“Yes.”
“So am I; I wish this weren’t happening. That piece in the Times worries me.”
“Me, too. We’ve done everything we can; let’s try to relax and enjoy the party.”
“You relax,” Dino said. “I’ll be nervous.”
Guests began to arrive, first in a trickle, then in large numbers. Stone watched the Bergmans as the people came in and, occasionally, he got a nod from Edgar or his wife. Dino did everything but search the strangers, but everybody behaved well.
At the peak of the party, Stone turned to Dino. “You got it covered here? I want to take a look outside.”
“Yeah, sure.”
Stone slipped outside and looked up and down the street. Everything seemed normal. He could see Anderson and Kelly sitting in their car, parked across the street. Then he noticed the van.
It wasn’t black; instead, it was an anonymous gray, with no markings. He looked into the front seat; there was a map of the city on the passenger seat, but nothing else in sight. There were no side windows, and the small windows in the rear door had been soaped over. Stone stepped back and made a note of the license number, then walked across the street and rapped on the window of the police car. Kelly rolled down the window a couple of inches.
“Yeah?”
Stone tore off the sheet from his notebook and handed it through the window. “Run this plate,” he said.
“What’s it from?”
“The gray van in front of the gallery.”
“That was there when we got here,” Kelly said. “I don’t see a problem.”
“Just run the plate, Kelly.”
Anderson took the slip of paper from Kelly and got on the radio. A minute later, he got out of the car and spoke to Stone across the car’s roof. “The plate belongs to a 1996 Buick Century, stolen in Queens this afternoon.”
“Call the bom
b squad,” Stone said, and started across the street. The light changed, and a raft of traffic forced him back. Impatient, he dodged through the stream of cars and walked quickly into the gallery. Bergman and his wife had abandoned their post by the door, and the receptionist was dealing with payment for pictures. “Excuse me,” Stone said to the receptionist, “we’re going to have to move you.”
“I don’t understand,” the young woman said, looking around for her boss. “Mr. Bergman didn’t say anything…”
“Just do it,” Stone said, with urgency in his voice. He spotted Dino and waved him over.
“What’s up?”
“There’s a van with a stolen plate parked directly in front of the gallery; we’re going to have to get these people out the back door right now.”
Dino nodded. “Let’s do it quietly.” He walked over to a group of people and spoke to them, pointing the way to the rear of the gallery.
Stone was about to join him, when he saw that the receptionist and her customers were still at their business. Stone took the man by the elbow. “Sir, I’m sorry to disturb you, but everyone is going to have to leave the gallery through the rear door. Would you and your wife please walk back that way.” He could hear sirens coming up Madison Avenue.
“I don’t understand,” the man said, annoyed at being interrupted. “I wouldn’t want somebody else to get my picture.”
“Please don’t worry about that; this is just a security precaution.”
The man reluctantly took his wife’s arm and steered her toward the rear of the room.
Bergman walked up, looking panicky. “What’s going on?”
“A suspicious van outside; please help Dino get all these people out the back door.”
“Right in the middle of an opening? Are you crazy?”