Page 40 of The Picasso Heist

THREE NIGHTS LATER, I’m back in the living room of Anton Nikolov’s Tribeca apartment nursing a lime-flavored LaCroix and checking the time on my phone for, like, the tenth time in the past two minutes.

“Remind me again,” I say. “Why exactly are we doing this?”

“Because he asked,” says Nikolov without looking at me.

He’s over at his bar, laser-focused on making the second bourbon old-fashioned he’s had since I arrived.

Blaggy’s not looking at either of us; he’s on the leather couch opposite me watching the Yankees game on mute, the flat-screen as big as the wall.

I make no attempt to hide my frustration. “Because he asked?”

“Yeah,” says Nikolov, dropping a sugar cube in his glass. “We’re doing this because Bergamo asked me to. Any other questions?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Since when did you become such a softy?”

There was a time only a few short weeks ago when I wouldn’t have dared crack a joke like that at Nikolov’s expense.

I remember Blaggy jamming his finger in my face, warning me not to even speak to his boss unless spoken to.

But that was then. This is now. Now Nikolov’s the proud owner of one of the world’s most valuable Picassos, and he got it for a steal.

Pun intended. What’s more, he knows he couldn’t have done it without me, which explains why all he does is smile at my joke about his being a softy.

“That’s funny,” he says, meticulously adding a few drops of bitters and a splash of water to the sugar cube. He reaches for a muddler. “Zabaven, as we say in Bulgarian. That means ‘funny.’”

According to Nikolov, Bergamo wanted the chance to take one last look at the real Picasso.

He’d formed some kind of bond with the painting while bidding on it, or so he said, even though he knew all along that he’d never own it.

He’d done a favor for Nikolov, albeit not by choice, and to Nikolov’s credit, that fact wasn’t lost on him.

“Okay, I get it,” I say. “I understand why you’re letting him come here. But why do I have to be here?”

“I told you. He asked.” Nikolov reaches for a few ice cubes and finally glances at me. He squints. “Why do you look so concerned, Halston?”

“Because this wasn’t part of the plan,” I say.

“You’re right, but the plan’s over. It worked. Relax.” He eyes my LaCroix as he pours the bourbon. “Maybe even have a real drink.”

I pass on the drink but take him up on the relaxing.

He’s right. The plan worked. And yes, Bergamo had played his part, and played it well.

The way he ripped smarmy Waxman a new one, threatening to sue Echelon over its lack of adequate security, did wonders for speeding up the insurance review.

Even better were the city’s security cameras that supported every word of what I told the police, right up to the painting being squashed like a bug underneath the wheel of the cement mixer.

The police are still looking for the thief. Good luck with that, guys. He was on the first flight back to Bulgaria.

As for the cement-mixer driver, cameras showed him getting out of the truck, looking thoroughly confused, then listening to me explain what had happened.

He gave me his cell number and helped me gather the remains of the painting in its crushed case.

The next day, the police called him to set up a time for an official statement.

We coached him to act scared and ask a lot of dumb questions, like “Am I going to have to pay for the painting?” Not for a minute did the police think this rocks-for-brains guy was an accomplice.

The investigation will continue. Detectives will focus on the idea that it was an inside job, that someone with either Echelon or the courier company hired by Bergamo to transport the painting was involved. How else did the thief know exactly where to be at exactly the right time?

For sure, no one will be above scrutiny. But if there were one person they wouldn’t suspect, it might be the young woman working for Echelon who actually chased the thief for ten blocks.

Just saying.