Chapter Thirty-Eight

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

It had rained in the late afternoon and the pavement smelled like wet cement. I made my way on foot from the station, turning the corner to see Tollemache’s lit up like a birthday cake. The windows facing the street were permanently shuttered, but lanterns, glowing softly, hung on either side of the door. Someone had set out a line of boxwood topiaries hung with fairy lights—an intern, probably. The door was propped open and a decorative young man dressed in a tight plaid suit was standing just inside, repeating, “Welcome to Tollemache’s,” every five or six seconds like he was stuck on a loop.

I passed inside and grabbed a glass of champagne from a girl circulating with a tray. It was early yet, but the room was buzzing with anticipation and prospective buyers crowded around the paintings. I stood against a wall, letting the crowds pass in front of me as I sipped my champagne and took stock.

Tollemache’s had taken the mock Tudor theme to the extreme. The interior was designed to resemble the Globe Theatre, with an open stage in the center surrounded by galleried walkways. The upper gallery was reserved for sellers and Tollemache’s executives, with the lower gallery providing a sort of corral for onlookers and the press. There was even a wide stretch of wine-colored velvet curtains along the back of the stage with a podium set just in front for the auctioneer.

Next to the podium stood an empty easel. It was flanked by a long table outfitted with a phone bank. Most auction houses had a large computerized sign to display the reserve and current bids in various currencies, but Tollemache’s was too old-school for that. The reserve and current were shown in pounds sterling only, and if you didn’t know your euros from your yen, well, sucks to be you, I guess. More than one bidder had gotten burned by failing to calculate the exchange correctly, but Tollemache’s got away with it because it was supposed to be part of their eccentric charm.

After I’d downed half my drink, I joined the queue to see the paintings. It moved quicker than I expected and not many people were focused on the Sheba. They wanted the big-money pictures—the pushing to see the O’Keeffe had resulted in a shoving match. But the Sheba hung in a smaller alcove, grouped quietly with Vallayer-Coster’s pineapple still life. The pineapple was . . . well, it was a pineapple—yellow and green and surrounded by an assortment of other fruits and a sullen-looking lobster.

The Sheba was different. She had the quality of all of Anguissola’s women. They stare out with their painted eyes—not at you, through you. They stare so long and so hard you almost believe they’re real and you’re the creation from some artist’s imagination. They’re entirely alive in the way only great art can be. Most of Anguissola’s portraits have black backgrounds, but to set off the queen’s dark skin, she had painted a domestic scene behind, the soft white of the bedsheets a reminder of just what the queen had been doing—and who. Solomon’s naked thigh was a tanned olive against the tumbled linens, his muscles relaxed with fatigue and satisfaction. Sheba’s eyes were calm and watchful, a tiny smile playing over her lips. A spilled pitcher of water alluded to the story that Solomon had tricked her into bed, making her promise to sleep with him if she took anything belonging to him. Then he fed her spicy food, ensuring she would need to help herself to a cup of water in the night—a tiny theft with enormous consequences.

This Sheba didn’t look like a woman who’d been tricked into sex. She looked like a woman who had gotten exactly what she wanted. The king’s weapons were lying on the floor, useless and abandoned, a signal that war had been vanquished by love. Everything about the painting was sexy, from the glow on Sheba’s skin to the bowl of ripe peaches next to the bed.

I bent near to the bottom left corner, but I couldn’t find the repair. If you didn’t know it had been shot, you’d never suspect a bullet had once pierced the canvas. I was sad that the Provenance department had never unearthed any survivors from the family who had last owned it, but I was glad the Sheba was getting out in the world again. She deserved to be seen.

As I straightened, I realized someone was standing at my elbow. She was tall and wearing five-inch stilettos that put her easily over six feet. Her pantsuit was white, the trousers tight through the thighs but flaring from the knees. She wasn’t wearing a shirt under the low-cut white blazer, just a thin gold chain that clasped under her breasts and behind her neck. Her hoop earrings were diamond, as were the rings on her fingers. Her Afro formed a perfect circle around her head and she had frosted the ends in gold, giving her a glimmering halo. Her lips were the same shimmering gold. A flunky stood behind her holding a custom oversized white ostrich Birkin bag that Helen would have given her right arm for. It took me a minute to place her, and then it came to me—Mona Rae. The last time I’d seen her, she had been on the cover of Entertainment Weekly for winning the Golden Globe for Best Director.

A bell rang and the music system was flooded with the sound of Elgar’s “Trumpet Voluntary,” Tollemache’s signature piece. Like cattle, the bidders made their way towards the seating area. Heavy wine-red ropes kept the journalists and tourists at a distance, and girls wearing plain black dresses and holding clipboards were stationed at each gap in the ropes. They directed every bidder to a specific numbered seat, ticking people off as they passed. Mona Rae, I noticed, was sitting right up front, perfectly positioned for journalists to get a spectacular photo of her when the Sheba made an appearance.

But the Anguissola wasn’t coming up until the second lot. The crowd settled into their seats, the air vibrating with energy. Suddenly, the music crashed to a crescendo and the red velvet curtains parted. Behind was a line of porters dressed in racing green coveralls, Tollemache’s logo stitched in gold on each breast pocket. Making her way through the gauntlet of porters was the auctioneer, Lilja Koskela.

She was fortyish and thin like a whippet with a nose like one too. I didn’t know Finns came with black hair, but this one did, and she was sporting a pair of Verdura necklaces—heavy gold chains dotted with a variety of gemstones. Later I looked them up and found out they were worth about eighty grand. If I’d known that at the time, I might have at least considered branching into jewel theft. Lilja Koskela strode to the podium like an Oscar favorite accepting her statue. She looked coolly at the crowd and made a few announcements, her English only barely tinged with a Finnish vowel here and there.

I was half listening to her as my gaze wandered over the crowd. I would have missed him if it hadn’t been for the quick flash of white cuff. He was dressed with nondescript good taste, plain Burberry trench, dull plaid scarf, navy trilby pulled down over his brow. I sipped at my champagne and waited. He was discreet; only another pro would have noticed the small, sweeping scans he made of the crowd. But I kept behind a pillar, one of the floodlights positioned just above me, throwing me into shadow.

At the podium, Lilja Koskela finished her announcements and there was a sudden rousing blare of Handel’s Water Music as a pair of porters carried in Vallayer-Coster’s Pineapple. They set it on the easel and the crowd leaned forward. It was the only still life in the group and about as exciting as you’d expect a pineapple to be. But Koskela was a born storyteller, and by the time she finished describing the composition and the provenance, bidders were reaching for their paddles.

She started them at £400,000 and suddenly we were off to the races, bids flying all over the room. At first, it seemed like there were eight different bidders, but some of them may have been chandelier bids—a technique Mary Alice had explained. It’s when the auctioneer pretends to accept a bid from a phantom bidder in order to drive the price up. It was a risky proposition if you weren’t sure someone in the room would top it, but Koskela worked the crowd, milking them like dairy cows until she got them up to £750,000. At an exchange rate of one pound sterling to $1.308, plus fees, the Pineapple might look like SpongeBob’s house, but it was working its way towards a cool million.

She brought the hammer down at £775,000 and the crowd went nuts, at least nuts for an auction crowd. There was a brief interlude before the music blared—Handel again. The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba. Koskela read through the provenance. She opened the bidding at £300,000. There were a number of bidders to start—a few museums, a couple of private dealers. Representations of Black women in Renaissance art weren’t all that common, after all. And Anguissola was a good bet to appreciate in value. She wasn’t well-known outside the art world, but female artists were increasingly in vogue and Anguissola was one of the best.

I could have made a move then, but I was feeling sentimental. I wanted to see the Sheba get her due. Mona Rae had her paddle in the air when the hammer came down: £1.2 million. A new record for Anguissola, Koskela announced in a throaty purr. Mona Rae threw up her hands in victory and was immediately escorted out by a senior staff member to arrange payment and gloat over her win.

Everyone’s attention was focused on the auctioneer as the marquee painting—a sentimental Cassatt—was brought out. It was time. The chair next to Vance was open and I slipped into it.

“I’m glad the Sheba went for so much,” I said conversationally. “A nice little bonus for the Museum. And it’s getting such a good home. I really think Mona Rae feels what Anguissola was going for.”

I gave him a sideways look, happy to see that he looked older than I’d expected. He hadn’t run to fat. There was no paunch underneath that Burberry. But the eyes had seen a lot. They were hard and flat as he flicked a glance in my direction.

“Hello, Vance.”

“Billie.”

I lifted the edge of the file out of my bag so he could see it. “I have a copy of the dossier you have on us. It’s bullshit, by the way. It accuses us of things we never did.”

“Oh, and where did you get this copy?” he asked. His mouth was twitching like he wanted to smile. It’s the sort of look a man gets when he’s got a winning hand at poker and can’t hide it for shit.

“I took it from Carapaz’s house,” I admitted.

“Presumably the night you killed him,” he replied.

“Well, okay. That looks bad, I’ll give you that much.”

He didn’t say anything, but he hadn’t shot me yet, so I figured that was a good sign.

“Vance, all we want is a chance to prove we’re innocent.”

He turned to me with a tight smile. “Innocent of what? Paar’s death? Carapaz’s?”

“There is an order out for us,” I said evenly. “We are just trying to stay alive.”

Suddenly, the smartwatch on his wrist chimed and he looked down. A text message scrolled by and he read it, smiled, then pulled his cuff down over his wrist.

“I appreciate your courage in coming in here like this. Truly. I expected some ridiculous, theatrical caper, and instead you’re taking what’s coming to you like a man.” He leaned closer and I could smell the strong menthol of Fisherman’s Friend on his breath.

“You starting a cold?” I asked. “If so, I’m going to need you to sit way back. And keep your germs to yourself. I really don’t want to catch anything.”

The smile tightened. “You don’t get it, do you? That message was from Benscombe. I have a team there and they’ve just taken the others. Whatever you thought you were doing here”—he paused and made a circle with his forefinger—“is over.”

I let my face fall as I turned away from him, staring straight ahead. He slid his hand under my elbow.

“Now, I’m going to get up and you’re coming with me. I have four associates in this room, so please know that if you decide to try anything stupid, you won’t make it out alive.”

I swallowed hard and forced myself to sound casual. “Where are we going?”

“Where else? Benscombe. I thought it would be nice for all of you to die together.”

“Shouldn’t you be twirling a mustache when you say shit like that? Maybe petting a fluffy white cat?”

His nostrils flared a tiny bit, the only show of annoyance he allowed himself.

“Relax,” I told him. “I see your goons.” I moved my gaze around the room, nodding to three people arranged at different vantage points. “Upstairs is Wendy Jeong. I haven’t seen her since Marrakesh. Nielssen is mingling in the crowd, dressed as a cater waiter. He just missed me in New Orleans, you know. And Carter Briggs is sitting two rows back, across the aisle. By the way, I think he just bid on some silhouettes and they’re way overvalued.”

“You missed one.”

“No, I didn’t. Eva Nowak, by the phone bank. Wearing knockoff Chanel and not even bothering to try to blend in. The bitch never did know how to dress, but then I’m not exactly winning any awards for my fashion sense. A little piece of advice for you, Vance—I can see every one of them is packing. You really should tell them to be more discreet.”

His hand tightened on my upper arm. “I know you don’t want to see any of these innocent art people get hurt. So let’s get up now, nice and easy.”

I did as I was told. He guided me through the crowd and out the front door. A luxury SUV with smoked glass was waiting at the curb a little way down the street, the motor idling. We stood outside as he searched me, running his hands through my pockets and a lot of other places, checking for weapons. As soon as we appeared, the foursome I had spotted were on our heels, opening doors and piling in. I got shoved to the back, where someone was already sitting, folded into the corner and taking up as little space as possible. A hand in my back shoved hard and I caught myself by grabbing on to the person in the shadows.

“Sorry,” I said reflexively.

“So am I,” the figure said.

Just then the interior light clicked on and I got a look at him.

“Hello, Martin.”