“I’ve heard there’s a little place called the Smithsonian,” I chimed in, unable to resist.
“Yes, but not just the Smithsonian. There are private museums, as well as cultural and historical societies throughout the Baltimore-D.C. area.”
Brief thoughts of the cultural artifacts from the Middle East floated through my head. I vaguely recalled a line from Full Metal Jacket, “I came to Vietnam to meet people of an ancient culture and kill them.”
“Don’t museums need proof of ownership before they’ll buy something?” I asked.
“Provenance? Yes, but such papers can be forged.”
“And they accept them at face value?”
Kirov shrugged. “Depends on the price. The institution. Not all museum curators are created equal. Not only that, but small museums and collections are likely to be run by volunteers. Typically, understaffed, undertrained, overwhelmed with work, and low on funds.”
“How are the sales handled?” Surely, one didn’t buy online or pay with a credit card.
“Generally, through private auctions,” he said. “Notices of sales go to particular possible bidders. You have to know the right people to get in.”
“Really?” My eyebrows shot up. “Like a Sotheby’s run by thugs?”
“Between you and me, they could be doing it at Sotheby’s. In fact, there’s a case involving Sotheby’s. But for the most part, they do it online, in a secured chat room. I don’t know all the particulars, but smuggling and black market transactions have gone digital. A computer expert would know more about the technical aspects.” Kirov paused and gazed out the window. “Oh, brave new world,” he intoned. His expression grew wistful.
“No kidding,” I said, scribbling notes.
Kirov turned back to me. “You asked about ownership. Sometimes valuable items can be found in someone’s attic or other places.” He made air quotes around the word “found.” “In those cases,” he continued. “it’s handy if someone completely legit on the surface finds the item.”
“You mean, to act as a front,” I said.
“Yes. Exactly.”
This raised all sorts of interesting possibilities. Kandinsky could have been killed for just about any reason. But the fact that he hung out at the art school made me wonder. Could his death have been connected in any way to the disappearance of Blaine’s daughter? Could Kandinsky have been working with someone at MICA to help sell smuggled artifacts?
“I would love to get your opinion on this,” I said. “How likely would it be for an artist to deal in smuggled artifacts?”
Kirov raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t assume anything about that. Anyone interested in making money could be involved in smuggling.”
“But would an artist be considered a good front?”
“That would depend on the artist, I think.” He paused, and then said, “It’s a matter of reputation. There are lawyers, doctors, and others who have the credibility to act as a front.”
I nodded. “So a businessman who’s a patron of the arts might count? Or an artist who benefits from one?”
“Sure.” Kirov turned his hands palm up in a “why not” gesture.
“Thank you, Doctor Kirov.”
“Please. Call me George.”
“Thank you, George. Call me Erica. If you can think of anything else that might help, please call me.” I delved into my bag, pulled out my card, and handed it to him.
I left the building, eager to update my notes. Instead of heading straight to my car, I stopped at one of the campus libraries where I chose a table with enough space to spread out my notes and diagram. I drew more lines between various possible players. Next to MICA, I put a question mark. Could someone at MICA be involved?
By the time I finished, it was well past noon and I getting hungry. I thought of hitting a deli or some other kind of eatery nearby. On the way out, I noticed an actual coffee shop, right in the library. I wandered inside, where my gaze lit upon a display case of muffins and other pastries. Tempting, but on the pricey side. I decided to take my chances on a Route 1 fast-food joint.
I hiked back to the car and fired it up. I eased out of the space and made a quick left toward the campus exit. I hit the brake as I approached the exit intersection. The pedal felt mushy, but the car slowed enough to turn onto University Boulevard. As I came up to the interchange at Route 1 and University Boulevard, I pressed the brake again. Nothing happened. I hit the pedal hard, but the car refused to slow. The Fiesta had to be doing around 45 or 50 miles per hour. That got the adrenaline going.
Shit.
Chapter Thirteen