Page 59 of Burning Caine
“But she doesn’t do prop—”
“Will do.” Hailey switched to her outstanding list to take a peek at the details and distance.
“Lucy,” he barked as he logged out of the claims system and turned around to look at us. “Go with her. Keep your mouth shut.”
Then he turned to me. “They’re in the Oaks conference room. Wow them with customer service, and when you’re done, go sit on Ferraro until he’s finished. The old man’s watching this one closely, and you’re running out of time.”
“Cliff, it hasn’t even been two weeks. This is ridiculous!”
“Sam, go.”
“Lucy, I need some printouts. Policy dec, high-value artwork endorsement, and the photo when I grabbed the painting from their house. Got it?”
She gave me a thumbs up and I slapped the cubicle wall before dashing outside to my truck to grab my laptop. Lucy joined me on my way to Oaks, a large conference room with a meeting table for twenty and eighty-inch screen on the wall.
Olivia was a refined older woman with gray hair, dressed in a black jacket topped with a string of pearls and a black silk flower pin on her lapel. A dahlia, a symbol of elegance and dignity. She was thin, but not frail, and stared blankly at the tissue in her hands. I couldn’t imagine the sorrow after losing her husband of forty-eight years.
David was in his mid-forties, with thin blond hair combed back to emphasize his large nose and forehead. He leveled Lucy and me with a cold gaze as we sat, his light brown eyes showing far less sadness than his mother’s. He drummed his fingers, telegraphing his irritation.
“Mrs. Scott—” I began, but David interrupted.
“You’re the art claims expert?”
I placed the interruption aside and put one of my business cards on the table. “My name is Samantha Caine, and this is my colleague, Lucy Chapman. And yes, I am.”
Lucy looked over at me, notepad in her hands. I nodded to one of the seats, and she sat, as did I. While we talked, I got my laptop up and running and logged into the claims system.
“First, I’d like to express our condolences on your loss. I met your husband once, about twenty years ago, and he was a kind man. I assume you’re here to discuss the progress of your Chagall claim—”
David interrupted again, forceful, but not losing his cool. “The other claims have already closed. AmLife and Foster have already paid everything out. Why is this part taking so long?”
“I understand this is a difficult time for you, but we should review the process.”
“What process?”
“The Chagall painting was insured for a lot of money.”
I opened the folder Lucy had given me and showed him the photo I’d asked her for. Olivia looked up at it and blinked away tears.
“You can see from the burn pattern the fire spread from the right side and there are still strips remaining through the middle. I regret to say it’s a total loss, so we’ll be paying out the full replacement value of one million dollars.” I pushed a copy of the policy declaration to him and pointed to the insured value.
“Are you doing that today?” he asked. Olivia had stopped crying but was still staring at her hands.
“I’m afraid not, David. The coverage is specific for artwork valued over one hundred thousand. Any total loss from damage, like fire or water damage, requires confirmation the painting is the one listed on the policy.” I pushed another sheet of paper to him, explaining the specifics.
He looked at the photo again, seeing the painting was basically a mass of black fabric now, with no discernible colors left. “How do you do that?”
“We have a professional taking care of it. They’ll clean the soot off, take it out of the frame, and find areas we can confirm against the photos we have on file.”
“That seems reasonable,” he said begrudgingly. “How long will it take?”
“Roughly a month—”
“A month?” He hit the table with a fist.
“It’s a delicate process. We have the best in the business taking care of it—”
“David,” whispered Olivia, “please calm down. It will take what time it takes. It won’t bring him back.”