My dad was still sleeping, no doubt nursing a hangover, and I had breakfast with my mom. She asked if I’d slept well, and I told her I had, a lie, but a part of me felt good, satisfied in a way I hadn’t felt since I’d come home, knowing that Vincent had been united with his son. My mom made scrambled eggs and strawberry pancakes and I ate everything, using half the bottle of Log Cabin while she interviewed me about teaching (“It’s great”) and my art career (“It’s great”) and her favorite topic, if I was seeing anyone (“no one special”), another lie, though it wasn’t really, as I was no longer seeing Alex.
Back in the city, I called Inspector Cabenal and left my questions on her voicemail: had they had found Smith’s attacker, and was anyone pursuing the Chaudron forgeries? I doubted I would hear back from her and didn’t. I wondered how they could just let it go, not pursue the Louvre or Smith’s list of suspicious art collectors. The thought had me going through my papers, but I couldn’t find the list. Then I remembered Smith had emailed it to me, found it in my in-box, and printed it out.
There were four names with Manhattan addresses. I stared at them, questioning why I’d printed it and what I thought I could possibly do. Call them, say, Hey, you don’t know me, but do you happen to have a stolen artwork? Maybe a forgery of the Mona Lisa? Or maybe the original?
A ludicrous idea.
Then I thought of Smith, felt as if I owed him something, that perhaps I could at least clear his name with INTERPOL, though it wasn’t just about owing or obligation. It was about something a lot less noble: revenge. An image of myself: pack of Marlboros rolled into the sleeve of my tee above my tattoo, with my posse, on the hunt, getting even with someone we decided had wronged us. We were not always right, but that never stopped us. Funny, how far I thought I’d come. But did we ever really leave our former selves behind?
I didn’t spend a lot of time pondering that philosophical question. Instead I checked out the first name on Smith’s list, Jonathan Teivel, noting the artwork beside his name, and quickly formulated a plan. I told his secretary I was an art historian writing a piece on the artist, Titian, wondered if Mr. Teivel had such a painting, and if so, would he let me see it, all this made up on the spot and before rational thinking could stop me.
The secretary, officious but nice, said her boss was in a meeting, but she would relay the message. I hung up feeling both disappointment and relief, though it didn’t stop me from making another call. Another secretary. The same story about the article I was writing. This time, the boss was traveling and would not be back for a month. I put a question mark beside his name and, still working off my small shot of adrenaline, called the next name on the list. This one, a lawyer who, according to his paralegal, was on a case in Los Angeles and not expected back for several weeks. Another question mark next to his name. One more name to call.
“Rembrandt?” the personal assistant, friendly and chatty, repeated the artist’s name I had just given her. “Mr. Baine does collect art, some of it in our offices, but there’s no Rembrandt here that I know of. Perhaps in one of his homes, though I’m not certain,” she said. “Mr. Baine isn’t in, but I will convey your message.”
I had done it. Made the calls. It was enough. Smith would be proud of me. Now, I waited to see if they’d produce anything. I doubted they would.
83
The financial district is closed up, everything quiet at 2:00 a.m.
The Russian drags on a cigarette as he heads down Water Street to the arranged meeting.
The middleman has asked to see him. Why, after two jobs where they had never met? A trap? Probably. He had done his job and now they were finished with him. He has dealt with such men before and is ready, but he wants to see what he might get out of the middleman first, like who he is working for, thoughts of vengeance buzzing in his head like a hive of killer bees.
The neighborhood is practically deserted at this time of night, but the Russian’s fine-tuned radar picks up the grinding sound of a garbage truck, a distant siren, a foghorn on the river. He angles furtive looks one way, then the other, his hand toying with the knife in his pocket.
At Broad Street, he turns east toward the river.
A bar, Street Angel, open all night, the only one in the neighborhood, you can’t miss it.
And there it is, the bar’s neon sign blinking like a warning in the dark.
The Russian is less than a half block away when two men come out of nowhere, one in front, one behind, and drag him into an alley. He is prepared for the attack but not for the buzz on his neck and his body going spastic, though he manages to knock the Taser from the guy’s hand, then sees the other guy has a gun. Muscles convulsing, he grabs hold of the silencer’s long barrel, but the man fires, the bullet grazing the fleshy edge of the Russian’s palm, but he doesn’t let go, gets the knife from his pocket, jabs the guy in the gut. But the other one, the one with the Taser, is up again. The Russian punches him, then charges, all two hundred and fifty pounds of him knocking the guy to the ground. Landing on top of his assailant, he gets hold of the gun and presses it to the guy’s temple, says, “So…you…are…the man…I have been…taking orders from.”
The guy beneath him groans, “Nooo…I was hired by him…” He angles his chin toward the other man, the one on the ground who’s been stabbed. “I don’t know shit! I’m no one!”
“Agreed,” the Russian says, shoots him in the head, rolls off, gets to his feet and, despite still-twitching muscles, aims his gun at the man on the ground, the one trying to stanch the knife wound in his gut.
“Who do you work for? Who sent you to kill me?”
“I…just do as I’m told…like you. Follow orders.”
The Russian grins, baring his short, discolored teeth. “You have a choice, my friend. In five seconds, I start shooting off fingers and toes, or you tell me what I want and I walk away.”
The guy looks up, eyes blinking like a dying light bulb. “What…what do you want?”
“Your boss. His name.”
“Don’t…know it. Never did. Never met the guy. You know how it works.” His hands are pressed against his belly, blood leaching between his fingers.
“A phone number then.”
“He will have me killed.”
The Russian leans over, fumbles a cell phone out of the middleman’s pocket. “Do not worry,” he says and cocks his gun. “He will not have to.” He shoots the guy twice, just to be sure. Then swipes his hat off the ground, turns his coat inside out to hide any blood, and steps out of the alley.
He scrolls through the middleman’s cell as he makes his way down the deserted street with one thought in his mind: to find the man who ordered this hit and kill him.
84
It was only a day later that Jonathan Teivel’s secretary called back to say her boss would see me. I was surprised, thought about not going, then I did.
Fiftysomething, hair combed back from a high forehead, Teivel looped his thumbs under striped suspenders. “Remind me again why you think I own this Titian painting?”
“A curator friend,” I said, “in Europe gave me a list of paintings and collectors who he thought owned Titians.”
“Your friend is mistaken. I own some art but no paintings by Titian.” Teivel glanced at the wall of windows that flooded his office with bright morning light, a view of the Hudson River, the Statue of Liberty, the New Jersey coastline. “Your friend works at which museum did you say?”
I hadn’t said, but I did now. “The Louvre.”
“Really? What’s his name?”
“Gingembre,” I said, doubting he would check with the Louvre curator, particularly if he dabbled in stolen art.
“Well, I’m afraid your friend has wasted your time.”
If so, I couldn’t help but wonder why Teivel had bothered to meet me. I told him it was okay, that I had time.
He offered up a wolfi
sh smile. “My secretary says you’re an art historian, writing about Titian.”
“About Renaissance art in general.”
“I see. And for what publication did you say?”
Again, I hadn’t. “An academic journal,” I said. “If not Titian, who do you collect?”
“This and that, some Renaissance, some contemporary.”
“Which Renaissance artists?”
“Raphael and Giorgione. Drawings only, of course. I’m afraid paintings are out of my league.”
I looked over his grand corner office, the impressive view. I’d done a little homework, knew Teivel was a founding partner in the investment firm, one of the biggest and most prestigious in the city. I doubted there was much out of his league. The sun caught the gold on his wrist.
“I see you’re admiring my watch. Vacheron Constantin…Traditionnelle…perpetual calendar…open-worked.” He enunciated every word, pushed his cuff up to show it off. It looked like a sundial, actually four miniature sundials, all the inner mechanics on display.
“Rose-gold case and sapphire crystal glass,” he said, raising his wrist to my face. “Two hundred and seventy-six parts. Thirty-six jewels. Days of the week, forty-eight-month calendar, including leap year, and of course phases of the moon.”
“Of course,” I said, catching a whiff of his citrusy cologne.
“I’d be lost without it. You should get one for yourself.”
“Sure,” I said, knowing he was playing with me. “I’ll trade in my Timex.”
He laughed too loud.
I asked if I could see the Raphael and Giorgione drawings he’d mentioned, and he said, “They’re in my various homes—Park Avenue, Palm Beach, Aspen—not in the office. You’re not an art thief, are you?” Another too-loud laugh.
I laughed too. “No. Just an associate professor of art history.”
“And where would this associate’s job be? Some community college?”
I was happy to drop the name of my respected university, the one I might soon be fired from, though I had a feeling Teivel already knew where I taught, knew everything about me.
“Good for you,” he said. “Do you live in the city?”
“On the Bowery.”
“The Bowery? Really? Hard to imagine the Bowery, formerly skid row, would be a desirable location, though apparently things have changed. Do you feel safe there?”
I told him it was perfectly safe nowadays.
“I suppose,” Teivel said. “Though you never know, do you? I mean, anything can happen—anywhere.”
Was he threatening me? “That’s why I have dead bolts on my doors,” I said.
“No bars on your windows?”
“I’m on an upper floor. So unless it’s Spider-Man—”
“My favorite superhero,” Teivel said.
“Really? I’d have guessed Wolverine.”
Teivel barked a Wolverine-like laugh. “You flatter me.”
Not a chance. We talked a few more minutes about the contemporary art he collected—Warhol, Basquiat, Koons—but Teivel seemed to grow bored. Perhaps he’d gotten what he wanted, did not feel sufficiently threatened by me. He ushered me toward his office door and offered a handshake.
“If I were you, I’d get bars on those Bowery windows,” he said and squeezed my hand, hard. “You never know when Spider-Man might show up.” He barked another laugh.
“Nah,” I said and squeezed his hand back. “I was never afraid of little Peter Parker.”
“What about Wolverine?” he said, letting go of my hand to usher me out the door, which closed in my face.
85
At home, I dug out Inspector Cabenal’s card. I knew she wouldn’t be happy to hear from me, but I wanted to tell her about Teivel, run his name past her and see if it meant anything.
I was surprised when she answered the phone, and I was right: she was not happy to hear from me. I asked about Jonathan Teivel. The name meant nothing to her.
“It was on Smith’s list of collectors, ones he intended to investigate—”
“And you saw this man?”
I told her I had.
There was a pause, then her words came like gunfire. “Mister Perrone! If you persist in these matters, I will have no choice but to report you to your local authorities and have you arrested. Do…you…understand?”
I wanted to tell her to go fuck herself, but I said nothing.
“Are you there? Did you hear me?”
“I’m here.”
“Anything Analyst Smith was investigating is no longer your concern. No longer his concern either. His work here is finished. Are we clear about that?”
“Perfectly,” I said and hung up.
I went through the motions of cleaning my loft, a way to work off my anger. Was it that INTERPOL didn’t care about these unscrupulous art collectors or that anything connected with Smith had been discredited, dismissed?
Anything Analyst Smith was investigating is no longer your concern. No longer his concern either.
Cabenal’s words played in my mind as I made a show of organizing my desk, crumpling papers, jamming pens and pencils into a holder.
His work here is finished. Well sure, he was dead.
I stopped a moment, stared out the window at a neighboring building without seeing it, kept hearing Cabenal’s words, something about them odd, the phrasing off—no longer his concern—his work here is finished. Did that imply it was not finished elsewhere? Was it possible she had just told me that Smith was alive?
I replayed the call I had made to the hospital in Paris.
Mr. Smith is no longer in critical care.
At the time, I had assumed that meant he’d died, reinforced by the fact that Cabenal had never let me know if Smith survived, which had been our deal. But what did she care about a deal with me? She was finished with me and with Smith—dead or alive.
I called her back, but this time, it went to voicemail. I didn’t bother to leave a message. I got the international operator for Lyon, France, asked for John Washington Smith. No listing. But somewhere, I had Smith’s number; I was sure of it, remembered him handing me his card. No, he hadn’t handed it to me, he’d stuffed it into my shirt pocket. And after that? I thought for a moment, remembered calling him, scrolled through my call log but nothing looked familiar. So where had I called him from? The taxi—after I was attacked. Right.
I dug out my wallet, went through it, and there it was, the small white card jammed in between euros and dollars.
I listened to the phone ring three, four, five times. Maybe I was crazy; maybe Smith was dead. Then his voicemail kicked in. “Leave a message.” That was it, no identification, but definitely his voice. An old message? Would his phone still be working if he were dead? Maybe.
“Smith,” I said, “this is Luke Perrone. I have something to tell you. Call me back, uh, if you’re alive—”
I hung up. A moment later, my phone rang.
“Perrone.”
“Holy shit! You are alive!”
“How did you get this number?”
“You gave it to me, remember? Jesus, all this time, I thought you were dead.”
“I may as well be.”
“Self-pity never suited you, Smith.”
“Fuck you, Perrone.”
“Fuck you too. Just tell me, are you in one piece?”
“I’ve got more stitches than a football, but I’m fine.”
“Cabenal told me you were dead. Not exactly. She said there was little chance you’d survive, internal organs punctured, shit like that.”
“It was touch and go for a while, and I’m guessing Cabenal is sorry I didn’t die—save her and INTERPOL a lot of embarrassment. I lost my job and my spleen, but apparently you don’t need your spleen. Other than that, I’m pretty much in one piece.”
“Jesus. I’m calling that bitch and letting her have it.”
He asked me not to, said it would just cause trouble for both of us.
“She let me think you were dead, Smith. You know what that did to me?”
“Cried like a baby, huh?”
I heard the tease in his voice for the first time. “Worse,” I said though didn’t go into it. I told him about unearthing his list of collectors, making the calls, about Teivel’s threats.
“Are you crazy?” he said.
“No crazier than you.”
“Look, it’s too late. I’m fired, erased. It’s like I never existed.”
“Where are you?”
“My shitty Lyon apartment, where else? But I’m getting out of here.”
“Where to?”
“Don’t know yet. Where does a forty-seven-year-old with no job and no prospects go?”
“The private sector?”
“And what, be a guard in some suburban bank?”
“Suppose I prove you were right?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Follow up with these collectors, see what I can find out. Something to show INTERPOL you were onto something big, a way to clear your name.”
“My name? Jesus, Perrone, you’re still a romantic. Nothing you say will sway INTERPOL. I told you it’s too late—and too dangerous.”
I wanted to say You deserve better, all you did, but I knew he was right. I couldn’t save him, had just barely saved myself.
“Just stop what you’re doing,” he said. “I’m not asking. I’m telling you. Stop. You hear me?”
“I hear you.”
His sigh through the phone sounded like a windstorm. “Look, I appreciate it, but it’s no good, and you can’t take the risk. You saw what can happen, remember?”
I remembered.
“Promise me you’ll give it up.”
The Last Mona Lisa Page 26