Page 83 of The Picasso Heist

“PLAY IT AGAIN,” I tell Skip in a conference room at the First Precinct downtown in Tribeca. There’re just the two of us on one side of the table, sitting and waiting.

Within minutes of Bergamo’s arrest, the videos started popping up on TikTok, Instagram, YouTube, you name it.

The much anticipated debut of Enzio Bergamo’s fall fashion line kicked off with none other than the designer himself frantically sprinting from backstage and onto the runway with two cops—wearing classic dark navy with clean lines—in hot pursuit.

Skip taps his phone again and we watch the best angle yet. The other clips were from the side, peekaboo angles from the back. This one, somehow, was filmed from straight on, almost directly at the end of the runway. “The Fall of Bergamo,” reads the title.

Neither svelte nor in shape, Enzio was no match for the two cops. But just as he was about to be tackled mid-runway, he tripped over his own feet, fell flat on his face, and let out the kind of high-pitched yelp destined to be a meme unto itself.

As if his day could get any worse.

Skip checks the time on his Casio G-Shock. We’ve had our fill of Bergamo blowing up the internet. My brother’s bored. We both are. The Greer kids aren’t good with inertia, though we know that the longer this afternoon drags on, the more likely it is that things will unfold as we expect.

“At least the sodas are cheap,” says Skip, taking a last sip of his Diet Coke from the First Precinct’s subsidized vending machine. A dollar a can, what a bargain.

“Do you want another?” I ask.

The door opens before he can answer, and Elise Joyce walks in like she owns the place. Depending on who you talk to, she sort of does.

“You lied to me, Halston Greer,” she announces, taking a seat across from us at the table.

That’s Skip’s cue to remain silent. He leans back, folding his arms. I’m leaning in. “Lied to you? About what?” I ask.

“Bergamo and his fifteen-hundred-dollar-an-hour attorney just shared a lot of interesting information about how you set him up,” says Joyce.

“So what you really mean is that I lied to Bergamo.”

“No, you lied to me too.”

“Name one thing I told you that wasn’t true,” I say.

“Call it a sin of omission, then.”

“Is that a crime?”

“No, but fraud is,” she says.

“You’re the expert, but for there to be a crime, I think there needs to be a victim. I don’t see one.”

“I’m sure Anton Nikolov and his beautiful fake Picasso would beg to differ. Do you want to tell him it’s a fake or shall I? On second thought, it shouldn’t be you, given that nasty Bulgarian temper of his. I guess I’ll do it. He’ll thank me in the end.”

“Great. I can picture the billboards now: ‘Elise Joyce, friend of organized crime,’” I say, adding air quotes for good measure.

“That’s funny,” she says.

“It’s also no way to get to the governor’s mansion, now, is it?”

Joyce smiles like a heavyweight champ after taking a good punch—stung but far from beaten. I’ll give the woman this: She has no fear… or shame.

“Oh, I’ll be in that mansion one day. You can count on it,” she says. “In fact, thanks to you two, I’ll be there even sooner than anyone thinks.”

“Great, congratulations. Now, if you could just release our father, we’ll be on our way and you can get busy campaigning,” I say. “Glad we could help you out.”

“But that’s just it,” she says. “You’re not done helping.”

I rest my forearms on the table. “You’d better not be saying what I think you’re saying.”

Joyce edges forward, matching me forearm for forearm. “Or else what?”

That’s all it takes to get Skip involved. “Wait a minute,” he says. “You can’t do this.”

But she can, and we all know it.

“We delivered Lugieri as promised. Now you hold up your end of the bargain,” I say. “You release our father.”

“For the record, my end of the bargain assumed you weren’t engaged in breaking the law. I should’ve known, though. Art fraud? It runs in the family, apparently.”

I’m about to lunge across the table when I feel Skip’s hand holding me back.

“Easy, Halston. Let’s not do anything that might keep you here for the night,” says Joyce.

“What do you want from us?” asks Skip.

“Like I said, thanks to you two, I now have the opportunity to bring down Dominick Lugieri and Anton Nikolov. It’s a field day on the mob. In fact, I can picture the actual billboards,” she says, breaking into a smile. “‘Elise Joyce. No one’s tougher on crime.’”

“You still haven’t answered my question,” says Skip. “What do you want?”

“Just a little more cooperation to seal the deal on Nikolov, that’s all. Once you do that, your father’s a free man.”

“That wasn’t the deal,” I say.

“It is now,” she says. “Take it or leave it.”

“We’ll leave it.”

Skip turns to me. “Halston—”

“No, screw it,” I say. “Screw her.”

“I think you’re overlooking something,” says Joyce. “There’s something else you’d be getting besides your father.”

“What’s that?” asks Skip.

“Immunity,” she says.

“The minute I strapped on that wire for you, we already had it,” I say.

Joyce gives me a pitying sigh. “You’re an Ivy League grad, Halston. But you’re definitely no lawyer.”

“I don’t need to be. In fact, I don’t need to be here listening to this bullshit.” I stand.

“That’s fine,” says Joyce. “Trust me, the immunity offer is in spite of you, not because of you. It’s only on the table because of your brother and his military service.”

“Great. Maybe you can put him in one of your campaign ads.” I turn to Skip. “Are you coming or what?”

Skip isn’t moving. He’s just staring at me, his eyes narrowed in indecision. “Halston—”

I cut him off. “Seriously? You’re going to sit here and put up with this crap?” It looks like he is, and that leaves me with only one move.

“Screw you both!” I say and bolt out of the room.