Free Crooked by Brian M. Wiprud

calls about Moolman. As a professional courtesy. But I’m afraid I haven’t heard anything. Which Moolman was it again?”
    “
Trampoline Nude, 1972.
”
    “Well, I’ll keep my eyes open. I put out feelers for you.” BB brushed some imagined lint from her lapel. “But to be honest, I really don’t follow Moolman’s work at present and don’t know any dealers that do, so I’m probably the wrong person to be helping you.”
    “C’mon, BB. What’s with the coy act? Look, I know you have a hungry client that you feed Moolmans to like they were potato chips.”
    “Potato chips? Really?”
    “At Christie’s last month, you bought two Moolmans for over five hundred thou, a good hundred and twenty-five thou more than they were worth. Two weeks ago at Sotheby’s you picked up
Legs Wide, 1975
for four hundred and fifty thou, a good two hundred thou more than you should have paid. These kinds of overruns wouldn’t have been unusual back when. But things have been staying within estimates these days, unless you’re talking about Artschwager or maybe Lichtenstein or Calder…”
    “You needn’t be didactic.” BB took a pair of goblets from a passing tray and handed one to Nicholas. “In my world, last month was last year. I move a lot of art, Mr. Palihnic. And it’s no secret that I’m an aggressive player. What I want, I get. What I get, I either have a market for or I make a market for. I’ve done my best to be of help to you. If you want to bite my hand, I’ll pull it away. What about the other dealers you were pestering? Surely you found someone more versed in Moolman than I?”
    “I’m not picking on you, BB. One dealer thought maybe I had it, and I think he wanted to buy it from me. He’s out. Two others are out of town, one in California having liposuction and the other at a spiritual liftoff at the Great Pyramids. Another was the nervous type who confessed immediately to an indiscretion with a runway model. And the last was incredibly forthcoming, showing me all his bank transactions, a collection of antique tin toys, and his catatonic great-aunt.”
    “Maybe you’re barking up the wrong tree, doggie.” BB’s attention began to wander as she started eavesdropping on Ozzy’s conversation behind her.
    “Maybe. But I’ve got to believe that whoever took it plans to sell it. For that to happen, there needs to be a broker.”
    “Or maybe, doggie, a collector had it stolen, direct to his collection.” She stole a glance at Ozzie and saw he was eavesdropping on her.
    “I’ve investigated and solved…let’s see, eighty-seven stolen art cases as of last Friday. Two were by collectors.” One of them being Barney Swires. “Odds are against it.”
    Nicholas figured it was time to press his luck, see what happened. He didn’t want to shove her. Just give her a little nudge.
    “What I’m thinking is that maybe you had someone swipe it for you, BB. The day he got killed, the thief told me he had another offer. I thought he was putting me on. Looks to me like whoever it was just came and took it.”
    BB fixed an even, dull look on Nicholas. Her bloodred lips twisted in what he guessed was amusement. Like someone watching a hapless spider approach their shoe. He guessed she imagined him the spider. Just the same, he liked those lips. Sensuous.
    “If you have the audacity to suggest that I, or an agent of mine, stole that Moolman…”
    “You said yourself, ‘What I want, I get.’ I’m a suspicious person. These are hard times for most dealers. Yet you’re opening a new gallery downtown. Some say you’re heavily leveraged.”
    Her cheeks reddened, and her lips quivered as though she’d lifted her shoe and the spider ran under the radiator. One thing Nicholas figured she couldn’t, wouldn’t, and had never abided was impudence. Or the erosion of her reputation.
    “That’s enough, Palihnic. Karen?” It was clear that the audience with the queen was at an end.
    Nicholas studied Karen’s