Mireya Solórzano

Mireya Solórzano is 56 and has an address book that, she says, opens any door in Manhattan. She was born in Guadalajara, Mexico, the daughter of a boardinghouse keeper and a bus driver, and arrived in the United States at 19 to work as a receptionist at an auction house. She learned the trade by listening to others talk about art and keeping what she heard, and today she calls everyone darling.

She lives in a spacious suburban house, with a velvet-lined living room and a sideboard full of silver teapots, with family portraits in gilded frames and a piano nobody plays. She likes to entertain. She serves port to anyone who walks through the door and tells stories of collectors in such rich detail that the listener forgets to ask who they are.

She has fair olive skin, dark brown hair in an impeccable low bun and always-fresh wine-colored lipstick. She wears a camel wool coat, brown leather gloves and, on the lapel, a gold brooch in the shape of a bird. The hostess's smile never fades, even when the conversation turns rough, and her warm voice drops in pitch when she wants to be believed.

She says she is an art dealer and that for twelve years she has bridged a very discreet collector and Haverford. She came to calm Mr. Wexley, not to be interrogated. She remarks that Delphine examined the canvases with a golden loupe and that lately the gallery's restorer has been a bit odd. When the conversation turns to the collector, she lowers her voice and says he pays so as not to have a name.

Mireya knows her name is on every provenance note. When the detective accuses her without a paper in hand, she talks about twelve years of reputation and asks for a lawyer. It may be the firmness of someone with a clean name to defend. It may be someone who rehearsed her indignation at length before an empty corridor. The detective will have to decide which.