“Surely you already know the answer to that.”
Pendergast nodded. “The article he was writing for Burlington Magazine. ‘A Reappraisal of Georges de la Tour’s The Education of the Virgin.’”
“Precisely. Proclaiming himself in error, making appropriately abject apologies, beating his breast and affirming the glorious authenticity of the painting. He read the article aloud to us over the dinner table.”
“It remained beside his computer. Unsigned and unmailed.”
“Only too true, Mr. Pendergast. Of the four of us, I was the only one cheated by his death.” He spread his hands. “If the murderer had waited a day, I would be forty million richer.”
“Forty million? I thought it had been put up for sale at fifteen.”
“That was Sotheby’s estimate twenty years ago. That painting would go for at least forty million today. But with Grove on record that it’s one of the Delobre fakes . . .” Fosco shrugged. “An unsigned article beside a dead man’s computer means nothing. There is one good thing: I’ll have the lovely painting to look at for the rest of my life. I know it’s real, and you know it’s real, even if no one else does.”
“Yes,” Pendergast said. “Ultimately that’s all that matters.”
“Well put.”
“And the Vermeer that hangs beside it?”
“Real.”
“Indeed?”
“It has been dated to 1671, between the period of Lady Writing a Letter with Her Maid and The Allegory of Faith.”
“Where did it come from?”
“It’s been in my family for several hundred years. The counts of Fosco never felt the need to trumpet their possessions.”
“I’m truly astonished.”
The count smiled, bowed. “Do you have time to see the rest of my collection?”
Pendergast hesitated for only a second. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
The count rose and went to the door. Just before they exited, he turned to the mechanical cockatoo, still on his perch.
“Keep an eye on the place, Bucephalus, my pretty.”
The bird gave a digitized squawk in reply.
{ 14 }
D’Agosta moved fast through the trees, seeking the darkest area of the park—a dense growth of trees and shrubs along an embankment leading down to the West Side Highway. He paused just long enough to glance back. Two figures were running after him, guns gleaming in their fists.
Staying low, weaving between the trees, D’Agosta unsnapped the holster of his Glock. He withdrew the weapon, racked the slide. It was the chosen weapon of most modern police departments, and D’Agosta hadn’t been given a choice about carrying it, on duty or off. It didn’t have the punch of his personal .45, but it was light and reliable, and best of all, it held fifteen rounds. He’d left his extra clip in his desk drawer that morning—who needed an extra clip for a day of interviews?
The men were already into the woods, moving fast. D’Agosta ran on, heedless of the noise he was making—the brush wasn’t heavy enough to conceal him for more than a minute or two, at best. He headed south, twigs crackling underfoot. If he could lose them, even temporarily, maybe he could get back onto Riverside Drive and head toward Broadway. They wouldn’t dare follow onto such a busy street. He quickly checked off his options. The nearest precinct house was located at 95th between Broadway and Amsterdam—that’s where he’d head for.
He could hear the men running behind him. One shouted out to the other, and a fainter response came back. D’Agosta immediately understood what had happened: they had divided and were still pursuing, one on either side of the narrow strip of park.
Shit.
Keeping low, he ran through the woods, gun in hand. No time to stop and strategize; no time to use his radio; no time for anything but a flat-out run. The faint lights of Riverside Drive flickered through the trees on his left; to his right lay the long, brush-filled slope running steeply down toward the West Side Highway. He could hear the droning rush of cars far below him. He briefly considered running down the embankment and trying to get out on the highway, but it would be easy to get hung up in the nasty bracken that clogged the slope.
If that happened, he’d be a sitting duck, fired on from above.
The stretch of woods ended abruptly, and he burst out into a moonlit scene of parallel walkways overlooking the river, gardens and trees between them. It was exposed, but he had no choice but to keep moving.
Who the fuck’s chasing me? Muggers? Cop haters? It didn’t make sense. He was no longer just a target of opportunity. These killers were determined. They had followed him uptown. They were after him for a reason.
He ran past the first formal garden, behind rows of iron benches, keeping low. Suddenly he saw something off to his left: a red spot of light chasing him, dancing around like an agitated firefly.