Page 82 of The Picasso Heist

“YOU’RE NOT THAT stupid,” he says. “Or are you? All the work to set me up, pretending we were partners, making me think you were repaying your father’s debt—and where did it get you?”

“You tell me,” I say.

Bergamo shrugs with the subtlety of a B movie actor. “It’s nothing more than a case of ‘he said, she said.’”

“You mean my word against yours?”

“No, I mean your word against his,” he says. “I’m talking about him.”

“Who? Lugieri?” I ask.

“That’s right. Which means you don’t have an endgame, Halston. At least, not one that doesn’t end with your funeral,” he says. He jabs a finger at Skip. “Same for you, big brother.”

Bergamo’s so pleased with himself for delivering his gotcha line, the threat that Skip and I will end up being fitted for cement shoes. He’s grinning so widely, I can see all the way to his molars. But there’s something about the way I smile back at him that makes his begin to wither.

“Yeah, I get it. Lugieri’s a dangerous guy,” I say. “It sort of makes me wonder why you were doing business with him in the first place. Seriously, Enzio, what were you thinking? Laundering money for the mob?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty much what Lugieri was saying—right before he was arrested this morning.”

“Bullshit,” says Bergamo. “There’s no way.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“I would’ve heard.”

“You just did,” I say, holding up my phone. The picture’s a little blurry but it’s definitely Lugieri. It’s also definitely him in handcuffs.

“One minute! One minute to show!” yells the stage manager.

The throng of people behind Bergamo grows. Everyone needs him for something. He doesn’t even have to look over his shoulder; he can feel the pressure building, spiraling. His grin is long gone. His teeth are clenched, his jaw tightening like a drum.

“Can we talk about this after the show?” he asks, his voice barely cutting through the chatter around him.

“No,” I say. “We actually can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because you won’t be here after the show.”

Bergamo fakes a laugh, desperately clinging to the idea that he still has some leverage. “Oh, so now you’re a cop too? What, you’re here to arrest me?”

“No,” I say, pointing, “but I think those guys are.”

Now he looks. Now he sees them. Two of New York’s Finest take their cue, slice through the crowd, and head right toward him.

There’s no more facade or false bravado, just sheer, unmitigated panic.

And panic can make a person do crazy things.