A Beautiful Crime

by Christopher Bollen

  Nick tried to imagine caring about Dayton that much, about wanting to do anything for it besides flick it away with his finger. Maybe that was because Dayton wasn’t sinking. Maybe that was because Dayton had made it very clear that it didn’t need him. Nick found himself envious of Battista’s love for his hometown.

  “It’s great you’re getting that chance,” Nick said. “Don’t let Venice get murdered. It would be a very sad funeral.”

  “With how hard it is to get these restoration permissions approved by the local government, it seems like it is trying to kill itself.”

  Nick turned to the window, where the two bureaucrats inside were slowly picking through their paperwork. “What project are you working on with them?”

  Battista reached over his shoulder and pulled out the cardboard tube like a samurai sword. “Important plans,” he said vaguely. “Blueprints, certifications, architectural layouts. There are many signatures and inspections before we can get approval for our next restoration. Very complicated and top-secret.” Nick was well acquainted with the self-important smoke screen of an underling—a snow of words to hide an ignorance of facts. He himself had used that technique at Wickston. He suspected Battista would deliver the cardboard tube to the table and wait outside until it was time to pay the bill with West’s credit card. But Nick nodded along as if impressed. Wiser, kinder souls had doubtlessly done the same for him.

  “I’m sure this one will get a green light,” he said.

  “It is only one project of many,” Battista insisted. “Today I start research on a new assignment. Phone calls, tracking down names and dates. All a headache!” He flicked his cigarette and took his cell phone from his pocket. “Give me your number. I will WhatsApp you. Maybe we can have a drink before you leave for Milano.”

  Nick, trying not to picture making out with Battista after those drinks, recited his digits and then excused himself. “I have to meet Eva for lunch.”

  “I hope you can cheer her up,” Battista said. “She will have to go back to France soon if she can’t find a job. You see? This town is not easy for anyone young.”

  Nick shook his head in sympathy. For the sake of the plan, it was precisely the sad news about Eva that he’d been hoping to hear.

  He had to sprint to reach the restaurant on time. Eva was already slouched at a corner table. She chewed on a drink stirrer as she read a local newspaper, turning the pages on the horrors of the apocalyptic new tourist development in Mestre and the threat of an upcoming transit strike. There was also a mass extinction of shorebirds under way in Tuscany, for those seeking misfortunes beyond the Veneto region. Bad news was perfect company for Nick. When he sat down across from Eva, she made the expression of a hissing cat.

  “I’m in the worst mood,” she warned him. “But I promise I’ll pretend to shake out of it by the time we order.”

  “Why pretend when you can take me down with you?”

  “Good idea!” She tossed the newspaper aside and banged her palm against her forehead. “This gesture is meant to summarize my last few days looking for employment. Looking! At this point, it’s more like staring out of windows for employment. That counts, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You may have noticed that I’ve stopped Instagramming my days here. I’m tired of bragging about my life in a city that clearly doesn’t want me.”

  “Oh, Eva. Post one more shot of a gondola nearing a bridge. Please!”

  Nick was in his element with Eva—their humor matched, and their eyes held each other in the soft focus of mutual appreciation. He was also aided by the inherent loneliness of a fellow American adrift for too long on foreign soil. Nick needed her friendship in order to pressure her uncle. He felt sure that West would do almost anything for his niece. After they ordered, Eva continued to sulk.

  “Don’t be too down about your prospects,” Nick said, tapping his fingers on the pink linen tablecloth. “What about that thing you and your uncle were talking about a few days ago? That was a brilliant idea.”

  “What thing?” she asked dubiously. She stopped chewing on the drink stirrer and began nibbling at the skin around her fingernails.

  “Um.” Nick feigned a pillage of his memory. “That fresco in Palazzo Contarini you said you wanted to restore.”

  “I love everything you’re saying,” she replied with a laugh, “which makes it extremely sad that I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”

  He snapped his fingers over the breadbasket. “You and your uncle were talking about restoring—god, what was it? Why is it my job to remember your ambitions for you?—a ceiling fresco of Mary by—” He hesitated. “Tiepolo? Was it Tiepolo who painted the fresco in the house next door to your uncle?”

  “Sebastiano Ricci!” Eva cried out. She grabbed a piece of bread as a reward for the correct answer. “Yes, you’re talking about the Blue Madonna fresco. It’s in terrible condition. Or so Uncle Richard tells me. I haven’t seen it with my own eyes. The kid next door is not a friend. Evidently, he’s a sworn enemy to the Wests and should be approached with utmost caution. But you’re right. I do wish I could work on that fresco. What a fucking dream that would be.”

  “It seemed like Richard thought there was a way you could, right? Did I misunderstand?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Your English comprehension is deteriorating rapidly. I’m getting worried about you.”

  “I swear, your uncle said that. I can’t remember if it was when we were all in his office, or afterward, when you had too many drinks in the living room.”

  “I did get blindingly drunk that afternoon.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “I did not!”

  “I was embarrassed for you. But seriously, your uncle did say how fantastic it would be if you could restore that masterpiece. And he’s right when you think about it. That fresco isn’t landmarked, is it? It’s probably not even included in the city records. The local authorities wouldn’t have any power to choose the restorer. It’s on private property. My god, it’s right there, rotting away on the other side of your uncle’s wall, and no one is lifting a finger to save it. That’s awful, especially when here you are with all of your training and all you can do to fill your days is have lunch with me.”

  “I know,” she grumbled.

  “It was a good idea for you to restore it.”

  “It still is a good idea!” she said defensively. Then she sat up straight. “You know, it really is a good idea. The Venetians couldn’t stop me! I’d have total control and I’d do it right, unlike the chemicals they used to strip The Rape of the Sabine Women.”

  “I don’t know why you don’t listen to yourself when you’re drunk.”

  “Because I don’t remember. I honestly don’t—”

  “Well, I don’t even know who Sebastiano Ricci is!” Nick raised his hands to underscore his total innocence.

  “Wait a minute!” Eva started to gnaw around her thumbnail. “I could restore that fresco! Why not?” She eyed him harshly. “Did my uncle say how we’d get access to it? He hates the kid next door. He’s spent entire dinners raving on about what an underhanded schemer he is. Do you remember exactly what he said?”

  “I don’t remember anything. You should ask Richard about it. I have no idea what you two were talking about. The whole idea sounds crazy.”

  “It isn’t crazy!” Eva went quiet. “It really isn’t that crazy at all.”

  “Especially when you think how long it’s taking for your uncle to get any other restoration projects approved.”

  She wasn’t listening, her eyes roving across the pink tablecloth. Nick didn’t need to push any further. He reached over and gently batted Eva’s hand away from her mouth. “Don’t fill up on cuticles. We have swordfish to share.”

  As they ate, Nick steered the topic away from the Blue Madonna, hoping to put distance between himself and the idea. But Eva’s wax-and-wane attention was an encouraging sign that she was already plotting a way into the
neighbor’s house.

  When the bill arrived, she snatched it up. “My treat,” she said. “You might have just saved my life.”

  He slid the foil-wrapped bottle of silver polish across the table. “Can you give this to your uncle for me?”

  “Give it to him yourself. We’re only a few blocks from the house, and I know he’d love to see you.”

  They walked together through the spring heat. A group of young gondoliers passed, each in a straw hat with red ribbon. In their bright, new uniforms, they had the excitable air of fresh recruits being sent to the front lines to replace the tired and wounded.

  “If Karine’s home,” Eva said, “don’t mention the Ricci fresco.”

  “Why? Would she be against it?”

  “Well, she and Uncle Richard have an agreement. He gets to invest in his projects if she gets to invest in hers. I think they’ve been arguing about how much he’s been spending. So I don’t want the idea brought up while she’s in the room.”

  “What are her projects?” Nick asked. They were nearing Palazzo Contarini, and Nick had to keep himself from glancing down the alley that led to Clay’s door.

  “She’s all science, all brain-mapping research or whatever she was working on in Leipzig. It’s a terrible marriage in theory, two people with money and opposite interests on where it should be spent.” They entered the garden, and Eva unlocked the iron door. Before they took the stairs, she turned and offered him the wide, Teflon smile of a career criminal. “Don’t worry. I’m going to get to that fresco if I have to take a sledgehammer to the wall in the middle of the night!”

  “You scare me, Eva,” he replied happily.

  When they opened the door to the living room, it was not Karine’s voice that echoed from deep in the house. Nick heard West’s monotone reverberating from his office, followed by a man’s cloying laugh punctuating each sentence. When the stranger spoke, Nick couldn’t make out the words, and yet the warbling British accent seemed disturbingly familiar. It made the hairs of his neck stand on end. The velvet curtain parted, and West strode down the hall. Nick held up his gift and prepared to launch into a lecture on proper polishing techniques.

  “Nick!” West reeled as he entered the sunlight of the living room. “What a surprise. I was planning on calling you today.”

  Before Nick could respond, the stranger shouted from the office, “Make mine with no ice, okay?”

  Nick flinched at the sound of the voice. West stepped toward him, speaking in a whisper. “Don’t take it personally. It wasn’t for a second opinion, I swear. I have absolute faith in your judgment.”

  “What second opinion?” Nick asked, either aloud or to himself. He wasn’t sure. His pulse roared in his ears, and the blaring light on the silver foil in his hands was making him feel nauseated.

  “I only reached out to brag,” West said with a guilty grin. “I know it’s childish. But after years of that drunk fool not being able to get his hands on a single piece of van der Haar silver for me, I couldn’t resist sending one snide email. I won’t lie—it felt great! Don’t worry, I told him I had you to thank.” West squeezed Nick’s shoulder. “I’ve got my own Wickston man.”

  “What?” Nick said faintly. He didn’t have the strength to speak any louder. “I don’t know . . .”

  One second of silence elapsed before the office curtain screeched farther across the rod and Nick’s nightmare took specific shape. Dulles Hawkes had widened in the months since Nick had last seen him, but his skin was still washcloth damp, his loose shirt still bleeding sweat rings at the armpits. Dulles blinked at the sunlight and put his palm above his eyes in order to see. West stepped back, as if he were inviting two dogs of the same breed to sniff each other.

  “Dulles!” Nick cried in the tone of an insult.

  “Nick, Nick, Nick,” the older man sang in a fey vibrato. “What luck to come across you here in Venice!” Above Dulles’s seal neck, a smile hung. Nick couldn’t determine whether that smile was one of animosity or charity, of cruelty or humor. Certainly, even if Dulles’s twin hobbies of alcohol and cocaine had amped up in retirement, he’d still be able to deduce that the van der Haar antiques on West’s cupboard were forgeries. In fact, he already knew they were fakes because he’d advised Freddy not to bother selling them. Dulles probably also knew that Nick was no longer a Wickston employee. Nick considered escaping to the bathroom. He imagined wiggling through a window, falling into a canal, swimming toward the airport, and phoning Clay while waiting for a plane to take off. But he kept the smile on his face, the only escape route available to him.

  Dulles extended his hand. Nick took it and felt a mean, knowing squeeze on his fingers. There was a struggle over Nick’s fingertips as he ripped his hand away.

  “Richard was just telling me how you advised him on those last remaining van der Haar antiques!” Dulles nodded jovially. “You can always trust a Wickston appraisal! The best in the business, now that I’ve retired.”

  Nick laughed and turned toward the sunlight in the room, the only direction that seemed safe.

  “I was at my flat in London when I received Richard’s email. As I happened to be flying to Rome, I thought, Oh, why not stop in Venice for a few days and see these paragons of colonial American silver.”

  “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” Eva said, sitting on the sofa in the shadowed corner.

  “Oh my goodness!” Dulles rasped. He pulled a red silk handkerchief from his pant pocket, dabbed his sweaty cheeks, and bundled the fabric in his fist. The red silk bloomed between his chubby fingers. To Nick, it looked as if he were kneading raw meat. “They’re exquisite! Freddy was a close friend as well as a longtime client. I’m livid he didn’t share them with me while he was alive. Bad, bad Freddy!”

  Nick could feel Dulles’s eyes crawling all over him, and he purposely kept his attention on West, standing at the bar. Dulles’s platitudes about the silver had put a bounce in their host’s step, literally dancing as he poured a jigger of vodka into a tumbler.

  “A little more, please,” Dulles encouraged. “Hell, just keep pouring. I’m retired! I’m finally allowed to drink!”

  West glanced over his shoulder. “Do you want one, Nick?”

  “No, no, thank you,” Nick stammered. “I actually have to go. I have a meeting—” His brain couldn’t generate the simple fiction of a name or a place. His only conviction was to leave without looking Dulles in the face. “I just wanted to drop this gift off to you.”

  West carried a full, iceless glass of vodka over to Dulles and then grabbed the present from Nick. He ripped off the foil and chortled at the once-clever present. Now it seemed like a taunting reminder of Nick’s deceit. “Silver polish!”

  “Oh, that’s the best brand,” Dulles confirmed, although it wasn’t. “Nick must clean thousands of pieces at Wickston. He knows the good stuff. I was just telling Richard, it’s my theory that dishwashers destroyed our industry. No, no, listen . . . ,” he ordered, raising a steadying hand to hush the nonexistent dissent. He took a gulp of vodka before proceeding. “No one wants to waste time polishing dining service anymore. Silver takes work to keep up. It requires respect and elbow grease. Beautiful things, meaningful things, sacred things, take effort. The automatic dishwasher is the domestic god of ceramic and plastic. But it’s a devil to us. For god’s sake, most people don’t even have dining rooms anymore.” Dulles began to giggle as he glanced at his audience. It was then that he must have grasped Nick’s ploy to avoid eye contact, because his next sentence was sharpened for maximum effect. “Nick, speaking of the business, how’s Ari? I owe him a call.”

  “He’s great,” Nick said as he gave Dulles what he wanted, his eyes. The mention of Ari’s name pushed him toward tears. “I really need to be going.”

  Dulles smiled. “That’s too bad. But why don’t we meet up this afternoon? I’d hate to miss the opportunity for a reunion before you skip off to your Wickston client in Milan.”

  “Oh . . .” Nick shook his
head.

  “Yes, come on,” Dulles thundered. “I get to New York so seldom these days. It might be the last time we see each other.” Dulles gulped his vodka, and his fingers groped blindly through the sunlight for West’s arm. “Richard, suggest a quiet museum for us. Somewhere Nick and I can meet in, say two hours, with wonderful art and no tourists stampeding from every direction.”

  “The Scuola Grande di San Rocco!” Eva interjected from her corner seat. Her foot kicked at the brass brain doorstop. “It’s got the best ceilings in Venice.” Eva grinned mischievously at Nick. “I love ceiling paintings. Don’t you, Uncle Richard? Ceiling frescoes were my specialty in Toulouse.”

  “San Rocco has divine Tintorettos,” West affirmed. “You both really should see them.”

  “Yes, Nick, we must,” Dulles drawled. “Does San Rocco in two hours sound good to you? I’m really looking forward to catching up.”

  It did not sound good. Neither did the two hours before San Rocco or all the hours after. He and Clay should have left town when they had their chance. But they had gotten greedy. They had stayed in Venice a day too long.

  The sturdy, geometric white-marble facade of La Scuola Grande di San Rocco could have been the prototype for a corporate bank. It was located in a campo across from the Frari, not far from Daniela’s apartment, and, unfortunately for Nick, a shorter walk than he’d anticipated from West’s palazzo. It left him too much time to worry and regret and hatch elaborate, quickly abandoned plans while pacing frantically outside a gelato shop. Nick tried to replay the encounter with Dulles over again in his mind, but he’d been so spooked, it was as if his brain had failed to record all the relevant details. That failure now allowed Nick to reinvent the interaction. He almost convinced himself that Dulles did believe the silver pieces were real, and he was genuinely hurt that Freddy had never offered them up for sale, and now all that the old, sweat-drenched alcoholic wanted was to catch up under a quick heaven of Tintoretto paintings before they went their separate ways. Nick decided not to alert Clay on this problem. Why upset him prematurely? It was his job to handle it. Maybe Dulles would laugh about the ruse: God, I can’t stand Richard West either! I’m delighted you pulled one over on him! I’m proud of you! I tried for years but Freddy wouldn’t let me! Nick was trying to lead a circus of optimism through a hopeless wasteland. But optimism was far better than the reality of what Dulles might threaten to do—or, for all Nick knew, had already done in the past two hours over several more glasses of vodka. He could have already ruined them.