The Continuing Mystery of the Deadly Donations

by Ron Katz

“Do you want the good news or the bad news?” Barb Silver asked Bernie, her husband and business partner in Silver Investigations. They were enjoying a toast and lime marmalade breakfast on a spring morning in their Palo Alto home. 

“The good,” replied Bernie instantaneously. “Too early in the day for a downer.”

“We need a new roof,” said Barb.

“That’s the good news?” cried Bernie. “Better tell me the bad too, so I can calculate how much Xanax I’ll need.”

“The lowest estimate I’ve been able to get is $70,000.”

“Surely you jest.”

“I wish it was a joke,” Barb explained, “but, when you combine the cedar shake shingles we chose with all of California’s fireproofing requirements, it turns out 70k is a bargain. We could have it done for $125,000 if you prefer a slate roof. Slate can last 100 years, so we wouldn’t have to worry about replacing it.”

“For that price we should get Carrara marble—that wouldn’t burn, and it’s less likely to crack than slate.” 

“Not flammable, it’s true,” Barb commiserated. “but slate or marble might require some expensive buttressing of our walls. Too bad we couldn’t recover that Jackson Pollock painting in our last investigation. That $68,000 bonus would have made a dent in the roof price that might have made it seem almost bearable. Plus, we’d have gotten a free trip to Moscow.”

“Good point,” he responded as he got up to answer the doorbell, “but, keep in mind that second prize was two free trips to Moscow.”  

“That’s probably the UPS delivery I’m expecting,” Barb noted. “Our regular deliveryman has been so nice lately, helping me with heavy packages, so please invite him in for a second so that I can give him some cookies I’ve bought for his kids.”

***

Bernie opened the door and was surprised to see a wiry man with a black Van Dyke beard and shoulder-length hair to match. Because that man had played an important part in Bernie and Barb’s recent case involving a fake Jackson Pollock painting, Bernie immediately recognized him: Professor Vladimir Osofsky, the chair of Stanford’s art history department and a world-class expert on abstract expressionists like Jackson Pollock.  

Osofsky was holding a UPS package that apparently had been left earlier. He wore an expression that could have been described as sheepish if he had been able to get rid of what seemed like a permanent smirk. 

“There must be a mistake,” said Bernie, taking the package. “Our UPS deliveryman is an expert on cubism, not abstract expressionism.”

“I realize we are not the best of friends, Silver” said Osofsky, referring to their adversarial relationship in the earlier case, “but I do apologize for my part in that. Also, I have a problem I hope you can help me with. May I come in?”

“Well, in fairness, you were right about the authenticity of that Pollock painting, but, if you want me to help you, a good starting point might be to stop calling me ‘Silver.’ That is, unless you don’t mind me calling you ‘Ozzie.’”

“’Vlad’ will do,” responded Osofsky.

“As will ‘Bernie.’ Why don’t you come in and I’ll show off the fake Pollock we got as a souvenir from what we call the mystery of the deadly donations. I’m not sure I qualify to do much more than that to help an art historian solve a problem.”

“My problem has to do with murder, Bernie.”

“Please come in.”

***

Moments later, Bernie and Osofsky were seating themselves on the Silvers’ living room couch, in front of the fake Pollock painting above the mantel. At the same time Barb entered the room, struggling to pull apart the two sides of a clear plastic bag filled with fancy cookies. Not looking up because of her strenuous attempts to open the bag, she said “Can you help me with this bag, Bernie? They must have sealed it with industrial-strength superglue.”

“I can’t open those things for love or money,” he responded, “but perhaps the more youthful Professor Osofsky can help.”

“Bernie has told me so much about you,” she exclaimed, as if she had been expecting him for weeks. “Can you help me with this package?”

To Barb and Bernie’s chagrin, Osofsky opened the package with irritating ease. Then Barb said, “Great, thanks. What do you think of our fake Jackson Pollock?”

“It’s definitely an authentic fake,” replied Osofsky, “and a darn good one."

“We solved a major art theft, and all we got was a fake painting,” sighed Barb, still not having formally introduced herself.

 “You must be Barb Silver,” said Osofsky, “although you look much younger than the elderly lady I met, supposedly named Diana Barron, who purported to be the owner of that fake Pollock. ”

“Nice of you to say that,” replied Barb. “I will take that as a compliment even though I was wearing about five pounds of aging makeup at that time.”

“And you had a dog, if I recall. Snowflake?”

At that moment, the Silvers’ little white terrier mix trotted into the room, stood up on her hind legs and leaned against Barb. “You’ll have to excuse me for a moment.” Barb said, “Snowball needs to go outside to check her p-mail.”

***

After Barb returned, they all sat down, and Bernie said to Barb, “Professor Osofsky wants to consult with us about a problem that he says doesn’t relate to art.”

“Actually, it is art-related,” said Osofsky.

“Murder, art…I guess it’s all the same,” joked Bernie.

“Close,” Osofsky responded, “if it’s murder because of art.” He motioned toward the fake Pollock. Then he continued by referencing how the Silvers’ recent investigation started, with the supposedly accidental death of Florence Cavendish, the wealthy, elderly owner of an authentic Pollock that was to be bequeathed to Stanford. “Apparently, she didn’t fall down the stairs to her death,” explained Osofsky. “The police think she was pushed.”

“What does that have to do with you?” asked Barb.

“Because pictures from her neighbor’s surveillance cameras, which the police didn’t discover until nine months after her death, show that I was in her home the morning of her death, I am what they call—and not in a nice way--a ‘person of interest.’ That’s why I need to retain you--to clear my name.”

***

Detective Joe Kelly of the SFPD was Barb and Bernie’s go-to police contact, and, in exchange, he used them sometimes to penetrate areas where police were not welcome. They were in Kelly’s tiny office in downtown San Francisco.

“Don’t you have better things to do than try to pin a murder on a harmless art history professor?” was Bernie’s opening gambit.

“This may surprise you, Bernie,” rejoined Kelly, “but we don’t screen suspects by profession. Professor Osofsky was definitely at Florence Cavendish’s house three hours before she was found at the bottom of the stairs. That’s what interests us, not his vast knowledge of abstract expressionism.”

“Was anyone else there that morning?” asked Barb.

“Funny you should ask, because, for an elderly lady, Mrs. Cavendish had a lot of gentlemen visitors. I’ll show you the clips from her neighbor’s surveillance camera tape.”

The first clip showed Osofsky ringing the bell, walking in and then departing a half hour later. The second, an hour later, showed a man whose head was mostly obscured--except for a patch of curly blond hair--because of how he wore his trenchcoat, fedora and gray scarf. The time between his entry and departure was 10 minutes.  

The third was Richard Simpson, the Stanford fundraiser who had a lunch date with Mrs. Cavendish, and who reported her fall to the police. He was carrying a large, relatively flat package.

“That must be the fake Jackson Pollock,” observed Bernie. “Doesn’t that make Simpson your murderer?”

“At the very least,” responded Kelly, “someone wants it to look that way. We plan to question Simpson, but, thanks to your work, he’s a little bit inaccessible now--in Solano State Prison, serving time for art theft.”

“Do you mind if we try to speak to him first?” asked Barb. “We both have a relationship of sorts with him.”

“Knock yourself out,” answered Kelly. “At least you won’t have to worry about him hitting you up for a donation to Stanford.”

“For what it’s worth,” added Barb, “Snowball never did like Simpson, but she didn’t bark at Osofsky at all, very unusual for her.”

“Probably she could sense how unthreateningly depressed he was,” said Bernie. “Whether that resulted from his being a murder suspect or having to apologize to me, we’ll never know.”

“We have an opening in our K-9 Corps,” Kelly noted, “How does Snowball get along with German Shepherds?”

“Snowbie adores me, tolerates Bernie and is suspicious of everyone and everything else,” replied Barb. “Plus, she flunked obedience school, so I’m not sure she’s cut out for police work.”

***

“I am delighted to see you,” said Richard Simpson on a phone behind bulletproof glass in the Solano State Prison visiting area.

“I wasn’t sure what to expect,” said Barb on the other side of the glass, “but I’m sure it wasn’t delight.” Bernie and she had decided that she would be the one to try to make the contact with Simpson.

“I understand why you think that,” said Simpson, “since you’re the undercover detective who put me here. But I realize now that, at that time, my life was on the completely wrong track, and I am prepared to try to make up for that when I get out of here in two years. However—and here’s where the delight comes in—I now have a much bigger problem because, quite wrongly, I am a person of interest in Florence Cavendish’s murder case. You, as a private detective, are probably one of the few people who can help to clear me. I had a wonderful relationship with Florence, and I would have never harmed her in any way.”

“Except robbing her of a priceless painting, of course,” Barb pointed out.

“I'm sure you understand what happens when someone is under financial pressure and gets caught up with the wrong sorts. It’s true that I rationalized that Florence wouldn’t know the difference between the real and fake Pollocks, that she was rich and that she wouldn’t be around much longer anyway. I now regret all that and, as you can see, I am paying a heavy price. But murder…no way.”

“I’d like to believe you, Richard, but you had a motive, and you were the one who found the body.”

“I agree it looks bad, and I’m not in much of a position to defend myself. But, as you know, things are not always as they seem. It’s true that I was approached by some Russians about the painting, and they offered me a lot of money to switch the real Pollock with a fake. In the end, I got cold feet but, by then, they had enough texts and emails to blackmail me into cooperating with them. I kept telling them that there was no opportunity to make the switch, and then they told me that they’d arrange that. They instructed me to show up at an appointed time. When I did that, I realized, with horror, how they knew I’d be able to make the switch then: because they’d committed the murder shortly before my appointment with her.”

Barb then informed Simpson of the two other visitors to the Cavendish apartment that morning.

“Yes, I knew about Vladimir,” he said. “He was taking pictures of the Pollock for an article he was writing. The other chap with the blond hair I don’t know about. I never met the Russians in person.”

“Hopefully, none of us ever will,” Barb responded.

***

“We may have a problem with your mild-mannered art history professor,” said Joe Kelly over the phone to Barb and Bernie the next day. “Please take a look at the picture I just emailed you that was taken only three days ago.”

A few moments later, Bernie noted “That’s a picture of the building at Stanford where Vlad has his office. I went there during the earlier investigation.”

“Looks like Mr. Gray Scarf paid him a visit,” observed Barb, pointing to a figure entering the building who looked exactly like the second entrant to Florence Cavendish’s home in the surveillance video Kelly had shown them. “Let’s call Joe back.”

“How did you get this photo?” Bernie asked Joe Kelly a few moments later.  

“Notwithstanding your high opinion of him,” Joe responded, “we’ve staked out Professor Osofsky’s office for a few weeks because of our suspicions. The surveillance officers complained at first about the steady stream of scruffy students, but then, three days ago, bingo! Connecting Mr. Gray Scarf with your professor will enable us to arrest Osofsky, unless you give me some compelling reason not to.”

“We’re on it, Joe,” said Barb, “and we’ll call you back tomorrow afternoon.”

***

Although Osofsky’s office contained its usual clutter of artworks, he had cleared off two chairs for Barb and Bernie when they arrived the next morning. “Sorry for the mess,” he said. “I’m glad you left a message you wanted to meet because, after I returned from my trip to New York yesterday, I was going to call you.”

“Were you in New York four days ago?” Barb asked hopefully.

“In fact, I was, speaking at the Museum of Modern Art. Here’s a copy of the program.”

“We’re here because you had a visitor four days ago,” said Bernie, handing Osofsky the picture of Mr. Gray Scarf.

“That’s why I was going to call you,” said Osofsky. “While I was gone, someone picked the lock on my office door and left this.” 

He handed Bernie a copy of a note typed in capital letters: “CHALIAPIN BAR, METROPOL HOTEL, MOSCOW, NEXT TUESDAY, 5 PM; BRING A RICH CUSTOMER.”

“Of course, I have no intention of travelling to Moscow anytime soon,” said Osofsky with a look of disgust. Art thieves are always looking for people in the art world like myself to enable their nefarious schemes.”

“We think you might want to re-consider your travel plans, Vlad,” said Barb.

***

From their meeting with Osofsky, Barb and Bernie immediately headed to Joe Kelly’s office. While on the way, they called Al Jordan. He had been their former supervisor when they were investigators at Alpha Insurance Company. He had assigned them to the fake Pollock case, in which Barb disguised herself as the geriatric art collector, Diana Barron. That strategy led to the imprisonment of Richard Simpson.

“If you’re calling for a new case, I don’t have one right now where your age is an edge,” said Jordan, referring to the motto of Silver Investigations. 

“We all know the Millennials get the choice assignments now, Al,” responded Bernie, “but we Boomers still have a few tricks up our sleeves.”

“I assume you’re calling about one of those tricks,” said Al, “so, shoot.”

“Is that $68,000 bonus still available for the missing Pollock?” inquired Barb.

“Quite a coincidence you should mention that. I’m holding in my hand the $17 million check made out to Stanford.”

“You haven’t paid yet?” asked Bernie. “It’s been almost a year.”

“The claims people couldn’t stall any longer,” replied Al. “But, if I could send this check back to the claims department instead of sending it to Stanford, I would be a hero. If you can bring this painting back in the next week, by hook or by crook, I’ll double the bonus to $136,000. 

Barb looked at Bernie with her thumbs up and mouthed the words “slate roof.”

What brings you back into the case?” asked Al.

“Our never-ending search for truth and justice, Al,” said Barb “and for a new roof.”

***

“Call me old-fashioned, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to let the suspect in a murder case travel to Moscow when we’re about to pick him up for questioning,” said Joe Kelly. He was in his office with Barb and Bernie after their call with Jordan.

“Your suspicions about him escalated recently, Joe, because you thought Mr. Gray Scarf visited with the professor, but that’s simply not true. Here’s the proof that Osofsky was out of town that day,” said Barb, handing Kelly a copy of the program featuring Osofsky speaking in New York on the day in question. 

“What actually happened is that Gray Scarf left this note,” added Bernie, handing Kelly the Moscow missive.

“Ok, I’ll play your silly game,” said Kelly. “What’s Osofsky going to do in Moscow?”

“What else?” Bernie asked rhetorically. “Have a drink at the famous Chaliapin Bar at the even more famous Metropol Hotel.”

“And where, pray tell, are you two going to be?”

“Barb will be reprising her role as the rich and beautiful, but aging, art lover, Diana Barron,” replied Bernie. “Fortunately, since Richard Simpson quickly and quietly copped a plea, that cover identity is still available.”

“And you, Bernie?” inquired Kelly.

“I will be one of Diana’s caretakers. Although she has a female nurse as well, she prefers older men who still have the strength to push her wheelchair.”

***

The pre-revolutionary opulence of the Chaliapin Bar at the Metropol Hotel glowed with all of the tsarist crystal, mahogany, and leather that one would imagine. Osofsky, Bernie and a heavily made-up Barb, aka Diana Barron, nervously waited for they knew not what at the appointed hour.

As an elaborate grandfather clock struck five, a fair, brunette, elegant woman wearing the distinctive brown uniform of a colonel in the Russian Army approached. “I appreciate your punctuality, Professor Osofsky. May I join you and your friends?” she inquired in perfect English, with a slight Russian accent.

Barb managed to maintain her somewhat senile affect. Both Osoksky and Bernie, however, involuntarily did noticeable double-takes.

“You expected Rosa Klebb, perhaps?” the Colonel asked, referring to the Russian Army colonel in the James Bond movie From Russia with Love. Klebb was infamous for having built-in poisonous switchblades in her shoes.

“I expected someone more like Dr. No,” responded Osofsky.

Bernie added, “I knew you weren’t Klebb, because you’re wearing open-toed shoes.”

Zhukov’s face reddened. “You can call me Colonel Zhukov,” she said icily. “Who is your funny friend, Professor?”

“His name is Barry Gold,” answered Osofsky, using the alias they had agreed on beforehand. Joe Kelly had referred Barb and Bernie to a “friend of a friend” for false passports. 

Osofsky continued: “He helps Mrs. Diana Barron here, your potential buyer, with mobility issues. More to the point, Colonel Zhukov, none of the three of us expected to meet someone from the Russian armed forces today.”

“Our military possesses extremely good logistics, Professor. Very helpful for moving priceless art around the world.”

“That may be true, Colonel, but I am surprised you are in that business,” rejoined Osofsky.

“Make no mistake, Professor, I am a professional soldier. The art is only a supplement to my pay, which is less per month than your bar tab will be tonight.”

“So, I take it,” said Bernie, “that it would not do us much good to report you to the authorities.”

“Suit yourself,” she responded. “For your purposes, I am the authorities. If it makes you feel any better, however, our art re-distribution business is supervised by civilians, and my boss is the male you perhaps expected me to be.”

“Did your boss also re-distribute Florence Cavendish from the living to the dead?” asked Bernie.

“That is an impertinent question, especially from a wheelchair pusher, Mr. Gold, and I am not going to answer it. My boss, however, did ask me to give you some very specific instructions how to complete this transaction. Here is a picture of the painting on offer for $2 million in cash, and I expect an answer tomorrow here at 5 p.m. Also, my boss asked me to give you this, which he said you should keep in mind if you even think about trying what he called ‘any funny business.’”

She handed Bernie a gray cashmere scarf.

***

Back in their hotel room, Osofsky looked pale. “I didn’t sign up for this,” he said, nervously fingering the scarf.

“Perhaps you’re forgetting that we’re here because you’re a murder suspect, Vlad, and you’ve hired us to clear your name.” noted Bernie.

“In case you haven’t noticed,” added Barb, “this is not a Stanford faculty meeting. Looking on the bright side, however, we can buy a $17 million painting for the low, everyday price of $2 million. Must be the famous Russian Army Mayday Sale.”

“Joking aside, Vlad” Bernie interjected, “Barb and I are also in way over our heads. Thieves, frauds, even murderers we have dealt with before, but not an army.”

Looking a bit more resolute, Osofsky said, “Perhaps I’m not out of my depth. Let me make a few phone calls, and I’ll stop by your room in the morning.”

Barb dug into her purse and handed Osofsky a phone that looked like a brick. “Rule #1 of being a private detective, Vlad, is don’t make any phone calls using the Russian phone system. Please use this encrypted satellite phone. No charge for local calls.”

***

The next morning, Osofsky, with his confidence/arrogance seemingly restored, strode into the Silvers’ suite. 

“Good morning, Vlad,” Barb greeted. “You’ll have to help us out with this breakfast. She gestured toward a feast on a large oak table by a huge picture window overlooking downtown Moscow.  

“I thought I was ordering the continental breakfast,” said Bernie, “but I guess I should have specified which continent. Instead of coffee and a croissant, we got caviar, pancakes, salted cucumbers, boiled quail eggs, marinated porcini mushrooms and potato noodles in cream sauce.”

“Thanks for the breakfast offer, but I’m allergic to caviar,” responded Osofsky, “and we’ve got bigger fish eggs to fry.”

“You look much happier than yesterday,” said Barb, “and I’m anxious to find out why. A plan to defeat the Russian Army perhaps?”

“You’re not far off,” said Osofsky. “I told you earlier how the art underworld is always trying to recruit art history professors into their schemes. I should have added that we’re sought out by the good guys as well.”

“I didn’t know there were good guys in the art underworld,” said Bernie.

“Where there are bad guys like the Russian mafia, there are good guys like the FBI and CIA. And I get calls from those agencies about once a month. Last night, for the first time, I returned one of the recent calls from an FBI agent who’s on a joint FBI-CIA taskforce to retrieve stolen art. The FBI handles the cases on U.S. soil and the CIA handles them abroad. They are very interested in this particular Pollock. They think it will lead to other missing paintings that they’ve been investigating for years.”

“Great,” exclaimed Barb. “Let’s strategize for our meeting with Colonel Zhukov this afternoon. Since we are probably the first-ever private detective/art history professor team, the Russian Army won’t know what to expect.”

With all the false confidence he could muster, Bernie added, “They’ll be surrounded before they know it.” 

***

“Well?” asked Colonel Zhukov, without ceremony, as Osofsky, Barb aka Diana Barron and Bernie aka Barry Gold sat down at a corner table in the Chaliapin Bar.

“My client would like to say something,” said Osofsky, nodding toward Barb.

Appearing to rouse herself from a semi-stupor, Barb spoke slowly: “I have bought many paintings, Major Zarkov, but never before from an army. My professor tells me that your price cannot be beat, however, so I am glad to do business with you now, and, hopefully, in the future. How do you manage to sell at such a discounted price?”

Zhukov managed a tight smile: “Low overhead.”

At that, Barb faintly smiled, unfocused her eyes and slumped in her wheelchair, feigning exhaustion.

“A lovely woman,” said Zhukov to no one in particular. “Excellent choice, Professor. We have many more paintings where this one comes from. Here are your instructions.” She handed Osofsky a nondescript piece of paper containing, in block letters, a date, a time, logistics and an address. Clipped to the paper were an airline ticket to Helsinki and a voucher for the Clarion Hotel there.

Bernie looked over Osofsky’s shoulder at the paper. “Do you really think we can deliver $2 million in cash to Helsinki in three days?” Bernie asked. “Mrs. Barron is not very mobile, so I’m not sure that’s possible. Why Helsinki?”

“The sanctions your esteemed government has unfairly put on Russia make bank transfers in and out of Moscow inadvisable,” Zhukov answered. “Plus, it’s not necessary for Mrs. Barron to go to Helsinki. We want you to be the delivery boy, Mr. Gold, while Professor Osofsky and Mrs. Barron are simultaneously picking up the painting at a self-storage facility in Oakland, California.”

“How can I turn over the money without knowing that the painting is authentic and in Mrs. Barron’s hands?” asked Bernie.

“Here are two special pagers,” Zhukov replied. “My boss will have a third pager. The self-storage facility in Oakland will be remotely opened by me from here at exactly 5 a.m. Helsinki time on Tuesday, which is 7 p.m. in Oakland. At the same time, my boss should be opening this canvas bag, which, in the meantime, you should have filled with $2 million in $100 bills. Do you have any questions?”

“Yes,” said Bernie. “How much does $2 million in $100 bills weigh?”

“41 1/3 pounds, Mr. Gold. Light enough for you to lift, but too heavy for you to carry very far. Speaking of keeping you on a short leash, please give me your mobile phone. And, I wouldn’t advise you to try to buy a replacement for it in Moscow.”

***

Back in the Silvers’ hotel room, they strategized with Osofsky. “I feel badly,” he said. “I’m the reason you’re here, but Bernie is the one who will be in harm’s way when he meets Mr. Big, whom I assume is Gray Scarf.”

“In a perfect world, you’d be going instead of me,” said Bernie. “But my career has trained me a little better for this confrontation than yours has.”

“That’s pretty big talk from someone who can’t open a sealed plastic bag,” Osofsky rejoined.

“Vlad, as a street fighter, you are an excellent art historian,” Bernie retorted.

“OK, guys, perhaps you can work out your toxic masculinity issues elsewhere,” interrupted Barb. “We don’t have a lot of choices here. Zhukov was clear that Vlad’s presence in Helsinki was what she called a ‘non-beginner,’ by which I assume she meant ‘non-starter.’ I suggest we focus on the small issue of getting together $2 million in cash by Tuesday.”

“That’s the advantage of working with the FBI and CIA,” answered Osofsky. “Not only will they have $2 million in marked bills delivered to Bernie’s Helsinki hotel room, but they will also embed some exploding ink in the canvas bag Zhukov gave us. The $2 million will be unusable 15 minutes after Gray Scarf opens the bag. By then, hopefully, Bernie will be on his way back to his Helsinki hotel room.”

“Great!” said Bernie, “I’m sure I will love Helsinki in the springtime.”

***

Bernie aka Barry Gold expected some guidance when he arrived at his room in the Clarion Hotel in Helsinki, and he was not disappointed. The cryptic note on the desk in his room simply said “2 pm harbor cruise.”

About 10 minutes after he boarded that tourist boat, a young man looking like a clueless tourist sidled up to Bernie at the boat’s railing and pulled out a map, saying, “Just pretend like you’re answering my boring questions. We’re probably being watched.”

He proceeded to tell Bernie that a private plane had been arranged for a quick departure after Bernie’s rendezvous with Gray Scarf, which was at an alleyway between some abandoned warehouses near the airport. “There will be few people or cars around at 5 a.m., so my colleagues and I cannot be in the immediate area, because you will undoubtedly be monitored by Gray Scarf’s people. You should be safe because, once you hand over the canvas bag, you’re more trouble to the bad guys if you go missing than if they let you go. You won’t be able to identify Gray Scarf, whom, we are sure, will be obscured by his usual outfit. Basically, the bad guys think you’re just a health aide for Diana Barron, not worth a bullet.”

“That’s all easy enough for you to say,” Bernie whispered raspily, “but how far away are you if this transfer suddenly gets dangerous?” 

“We have a helicopter standing by that can get there in two minutes if you press this device, which you can strap to your thigh.” He surreptitiously handed Bernie an innocuous looking circular device one inch in diameter with a small button in the middle.

“OK,” Bernie replied. “I’ve been instructed to drive my rental car alone to the site. If I need to leave it there, I assume you’ll notify Hertz.”

“No problem,” the young man replied. “Hertz is used to hearing from the CIA about abandoned rental cars.”

***

Earlier that same day, Barb and Osofsky were at Sheremetyevo Airport in Moscow, heading for the San Francisco flight. “How confident are you,” Barb asked, “that you can authenticate a Pollock painting in five minutes in a self-storage locker?” 

“Not very,” responded Osofsky, who was tapping the keys of his phone. “In fact, I am emailing my old nemesis, Professor Reginald Thompson-Smith of the University of California at Berkeley, to join us for that flash authentication. He’s a pain, but, if he and I can agree on authenticity, my comfort level will go way up.” 

Thompson-Smith had seemingly appraised the Pollock painting of Barb and Bernie’s earlier investigation differently from Osofsky. It turned out, however, that both professors were right, because the original Pollock that Osofsky had appraised had been switched out for the fake Pollock that Thompson-Smith had appraised.

Moments later, Osofsky eyes widened as he looked at the screen of his phone. “What’s wrong?” asked Barb.

“I got his out-of-office response,” replied Osofsky, gathering up his carry-on luggage.

“Where are you going? queried Barb, as Osofsky handed her the pager Zhukov had given him.

“Helsinki,” said Osofsky, looking back over his shoulder as he rushed off. “You don’t need an art historian with you at the self-storage unit. You need a policeman.”

***

Helsinki’s almost perpetual summer sun was rising as Bernie set off for his destination. Few cars were on the streets, lessening to none as he approached the alleyway between the two abandoned warehouses.

At exactly 5 a.m., following his instructions exactly, Bernie placed the canvas bag at the end of the alleyway, turned around, walked 30 paces. and turned around again. At that point, he saw the now-familiar figure in a fedora hat, trenchcoat and gray scarf hunched over the bag.

Satisfied, Gray Scarf punched a button on his pager and looked up for the first time at Bernie. From what he could see of Gray Scarf’s face, Bernie unexpectedly noted an expression of surprise and, perhaps, fear. Within a moment, he knew why.

“G’day, mate,” Gray Scarf said. “You’ll need a bit of a disguise next time.”

“Professor Thompson-Smith?” Bernie inquired, although the Aussie-accented voice was a dead giveaway. Bernie now remembered that Thompson-Smith had curly blond hair.

“One and the same, mate. I specifically ordered that Osofsky not make this exchange because I knew he’d recognize me. But it never occurred to me that Barry Gold was also someone who could recognize me--because he’s actually Bernie Silver.”

Bernie knew that his ability to identify Thompson-Smith meant that the Berkeley professor, who had already committed at least one murder, would have to perform an encore. Immediately and surreptitiously, Bernie pressed the button strapped to his thigh under his trousers. However, he was not sure that he could engage Thompson-Smith in conversation for the two minutes required for the FBI/CIA helicopter to arrive.

“You don’t have to go through with this, Reggie,” Bernie began. “I’m sure the FBI would love to have you as an informer and would put you in their witness protection program in some safe place.”

“You’ve read about people who’ve crossed the Russians and then been poisoned,” responded Thompson-Smith. “There is no place safe from them, and, in the witness protection program, I’d have to surrender the wealth I’ve gotten accustomed to. I got into this because I decided that it made more sense to become a rich person rather than to advise rich people about art in my spare time. I’m afraid that you’re going to have to pay the price for my decision.” He then pointed a gun straight at Bernie.

About a minute had passed. Bernie was desperately trying to come up with another conversation starter. At that moment, a figure dressed in black, from his hoodie to his sneakers, leapt from a broken window in one of the abandoned warehouses onto Thompson-Smith, knocking him unconscious.

The figure then ran, while removing his hood and shaking out his shoulder-length hair, toward Bernie. “Was that enough of a street fight for you, Silver?” Osofsky yelled.

“You rock my world, Ozzie!” Bernie screamed back. “More detailed street-fighting compliments to come later, because right now we’ve got a helicopter to catch.”

***

Joe Kelly uncharacteristically gave Bernie a hug, as he met with Bernie, Barb and Osofsky in his office. “I hope that’s your last $2 million drop,” he said. “Age definitely does not give you an edge when you meet international art thieves/murderers in person.”

“You may have a point, Joe,” Bernie responded. “But our new colleague here is more than up to the task.” He motioned to Osofsky, who was sitting between him and Barb.

“You obviously missed your calling, Professor,” Kelly continued. “How did you figure it all out?”

“I now understand,” Osofsky answered, “that what makes a good detective is also what makes a good art historian: the ability to draw conclusions from limited information. In this case, when I was at the Moscow airport with Barb, I put together three seemingly random things: the fact that the self-storage facility was in Oakland, which is right next door to Thompson-Smith’s hometown, Berkeley; the fact that Gray Scarf didn’t want me to deliver the $2 million, apparently because he knew I’d recognize him; and the fact that I got Thompson-Smith’s out-of-office response when I emailed him from the Moscow Airport. I surmised then that he must be Helsinki-bound.”

“As you can see,” Barb said, “Vlad’s expertise in art—”

“--and his street-fighting ability--” interrupted Bernie.

“…make him an excellent new contractor for the many requests Silver Investigations receives to investigate art-related scams.” concluded Barb.

Added Osofsky: “I used to think that something like finding a new Jackson Pollock in someone’s attic was the thrill of a lifetime, but that pales compared to recovering stolen art for fun and profit.”

“What about Thompson-Smith?” asked Kelly.

Osofsky responded, “I’m guessing he’ll be offered a tenured professorship at Moscow U.”

“Or he could join Colonel Zhukov in the Russian Army,” Bernie chimed in.

“I think she might have been as fake as a counterfeit painting,” observed Barb. “Her open-toed shoes were Ferragamos, definitely not standard issue in the Russian Army.”

***

A day later, Barb and Bernie were in Al Jordan’s office. 

“I’ve never been so happy to hand over a $136,000 check,” Jordan said. “You saved Alpha $16,864,000.”

“Thanks, Al,” said Barb. “This should put a very fine roof over our heads.”

***

Copyright 2021, Ron Katz