Page 12 of The Picasso Heist

TERRANCE WALKS brISKLY. It’s hard for me to keep up. “And finally, let me introduce you to Pierre. He hopefully should be in by now,” he says before lifting his hand to the side of his mouth to whisper, mock conspiratorially, “You know the French, always setting their own pace.”

We’ve made the rounds of my new so-called family. If they’re my siblings, then I’m clearly the “whoops” child, the one Mommy and Daddy weren’t expecting. I’m the youngest, not by a few years but by decades.

“Actually, I met Pierre last summer during my internship,” I say.

Terrance grins. “Of course you did.” This is a less than subtle reference to Pierre Dejarnette’s other stereotypical French attribute: He is a lover of wine and women (and it’s only the wine that he likes aged).

He is handsome and charming, can quote Victor Hugo and Charles Baudelaire, and is equally comfortable discussing the impact of realism in art during the Age of Enlightenment and his beloved Paris Saint-Germain football club.

“That’s soccer to you Americans,” he said to me at Echelon’s rooftop Fourth of July cocktail party last summer not long after introducing himself. He also said he wanted to take me to dinner. Never mind that I was less than half his age.

We compromised and had lunch. Pierre flirted and I acted flattered.

I also made a point of telling him how in love I was with my boyfriend, although I didn’t actually have one.

That didn’t entirely stop Pierre from flirting, but he graciously accepted that he was never going to sleep with me and never made me feel pressured or uncomfortable, which probably explains why Echelon tolerates his behavior, even when he’s hitting on the home-team roster, so to speak.

Pierre is a lot of things but he’s also a gentleman. He never crosses the line.

In return, as second in command under Terrance Willinghoff in the valuations department, Pierre provides Echelon with something well beyond his keen appraising skills.

He gives Echelon access to the highest of high-end collectors as well as the latest gossip from Paris to Nice and all points in between.

In short, he’s Echelon’s French Connection.

Which is how, the story goes, he was the first to learn of a certain never-before-seen Picasso that had been tucked away in a Frenchman’s attic for over fifty years.

And any minute now, Pierre is going to be texting Terrance to tell him that he won’t be coming into the office until later today because he’s currently waiting on someone from ConEd to come and check his brownstone penthouse apartment for a gas leak.

Pierre woke up this morning, and the smell was unmistakable, he’ll say.

How my brother dragged that propane tank and hose up to the roof vent without being seen, I’ll never know.

More important, no one else will ever know either.

“Hmm. He’s not in yet,” says Terrance when we arrive at Pierre’s empty office. Instinctively Terrance takes out his cell, checks his messages. Sure enough, there’s the text. He even mutters the words out loud: “Gas leak?”

“Excuse me?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he says. “Well, actually, it’s something. Pierre’s going to be out for the morning, an issue at home…”

Terrance’s voice trails off. He’s distracted, wondering if and how this affects him. Perfect.

“You look like you need to call him,” I say. The power of suggestion.

“I do,” he says. “He’s supposed to have lunch with a potential client visiting from Avignon.” He hesitates. “But I still have to show you your desk and get you situated.”

“Of course. Tell you what—while you go make the call, I’ll use the bathroom. I think I saw it earlier. Down the hall?”

“Yes, at the end of the hall on your left. Swing by my office afterward, okay?”

We both head down the corridor in separate directions, and Terrance never looks back. Why would he? If he did, though, he’d see me returning to Pierre’s office.

I’ve got about two minutes, tops, to find what I need. It’s a small key.

A key that unlocks everything.