“This can’t go on. Something has to be done,” Mindy exclaimed that morning.
Enid sighed. “If it bothers you so much, then hire the young man.”
“What?” Mindy said, outraged.
“Hire him,” Enid repeated. “He must be a hard worker if he puts so much effort into writing about One Fifth. He’s at least halfway intelligent — I’m assuming he knows how to form a sentence, otherwise you wouldn’t be so angry. Pay him a decent salary and work him hard. That way he won’t have enough time to write anything on the side. But don’t pay him so much that he can save up money to quit. Give him insurance and benefits. Turn him into a corporate drone, and you’ll never have to worry about him again.”
If only, Enid thought, all problems could be solved so easily. She went into the kitchen and made a cup of tea, sipping it carefully to avoid burn-ing her mouth. She hesitated, then took her tea into the bedroom. She turned off the phones, pulled back the covers, and for the first time in years, got into bed during the day. She closed her eyes. She was finally getting too old for all this drama.
The recent events in One Fifth had made Paul Rice more paranoid and secretive than normal, and he was continually losing his temper over things he might once have ignored. He screamed at Maria for folding his jeans the wrong way, and then one of his precious fish died and he accused Annalisa of killing it on purpose. Fed up, Annalisa went to a spa in Massachusetts with Connie Brewer for six days, and Paul was left facing a lonely weekend. He spent most weekends pursuing his own interests anyway, but he liked the comfort of having Annalisa around, and the fact that she’d left him, even temporarily, made him fear she might someday leave him permanently.
Apparently, Sandy Brewer didn’t have the same concerns about his own wife. “Dude,” he said, going into Paul’s office, “the girls are away this weekend. Thought you might want to come to my house for dinner.
There’s someone I want you to meet.”
“Who?” Paul asked. Ever since Sandy had flipped out about the two-minute delay in launching the algorithm, Paul had been watching Sandy closely, looking for evidence that Sandy was trying to replace him. Instead, Paul had found payments to an escort company that revealed Sandy had been paying prostitutes to service him during business trips.
With Annalisa away, Paul wondered if Sandy would try to introduce him to a hooker.
“You’ll see,” Sandy said mysteriously. Paul agreed to go, thinking if Sandy had invited one of his prostitutes, Paul could leverage the information to his advantage.
Sandy loved to show off what his success and hard work had brought him, arranging for a formal dinner for three in his wood-paneled dining room, where two enormous David Salle paintings hung. The third dinner companion wasn’t a prostitute after all, but a man named Craig Akio.
Paul shook Craig’s hand, noting only that Craig was younger than he and possessed sharp black eyes. They sat down to a glass of a rare white wine and a bowl of seafood bisque. “I’m a big admirer of your work, Paul,”
Craig Akio said from across the polished mahogany table. “Your work on the Samsun scale was genius.”
“Thanks,” Paul said curtly. He was used to being called a genius and took the compliment as a matter of course.
“I’m looking forward to working with you.”
Paul paused with his spoon halfway to his mouth. This was unexpected. “Are you moving to New York?” he asked.
“I’ve already found an apartment. In the new Gwathmey building. A masterpiece of modern architecture.”
“On the West Side Highway,” Sandy joked.
“I’m used to cars,” Craig said. “I grew up in L.A.”
“Where’d you go to school?” Paul asked evenly. But he felt uneasy. It struck him that perhaps it would have been normal behavior for Sandy to have told him about this new associate before hiring him.
“MIT,” Craig said. “You?”
“Georgetown,” Paul replied. He looked past Craig’s head to the David Salle paintings on the wall. Normally, he didn’t notice such things, but the paintings were of two jesters with terrifying expressions — both jovial and cruel. Paul took a gulp of his wine, feeling inexplicably like the jesters were real and mocking him.
For the rest of the dinner, the talk was of the upcoming political election and its impact on business; then they moved into Sandy’s study for cognac and cigars. Passing out cigars, Sandy began talking about art, boasting about his dinner with a man named David Porshie. “Billy Litchfield, he’s a good friend of my wife’s — when you get married, he’ll be a good friend of your wife’s as well,” he explained to Craig Akio. “He set us up with the head of the Metropolitan Museum. Decent fellow. Knows everything about art, but I suppose that’s not surprising. He got me thinking about improving my own collection. Going for the old masters instead of the new stuff. What do you think, Paul? Anyone can get the new stuff, right? It’s only money. But no matter what they tell you, no one knows how much it’ll be worth in five years or even two. Might not be worth anything at all.”
Paul just stared, but Craig nodded enthusiastically. Sandy, sensing an audience for not only admiration but awe, opened the safe.
Connie had done what Billy had asked. She had put the cross away — into the safe in Sandy’s study — so she could visit it anytime she liked.
Nevertheless, she’d managed to keep the cross a secret. Sandy, however, was a different story. When Billy first came to him with the opportunity to buy the cross, Sandy hadn’t thought much about it, considering it nothing more than another piece of old jewelry his wife wanted to acquire. Connie told him that the piece was important, a true antiquity, but Sandy hadn’t paid attention until that evening with David Porshie.
David approached art on a whole different level. After returning home that evening, Sandy had examined the cross again with Connie and began to understand its value, but was more taken by the coup he’d scored in obtaining it at all. It was something no one else had, and unable to keep this spectacular possession to himself, he had taken to bringing one or two select guests into his study after dinner to show it off.
Now, untying the black cords that bound the artifact in its soft suede wrappings, he said, “Here’s something you won’t see every day. In fact, it’s so rare, you won’t even find it in a museum.” Holding up the cross, he allowed Craig and Paul to examine it.
“Where do you get a piece like that?” Craig Akio asked, his eyes glittering.
“You can’t,” Sandy Brewer said, wrapping up the cross and replacing it in the safe. He sucked on his cigar. “A piece like that finds you. Not unlike you finding us, Craig.” Sandy turned to Paul, blowing smoke in his direction. “Paul, I’ll expect you to teach Craig everything you know.
You’ll be working together closely. At least at first.”
It was that last sentence that woke Paul up — “At least at first.” And then what? He suddenly saw that Sandy meant for him to train Craig; once he’d accomplished this task, Sandy would fire him. There was no need for two men to do his job. Indeed, it was impossible, as the work was secretive, instinctive, and off-the-cuff. All at once he felt as if he were on fire and, standing up, asked for water.
“Water?” Sandy barked dismissively. “I hope you’re not turning into a lightweight.”
“I’m going home,” Paul said.
He left Sandy’s apartment, fuming. How long would it be before Sandy dismissed him from his job? Crossing the sidewalk, he got into the back of the chauffeured Bentley and slammed the door. Would he lose the car as well? Would he lose everything? At the moment, he couldn’t keep up his lifestyle or even his apartment without his job. Yes, technically, he had plenty of money, but it fluctuated on a daily basis, flitting up and down and, like the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, was impossible to pin down. He had to wait for exactly the right moment to make a killing, at which point he could cash out with what could be a billion dollars.
Unable to stop thinking about Sandy and ho
w Sandy planned to ruin him, Paul spent the next thirty-six hours in his apartment in a panic. By Sunday morning, even his fish couldn’t soothe him, and Paul decided to take a walk around the neighborhood. On the table in the foyer, he found The New York Times. Without thinking, he spread it open on the living room rug and began turning the pages. And then he found the answer to his problem with Sandy on the cover of the arts section.
It was a story — complete with photographs taken from a portrait of Queen Mary — about the unsolved mystery of the Cross of Bloody Mary.
Having met the Brewers and suspecting that Sandy fit the profile of an art thief, David Porshie had arranged the story, thinking it might draw out someone who had information on the cross.
Now, reading the story while squatting on his haunches, Paul Rice put two and two together. He sat back, and as he explored the potential results of piecing together this information, the possibilities grew exponen-tially in his mind. With Sandy occupied in the legal entanglements of possessing a stolen artifact, he would be too busy to fire Paul. Indeed, Paul would go further — with Sandy gone, he could insert himself into Sandy’s place, taking his position. Then he’d be running the fund, and Sandy, having garnered himself a criminal record, would be banned from trading. It would all be his, Paul thought. Then and only then would he be safe.
Taking the newspaper with him, he went out to the Internet café on Astor Place. He did some research and, finding the information he needed, constructed a fake e-mail account under the name Craig Akio. Then he composed an e-mail stating that he — Craig Akio — had seen the cross in the home of Sandy Brewer. Paul addressed the e-mail to the reporter who’d written the piece in the Times. Out of habit, Paul reread the e-mail, and, finding it satisfactory, hit “send.”
Heading out into the weekend bustle of lower Broadway, Paul felt calm for the first time in weeks. As he entered One Fifth, he smiled, thinking about how no one was safe in the information age. But for the moment, at least, he was.
17
For Billy Litchfield, April brought not only spring showers but debil-itating tooth pain. The miserable weather was exacerbated by what felt like one endless visit to the dentist’s office. A dull pain that grew into a pounding percussion of agony finally drove him to the dentist, where an X-ray revealed that he had not one, but two decaying roots demanding immediate surgery. The situation required several appointments involving novocaine, gas, antibiotics, soft foods, and thank-fully, Vicodin to ease the pain.
“I don’t understand,” Billy protested to the dentist. “I’ve never had even a cavity.” This was a bit of an exaggeration, but nevertheless, Billy’s teeth — which were naturally white and straight, requiring only two years of braces as a child — had always been a source of pride.
The dentist shrugged. “Get used to it,” he said. “It’s part of getting older. Circulation goes to hell, and the teeth are the first to go.”
This made Billy more depressed than usual, and he upped his dosage of Prozac. He’d never been at the mercy of his body, and he found the experience not only humbling but capable of erasing every important achievement in his life. What the philosophers said was true: In the end, there was only decay and death, and in death, everyone was equal.
One afternoon while he was recovering from the latest injustice done to his jaw (a tooth had been removed and a metal screw inserted in its place — he was still waiting for the fake tooth to be constructed in the lab), there was a knock on his door.
The man who stood in the hallway was a stranger in a navy blue Ralph Lauren suit. Before Billy could respond, the man flashed a badge at him.
“Detective Frank Sabatini,” he said. “Can I come in?”
“Of course,” Billy said, too shocked to refuse. As the detective followed him into his tiny living room, Billy realized he was still wearing his robe and had a vision of himself, hands cuffed, going to jail in the paisley silk number.
The detective flipped open a notebook. “Are you Billy Litchfield?” he asked.
For a second, Billy considered lying but decided it might only make things worse. “I am,” he said. “Officer, what’s wrong? Has someone died?”
“Detective,” Frank Sabatini said. “Not Officer. I worked hard for the title. I like to use it.”
“As well you should,” Billy said. Explaining the robe, he added, “I’m recuperating from some dental work.”
“That’s tough. I hate the dentist myself,” Detective Sabatini said pleasantly enough.
He didn’t sound like he was ready to make an arrest, Billy thought.
“Do you mind if I get changed?” Billy asked.
“Take your time.”
Billy went into his bedroom and closed the door. His hands shook so fiercely, he had a hard time taking off the robe and putting on a pair of corduroy slacks and a red cashmere sweater. Then he went into his bathroom and gulped down a Vicodin, followed by two orange Xanaxes. If he was going to jail, he wanted to be as sedated as possible.
When he returned to the living room, the detective was standing by the side table, examining Billy’s photographs. “You know a lot of important people,” he remarked.
“Yes,” Billy said. “I’ve lived in New York a long time. Nearly forty years.
One accumulates friends.”
The detective nodded and got right to it. “You’re a sort of art dealer, aren’t you?”
“Not really,” Billy said. “I sometimes put people together with dealers. But I don’t deal in art myself.”
“Do you know Sandy and Connie Brewer?”
“Yes,” Billy said softly.
“You were helping the Brewers with their art collection, right?”
“I have in the past,” Billy admitted. “But they were mostly finished.”
“Do you know about any recent purchases they might have made?
Maybe not through a dealer?”
“Hmmm,” Billy said, stalling. “What do you mean by ‘recent’?”
“In the last year or so?”
“They did go to the art fair in Miami. They may have bought a painting. As I said, they’re mostly finished with their collection. I’m actually working with someone else right now, quite intensely.”
“Who would that be?”
Billy swallowed. “Annalisa Rice.”
The detective wrote down the name and underlined it. “Thank you, Mr. Litchfield,” he said, handing Billy his card. “If you hear anything else about the Brewers’ collection, will you contact me?”
“Of course,” Billy said. He paused. “Is that it?”
“What do you mean?” the detective asked, moving to the door.
“Are the Brewers in trouble? They’re very nice people.”
“I’m sure they are,” the detective said. “Keep my card. We may be contacting you again soon. Good afternoon, Mr. Litchfield.”
“Good afternoon, Detective,” Billy said. He closed the door and collapsed onto his couch. Then he quickly got up and, sidling next to the curtain, peered out at Fifth Avenue. Every kind of cheap television crime scenario entered his mind. Was the detective gone? How much did he know? Or was he out there in an unmarked car, spying on Billy? Would Billy be tailed?
For the next two hours, Billy was too terrified to make a call or check his e-mail. Had he given himself away to the detective with his question about that being it? And why had he given the detective Annalisa Rice’s name? Now the detective would get in touch with her. How much did she really know? Sick with fear, he went into the bathroom and took two more pills. Then he lay down on his bed. Mercifully, sleep came, a sleep from which he prayed he wouldn’t have to wake.
He did, however — three hours later. His cell phone was ringing. It was Annalisa Rice. “Can I see you?” she asked.
“My God. Did the cop call you, too?”
“He just came by here. I wasn’t home. He told Maria it had something to do with the Brewers and did I know them.”
“What did she say?”
“She said she didn’t know.”
“Good for Maria.”
“Billy, what’s going on?”
“Are you alone?” Billy asked. “Can you come over here? I’d come to you, but I don’t want the doormen seeing me going in and out of One Fifth. And make sure you aren’t followed.”
Half an hour later, Annalisa, seated in front of Billy, held up her hands. “Billy, stop,” she said. “Don’t tell me any more. You’ve already told me too much.” She stood up. “You mustn’t tell anyone anything.
Not a word about this. Anything you say from now on can be used in a trial.”
“Is it really that bad?” Billy said.
“You need to hire a lawyer. David Porshie will convince the police to get a search warrant — for all we know, the attorney general is already involved — and they’ll search the Brewers’ apartment and find the cross.”
“They might not find anything,” Billy said. “The cross isn’t even in the apartment anymore. I told Connie to put it in a safety-deposit box.”
“Eventually, they’ll search that, too. It’s only a matter of time.”
“I could call Connie. And warn her. Tell her to take the cross away.
Stash it in the Hamptons. Or Palm Beach. It was in One Fifth for sixty years, and no one knew a thing about it.”
“Billy, you’re not making sense,” Annalisa said soothingly. “Don’t make this worse for yourself than it already is. You’re implicated, and if you contact the Brewers, you’ll be charged with conspiracy as well.”
One Fifth Avenue Page 38