“He really is a very talented painter, even when copying another one.” He handed her the bill. “Please pay this, pronto.” He took the painting up to the dining room and spent an hour shuffling things around to make a place for it.
When he came back to his desk, there was a message from Pio Farina, and he returned the call to a cell phone number.
“Pio.”
“Pio, it’s Stone Barrington.”
“Stone, I wanted you to know that Dad has had a heart attack, and he’s in the hospital.”
“How bad?”
“Not good.”
“Is he in East Hampton?”
“No, in the city, at the Carlsson Clinic. He has a pied-à-terre in the city, and he collapsed in the lobby of his building. The doormen got him an ambulance.”
“Can I visit him?”
“They say he can see us this afternoon, and we’re driving in now. I know he’d like to see you.”
“I just got the painting I asked for. It’s wonderful!”
“Yes, I saw him working on it in his studio.”
“Call me and let me know when I can see him.”
“Okay. There’s something else I want to talk to you about, too.” He hung up without an explanation.
? ? ?
LATER IN THE AFTERNOON, Stone got a call from Pio.
“They won’t let anybody see him today—maybe tomorrow.”
“Thanks.”
“Do you mind if Ann and I come to see you? There’s something we’d like to tell you about.”
“Fine, now is good.”
? ? ?
THE TWO OF THEM came in and sat on the sofa, while Stone took a chair. He waited for them to get settled with the coffee that Joan brought. “Tell me,” he said.
“It’s a fairly long story,” Pio said.
“I’ve got the time,” Stone replied.
“We told you about the day Mark died.”
“Yes, you did.”
“But not everything.”
“All right, tell me everything.”
“It was as we said, up to a point. Mark invited us for a drink and told us to come up in the service elevator.”
“Because the main elevator was being serviced.”
“That’s what he said. We had our drink and started to leave. He asked us to drop off the package at FedEx.”
“I remember.”
“But as we were leaving through the kitchen, we heard Morgan arrive home from her shopping trip. She called out to him, ‘Honey, I’m home,’ something like that.”
Ann spoke up. “No, she said, ‘Mark, stay where you are, I want to talk to you.’ Then, I assume, she walked out onto the deck where he had been sitting when we left. We closed the kitchen door behind us and took the elevator downstairs. We had parked on East Seventy-eighth, near the service entrance. As we were getting into the car we heard a sound, a loud thud, sort of. It sounded like a big balloon filled with water, hitting the ground, followed by a kind of sigh. It came from the alley behind the building.”
Stone sat up. “That would have been the sound of Mark hitting the pavement.”
“It had to be. We drove past the alley, but there was a car parked illegally at the entrance, and I saw it drive away in the rearview mirror. That car had blocked our view.”
“Did the driver of the car see Mark fall?”
“I don’t think so. There was nothing hurried about his departure.”
“So you’re telling me that Mark and Morgan were alone in the apartment when he fell.”
“That has to be the case.”
“Why didn’t you tell the police about it?”
“The standard reason—we didn’t want to get involved. We didn’t want to spend months talking to the cops and reporters, then testifying in court. It’s a privacy thing—we’re funny that way.”
“And why are you telling me now?”
“Because we’re cowards,” Pio said, “and we think you’re not. You know the police commissioner, you can get the case reopened.”
Stone shook his head. “That’s highly unlikely.”
“Why? You know now what happened.”
“No, I only know what you heard. Certainly that puts her in the apartment with Mark, but she’s already admitted being there. In fact, your story backs up hers, to the extent that she arrived when she said she did. And it strains credulity that she would arrive home, walk out on the terrace, and push her husband off the building.”
Pio looked as though he’d just been backhanded. “What about her story about the cat burglar?”
“I think Mark’s death was an accident of some sort, and she made that up on the fly because she was afraid of being accused of murder.”
Ann spoke up. “Stone is right, Pio,” she said.
“Jesus,” Pio said, “we went through this whole conscience thing, deciding to tell you, and now what we’ve told you makes no difference?”
“Not in the least,” Stone replied. “And I have to tell you, having gotten to know Morgan, I question whether it’s in her character to do something like that.”
Ann spoke again. “I think our suspicions helped form our opinion of her character. And I think that now we have to question our conclusions.”
“I know that’s hard to do,” Stone said, “but I think you have to try.”
They were all quiet for a moment.
Then Pio said, “The doctor says we can see Dad tomorrow morning at ten. Will you come?”
“Of course,” Stone said.
56
ARTHUR STEELE WAS SITTING at his desk, going over the final draft of the Steele Group’s annual report, which was to go to press in an hour. The phone rang.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Steele, there’s a man on line two who is demanding to speak to you.”
“What does he want?”
“He wants to know if you want your picture back.”
Steele was about to ask what picture when he stopped himself. “I’ll take the call. What’s his name?”
“Sol Fineman.”
The name was vaguely familiar, and he picked up the phone. “This is Arthur Steele.”
“Mr. Steele, this is Sol Fineman. I used to work for a man named Sam Spain, now deceased.”
“That name is familiar to me.”
“First of all, I should save you some time by telling you that you can’t trace this call or my location.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to give you back the van Gogh you insured.”
“Oh, really? How do I know you’ve got it?”
“I’ll have it delivered to you, and you will have three minutes to inspect it, and if you find it to be genuine, then you’ll give the man who delivered it five million dollars in hundred-dollar bills.”
“Oh, I will?”
“Mr. Steele, you’ve already fucked this up once. This is your last chance to save tens of millions of dollars.”
Steele didn’t speak for a moment.
“I was there when you told Sam Spain to go fuck himself,” Fineman said. “You can tell me that, if you like, and neither you nor your client will ever see the picture again. I’ll have to destroy it—it’s too hot.”
“How do you want to do this?” Arthur asked.
“There’s a luggage shop near your office, at Park Avenue and Fifty-sixth Street.”
“I know the place.”
“When you hang up, go there and buy a large black aluminum suitcase, made by Zero Halliburton. Buy the largest one available on wheels. It’s about five hundred dollars.”
“Then what?”
“Take it back to your office and put the five million, in bundles of ten thousand each, into the suitcase. That’s how it comes from the bank. Follow the directions that come with the luggage and set the two combination locks to eight-six-nine. Got it?”
“Yes. I have the cash in my vault as we speak. When do you want to do this?”
“In two hours.”
“I guess I can do that.”
“A FedEx delivery man will call at your office and tell your people that he has a delivery that must be signed for by you, personally. You will allow him into your office alone. He will give you a package containing the picture and wait three minutes for you and you alone to examine it, so if you need any inspection equipment you’d better get it now.”
“I see.”
“While you’re examining the picture, he will open the suitcase using the code eight-six-nine and count the money. When the three minutes is up, he will depart your office with the money.”
“What if I need more time?”