Page 101 of The Picasso Heist

I MEET ELISE Joyce in the back of a bodega a few blocks from her office. I’m battered, bruised, and hysterical. Unexpectedly, she hugs me.

Not because she’s so relieved I’m alive or because she thinks I’m in desperate need of emotional support after losing my brother.

No, her embrace—and her fake tears and bullshit words of sympathy—comes from sheer joy.

She’s like a rich kid waking up on Christmas morning: There’s no doubt in her mind that she’s about to get everything she wants.

The governor’s mansion, wrapped in a bow.

I tell her everything that happened with my equally fake tears.

How I was able to use the sharp edge of the interior catch on the Town Car trunk’s lock to cut through the tape around my wrists.

They started driving, and when they were at a stoplight, I popped the emergency latch and made a break for it.

I ran and ultimately lost them in a crowded subway station.

“As soon as I saw a train coming, I jumped the turnstile and caught the train just as the doors closed. I switched trains twice and then took the L train out here to Brooklyn. That’s when I borrowed someone’s phone and called you.”

“I thought for sure you were dead,” she says.

“What about my brother?” I ask. “You told me on the phone that they killed him. Those were the gunshots I heard while in the trunk?”

“Yes.”

“So you saw it happen?”

Joyce nods, hesitates. “I more than just saw it. Before he got out of your Jeep, he insisted that I record everything. I didn’t want to tell you but—”

“It’s evidence. I understand, I get it,” I say. “And I’m glad you got it. It’s important.” Deep breath. “Where is he now? At the morgue?”

Again, she hesitates. “I obviously got the hell out of that alley as fast as possible. I called it in to the First Precinct and when we came back, there was nothing to see. They’d taken your brother.”

I turn and fix my gaze on a nearby refrigerated display case stocked with every conceivable energy drink. There are four shelves of Red Bulls alone.

I can feel Joyce staring at me, thinking of what to say next. More to the point, she’s trying to figure out how to get what she needs from me.

“That’s some shiner, by the way,” she says.

I turn back to her. “I wish I could say you should see the other guys.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be seeing them, all right. But I’m going to need your help.”

And there it is. The ask.

“Whatever it takes,” I say.

“Nikolov has already lawyered up.”

“What do you mean?”

“Word somehow leaked that he was about to be arrested, or maybe he just assumed as much once you escaped,” she says. “Either way, his attorney reached out about an hour ago and offered up Nikolov for questioning.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“What’s the angle?” I ask.

“I don’t care. It doesn’t matter,” she says. “They don’t know I have the recording. We’ll listen to everything Nikolov says, and when he’s done, he’ll be arrested. And you can start getting some justice.”

You can say that again.