this with my boss, we decided that Carlos did not represent the kind of threat to the safety of our school as to merit finding him a new place to finish out the year. We also knew that if we did request a transfer, we were opening ourselves up to receiving a kid from another school who could very well represent a real safety issue. The devil you know.

  ‘So,’ I began, ‘we’re not going to waste any more time discussing that you found the knife on the way to school, or that it was your brother’s and you’re not sure how it got in your jacket, right?’

  Carlos looked at me. Those were the two tales he had spun the day I found him to be in possession of the knife. He looked over to his mother, who shook her head slightly.