Page 37

TWENTY-THREE

I make a cup of coffee, hoping it will calm me, but it does the opposite.

Terrific idea, Tamara. I try to eat a piece of toast to soak up the caffeine, but the bread catches in my throat.

How could I have been so stupid? Spending my time on sole survivorships when I should have been concentrating on getting her the hell out of here.

I go to my computer and do a search linking édouard Manet’s name with mine. A half dozen stories pop up, all from random online sources rather than reputable newspapers. At least there’s that.

MANET MASTERPIECE HANGING ON HER LIVING ROOM WALL?

ART WORLD ATWITTER.

REAL OR HOAX?

RUBIN OWNERSHIP REJECTED BY MANET FOUNDATION.

Each article has at least one mistake in it, some more than that. But even though it’s often misspelled, they all get my name correct. Along with the painting’s. And, worse, my address.

I raise my head from the computer. “What are we going to do?” I ask Party , and then worry that she might actually answer.

She doesn’t—probably out of kindness for my agitated state.

I don’t bother to check myself for thinking of a painting as a living person.

I turned my phone off last night, and when I text my boss to tell him I’ll be working from home, I see there’s a voluminous number of incoming messages.

Almost all from phones I don’t recognize.

My emails reach into the hundreds. I open a few, then wish I hadn’t.

Collectors offering money. Fake relatives asking for money.

Media requests. Art advisors and dealers and brokers offering services.

Insurance agents offering services. Limited-edition printmakers offering services.

Private banks soliciting me as a customer.

Real estate agents soliciting. The Private Jet Shared Proprietary Program soliciting.

Claims of ownership, and threats about what will happen to me if I don’t immediately return the painting.

If only I could call Wyatt, but he’s still in Oklahoma City, and it’s five in the morning there.

It’s all I can do to wait until seven to phone Jonathan.

“What’s up?” he asks groggily.

“Sorry to bother you so early,” I say, and then fill him in on what’s up.

“Shit.”

“Exactly.”

“I was afraid this might happen.” At least he doesn’t say he told me so. Which he had.

“How do you think it got out?” I ask.

“Probably the Columbia fire.”

“But when I called there, no one knew anything about Party .”

“Or that’s what they told you.”

“An unusually cynical observation for you.”

“Maybe you’re rubbing off on me.”

“Jonathan…”

“Well, who else knew it was in your apartment?”

I think about this. “The shipping companies that transported her, I guess. People at your Conference. Damien and others at the Manet Foundation. My lawyer, his assistant, his investigator. Maybe, like you said, people at the Columbia. Alyce, the manager at my building, and probably some of the workers on the loading dock. Jesus, a lot more than I would have thought.”

“And undoubtedly, more than just those.”

“But why would any of them want to go to the press about this? Especially employees who might lose their jobs if they were discovered leaking private information. What do they have to gain? It’s not as if—” Then I see it. Don’t know why I didn’t straight off. “Damien.”

“What’s his gain?” Jonathan asks. “Whether people know you have the painting or not doesn’t make his argument any stronger.”

I bark a grim laugh. “It’s not about that. It’s about putting pressure on me. Making things difficult so I’ll sell it to him.”

“I thought he was claiming it was his.”

“He is, but he also offered to buy it to ‘help’ me avoid the time and expense of litigation. Even to pay for the transport. Said the foundation had to take it because of my ‘poor stewardship.’”

“How much?”

“Twelve million.”

A pause. “That’s a lot of money, but it’s nowhere near what it’s worth.”

“My lawyer says he can get him to pay a lot more.”

“If you wanted to, you could always loan it to another museum while the case plays out. Then Damien couldn’t claim poor stewardship—and you’d get the press off your butt.”

“The poor-stewardship remark was in reference to the Columbia fire.”

“Listen, Tamara, I’ve got to get to work, but if you want to talk more, I should be home by six.”

I call Wyatt at nine. After explaining what’s happened, I say, “It’s Damien.”

“Slimewad,” Wyatt says. “But for right now, the important thing is that you don’t respond. Not until I get back and we figure out the best way to handle this. Work from home and don’t answer any unknown calls or texts or emails.”

“But—”

“It’s good you’re in a doorman building,” he continues. “Call down and tell them not to let anyone in and not to confirm that you live there—although they probably wouldn’t do that anyway. If you need food or anything else, order online and ask the concierge to leave it outside your door.”

Although I hate being told what to do, especially by a man I’m dating—actually any man, actually anybody—I’m relieved to have a plan. “When do you think you’ll be back?”

“If all goes well, the trial could be over tomorrow, maybe even today. I’ll get the first plane out I can. But you need to promise me you’ll do what I said. I am your lawyer, after all.”

“Okay, Wyatt Abbott Davenport Butler, Esquire. I’ll follow your orders.”

“Probably for the first and last time,” he mutters.

“Probably,” I agree.

WYATT COMES DIRECTLY to my place from the airport late the next night.

We usually go straight to the bedroom after even a short separation, but he just gives me a quick kiss and drops his bag and briefcase on the kitchen floor.

He leans against the counter. “Damien upped his offer to fifteen million.”

I wave Wyatt over to the table, mix him a martini, drop in some of the cheese-stuffed olives he left in my fridge, and pour myself a glass of wine. “Not even bothering to cover his tracks,” I sputter. “Can you believe the arrogance? It’s out-and-out blackmail.”

Wyatt sips on his drink. “This is a man you underestimate at your peril.”

“I refuse to give in to his revolting tactics.”

“Okay, but selling it to him would solve a shitload of problems. The case is gone—as are my fees—and those reporters disappear along with them. Not to mention that fifteen million…”

“I can’t believe you’re suggesting I cave. You said Nova will find the evidence and then Party will be mine, that the painting is worth way more than that.”

“You can’t keep it here.”

“I’m going to start looking into other museums. But this time, it has to be someplace close so it’ll be easy for me to visit her.” The wrong thing to say to Wyatt.

“Really? Listen to yourself. I know this is upsetting, but as I’ve pointed out before, you’re not being reasonable about this painting.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “I am being reasonable. Extremely so. A museum can hold it for me until she—it—is officially mine. So why should I give in to his extortion? Why should I sell Party for a fraction of what I can get for her?”

“You’ll only have the opportunity to sell it if we win—and your cousin isn’t going to be easy to beat. Especially with the foundation bankrolling him.”

“I’m not selling her to Damien. Now or ever.”

“On a more positive note,” he says, “news cycles are notoriously short. And although this is a big deal to you, the story doesn’t have legs. So we’ll put out a statement and end all the speculation.”

“Wasn’t it you who said to ignore the whole thing?” I ask irritably. “Not give them anything to write about?”

“That was until I got home. If we answer them directly now, then—poof—nothing more to tell.”

“You want me to talk to reporters?” I ask, horrified by the prospect.

“Not to worry. I’ll write a press release on your behalf.

” He looks up at the ceiling. “I could say something like: The esteemed Conference on Jewish Material Claims Against Germany has determined édouard Manet’s Party on the Seine indisputably belongs to Tamara Rubin.

The painting is in the process of being transferred to a more secure location.

” He grins at me. “How does that sound?”

“My lawyer in shining armor.”

“Anytime, fair maiden,” he says with a bow. “There may be a few gawkers and media types hanging around your loading dock for a while, but it’s going to get boring pretty quickly, and, like I said, the whole thing will just fade away.” He takes another hit of his drink. “There’s something else.”

I stiffen.

“Nova Shepard has accepted a full-time job and won’t be consulting anymore.”

“What about her work on Party ?”

“She’s got to start right away. Apologized profusely, but she just doesn’t have the time.”

“That’s pretty damn unprofessional of her,” I grumble.

“She’s a consultant, paid by the hour. So, yeah, it’s disappointing, but it happens all the time.”

“You have someone else who can do the job?”

“There are a few others we use, but it may take a while to find someone who’s a good fit and able to jump right in.”

I refill my glass. “How can we wait? You’re the one who said Damien isn’t to be underestimated. Who knows what maneuvers he could concoct while we’re sitting around?”

“I’ll try to find another investigator as soon as I can.”

“I don’t want to lose Party while we’re waiting for someone to become available. You know how much she means to me.”

“Yes, I’m aware. I’m the one trying to win that damn painting back for you, remember?”

He’s right. None of this is his fault. “Sorry. I’m just all caught up in…” I wave my hand. “In this.”

“Too caught up, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Are you saying you want me to get another lawyer?” I smile coquettishly.

“Tamara, Tamara, Tamara, what am I going to do with you?” he asks, as he’s been asking more and more frequently of late. Then he takes my hand, pulls me up, and kisses me. “Ah,” he murmurs. “I missed you.”