One Fifth Avenue

by Candace Bushnell

  “Thanks,” Paul said curtly. He was used to being called a genius and took the compliment as a matter of course.

  “I’m looking forward to working with you.”

  Paul paused with his spoon halfway to his mouth. This was unexpected. “Are you moving to New York?” he asked.

  “I’ve already found an apartment. In the new Gwathmey building. A masterpiece of modern architecture.”

  “On the West Side Highway,” Sandy joked.

  “I’m used to cars,” Craig said. “I grew up in L.A.”

  “Where’d you go to school?” Paul asked evenly. But he felt uneasy. It struck him that perhaps it would have been normal behavior for Sandy to have told him about this new associate before hiring him.

  “MIT,” Craig said. “You?”

  “Georgetown,” Paul replied. He looked past Craig’s head to the David Salle paintings on the wall. Normally, he didn’t notice such things, but the paintings were of two jesters with terrifying expressions—both jovial and cruel. Paul took a gulp of his wine, feeling inexplicably like the jesters were real and mocking him.

  For the rest of the dinner, the talk was of the upcoming political election and its impact on business; then they moved into Sandy’s study for cognac and cigars. Passing out cigars, Sandy began talking about art, boasting about his dinner with a man named David Porshie. “Billy Litchfield, he’s a good friend of my wife’s—when you get married, he’ll be a good friend of your wife’s as well,” he explained to Craig Akio. “He set us up with the head of the Metropolitan Museum. Decent fellow. Knows everything about art, but I suppose that’s not surprising. He got me thinking about improving my own collection. Going for the old masters instead of the new stuff. What do you think, Paul? Anyone can get the new stuff, right? It’s only money. But no matter what they tell you, no one knows how much it’ll be worth in five years or even two. Might not be worth anything at all.”

  Paul just stared, but Craig nodded enthusiastically. Sandy, sensing an audience for not only admiration but awe, opened the safe.

  Connie had done what Billy had asked. She had put the cross away—into the safe in Sandy’s study—so she could visit it anytime she liked. Nevertheless, she’d managed to keep the cross a secret. Sandy, however, was a different story. When Billy first came to him with the opportunity to buy the cross, Sandy hadn’t thought much about it, considering it nothing more than another piece of old jewelry his wife wanted to acquire. Connie told him that the piece was important, a true antiquity, but Sandy hadn’t paid attention until that evening with David Porshie. David approached art on a whole different level. After returning home that evening, Sandy had examined the cross again with Connie and began to understand its value, but was more taken by the coup he’d scored in obtaining it at all. It was something no one else had, and unable to keep this spectacular possession to himself, he had taken to bringing one or two select guests into his study after dinner to show it off.

  Now, untying the black cords that bound the artifact in its soft suede wrappings, he said, “Here’s something you won’t see every day. In fact, it’s so rare, you won’t even find it in a museum.” Holding up the cross, he allowed Craig and Paul to examine it.

  “Where do you get a piece like that?” Craig Akio asked, his eyes glittering.

  “You can’t,” Sandy Brewer said, wrapping up the cross and replacing it in the safe. He sucked on his cigar. “A piece like that finds you. Not unlike you finding us, Craig.” Sandy turned to Paul, blowing smoke in his direction. “Paul, I’ll expect you to teach Craig everything you know. You’ll be working together closely. At least at first.”

  It was that last sentence that woke Paul up—“At least at first.” And then what? He suddenly saw that Sandy meant for him to train Craig; once he’d accomplished this task, Sandy would fire him. There was no need for two men to do his job. Indeed, it was impossible, as the work was secretive, instinctive, and off-the-cuff. All at once he felt as if he were on fire and, standing up, asked for water.

  “Water?” Sandy barked dismissively. “I hope you’re not turning into a lightweight.”

  “I’m going home,” Paul said.

  He left Sandy’s apartment, fuming. How long would it be before Sandy dismissed him from his job? Crossing the sidewalk, he got into the back of the chauffeured Bentley and slammed the door. Would he lose the car as well? Would he lose everything? At the moment, he couldn’t keep up his lifestyle or even his apartment without his job. Yes, technically, he had plenty of money, but it fluctuated on a daily basis, flitting up and down and, like the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, was impossible to pin down. He had to wait for exactly the right moment to make a killing, at which point he could cash out with what could be a billion dollars.

  Unable to stop thinking about Sandy and how Sandy planned to ruin him, Paul spent the next thirty-six hours in his apartment in a panic. By Sunday morning, even his fish couldn’t soothe him, and Paul decided to take a walk around the neighborhood. On the table in the foyer, he found The New York Times. Without thinking, he spread it open on the living room rug and began turning the pages. And then he found the answer to his problem with Sandy on the cover of the arts section.

  It was a story—complete with photographs taken from a portrait of Queen Mary—about the unsolved mystery of the Cross of Bloody Mary. Having met the Brewers and suspecting that Sandy fit the profile of an art thief, David Porshie had arranged the story, thinking it might draw out someone who had information on the cross.

  Now, reading the story while squatting on his haunches, Paul Rice put two and two together. He sat back, and as he explored the potential results of piecing together this information, the possibilities grew exponentially in his mind. With Sandy occupied in the legal entanglements of possessing a stolen artifact, he would be too busy to fire Paul. Indeed, Paul would go further—with Sandy gone, he could insert himself into Sandy’s place, taking his position. Then he’d be running the fund, and Sandy, having garnered himself a criminal record, would be banned from trading. It would all be his, Paul thought. Then and only then would he be safe.

  Taking the newspaper with him, he went out to the Internet café on Astor Place. He did some research and, finding the information he needed, constructed a fake e-mail account under the name Craig Akio. Then he composed an e-mail stating that he—Craig Akio—had seen the cross in the home of Sandy Brewer. Paul addressed the e-mail to the reporter who’d written the piece in the Times. Out of habit, Paul reread the e-mail, and, finding it satisfactory, hit “send.”

  Heading out into the weekend bustle of lower Broadway, Paul felt calm for the first time in weeks. As he entered One Fifth, he smiled, thinking about how no one was safe in the information age. But for the moment, at least, he was.

  17

  For Billy Litchfield, April brought not only spring showers but debilitating tooth pain. The miserable weather was exacerbated by what felt like one endless visit to the dentist’s office. A dull pain that grew into a pounding percussion of agony finally drove him to the dentist, where an X-ray revealed that he had not one, but two decaying roots demanding immediate surgery. The situation required several appointments involving novocaine, gas, antibiotics, soft foods, and thankfully, Vicodin to ease the pain.

  “I don’t understand,” Billy protested to the dentist. “I’ve never had even a cavity.” This was a bit of an exaggeration, but nevertheless, Billy’s teeth—which were naturally white and straight, requiring only two years of braces as a child—had always been a source of pride.

  The dentist shrugged. “Get used to it,” he said. “It’s part of getting older. Circulation goes to hell, and the teeth are the first to go.”

  This made Billy more depressed than usual, and he upped his dosage of Prozac. He’d never been at the mercy of his body, and he found the experience not only humbling but capable of erasing every important achievement in his life. What the philosophers said was true: In the end, there was only decay and death, and in deat
h, everyone was equal.

  One afternoon while he was recovering from the latest injustice done to his jaw (a tooth had been removed and a metal screw inserted in its place—he was still waiting for the fake tooth to be constructed in the lab), there was a knock on his door.

  The man who stood in the hallway was a stranger in a navy blue Ralph Lauren suit. Before Billy could respond, the man flashed a badge at him. “Detective Frank Sabatini,” he said. “Can I come in?”

  “Of course,” Billy said, too shocked to refuse. As the detective followed him into his tiny living room, Billy realized he was still wearing his robe and had a vision of himself, hands cuffed, going to jail in the paisley silk number.

  The detective flipped open a notebook. “Are you Billy Litchfield?” he asked.

  For a second, Billy considered lying but decided it might only make things worse. “I am,” he said. “Officer, what’s wrong? Has someone died?”

  “Detective,” Frank Sabatini said. “Not Officer. I worked hard for the title. I like to use it.”

  “As well you should,” Billy said. Explaining the robe, he added, “I’m recuperating from some dental work.”

  “That’s tough. I hate the dentist myself,” Detective Sabatini said pleasantly enough.

  He didn’t sound like he was ready to make an arrest, Billy thought. “Do you mind if I get changed?” Billy asked.

  “Take your time.”

  Billy went into his bedroom and closed the door. His hands shook so fiercely, he had a hard time taking off the robe and putting on a pair of corduroy slacks and a red cashmere sweater. Then he went into his bathroom and gulped down a Vicodin, followed by two orange Xanaxes. If he was going to jail, he wanted to be as sedated as possible.

  When he returned to the living room, the detective was standing by the side table, examining Billy’s photographs. “You know a lot of important people,” he remarked.

  “Yes,” Billy said. “I’ve lived in New York a long time. Nearly forty years. One accumulates friends.”

  The detective nodded and got right to it. “You’re a sort of art dealer, aren’t you?”

  “Not really,” Billy said. “I sometimes put people together with dealers. But I don’t deal in art myself.”

  “Do you know Sandy and Connie Brewer?”

  “Yes,” Billy said softly.

  “You were helping the Brewers with their art collection, right?”

  “I have in the past,” Billy admitted. “But they were mostly finished.”

  “Do you know about any recent purchases they might have made? Maybe not through a dealer?”

  “Hmmm,” Billy said, stalling. “What do you mean by ‘recent’?”

  “In the last year or so?”

  “They did go to the art fair in Miami. They may have bought a painting. As I said, they’re mostly finished with their collection. I’m actually working with someone else right now, quite intensely.”

  “Who would that be?”

  Billy swallowed. “Annalisa Rice.”

  The detective wrote down the name and underlined it. “Thank you, Mr. Litchfield,” he said, handing Billy his card. “If you hear anything else about the Brewers’ collection, will you contact me?”

  “Of course,” Billy said. He paused. “Is that it?”

  “What do you mean?” the detective asked, moving to the door.

  “Are the Brewers in trouble? They’re very nice people.”

  “I’m sure they are,” the detective said. “Keep my card. We may be contacting you again soon. Good afternoon, Mr. Litchfield.”

  “Good afternoon, Detective,” Billy said. He closed the door and collapsed onto his couch. Then he quickly got up and, sidling next to the curtain, peered out at Fifth Avenue. Every kind of cheap television crime scenario entered his mind. Was the detective gone? How much did he know? Or was he out there in an unmarked car, spying on Billy? Would Billy be tailed?

  For the next two hours, Billy was too terrified to make a call or check his e-mail. Had he given himself away to the detective with his question about that being it? And why had he given the detective Annalisa Rice’s name? Now the detective would get in touch with her. How much did she really know? Sick with fear, he went into the bathroom and took two more pills. Then he lay down on his bed. Mercifully, sleep came, a sleep from which he prayed he wouldn’t have to wake.

  He did, however—three hours later. His cell phone was ringing. It was Annalisa Rice. “Can I see you?” she asked.

  “My God. Did the cop call you, too?”

  “He just came by here. I wasn’t home. He told Maria it had something to do with the Brewers and did I know them.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said she didn’t know.”

  “Good for Maria.”

  “Billy, what’s going on?”

  “Are you alone?” Billy asked. “Can you come over here? I’d come to you, but I don’t want the doormen seeing me going in and out of One Fifth. And make sure you aren’t followed.”

  Half an hour later, Annalisa, seated in front of Billy, held up her hands. “Billy, stop,” she said. “Don’t tell me any more. You’ve already told me too much.” She stood up. “You mustn’t tell anyone anything. Not a word about this. Anything you say from now on can be used in a trial.”

  “Is it really that bad?” Billy said.

  “You need to hire a lawyer. David Porshie will convince the police to get a search warrant—for all we know, the attorney general is already involved—and they’ll search the Brewers’ apartment and find the cross.”

  “They might not find anything,” Billy said. “The cross isn’t even in the apartment anymore. I told Connie to put it in a safety-deposit box.”

  “Eventually, they’ll search that, too. It’s only a matter of time.”

  “I could call Connie. And warn her. Tell her to take the cross away. Stash it in the Hamptons. Or Palm Beach. It was in One Fifth for sixty years, and no one knew a thing about it.”

  “Billy, you’re not making sense,” Annalisa said soothingly. “Don’t make this worse for yourself than it already is. You’re implicated, and if you contact the Brewers, you’ll be charged with conspiracy as well.”

  “How long before they get me?” Billy asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Before I go to jail?”

  “You won’t necessarily go to jail. There are all kinds of things that can happen. You can plea-bargain or do a deal. If you went to the police right now, to the attorney general, and told him what you know, he’d probably agree to give you immunity.”

  “I should turn in the Brewers to save myself?” Billy said.

  “That’s what it amounts to.”

  “I couldn’t,” Billy said. “They’re my friends.”

  “They’re my friends, too,” Annalisa said. “But Connie hasn’t committed a crime by taking a gift from her husband. Don’t be foolish,” she added warningly. “Sandy Brewer won’t think twice about doing the same thing to you.”

  Billy put his head in his hands. “This kind of thing, it just isn’t done. Not in our set.”

  “It’s not a child’s tea party,” Annalisa said sharply. “Billy, you’ve got to understand. All of the imagined traditions in the world won’t help you. You’ve got to face the facts squarely and decide what to do. Meaning what’s best for you.”

  “What happens to the Brewers?”

  “Don’t worry about the Brewers,” Annalisa said. “Sandy is beyond rich. He’ll buy his way out of this, you’ll see. He’ll claim he didn’t know what he was buying. He’ll claim he bought art from you all the time. You’ll take the fall, not him. I was a lawyer for eight years. Trust me, it’s always the little people who get thrown under the bus.”

  “The little people,” Billy said, shaking his head. “So it’s come to that. I’m one of the little people after all.”

  “Billy, please, let me help you,” Annalisa said.

  “I just need some time. To thin
k,” Billy said, showing her to the door.

  Two days later, Detective Frank Sabatini, accompanied by four police officers, arrived at the offices of Brewer Securities at three P. M. sharp. Detective Sabatini had found this hour most propitious for the arrest of white-collar criminals: They were back from their lunches by then and, with their bellies full, were much more compliant.

  Frank Sabatini was very sure of his man. The day before, Craig Akio, having denied any knowledge of either the e-mail or the cross to Detective Sabatini, had mysteriously left for Japan, and citing the fact that his suspect might be given to run, like Mr. Akio, Detective Sabatini was able to obtain a search warrant for the Brewer abode. It happened to be the week of school vacation, and Connie had taken the whole brood, including the two nannies, to Mexico. The only ones home were the maids, who were helpless in the face of the law. It was, Sabatini thought, a very exciting morning, as the safe had to be opened by use of explosives. Nevertheless, his gunpowder man was very good, and nothing in the safe was damaged, including the cross. The confirmation that this was indeed the stolen item long missing was made by David Porshie, who’d been waiting for the detective’s call.

  Now, at Brewer Securities, hearing a commotion in the hallway, Paul Rice walked out of his spacious, entirely white office to join the few other partners and employees in watching Sandy Brewer being led out in handcuffs. “Jezzie,” Sandy said to his assistant on his way out, “call my lawyer. There must be some mistake here.” Expressionless, Paul observed the spectacle, and when Sandy was safely in the elevator, Paul went back to his desk. The office erupted in gossip and speculation: Everyone assumed Sandy had committed some kind of financial fraud, and they hurried back to their computers to clean up their accounts. Paul decided to take the afternoon off.