The Collector

by Anne-Laure Thiblemont

  “You promise to bring it back? And quickly? I want to know how this all turns out.”

  “No information leaves this shop. And please try to find out more about Magni. It won’t be our software programs that’ll tell us about his past. I want to know everything about the man, his collection, his heirs…”

  “You mean his heir. Singular. That’s only recently been discovered. Even she probably doesn’t know yet that she’s entitled to an empire. Her name’s Marion Spiler or Spicer. Something like that. Yeah, Spicer. That’s it.”

  13

  She really really wanted to ask him. At least, she thought she did.

  She was heading back to his shop with the intention of asking him point blank. In what way and how deeply was he involved? Ozenberg had to answer. He’d clear everything up. Or would he? She took a few deep breaths. In any case, she had to see him. And the idea made her tingle.

  The shop was empty. She figured he was upstairs, watching her, the same as the last time. Her heart was racing. She climbed the stairs slowly, gripping the cold railing. She reached the top and found the entrance to a darkened room. She inched forward, alert to the softest sound, the slightest movement. That was when she inhaled his musky cologne. He was right there, in front of her, leaning against the wall. Towering, silent, wearing a black suit, his disheveled silvery hair framing a composed face with a powerful nose. He was challenging her with his gray eyes. Was it the adrenaline, his raw sexual gaze, his intoxicating smell? He wanted her. He’d have her. She knew it. He felt it.

  He stepped aside to let her pass. Their bodies brushed. For some reason, she headed toward a small empire desk glowing in the light from a window. He followed her with his eyes. She felt provocative, open, compliant even. She put her bag on a chair to keep it within sight and slowly walked around the desk while grazing the base of the lamp on it with her fingers. The man didn’t move. He simply watched. She started moving around the room.

  Everything was worthy of attention, and yet nothing kept it. Her hand paused on the pedestal of a sculpture, a telephone, the armrest of a couch. But spellbound, she was drawn back to him.

  Just as she was about to glide past him, Ozenberg reached out and pinned her against the wall. Her breathing stopped instantly, her lips inches from his. He slid his hand down her back and into her waistband. He slipped it into her panties and pulled her bottom toward his groin. She was burning and shaking at the same time. Then, with a powerful but careful move that took her by surprise, he brought her gently to the floor. He kissed her face, gently, under each eye, making his way to her neck. He unbuttoned her blouse, and took her breasts in his hands. He teased her nipples with his supple fingers. A second later, they were desperately ripping off their clothes. Their bodies were one.

  Her hips were arched in excitement. She longed for him to thrust himself into her, but it was his tongue that started exploring her every secret. He spread her with his fingers and slowly licked, from bottom to top and down again. He put two fingers inside her and stroked her there, firmly and evenly.

  How did this man know exactly how to please her? It was uncanny—almost scary. For a second Marion considered stopping rather than surrendering. But that was when he forced her legs higher and plunged into her. He moved deeper and deeper, faster and faster, sweating, panting, burying himself. At the moment of ecstasy he pulled out and ejaculated on her stomach. She moaned with pleasure and pain, having expelled all her loneliness. With her legs still spread, she held onto him until he rolled to his side and caught his breath. He looked at her long and hard. “That was beautiful,” he finally said. “You’re beautiful.”

  She felt spent as she nestled next to him. They were quiet for a long time. He held her in the crook of one arm, and with his free hand, he caressed her body, his fingers forming spirals and shapes, sometimes gently, sometimes forcefully.

  “Beautiful. Like artwork,” he kept saying.

  She enjoyed the playfulness. It calmed her.

  After what seemed like both hours and minutes, she asked him what she needed to know.

  “Did you have anything to do with Chartier’s murder?”

  Ozenberg pulled away and sat up. His features looked heavier. His jaw was twitching.

  “Marion, who told you he was murdered?”

  “The cop who’s leading the investigation.”

  “The police have already gotten to you?”

  Marion stared at him. She didn’t know what to think or do. Tell him more to calm him down? Keep quiet? Wait until he opened up to her? He was apparently more involved than he wanted to admit.

  She sat up too and broke the silence. “We work together. He’s looking for information about that sculpture. He doesn’t have any leads.”

  Ozenberg looked at her even more intensely. Was he trying to figure out if she was telling the truth? It was making her uncomfortable, like a child caught for doing something bad.

  “You haven’t answered my question, Mr. Ozenberg,” she said defensively. “Were you behind the murder?”

  How crazy was that? The two of them had just made love, and she couldn’t call him by his first name.

  “Do you think I was?”

  “No.”

  “Then I wasn’t.”

  “Don’t play games with me!” she cried out, turning away to avoid his eyes.

  “What makes you think I’m playing games?” he threw out with such vehemence, there was no room for objection.

  “You had to know the sculpture belonged to Chartier.”

  “I knew the sculpture was on the market, and for the record, I wanted it. But I wasn’t the only one. It was sold to a higher bidder. So that’s that.”

  “And what if I hadn’t bought it?”

  He was giving her a snide look.

  “You knew about the will,” she seethed. “Of course you knew. You took a pretty big risk. I could have ratted you out. You didn’t seem too eager to help me the first time we met. That Woman with Child sculpture I was looking for…”

  “I was testing you. That said, I still don’t know how to help you get that figure.”

  Ozenberg rose to his feet, pulled on his pants, and buttoned his white monogrammed shirt. He headed toward the back of the room to open his minibar. Marion got up too and started dressing.

  “Here, this’ll be good for you,” he said, handing her a glass of whiskey. “Have a seat.” He took her by the arm, guided her to the couch, and sat down close to her.

  “Do a lot of you know the provisions of my will?”

  “Marion, Marion…” he said as he fixed a strand of hair that had fallen over her forehead. “You have such striking eyes.”

  “Alain, this is serious.”

  “Since Magni died, the art world’s been buzzing. His collection—it’s like a godsend for everyone. I don’t know if you realize how—”

  “People will kill for it, yeah,” she answered, once again keeping her distance. “So I’m in danger then?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Your silence isn’t very reassuring.”

  “It’s not a very reassuring situation.”

  “And these networks, these people who steal for you and other people. You know who they are. We could follow their trail.”

  “It’s a blurry trail, Marion. You saw Helen D. She’s a fourth intermediary—at least. And they change all the time.”

  “But they get paid. We could follow the money trail.”

  “There are handlers and one-purpose companies used for a single transaction. Then they disappear. They’re created to collect money and send it somewhere else, like an offshore account, which sends it somewhere else again. By the time an investigation gets under way, the money has already been dispersed to hundreds of similar accounts. It can’t be traced. Are you sure you want to talk about this right now?” He had started to stroke her breasts. “Maybe there are other things we could be doing.”

  She shivered, not knowing whether it was the fear or his presence that was
giving her the goose bumps. His melodious voice, his breath, his scent… She pressed herself against him and put her head on his shoulder.

  “There’ll never be a good time. I just want to get this figured out as soon as I can.”

  “We have all the time in the world to talk about it.”

  “I need to know.”

  “Do you always get what you want?”

  “Tell me more…”

  He breathed in the smell of her hair.

  “You’re stubborn, but I like it,” he said, pulling her onto his lap.

  14

  He had never felt this outraged, this crushed. Chartier’s warrior had gotten away. He had just discovered this after hours making more phone calls than he could count in search of the incompetent intermediary he’d chosen. The man was a slippery eel.

  Duverger had a bitter taste in his mouth, one that he swore he would never taste again. The appraiser was a sore loser, so he made sure he never lost. He much preferred countering to being countered. Born to a family of diplomats and the youngest of five “good-for-nothing brats”—as they were called—he had too often been rejected and pushed to the sidelines while his older siblings took the trophies. That was long ago. Now his own trophy had slipped from his grasp, and he had no intention of just waiting for it to resurface.

  He pulled his cigarette case from his leather jacket. It was empty. He threw it against the car seat and tapped the chauffeur on the shoulder with so much anger, the driver almost swerved off the road.

  “A Cuban, Marco. In the glove box. There’s got to be a few left.”

  “No one does that to me,” he muttered, sinking deeper into the luxury car’s cream-colored leather seat.

  Everything should have gone down perfectly. The members of his ring had acted as soon as Chartier’s sculpture hit the market. They had neutralized all other middlemen and had appointed a single acquirer. With the competition significantly weakened, they were set to acquire the piece at a price that was significantly lower than its value. Then they would organize an unofficial auction and sell the sculpture at a price much closer to its real value. The members of the ring would split the profit: the difference between what they had paid for the sculpture and the price that it fetched at the second auction. Although it was illegal, such collusion was common. Duverger’s intermediary was supposed to be the bidder who acquired the sculpture. But Ozenberg had derailed the whole plan. He had swooped in and made off with the piece himself.

  Laurent Duverger nervously tapped his foot.

  Ozenberg—a man with a lopsided life, a man who was obsessed with money and pleasure—had won by a nose. And at the last second! How had he beat out the best in the business? How did he have the moxie or the money to short-circuit the collusion? How had he worked the game so cleverly that the sculpture had wound up in Marion’s hands?

  “I should’ve handled this personally, but it was too risky,” he said to himself. “No one can know I’m in the same arena as Marion. What a mess.”

  Inside his Bentley-turned-private-club with its big-screen entertainment system and mini-bar, Laurent Duverger opened his fridge and poured himself a glass of Russian vodka. He downed it in one gulp. Then he took a deep breath. His facial muscles released their tension as the alcohol took effect. The appraiser needed to start plotting again.

  “I must have that warrior. I don’t care what it takes. I must have it,” he said out loud.

  15

  SearchArt was dead quiet. Sophie, who usually sat behind the reception desk, was nowhere to be seen. Good, Marion thought. There was nobody around to sense her inner turmoil. All she could think about was Alain Ozenberg.

  This was weird, though. Sophie was always at her desk. It was late in the morning but too early for lunch.

  Marion opened her office door. Then Bruno’s. Nobody home. Just when she was about to inspect the last office she heard someone racing down the stairs from La Medici’s office. She turned around.

  “Sophie?”

  “Good. You’re here. I was all by myself. You know how much La Medici hates it when no one else is in the office.” Sophie took on a bossy tone whenever their fearless leader was away.

  “Where is she?”

  “She left yesterday for the New York Antique Fair. You forgot she was going, didn’t you?” Sophie glared at Marion. Was she supposed to feel guilty? “La Medici’s already called for an update on the Duverger case.”

  Even when she was on the other side of the ocean, the hounding never stopped.

  “What about Bruno?” Marion asked. “I thought he’d be here.”

  “He’s at the doctor’s office. He left work with a stomach thing, but he didn’t look sick to me. I don’t know what’s gotten into everyone. You’re all off in a hundred different directions.”

  “Do I have any messages?” Marion was tired of Sophie’s complaints.

  “Detective Combes called, and Bruno has a file he wants you to see.”

  Marion started toward Bruno’s office. “Okay, Marion, focus,” she muttered once she had closed the door behind her. It was time to put aside thoughts of Ozenberg—along with his voice, his moves, and their innovative lovemaking positions. She stared at Bruno’s collection of art books, all perfectly aligned. Not a single spine hung over the edge of the shelves. Bruno had probably hidden the file in an old book about the Museo del Oro. This was how they passed documents to each other whenever one of them was out. The boss methodically checked computers, drawers, and trashcans for messages. Marion had asked Bruno to compile every article on Magni that he could find. She wanted to know exactly where and how the man had died.

  Indeed, a small catalog envelope was tucked between the pages of the book. And inscribed neatly in big black letters on the front was her father’s name. Bruno’s OCD came across in the smallest of details.

  “Couldn’t find the auction catalog,” Bruno had written in a note. “Go straight to the source. Call Mr. Rambert, and tell him we’re colleagues. I’ve got more news for you. Will tell you in person.”

  Mr. Rambert, how about that.

  Marion sat down and tried to calm herself. Under different circumstances, she’d have paced in front of the phone before making a call aimed at prying out the names of the sculptures’ owners. But the fact that the auctioneer had pounced on her like a vulture made her feel more daring. Then again, she thought, it could be the Ozenberg Effect.

  She entered the number and asked for Mr. Rambert. His secretary, who had most likely heard him spew her name dozens of times, put her through immediately.

  “Our conversation was a bit brief the other day. I wasn’t able to call you back until now,” she said, paying phone etiquette no mind.

  “I understand. How may I help you?”

  “I need you to clear something up for me.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “I recently learned that you handled three sculptures belonging to Edmond Magni at an auction a few years ago. Those were the only ones he ever sold. Do you know why?”

  “Oh, there was nothing surprising about that,” Mr. Rambert responded without hesitation. “Your father said he was bored and wanted a fresh start. That happens to collectors like him all the time. When they’ve been at the top of their game for a while, they start looking for new conquests.”

  So that was it? He wanted a clean slate? The answer didn’t satisfy Marion. “Why just three sculptures? Why not ten or a hundred?”

  “We had to build hype for his first auction. Everyone was ready to jump in. He had us show only the most extraordinary pieces in order to surprise the market and keep them in suspense until the next sale. Those were the most breathtaking auctions anyone had ever seen. We agreed to organize the next ones as quickly as possible to keep up the momentum.”

  “So what happened next?”

  “Your father was taking his time to make the arrangements, and then, unfortunately—”

  “Did you know which pieces he was planning to sell next?” she asked
quickly, afraid the man would clam up.

  “Do you intend to sell the collection?”

  The hunger in the auctioneer’s voice was palpable. He’d been an easy victim to bait.

  “Yes, part of it. But not before putting together a solid catalog…”

  “We can help with that.”

  “I know. That’s also why I called. I need to know who owns the sold-off pieces so I can provide a detailed description of them—assuming the owners agree to be mentioned.”

  “Two of them probably won’t have a problem with being mentioned. They’re both professionals who’re used to seeing their names in print. But I can’t guarantee they’re still in possession of the objects. I’ll ask.”

  “I’d prefer to do it myself. I don’t want to arouse any suspicion. If you intervene, they might get the impression that I’m trying to sell. I want to be as discreet as possible. Furthermore, I don’t want any middlemen trying to take advantage of me. My father trusted you, but at this point, we’re not that well acquainted. It’s my hope that over time we can develop the same kind of working relationship.”

  Marion nervously tapped her pen. He made a timid attempt to resist.

  “You know the importance of professional confidentiality. I cannot divulge the names of the buyers without their consent.”

  Marion was silent, waiting for the man to be uncomfortable enough to cede ground. It didn’t take long.

  “One of the buyers is an appraiser who works with us regularly. He wasn’t particularly attached to the piece, so he could have sold it. His name’s Laurent Duverger. The second buyer was Alain Ozenberg, an antiques dealer.” Mr. Rambert reeled off their names so quickly and quietly, Marion would have had to ask him to repeat them if she didn’t know exactly who they were. “You’ll have to forgive me for keeping the third buyer’s identity a secret. This one is a special case—one of our more important clients and highly sensitive. But don’t worry. This person will agree eventually. Actually, I think the buyer will be flattered.”