Table of Contents
PRAISE FORHOT ART
This is a crackerjack of a bookwith enough rogues, thieves, and amoral civilians (not all of them on the radar of relentless cops) to people a dozen crime novels. First-rate.
GILES BLUNT, best-selling author of the John Cardinal mystery series, including Crime Machine and Forty Words for Sorrow
Now this is investigative reporting. Dogged, fearless, and thrillingly thorough, Joshua Knelman becomes our Virgil through the secret underworld of stolen art. Like legendary muckrakers Bob Woodward, Seymour Hersh, and Barlett and Steele, Knelman relentlessly trails both the bad guys and the slightly less bad guys, looking for truth amidst all the deceit. Its an astonishing debut, and serious readers must take notelong-form reporting has a new title in the canon.
RICHARD POPLAK, author of Ja No Man: Growing up White in
Apartheid Era South Africa, The Sheiks Batmobile: Pop Culture in the
Middle East, and Kenk: A Graphic Novel
Knelmans book is the Godfather of investigative journalism. He takes us to places we always wanted to be but didnt dare to enter, he makes us fall for people we are not supposed to loveon both sides of the law. Congratulations, this is haute art!
ANDRAS HAMORI, Executive Producer,
The Sweet Hereafter and Fugitive Pieces
Art theft is one of the largest underground markets in the world, yet very few people know how it works, or how to stop it. Joshua Knelman delves into this uncharted world with an open curiosity, befriending the detectives dedicated to retrieving stolen art, the lawyers struggling to protect cultural property, and the thieves who have their own reasons for doing what they do. These pages are full of shady characters and experts determined to outwit each other; an intriguing look at human lusts and foibles. Hot Art is fascinating, smart, and a page-turner.
CATHERINE OSBORNE, Deputy Editor, Azure Magazine
For Bernadette Sulgit
and Martin Knelman
The best way of keeping a secret is to
pretend there isnt one.
MARGARET ATWOOD
The greatest crimes in the world are not
committed by people breaking the rules
but by people following the rules.
BANKSY
1.
HOLLYWOOD
This happened fast, and in the dark.
DONALD HRYCYK
LAPD detective Donald Hrycyk knew his way around a homicide investigation. He knew about the Bloods and the Crips, how the color of your shoelaces could indicate which gang you belonged to, and whom you had to kill to get ahead in life. He knew about semiautomatics and shotguns and butcher knives, and about streets that felt a universe away from the pristine white walls of the art scene, or the jet set who ruled it. By the time I met him, though, the detective had visited almost every gallery and auction house in the Greater Los Angeles area and had contacts all over the world. He didnt gloat about it. Mostly, he just got up early every day and worked his cases.
One afternoon in L.A., in 2008, Detective Hrycyk and his partner, Detective Stephanie Lazarus, were cruising through the city in their unmarked silver Chevrolet Impala. Hrycyk was at the wheel, and drove down Sunset Boulevard toward a crime scene. It was a hot, bright day, and the sunlight burned a little. On Sunset the car passed the Chateau Marmont and the Comedy Storethe marquee read George Carlin, RIP.
At a red light, the Impala idled between two gleaming white SUVs. A driver looking down into the lowly Chevy would have seen that the detectives wore similar uniforms: checkered shirts, slacks, and black running shoes. On their wrists, both sported big digital watches. Their style was so uncool it was almost cool. Beneath their loose shirts, hardly noticeable, they kept a few of their work tools: LAPD badge, cell phone, handcuffs, tape recorder, extra ammo, and gun. They looked like gym coaches on their way to practice.
Just before crossing into Beverly Hills, Hrycyk hung a left on La Cienega Boulevard. He was heading to a strip of antique and design stores. A few minutes earlier, when the detectives picked me up, they had both turned from the front seat and inspected my shoes (black Adidas with white stripes). Lazarus exchanged a glance with Hrycykthe original wireless connection.
Lazarus said, No. The soles dont look right.
Hrycyks eyes smiled quietly in the rearview mirror. The antique store that was burglarized has a few clues, he said. Apparently there are some shoeprints on an antique dining-room table. From the description, they dont match yours.
So I was a suspect?
You never know, Lazarus said. A journalist is here from Toronto writing about art theft, and an antique store happens to be hit. Its good news for you, right? Because you get to ride along for the investigation. We just wanted to rule you out. Later Hrycyk and Lazarus told me about a journalist in the Midwest who had murdered people and then written about the murders for the local paper. Their point: dont rule out anyone too earlyits all about motivation. Everyones a suspect. I felt guilty just sitting there in the back seat.
Hrycyk parked on La Cienega near the crime scene. The antique store was at street level, one of two in the same unit, with a large bay window facing the sidewalk and traffic. The window, which was intact, featured a few choice pieces of Italian Renaissance furniture.
The attached store was under construction; a large piece of plywood covered the empty hole where its front window should have been. A shade tree stood near the sidewalk in front of the store. A small group of construction workers huddled in the pool of its shadow, their workday frozen by the burglary next door. The construction site was now part of the crime scene. There was almost no breeze that afternoon, and the heat was stifling. The group of men, roughly in their twenties, looked slightly nervous at the sight of the detectives, but it was one of them who had discovered the break-in and called 911. For now the workers waited for their foreman and watched the police from the shadows.
Hrycyk and Lazarus stood on the sidewalk in the open sunlight as a black and white cruiser with the gold insignia TO PROTECT AND TO SERVE pulled into the asphalt driveway leading to the antique stores back parking lot. A tall white-painted iron gate, there to protect the back lot from intruders, stood ajar.
In the patrol car were two officers from Hollywood Division. Officer Ramirez occupied the drivers seat. He was a sleek-looking man in his early thirties, in perfect athletic shape, with shorn black hair. His aviator shades reflected back the intense afternoon light. Ramirez was relaxed and smiled often. His movie-star white teeth matched the aesthetic of the neighborhoodupscale fashion and design, expensive. On the road, a cherry-red BMW with tinted windows slowed down, the driver staring at the small crowd and the police cruiser.
Hrycyk and Lazarus strolled over to the window of the patrol car. On the way, Hrycyk explained to me that Ramirez and his partner had already done a preliminary inspection of the crime scene. The detectives now taking over relied on the officers notes and first impressions. We completely depend on them, said Hrycyk.
