I checked the address again to be sure, then made my way to the redbrick midsize building. There was a doorman, but only one. I asked for Alexis Verde, and when he said she was out, I made a show of checking my cell phone and said something about possibly getting the time wrong, then turned and headed down the block, a part of me relieved. I hadn’t planned what I would say if she’d been home. At the corner, I stopped and waited.
Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. A part of me wanted to run, but I had to see her, had to know who she was and why she had lied.
I started making a list in my head, why I loved her, or thought I did: her looks, her brains, her wit, her voice, her poise, her touch, the way she seemed to get me. Though it was possible everything had been a lie. The only thing I knew for sure was that I was in thrall to a woman I thought I had known but didn’t.
I paced one way, then the other, rehearsing what I’d say, but couldn’t concentrate, my emotions all over the place. I kept darting looks around the corner and down the block, hoping to see her, at the same time dreading it.
A half hour later, still trying out a variety of opening sentences, I spotted her coming down the street. I waited until she was a few feet away before I stepped out of the shadows.
“Luke—” She gasped my name, froze a minute, then maneuvered around me and practically ran toward her building, me beside her, talking the whole time.
“Why did you lie to me? I’m trying to understand… I thought… I don’t know what I thought… Talk to me, please… Explain this—”
“You’ve got to go!” she said, then dashed into her building.
“I’m not going away,” I called after her. “You owe me an explanation.”
The doorman blocked my path, a young Latin guy, name tag Edwin, chest and arms straining against his tight uniform. He laid a hand against my chest. “Don’t make me call the cops, sir.”
“Edwin.” I turned his name into a plea. “Have you ever been in love?”
He gave me a compassionate look, told me to go home and have a drink. Any other time, I’d have laughed at the irony. I shouted Alex’s name one more time, then turned to go. I was a few feet from the entrance when I heard her voice softly call my name.
We were side by side in the elevator, not speaking, then in her apartment. I tried to think of something to say but couldn’t. The apartment was not what I’d imagined either—large and airy but with old casement windows, a dining table with mismatched chairs, a slightly worn sofa, wooden floors in need of sanding—a stage set for two actors who had not learned their lines.
“Alex… Alexis… I don’t know what to call you.”
“This isn’t a good idea, Luke.”
“Which part? Me being here or all the lies you told?”
“What about you? What about your lies?”
“I was…trying to protect you.”
“From what?”
“I didn’t want you to get hurt.”
“I don’t understand…” she said, her face a diagram of confusion. “I was trying to protect you.”
“Protect me?”
“I never meant it to be like this. I didn’t think…” She closed her eyes, swallowed, tears on her cheeks, and I pulled her close, my lips on hers before she could protest, and she kissed me back, then pulled away, told me I had to go.
“Not until you tell me what’s going on. I’ll tell you anything you want to know about me, anything at all, if you will just tell me what’s going on.”
“It’s too late,” she said.
“For what?”
“For this. For us.” She turned away, light from the windows bleaching her face of color. “It was a job—to find out what you were doing—in Florence.”
I wasn’t sure I’d heard her correctly. A job? Had she been spying on me? But why? “Is this about Peruggia’s journal?”
She said yes so quietly I could barely hear her, clutched her by the shoulders, forced her to face me, asked why again, pleading, furious, my voice trembling.
“I can’t tell you,” she said, trying to pull out of my grip, but I wouldn’t let go.
“You can’t—or won’t?”
“It doesn’t matter. Not now. You have to forget this ever happened. Forget me.”
I wanted to shake her. “It’s not just about you and me, Alex. People died. Do you get that? I’d like to forget that, but I can’t. I’m going to find out whether you tell me or not. I have a list of names, art collectors who—”
Alex stopped struggling, her face close to mine, prickly with expectation and dread. “Art collectors? What do you mean?”
I told her about Smith’s list, the collectors of stolen art, and that I had started contacting them.
“You what? You have stop. Now!” Her voice pleading, a throb. “Listen to me, this journal—the people you’re dealing with—are dangerous, more dangerous than you can imagine.”
“And you’re working for them, these dangerous people?”
“I… It doesn’t matter anymore. Just stop.”
“It’s too late. I’ve already seen some of them.”
“Who? What are their names? Tell me their names.”
“Jonathan Teivel and Richard Baine. Those names mean anything to you?”
She took a quick breath. “No—” she said, the word bitten off.
“You’re still lying, aren’t you?”
She pulled out of my grip, opened her apartment door, her hand at my back. “Just go!” she said, her last words before she pressed me forward, shut the door, and turned the lock.
92
Down the street, half-hidden under the awning of a tall building, the Russian waits too. Having bought himself a topcoat of the softest wool, he feels like one of the many well-dressed New Yorkers he sees everywhere in the city. Never in his life has he spent so much money for an article of clothing, but the coat, purchased at a post-Christmas sale, was half-price and so soft he cannot stop petting it. “One hundred percent cashmere,” the salesman had said. The hat had been on sale too, a gray felt fedora to replace the old one, which was spotted with blood. “Mud stains,” he’d said. He bought a new pair of sunglasses too, metallic and reflective; he can see out, but no one could see in.
From behind the shades and under the brim of his new hat, he has been watching, has seen the American and the blond, the two of them going into the redbrick building.
He is getting close. He can feel it. His instincts are always good. Invaluable in his line of work, though he is tired. He needs a break: the beach, that pastel-colored hotel.
But first, he will find the man who tried to kill him and pay him back and, if possible, make him suffer.
93
Alex listened to Luke banging on the door and calling her name. Hands over her ears, she went into her bedroom, sat on the edge of the bed, and stared at the blur of sky outside the windows until he stopped.
She couldn’t believe it. He’d found her. What she had hoped for. What she had dreaded. She felt like sobbing, screaming, flailing about her room, but she sat still and silent, wondering what to do.
When she realized she had no choice, that he would find out no matter what, she reached for her cell phone and punched in the number.
“Alexis, dear,” the man said, “I have been waiting for your call.”
94
I held up two shirts, one blue, one white, not that it mattered. I couldn’t concentrate on anything since I’d left Alex, surely not what I should wear to see a Rembrandt print I hadn’t cared about in the first place.
I’d found her. Alexandra Green. Alexis Verde.
And she had been spying on me.
The idea of it, that this woman I could not stop thinking about, this woman I thought I loved, even now, was someone hired to watch me.
I chose the blue shirt for no reason, my mind only
on Alex—who she was and if she was still lying to me. Of course she was; I’d seen it on her face. But about what, exactly? And why hadn’t I recognized the lies before? Because I’d been dazzled by her, blinded. Maybe that was all it was, dazzle, not love.
My mind was spinning, looking for an answer, an explanation. I had to know. I wasn’t ready to give up or let her go.
I got dressed on autopilot, decided that after I saw the Rembrandt, I would go to her apartment, stand outside all day and all night if necessary. I didn’t care how long. I had to convince her to tell me everything, to trust me, even if I could not trust her.
95
Riverview Terrace was a row of six elegant townhouses on a cul-de-sac at the end of East Fifty-Ninth Street, a private drive that ran north from Sutton Square, fronted by a plush, rectangular garden, locked and gated, with spectacular views of the East River and that sculpture in the sky, the Queenboro Bridge—a part of the city I had never seen before. It looked out of another century, and undoubtedly it was. No din of traffic, no cars or buses whizzing by, just the lapping of water and an occasional foghorn.
The iron gate buzzed open, and Baine’s voice, hollow through the intercom, instructed me on how to find his house, describing an intricately carved wooden door.
I imagined a servant would answer, but it was Baine, looking a combination of elegant and relaxed in a navy sweater and slacks, Top-Siders on his feet.
I stepped into a foyer of dark wood and marble floors. “I had no idea this neighborhood even existed,” I said.
“You can pass it a dozen times and not even know it’s here,” Baine said. “It’s totally hidden from the world, which is why I like it.”
Who wouldn’t? I took in the wide curving staircase before me, the oak banister and richly carpeted stairs. “You have a beautiful place.”
“Thanks,” he said, leading me down a hallway lined with ornately painted pottery on pedestals.
“Greek?” I asked.
“You have a good eye. Mid-eighth century. Late Geometric.”
“So you do still collect.”
“Oh, I’ve had these for centuries. No pun intended.” Baine smiled. “Come. This way to the Rembrandt.”
He led me into a small study, more dark wood, upholstered chairs, a built-in bookcase, a rug the color of blood. “There,” he said, pointing to a heavily framed print set atop an antique desk and leaning against the wall. “Have a look while I get you a drink.” He turned to a bar cart with bottles of wine and liquors, crystal glasses in several shapes and sizes.
“You don’t hang it?” I asked, moving closer to the print.
“It’s been packed away. I brought it out for you.”
I told him he shouldn’t have bothered, and he said it was no bother at all.
“Wine?” he asked. “Or something more serious? I have a wonderful single-malt scotch.”
“Sounds great,” I said, “but I don’t drink.”
“You may want to change your mind.” Baine raised the bottle. “Macallan 25, aged twenty-five years. You sure?”
“I’d love to, but no thanks. Water will be fine.”
“A shame,” Baine said, pouring scotch for himself, Perrier for me. “Here’s to art,” he said, clinking his glass against mine, then lifted a large bone-handled magnifying glass from the desk, handed it to me, and told me to check out the details.
I moved the glass over the print, the same as I had done with the Mona Lisa, with an eerie feeling of déjà vu. There were figures hidden in the trees and clouds, astonishing and beautiful. I told him it was so much better in person, as if I knew the piece.
“That’s true of everything, isn’t it? Nowadays, people think they know something because they can see it on a computer screen, but that’s no way to see art or the artist’s hand, the texture, the paint… Forgive me, I go on.”
I told him I liked hearing someone who was passionate about art. “I think some of my students prefer seeing a facsimile on their laptop. It’s easier and more convenient—no crowds, no noise.”
“I’d have to agree about the crowds and noise. I’ve stopped going to museums. I dislike peering over shoulders, hearing everyone’s opinion. That’s no way to appreciate art,” he said, just beside me, both of us studying the Rembrandt. “This print is only one of three that exist in the world today, though I didn’t know that when I bought it. I just admired all the work Rembrandt had put into it.” He faced me. “So tell me about this article of yours.”
I started to explain a theory about Rembrandt’s way of working—something I’d lifted off the internet—when there was the soft thud of a door closing.
“My wife,” Baine said and excused himself.
I continued to look at the print but was distracted by voices. I could make out two, Baine’s and a woman’s, their conversation muffled by distance, thick walls, and carpet. It went on for five minutes, then ten. After another five, I’d had enough and ventured into the hallway.
Their voices were still indistinct but louder here, and I could tell they were arguing.
“Leave him out of this,” the woman said.
“Sorry,” Baine said, “but I can’t do that.”
I didn’t want to be in the middle of a marital spat, but something in their voices drew me forward. I took a few more steps down the hall and heard the woman say “Please.” It was just one word, but the imploring way she said it was enough to send a chill through my body.
96
She looked up as I came into the room, lips parted in midsentence. “Oh my God—” Then she blinked slowly as if to make sure what she was seeing was real.
I was trying to take it in too, the unreality of the moment, the room blurring behind the two central characters. A minute to collect my thoughts, to find my voice. “Is this the guy you’ve been working for?”
“You don’t understand,” Alex said. “You think you do, but you don’t.”
“Well,” said Baine, “now that we’ve got that out of the way, let’s adjourn to a less comfortable setting.” He opened a desk drawer and withdrew a small pistol.
Through a buzzing in my ears, I heard fragments of what he said: Ed Brown Compact…no kickback…fits the hand…under $3,000.
He aimed the gun at me.
“Let’s get down to business, shall we? I need your help with something.”
I was still trying to locate my feelings, everything in high relief, Baine’s gun, Alex’s face, my mind a kaleidoscope of half thoughts and images—torn journal pages, Brother Francesco on a stretcher, dead booksellers. Could Richard Baine possibly be responsible for all that?
“Please,” Alex said.
“Stop whimpering,” Baine said. “It’s beneath you, embarrassing.”
“Go to hell!” she said.
“Alex,” I said. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“You will get your answers when I get mine.” Baine planted the pistol against my back, urging both Alex and me forward.
“You’re insane,” Alex said to him.
“Please. No need for name calling, my dear.” Baine led us into the hallway, then down a staircase. At the bottom, into an office, telling me where to find the key, how to push the bookcase out of the way and open the vault. When it was open, he ordered us inside and flipped a switch. The room flooded with light. Alex beside me, the two of us gasping in unison. I looked from one artwork to the next, then two Mona Lisa paintings, one hanging on the wall, another just beneath it.
“Jesus,” Alex said. “I never—”
“No, you never,” Baine said. “These are for my eyes only.”
It only took a second for me to see the initials in the Mona Lisa resting on the floor, a Chaudron forgery for sure.
“All of them stolen?” I asked.
“Not all,” Baine said. “Some bartered, others paid for more dearly than
you can imagine.”
“Oh, I can imagine,” I said, thinking again of Brother Francesco, Quattrocchi, and the booksellers. “Tell me, does all this make you happy?”
“You have no idea how happy,” Baine said, a malevolent smile spreading across his face.
“You have a very good eye,” I said. Keep him talking and wait for the right moment.
“True,” he said. “But enough small talk. I need to know: the two Mona Lisas, which is the original?”
“If I knew the answer to that question,” I said, “I’d be a rich man.”
“But you do know. You have the pages from Peruggia’s journal, the ones that contain Chaudron’s secret.”
“No,” I said. “You’re wrong. Those pages were torn out, but not by me. If you had me watched, you know that.”
“Stop—lying!” Baine spit the words, his gun trained on me.
“Shoot,” I said, “but you won’t get your answer if you do.”
“I’m waiting,” he said, eyes narrowed, the gun aimed at my heart.
“Killing me won’t make any difference,” I said, trying to gauge the moment. Could I tackle him without killing myself?
Baine shifted the gun. “How about I kill her instead? Will that make a difference?”
“Don’t tell him anything,” Alex said. “He won’t do it.”
“Let’s see how much he cares for you,” Baine said. “Think of it as a test: he loves me, he loves me not.”
“You’re sick,” Alex said.
“I’m not the one who slept with him,” Baine said, “for money.”
“Shut up!” she shouted, then quietly to me, “It wasn’t like that—”
“So what was it?” I asked her, as if we were alone.
“You don’t understand, Luke. I—”
“Please,” Baine said, “enough daytime drama.” He rolled the gun in a small arc from Alex’s head to her heart. “He loves me, he loves me not. Which is it, Luke? I’m running out of patience.”
The Last Mona Lisa Page 28
