Full Color (ORCA #3)

Chapter 3

CHAPTER

THREE

QUIN

Niels Zwart sat across from me in the dimly lit dim sum restaurant in Zeedijk, Amsterdam’s Chinatown. The unassuming restaurant had been his choice, and as the late lunch crowd surrounded us, I understood why. We were hiding in plain sight, anonymous in the busy restaurant where everyone was focused on their own meal. Loud conversations around us masked anything we said to each other, and looking around, I also doubted we were the only table conducting borderline illegal business.

The restaurant wouldn’t have been one I would have picked. I would have opted for a secluded table at a Michelin-starred establishment, but Zwart’s choice worked too.

The faux leather chair creaked under me as I leaned back and studied the man across the table. He wore a designer suit, but unlike my own, which had been expertly tailored to fit me perfectly, Zwart’s suit hung from his thin shoulders. He was short, his frame wiry. Auburn hair flecked with gray was swept back off his face and held in place with too much gel for my taste. His facial features were sharp, and his small, dark eyes darted around the room before they settled on me. He had thin lips, the top one bracketed by a skinny mustache. He had long fingers that were never still. Over the ten minutes we’d been seated at the table he’d shredded a paper napkin then twisted and braided the paper into a coil. If I didn’t know better, I’d assume it was a sign of nerves, but Zwart’s hands didn’t shake. Even if I hadn’t known ahead of our meeting that he was a weasel shifter, I would have been able to guess within seconds.

He’d refused to talk business until we’d ordered lunch, and as the first bamboo steamers filled with dumplings arrived at our table, he leaned over his plate and spoke.

“As you already know, I have special merchandise I need to move within the US. I’ve heard you are the man to contact to make sure my shipments arrive to my buyers efficiently.”

Unfolding one of the paper napkins, I set it on my lap—manners were never out of style regardless of the environment—and selected a set of cheap wooden chopsticks from the chipped, red, plastic cup on the table. “If the merchandise you’re looking to move is art, then yes, I’m the best.”

Zwart smiled, his beady eyes bright. “Excellent. I have three pieces I’ve recently acquired. I’m selling one to a contact in Vancouver and the other two need to get from San Francisco to me here in Amsterdam.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out several folded sheets of paper, sliding them across the table to me.

The pieces he needed moved were nowhere near the highest value items I’d passed through my gallery, but they were certainly hot. I recognized one of the pieces as one that had been stolen from a private collection in Los Angeles a little over half a year ago. According to my intel, it had been an inside job, which made me wonder how Zwart had come to acquire it, but those details were inconsequential to the matter at hand.

“Which piece is going to the Canadian buyer?”

Zwart had stuffed a dumpling into his mouth, and he pushed it into his cheek to answer. I did my best not to cringe. “The third one.”

Perfect. The Roy Lichtenstein was the easiest for me to forge and the easiest for me to move. And I already had the forgery ready. Nero might have learned how to steal paintings at Juno’s knee, but she taught me how to watch art and how it moved through the criminal underworld. The second I’d learned the Lichtenstein had been stolen, I had a feeling it would be only a matter of time before it ended up on my doorstep.

So I’d prepared accordingly.

Modern oil and acrylic—even if they are a specialized formula from the 1960s—on canvas is generally the easiest to reproduce since I didn’t have to spend time making pigment-based oil paints using formulations from the eighteenth or nineteenth century. That’s not to say I couldn’t do it, and do it exceptionally well, it just wasn’t as easy. If you knew where to source the right materials, it was easy to find contemporary acrylics that were impossible to discern from those used from the 1960s to the present. The Lichtenstein was a slam dunk and, honestly, a stroke of good luck.

I studied the painting on the sheet Zwart had given me for an extra second, not that I needed it since I knew every intimate detail of every single brush stroke on the canvas. “Who is your buyer?”

“Jean-Paul Bouchard.”

I bit back the smile that threatened to creep across my lips. I’d done business with the lumber tycoon turned Canadian mafia don, known in certain circles as the Axeman, before, and we already had an excellent rapport.

“Have you already negotiated a price?”

Zwart swallowed the bite he’d been chewing as he watched my face for a reaction and shook his head. “Not yet. I just know he’s interested in acquiring it.”

“What were you hoping to get out of the painting?”

“Five million?” The question mark at the end of what should have been a statement told me everything Zwart’s taste in restaurants hadn’t disclosed. He knew nothing about the merchandise he held, which made this even easier for me.

“This is a Roy Lichtenstein.”

Zwart shoved another dumpling in his mouth. “Okay.”

Smoothing the napkin on my lap, I folded my hands over my knee. “In 2017, a Lichtenstein piece sold for one hundred sixty-five million dollars in a private sale.”

The bombshell had the intended effect. Zwart began to choke, his face turning a disturbing shade of puce. Within seconds, one of the dark-suited men who’d been seated by the door stood and approached the table, but Zwart waved him away, reaching for his glass of water and downing half.

His voice was half an octave higher when he spoke again. “One hundred sixty-five million dollars? US dollars?”

I smiled. “Yes, US dollars.” Picking up my chopsticks, I selected a dumpling and bit into it, letting Zwart process the information I’d delivered. I had to admit, what the restaurant lacked in ambiance, it made up for in quality. The dumplings were delicious.

Zwart stared at me, waiting anxiously for me to elaborate, but I let the moment hold. It was all part of the game. He was on the hook, and I had every intention of letting him hang there for a moment. When I was finished with my dumpling and I’d demurely wiped my mouth, I continued. “That’s not to say this particular piece is worth that amount. Unfortunately, it’s not. But we can certainly do better than five.”

“What are you thinking?”

“Twenty-five. Minimum.”

Zwart’s little eyes went comically wide. “Twen—twenty-five.”

“At least.”

My mark’s face hardened. “I don’t believe you.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes and pulled my phone from my breast pocket. The screen showed several notifications from my brothers, but I ignored them. Making a show of glancing at my watch, I pulled up my contacts and tapped the screen. The lumber business started early, and it was already five thirty in Vancouver.

The call connected on the second ring.

“Quin Hunter. To what do I owe the pleasure?” A saw hummed in the background.

“Good morning, JP. I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”

“Not at all. Had some business we had to take care of early this morning, but it’s almost wrapped up.” I knew that was code for something, or rather someone, taking a trip through the wood chipper, so I changed the subject.

“I understand you and I have a mutual colleague.”

He laughed, the sound booming and deep. “I’m sure we have many mutual contacts. Who do you mean specifically?”

“Niels Zwart.” Zwart visibly puffed up when I mentioned his name.

“Ah, yes. He has a piece I’m looking to acquire for my daughter as a wedding present.”

“Congratulations. I wasn’t aware Arlette was engaged.”

“Wedding is next month.” There was pride in his voice, and he’d given me several valuable pieces of information.

“Zwart has asked me to help him negotiate a price. Do you have time to do that now, or would you prefer to set up a call later today or this week?”

“We’re both very busy, and you already have me on the line. How much is this going to cost me?”

“Thirty-five million.”

Bouchard laughed again, this time without humor. “Quin, please. We’ve been doing business together for a long time. I know you can do better than that.”

I could, and I would, but I went through the motions of explaining the value and rarity of the piece anyway.

Bouchard was quiet for a moment. “I can do fifteen.”

I shook my head. “For fifteen, you’re not getting it in time for the wedding. It will rot in customs for months. Thirty.”

“Do you know how much this wedding is already costing me? Twenty.”

“I can’t get it out of customs in the timeframe you need for less than twenty-five, and you know it. That’s basically bargain basement for this piece. You’re putting my reputation on the line. If you don’t want it, I could suggest Zwart put it up for auction.”

Bouchard sighed. “I hate doing business with you, Quin, but fine. I’m in at twenty-five. Zwart is damn lucky to have you.”

“I just want Arlette to have the piece she wants for her special day.”

“Fuck off. Send me the wire details.”

“You know the deal. Half with the signed standard contract. The remainder on delivery.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’ll have the contract and the money today. If you ever feel like negotiating lumber prices, you call me.”

I laughed, the thrill of victory thrumming in my veins. “You couldn’t afford me.”

“Tell me something I don’t already know.” The call disconnected.

Zwart studied me. “He went for it?”

“Twenty-five million. And since this is our first transaction, I’m willing to drop my usual seven percent fee to five percent.”

Zwart opened his mouth, no doubt to negotiate, but I held up my hand. “My fee is not up for negotiation. If you don’t like five percent, I’m happy to keep my standard seven.”

He shook his head. “No. Five is more than reasonable.”

“I thought so.” I selected another dumpling and ate it carefully. “We’ll need to talk logistics in a moment, but I’d be willing to extend the same five percent terms to any other contacts you can introduce me to while I’m here. And what I mean by that is, I’m willing to take six percent and cut you in on the other one percent.”

Zwart’s beady eyes went wide again, dollar signs flashing in them. He leaned forward like what he was about to tell me needed to be for my ears only. “Do you know Stefan Dasselaar?”

I pretended to think. “The name is familiar.”

“He owns a gallery here, but we are all in a similar business. I have a feeling he would very much like to meet you, and I know for a fact that a number of parties who would be very interested in your services will be attending a gala he’s hosting.”

Sitting back in my chair again, I smoothed my napkin on my lap. “Those are connections I’d be interested in making.”

Zwart nodded. “And you’d cut me in on any deals you close with contacts from the gala?”

“Absolutely.”

He tried not to let it show, but there was greedy glee in his eyes. “Let me make a call.” Pulling out his phone, he tapped the screen, then held the phone to his ear. When his contact on the other end, presumably Dasselaar, picked up, they had a short conversation in rapid Dutch, then Zwart ended the call and put his phone back in his pocket. “I gave Dasselaar your contact information. If he’s interested, he’ll be in touch.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that. I think this could be very lucrative for both of us.”

Zwart lifted his water glass in a toast. “Indeed.”

An hour and a half later, my phone rang as Hadrian—who had decided to stay in Amsterdam and act as my driver and bodyguard—and I returned to the royal penthouse suite Reuben had arranged for us to use as a base of operations. I had no idea why he’d decided to bankroll this mission, but I wasn’t going to complain.

The number on the screen had a Dutch country code, and I smiled as I connected the call. “Quin Hunter.”

“Mr. Hunter, this is Ilse with the S. Dasselaar Gallery. Mr. Dasselaar was informed you are in town and asked that I contact you to schedule a meeting. Are you available tomorrow morning at nine?”

“Yes, Ilse. Please let Mr. Dasselaar know that works perfectly for me.”

“Wonderful. He looks forward to meeting you.”

“And I him.”

Ilse recited the address for the gallery, and I hung up.

“Well?” Hadrian asked, using the plastic key card to open the suite’s door.

“We got the meeting.”