Page 65 of The Picasso Heist
THE STREAM OF calls from Bergamo begins that evening.
They’re not from his number and he doesn’t leave a message, but I know it’s him.
He’s using a burner phone. It’s the right move but he’s watched one too many spy movies.
People are most vulnerable when they convince themselves they’re being clever.
The calls continue into the next day. Instead of every few hours, he’s ringing me every hour, like a bell tower.
When I call in sick at Echelon, the messages from Smarmy start pouring in as well.
First there’s a voicemail, then a slew of texts.
I can all but hear the conversation Smarmy had with Bergamo, pumping him for information under the guise of doing him a favor.
Just a heads-up, Enzio, that you’re the target of a criminal investigation. Now tell me why.
Smarmy probably thought he’d have the chance to ask me directly what those two feds at the restaurant wanted to know about Bergamo and to what extent the two of us were connected.
For sure he didn’t learn much from Bergamo.
Enzio and his fresh new burner phone aren’t about to share anything with Smarmy or anyone else.
I make both men wait. Men absolutely hate waiting.
For the second day I call in sick to Echelon.
I don’t respond to Smarmy’s continued barrage of messages but the time comes for me to rendezvous with Bergamo.
I text him. Burner or no burner, I have no intention of relaying anything over the phone.
This makes Bergamo even more anxious to find out what’s happening.
He texts me back in all caps that he needs to see me IMMEDIATELY.
We take the same precautions, cloak-and-daggering around the city for a while on our own before Bergamo picks me up at noon along the east-west transverse through Central Park at Sixty-Fifth Street.
He’s in his company limousine with the same driver, Nico, behind the wheel.
A stretch limo isn’t exactly subtle but the tinted windows provide all the privacy we need.
“Hang here for a bit,” he tells Nico and raises the partition. It’s now just me, Bergamo, and an air of desperation.
“What is it? What do they have on us? For Christ’s sake, what are they able to prove?” he asks like an impatient child, albeit one wearing a suit, shoes, and watch that easily total fifty grand.
“Relax,” I tell him. “It was a ruse.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re not the target of an FBI investigation. Smarmy is.”
“Smarmy?”
I laugh. “Sorry. That’s my nickname for him. It’s Charles Waxman they’re investigating.”
Oh, the relief on Bergamo’s face. But, still, he’s confused. Of course he is. How could he not be? The FBI’s targeting the head of Echelon and yet they’re telling him they’re going after someone else?
“Wait,” says Bergamo. “At the restaurant, why did the agents—”
“Say it was you? Because they’re trying to give Waxman a false sense of security while getting closer to him,” I say.
“But why?”
“Do you remember that woman at the auction? The one who was trying to outbid you?”
“She almost did,” he says.
“Almost is the operative word.”
“What do you mean?”
“She was never going to win. She was a shill,” I say. “She was planted.”
“By Waxman?”
“That’s right. Smarmy’s been rigging the game, jacking up purchase prices to reap higher premiums. Apparently this wasn’t the first time he’s done it, or so the agents tell me.”
“Why would the FBI involve you, though?” he asks.
“Because they learned I’m the new teacher’s pet, which means I’m in a prime position to get the smoking-gun evidence they need. I’m literally a few doors down from Waxman’s office now. I have access to files. Proximity.”
“They were that sure you’d cooperate with them?”
“The short answer is no,” I say.
“I mean, in a way, you’d be risking your career.”
“Yeah, but I’m the girl who ran after the guy who stole your Picasso. That’s their thinking. What wouldn’t I risk in the name of doing the right thing?”
Bergamo leans back, taking it all in. “That son of a bitch Waxman,” he says. “Rigging his auctions, huh?”
“Yep.”
“How’d they even come to suspect him?”
“Turns out the woman Waxman hired to jack up the bidding is a high-priced escort who was just caught for tax evasion. To save herself, she sacrificed Waxman, sold him out.”
“Talk about getting screwed,” says Bergamo, laughing. “Jesus, I really thought this was all about—”
I cut him off, quickly raising an index finger to my lips: Shh. “I know. How could you not think it was about you? They literally used your name at the restaurant, told us you were the target,” I say. “But that’s only because they can connect me with you.”
Bergamo stares at me. He’s confused all over again. Why did I cut him off? Why didn’t I want him to mention anything we’ve been up to?
This is why.
I tug down on my blouse, showing him. I’m wearing a wire.