“There’s a number I’m supposed to text. If all good I say ‘Yes’.”
“And if not all good?”
“Then I text ‘No’ and wait for further instructions.” George looks at me for approval and then immediately tells him, “Text ‘Yes’. Do it now.”
George cuts Lapikov’s bindings so he can send the message. He doesn’t try to resist.
I want Geoffrey to think his thug has been successful. I don’t want him to know anything’s gone wrong yet. When he’s sent the message I ask to see the phone. It’s a different number each time that texts him what to do, but the instructions all end with the code 59321 to authenticate the message. I wonder if there’s a way I can trace any of these numbers, maybe Detective O’Rourke could help. If Geoffrey’s smart enough to be changing the number every time though then he’s smart enough not to be using any kind of number that can be traced back to him, a cheap burner phone will do that job easily enough. George has an ex-cop on his team who says he can have them checked just in case.
I scroll through the messages Lapikov has received, it’s all very carefully worded: locations and times only. I’m guessing it amounts to quite the catalogue of criminal endeavours, though in the courts it’s no more than circumstantial evidence.
I see the text for tonight’s job: 8pm 108 Riverside Towers. Only Kim, George and myself knew where we were going tonight, not even George’s team knew. But Lapikov received a text with the exact location Kim had sent Geoffrey just five minutes after she sent it. Even if we can’t prove Geoffrey sent the message to Lapikov, it’s enough evidence to prove Geoffrey as a link in the chain to him. I’ve got what I need, it’s enough. I tell George I’m done with Lapikov, but I’m holding onto the phone. With that he’s packed back into the van ready for the police.
I ask them to drop me at my apartment, I’m not ready to make my way there on my own just yet. George says they’ll deal with the police. Before I get out I try to thank George for everything he’s done. He politely accepts my ineloquent outpourings of gratitude. It’s like it was just another day at the office for him.
As I lock the door of the apartment I start to feel the tension in my body finally start to ease. I pour myself a strong drink and walk around the living room staring at the artworks on each of the walls. It’s been a very strange few days. I think about Kim and what she did. I’ve sent her back to London and told her to wait for my call. I haven’t decided yet if there’s any way back for her from all this. She did what I asked, delivered Geoffrey to me. That’s bought her some goodwill at least.
There’s only one more thing for me to do today, but at least it won’t be a chore, in fact it’s quite the opposite.
I call Geoffrey. He picks up quickly.
“Hello Eloise, I’m surprised to be getting a call from you.”
He speaks in a smug, dirty tone. He clearly doesn’t know what’s about to hit him and that foreknowledge makes this call all the sweeter.
“Hello Geoffrey, I thought I’d give you a call as I wanted to let you know that Kim and I just had a very interesting little chat.” There’s now a very sudden silence at the other end of the line. “You know Kim, right? She works in our office. She’s the one who’s been giving you confidential information about our clients and our commissions this past year.” I let that hang there for a moment. Still there is only silence from Geoffrey.”
“Well, Kim was able to see the error of her ways and decided she was going to help us instead. So that text she sent to you earlier today about where I was going to be tonight was really from me, and when your little helper turned up to try and attack me again, this time it was a fairer fight.”
“He’s a tough cookie but my friends were able to get the better of him and he’s currently in the custody of our security team, being very helpful with all of our enquiries. As you can imagine they have a lot of questions.”
“Now I know you’re a clever man Geoffrey and you’ve done lots of clever things to distance yourself from little Andrei in the event that he got caught like he has, but based on a quick discussion with our legal counsel, the combination of Kim’s testimony, the texts we have from Andrei and Andrei himself, you’re apparently looking at a pretty decent chance of losing at trial. But I’m betting that when this becomes public you’d become such a pariah in the industry that all your clients would leave you long before it got to that point.”
I leave all that to sink in. He still hasn’t said anything. Finally he breaks the silence, a barely audible, grudging mumble, “What do you want?”
“You can start by dropping your search for the Portrait of the Lost Child. It’s my client, my job. You’ve got other commissions, there’s more than enough work for both Roth and Daedalus.”
I think he’s a little surprised I’m not asking for more.
“Fine.” He says without very much protestation. He starts to talk as if his concession has now concluded the issue but I’m not such an easy sell. I tell him he’s not off the hook yet, he’ll be hearing from me again and hang up the phone.
I don’t know what else I’m going to do to him, but one thing’s for sure is that he’s not getting off that lightly. I’ll give it some more thought later. I smile a little at the prospect, something to look forward to.
6
Everything in Manhattan is so cinematic. I guess it’s because pretty much everything you see here you’ve already seen before in a movie somewhere, you’re just permanently on a film set. Saturday morning comes like a pure ray of sunshine through the bay windows. I’m in such a good mood that I’m not even feeling particularly neurotic about my coffee with Tom today. A lot’s happened since that first night on the beach; it turns out a week is a long time in the art world. And somehow I’ve come out of it all with Geoffrey Webb off my case which means I can go back to only pretending to look for the Portrait of the Lost Child. Just the thought of it makes me feel the happiest I’ve felt in a long time.
Breakfast is leisurely and indulgent; the morning paper to read and a feast of berries, melon and croissants, all topped off with a fresh pot of coffee and a tall glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. When the important business of breakfast is concluded it’s on to dressing and grooming. I’m not much of a clothes horse, frankly I can’t afford to be, but working on Bond Street next to all the designer stores has its perks. Every year the designer stores have sales and if you’re a Bond Street employee you get a discount from every store on the street. So once a year I get to play fashionista and see what I can find in the sales. I didn’t expect to be going on a date in New York and I packed accordingly but in the end I choose some fitted jeans, a grey cotton T-shirt, black ankle boots and my one more extravagant purchase last year, an oversized black lambskin aviator jacket which I got on sale from Saint Laurent but still cost far too much.
I’m actually making an effort here, I was even being indecisive over what I should wear. I’m not sure why, part of me wonders if he’ll even show. But if he does I don’t want to give him the wrong message and lead him on, this isn’t going to go anywhere. To be honest I don’t even know why I said yes to this. I guess I just enjoyed myself at Brighton Beach.
Ten minutes to twelve and Tom is standing in a long blue overcoat in front of the Flatiron building apex. He’s a little hunched over to cover himself from the rain that’s started, it reminds me of that picture of James Dean walking down a New York street. When he sees me from across the street he smiles. He looks a little awkward which I like. We walk through Madison Square Park to find a place for our agreed coffee. In my head we start our own little movie scene.
Tom: I didn’t think you’d come.
She smiles slightly.
Elle: I said I would.
Tom: Does that mean you’re going to tell me your name?
Elle: You didn’t ask Hiroki?
Tom: I could have. But if you didn’t tell me yourself I figured you didn’t want me to be asking someone else…
She likes his answer,
but she’s still being coy.
Tom: So you'll go on a date with me but you still won't tell me your name?
Elle: Who said this was a date?
He’s momentarily flustered.
Elle: Well if this was a date, and I’m not saying it is, I can still walk out on it anytime I want. But once I tell you my name you'll always know it.
Tom: I'm guessing you're not a big social media user.
Elle: I'm pretty active trolling on Twitter under the handle @angrybitch.
Tom: So you're the one telling me I need to lose weight.
She smiles again.
Tom: Seriously though, you can't honestly go around meeting people and hanging out with them for this long and not tell them your name.
Elle: Most people I don’t hang around with long enough for them to notice.
Tom: So? Are you going to tell me?
Elle: What?
Slanted head from Tom.
Elle: It's Eloise, people call me Elle.
Tom: Surname?
Elle: Let's just start with Elle.
Tom: Okay. For now.
They walk to a café he’s suggested. It’s a cute little beatnik type place; the kind of place where everyone wants to be Jack Kerouac.
Elle: Cute place.
Tom: Jack Kerouac used to hang out here.
Smugly she says nothing.
‘My Funny Valentine’ is playing in the background.
Elle: I like this song.
Tom: Me too.
Elle: It’s beautiful.
Tom: I’m not sure you’re actually allowed to like this song though.
Elle: What? Why?
Tom: Because it’s not meant for you. You’re too… obviously pretty.
She thinks he’s talking bullshit.
Tom: It’s about someone who’s deeply in love with someone despite their physical imperfections. ‘Your looks are laughable. Unphotographable. Yet you’re my favourite work of art’.
Elle: So I can’t like this song because you think I’m pretty? I really hope you’re joking!
His smile gives him away and they start to laugh.
Elle: I just like the tune, and Chet Baker’s voice.
They listen to the song for a moment.
Elle: It doesn’t have to be about how someone looks, there are lots of ways to be flawed. There are things about me I wish I could change, but this song lets me think there’s someone out there that could love me even with my flaws.
Tom: I can’t see a single flaw from where I’m sitting.
Elle: Some flaws aren’t the ones you see.
Tom: I know they say beauty is subjective but I can tell you in my experience there’s generally a pretty strong consensus on the subject. Like the first time I saw you in that bar in Brooklyn I just thought to myself ‘wow’ that girl is stunning.
Elle: Sweet-talker, but that’s just your opinion.
Tom: That’s what I’m saying though. Yes I thought that, but I’m pretty sure everyone else there was thinking exactly the same thing. I’m just the lucky guy you said you’d have a drink with.
The waitress brings over their coffees.
Tom: So little Miss Mystery. What will you tell me about yourself then? Will you tell me what you do?
Elle: Why don’t you tell me about what you do first.
Tom: I can’t. I don’t know yet.
Elle: Said the annoying adolescent teenager. But then they grew up and became…
Tom: Fine, I’m a photographer.
Elle: Was that so hard?
Tom: Said the girl who took a week to tell me her name. No one wants to just be one thing. It’s so efficient. You’ve given up and fallen into the system. A place for everything and everything in its place.
Elle: I actually knew you were a photographer, Anya told me the other night when she introduced us. That’s how it is these days though isn’t it? We all need to be a specialist in something. You can’t just flit between jobs whenever you want. You can’t turn up at hospital and decide today’s the day you’re going to be a surgeon.
Tom: That’s a bit of an extreme example.
Elle: So what else do you want to do?
Tom: Right now I do mostly fashion photography, that’s where the work is in this city. But I’d like to try writing; and I want to travel, see as much of the world through a lense as I can, do more nature photography.
Elle: What’s stopping you?
Tom: Finding someone who’ll pay me to do it.
On we chat. He’s worked out that I do something in the art world because I’m friends with Hiroki, but doesn’t get any further than that. He asks if I’d like to go to the Museum of Modern Art so we can hang out a little longer. I hadn’t planned to let this go on past the coffee, but I’m enjoying his company and I’ve dreamed of visiting MoMA for years, so I say yes. And so the little movie in my mind continues a little longer, two strangers wandering through the halls of a Manhattan museum talking about nothing in particular.
They are staring at a triptych of Monet’s water lilies.
Tom: I read an article the other day about some study that showed visitors to museums only spend on average half a minute looking at a painting before they move on, the implication being that this was a scandalous statistic, but I thought that seemed about right to me.
Elle: You think half a minute is enough time for you to properly look at this painting?
Tom: Not this painting actually, this one I feel like I could really spend some time with. But generally, yes I think it’s enough.
Elle strongly disagrees.
Tom: Think about it. The majority of people who go to museums will be visitors in whatever city the museum is in. For all those tourists walking through the doors of the Louvre, how many times do you think they’ll be going back in their lives? Probably one or two times more max, for some it will be the only time they do it. So they’ve got maybe eight hours in their whole lives to look at what’s inside it. That just isn’t enough time to even scratch the surface of what that place offers. You could literally spend a lifetime looking at and learning about all the works of art in that building. So people hurry through it, to make sure they’ve see all the greatest hits. What do they have in the Louvre again? I know it’s got the Mona Lisa.
Elle: The Venus de Milo, the Winged Victory of Samothrace, Michelangelo’s Dying Slave, Delacroix’s Liberty Leading the People.
Tom: Yeah all of those…
Elle: I had an idea once for a museum where each visitor was put in a room on their own and a random generator selected a work of art for them to view for an hour, accompanied by all the research material the museum had available on the piece.
Tom: You are such an art nerd.
Elle: That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me all day. I think it’s quite a nice idea actually.
He laughs.
I don’t want to leave the museum, there’s so much to see. Tom seems happy to keep me company. Eventually, when the other people in the gallery can hear my stomach rumbling I accept that it’s time to leave. Tom says he knows a good place nearby where we can eat and takes me to grab a salt beef sandwich in a very New York deli.
We sit at a little side table amongst the locals and the tourists and eat. It’s been a nice day. I catch my reflection in the mirror, a pretty girl sat at a table with a good-looking guy. She looks happy. She’s who I wish I was. In the mirror the girl kisses the boy. He tells her he wants to see her again, she says she’d like that. Maybe this could be the start of something special between the two of them.
But the girl in the mirror isn’t me. I know the day must come to an end and I tell Tom I have to go. He asks me if he can see me again. I want to say yes, but I know that I can’t. I know this is just a temporary escape. I tell him I need to go.
“But I don’t have your number or your email.” He says in earnest. I tell him “We’ve seen each other three times this week. I think it’s safe to assume our paths will cross again.”
&nbs
p; “Three times?” He asks. “We’ve only seen each other twice.”
I say goodbye and get up to leave. I catch my reflection once more but the girl in the mirror is gone. I walk away alone.
7
It’s late but I’m not tired. I decide it’s time for the one pilgrimage I promised myself I would make when I knew I was coming to Manhattan – to see the city from the top of the Empire State Building. When I told the girls in the office that what I was most looking forward to about the trip was going up the Empire State Building they just laughed it off and thought it was some sort of tourist bucket list item for me, but it’s much more than that.
I make my way up Fifth Avenue towards midtown and East 34th Street. I’m in no rush and decide I can walk it. The streets still bustle with noise and life but I pass through it like some lost spirit in a different world, somehow part of it and yet not. I’ve lost any sense of time but suddenly I’m standing at the foot of the monolith. This close it’s almost understated, its lower levels filled with coffee shops, family restaurants and retail outlets, making it barely distinguishable from the other buildings around it. But look up and the higher you go the more you see, the more it stands alone.
Inside I queue for my ticket. It’s late so the crowds have died down and there’s only a small line for tickets. The woman behind the counter tells me they’ll be closing in an hour but I don’t mind, that’s all the time I need.
Near the elevators on one of the walls there’s a poster with a quote from F.Scott Fitzgerald, “From the ruins, lonely and inexplicable as the sphinx, rose the Empire State Building.” I’m a big fan of Fitzgerald, and in a way he’s the reason I’ve come here tonight. I first read him at school when I was twelve, our teacher gave us all a copy of The Great Gatsby to read. I loved it immediately. We’d had to read a lot of the French classics, Alexandre Dumas, Voltaire, Jules Verne and at the time I think I was just glad to read something that was a bit more modern. The New York in Gatsby you could recognise: people had cars not horses, they had guns not swords. There was crime and murder in it too, the sort of things you would see in movies, not in a school book. Even the way it was written, it was modern too.
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