Page 54 of The Picasso Heist

BEFORE I EVEN walked through the front door of Echelon the next morning, word had spread. Like a virus.

No one actually says anything to me as I make my way through the cavernous lobby to the elevators. They don’t have to. Their looks do all the talking, every stare saying the same thing: How the hell did this girl get promoted to vice president?

Except they already know. Smarmy Waxman made sure of it, strategically “leaking” his rationale to a few key Echelon executives, the ones who happen to have the biggest mouths.

In chasing a thief through the streets, I almost literally ran my ass off for Echelon, and that’s the kind of commitment and dedication that every CEO wants from his or her employees.

If they only knew the truth.

When I hit the up button on the elevator instead of the B for basement, I suddenly remember the internship fair that Columbia hosted just before the summer between my sophomore and junior years.

All these HR people from leading companies descended on campus to pluck a few lucky undergrads for their prized programs, asking all the supposed curveball questions in their quick five-minute interviews that felt like one of those speed-dating events.

“So, Halston,” said an interviewer from Condé Nast, double-checking my résumé to make sure she had my name right. “What would you say is your greatest weakness?”

“Why on earth would I ever reveal that to someone?” I answered. “I mean, did Superman go around tipping people off about krypto-nite?”

News flash: I didn’t get the internship.

“There she is, my new VP!” says Smarmy Waxman when he stops by my new office. “How are you settling in?”

If I’m going to be stuck at Echelon for a while, I might as well make the most of it, and that means getting the answer to a question that’s been gnawing at me—and Skip—since the night of the auction.

In fact, it’s the first thing my brother mentioned when I told him about Waxman promoting me.

The silver lining, he called it. A chance to solve the riddle.

Who was the woman who was bidding against Bergamo?

There was something about her… something that doesn’t sit quite right.

I tell Smarmy I’m settling in fine, and we make small talk. He even invites me to lunch later this week. I smile, nod, and say that’s a great idea. I’m the new VP of BS.

Then, as he’s about to leave, I hit him with the question. Almost as if it’s an afterthought, I say, “Oh, I meant to ask you. Who was that woman bidding against Mr. Bergamo for the Picasso?”

If I’d blinked, I would’ve missed it. That’s how fast it came and went, a very slight yet unmistakable flinch.

“Oh, her? She’s a proxy for one of our clients,” he says. He thinks for a moment, scratching his chin for added effect. “I can’t remember the name.”

“Of the client or the proxy?” I ask, even though I know exactly who he meant. He’s stalling, trying to figure out a smooth way of not telling me the woman’s name while not sounding suspicious.

“Huh? Oh, the proxy,” he says. “Yeah, I’ve actually never met her. That’s probably intentional. I do know that who she represents is incredibly private. He’s the kind of member who doesn’t want anyone knowing he’s a member.”

It certainly sounded smooth but it’s too late. The flinch already gave him away. If I’m the VP of BS, he’s the CEO.

Smarmy Waxman knows exactly who that proxy is.

Because that “member” she works for? It’s him.