“Good evening. May I help you?” the receptionist cooed from her lair. Though Mara had visited Beazley’s more times than she could count, the receptionist always behaved as though it were her first time.
“Yes, my name’s Mara Coyne. I’ve an appointment to collect some items from Michael Roarke’s office.”
“Certainly. Let me just ring his assistant.”
An interminable pause followed, and a river of sweat poured down Mara’s back. She was never so thankful to be wearing black.
“Ms. Coyne, Mr. Roarke’s assistant doesn’t have you listed as an appointment in his calendar, and she says that he’s traveling outside the country at the moment.” The receptionist held her hand over the phone’s mouthpiece.
Mara prayed her voice would not quiver. “Oh, I’m aware of that,” she answered in as haughty a tone as she could muster. “Michael actually left a box of documents for me to look through in his absence.” She hoped that her use of the informal “Michael” would smooth the way.
“I see.” The receptionist sounded skeptical. “Let me just check with Ms. McCordle.” Another endless wait, with indecipherable whispering.
Gesturing to the elevators, the receptionist granted Mara a begrudging leave to enter. “Please go right up. Ms. McCordle will meet you at the elevator bank and escort you to Mr. Roarke’s office.”
Mara stopped a moment at Larry’s desk for their routine exchange. His eyes twinkled. “Can I give a pretty girl a lift?”
“Sir, it would be my pleasure.” Mara curtsied.
Mara maintained her composure and kept a lighthearted banter going with Larry on the ride up, but when the elevator doors opened onto Hannah’s mirthless face, her fragile confidence faltered. Larry gave Mara a grandfatherly pat on the shoulder and handed her over.
Mara launched into her rehearsed speech, ignoring the shakiness of her voice. “Hannah, I’m sorry I’ve arrived unannounced. I just assumed Michael would’ve told you that I’d be over to look through the documents he left for me.”
“Please, Ms. Coyne, it’s no trouble at all. I just wanted to be sure you knew that Mr. Roarke wasn’t here, that he’d be out for several days traveling in Paris. Of course, if he left some documents to look through, I’ll lead you directly to his office.” She was as unflappable as always.
With her key, Hannah opened Michael’s office. “Shall I get you a cup of tea to sip on while you work?”
“How thoughtful of you. That’d be wonderful, Hannah. Thank you.” As Hannah closed the door behind her, Mara unsealed the box she had asked Michael to leave for her when she called him in the evening after talking with Sophia and planning this exploratory visit to his office. She didn’t mention she would be reviewing it right there in his office, but at least there was a box for her. As soon as the box was open and the papers spread out, Mara began scanning the wall that displayed Michael’s sketches of Saint Peter, a study on a single subject, a muscular man draped in timeless robes with the outline of a key in his hand. The sketches had never drawn her in before; although exquisite, they were minute and monochromatic, not designed to lure the viewer. Even now, she was not inclined to admire the skill of their design, just what they were hiding.
Moments later, Hannah knocked. Mara, deep in the soft suede of Michael’s couch, signaled for her to enter. As Hannah set up the tea tray, resplendent with a vase of roses and some miniature, exquisitely crafted cookies, she apologized. “Ms. Coyne, I have to leave within the half hour. Had I known you would be here, I would’ve made other arrangements. Will you be all right? Do you need anything further from me?”
Mara couldn’t believe her luck. She had thought she would have to search under Hannah’s watchful eye. To be allowed free rein of Michael’s office was more than Mara had dreamed.
Mara contained her euphoria. “Thank you so much, Hannah. I’ll be fine. I just need a bit of time to review these documents, then I’ll be off. Do you need me to lock up or anything before I go?”
“Actually, if I could leave Mr. Roarke’s keys with you to lock his door behind you, that would make me feel much more comfortable. I’d hate to think that his sketches would be accessible all evening.”
Mara cast another, furtive look at the sketches. Regaining her composure, she said, “I’d be happy to. Will you show me how?”
Hannah instructed Mara on the wiles of Beazley’s archaic lock system, then entrusted the keys to her possession. Hannah requested that Mara return the keys to their carefully hidden spot, a false drawer beneath her desk. Then she left Mara alone.
Mara spent the next half hour pretending to look busy, poring through meaningless documents, arranging them in equally useless piles, pushing from her mind the admonitory words her father would surely utter if he knew what she was up to. She eyed the sketches on the wall, knowing in her gut that somewhere, somehow they hid the treasure trove. She willed her heart to stop racing and the sweat to stop pouring in time to wish Hannah a respectable farewell.
Once Hannah left at 5:30, Mara thought it wise to wait an additional half hour to let the rest of the office depart, but the clock’s hands dragged around its face. At 6:04 precisely, Mara made her rounds. Key tucked in her hand, she left Michael’s office, closing but not shutting his door. She meandered, as if she were deep in thought, to the ladies’ room, which was typically Beazley’s: decorated with glowing pink cherubs and the most ornately bedecked chaise longues that Mara had ever seen.
Office by office, assistant’s station by assistant’s station, Mara checked to make sure that everyone was gone. Like clockwork, the employees all had vanished.
She hurried back to Michael’s office. This time, she tightened the door behind her and dashed over to the five sketches. The four smallest sketches were arranged in a square, surrounding the largest like a frame. Mara feared that one of Beazley’s famed security systems might protect the sketches, so she lowered the first of the four small sketches from its wall mounting very slowly. No alarm sounded—at least, none that she could hear. There was nothing behind the sketch but wallpaper. Mara breathed a sigh full of both relief and disappointment. Not sure exactly what she was looking for, she patted down the back of the sketch before she replaced it on the wall. It was clear to the touch that the framing was not hiding anything. Mara followed this same protocol for each of the four small sketches and found nothing.
Just as she sized up the fifth, larger central sketch, the door flung open. Mara squealed.
It was Larry. “Hey there, doll, sorry to scare you. What’re you still doing here?”
“Larry, it’s me who’s sorry. For screaming like that.”
“Don’t worry, Miss Coyne. I was just doing my usual rounds when I heard some noises in here and, knowing that Mr. Roarke is away and all, had to pop in and check.”
“My apologies. Should I have called down to security to let you know I’m still here working?”
“No, no. You’re fine. You going to go home anytime soon, though? Shouldn’t you be letting some nice young man take you out to dinner?”
“Larry, you’re sweet. I do have dinner plans later, with one of my girlfriends. But I have something I have to finish up here first.”
“You young lawyers. All work, no play these days. Well, I‘ll let you get to it. Give me a holler if you need anything.”
“Thanks so much, Larry. I’ll do that.”
He closed the door behind himself. Mara sank into the couch, breathing as if she’d just run a marathon. She was unsure if she had the courage to go through with her search, so she looked for fortification from the e-mails in her briefcase.
After waiting a suitable amount of time, Mara made the sign of the cross and offered a silent prayer of intercession to Nana. Then she carefully lifted the fifth sketch off its hook. This time, instead of wallpaper, she found a safe built into the wall.
Now what should she do? Safecracking skills were hardly part of the typical law school curriculum. This one looked pretty straightforward, like those s
he had seen in movies, so she tried out a few combinations. Michael’s birthday, her birthday, the date of Beazley’s founding, but nothing happened.
Mara scoured the room looking for clues. She rummaged through Michael’s drawers, his shelves, and his in-box. They yielded no secrets and only confirmed Michael’s meticulous organization. His calendar proved more promising. She made a list of his family members’ birthdays, including the date of a memorial service for Michael’s uncle Edward—the one referred to by Philip—and tried them out on the safe. Still nothing happened.
Frustrated, Mara sat in Michael’s chair and scrutinized the sketches from the vantage point of his desk. Maybe the code related to Saint Peter rather than something personal to Michael. She grabbed art history reference books off the shelves and recorded Saint Peter’s celebrated dates to test them out. The safe refused to budge.
Stymied, Mara peered again at the sketches. Suddenly, she remembered a late-night conversation she and Michael once had about their Catholic upbringing with its attendant study of saints’ lives and recalled that Michael’s favorite was indeed Saint Peter, because he had formed the foundation upon which the Church was built. It triggered a memory from all the nights spent studying saints’ lives with her grandmother: the biblical quote commonly associated with Saint Peter’s keys and the formation of the Church. She grabbed an antique Bible off Michael’s shelf and began poring through it. There it was: “You are Peter, and upon this Rock I will build my church, and the gates of the netherworld shall not prevail against it. I will give you the keys of the kingdom of Heaven. Whatever you bind on earth shall be bound in Heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in Heaven.” Matthew, 16:18–19.
She tried the numbers. Saint Peter had it “under lock and key” after all.
Mara reached into the safe, hands shaking. She slid out two large, unsealed manila envelopes. The first contained the will of Michael’s uncle Edward Roarke—his great-uncle, as it turned out. The will named Michael as the sole beneficiary of Edward’s rather substantial estate. It looked like traditional investments, the apartment in which Michael lived, and an impressive art collection, of which the sketches formed a part.
Mara examined the second envelope; it was directed to Michael, with Edward Roarke as the return addressee. It held a stack of aged documents, curling and frayed at the edges. The very first yellowed page looked almost identical to the copy of The Chrysalis purchase document Lillian had given her, even the same handwritten “September 20, 1944,” in the upper right-hand corner. But one critical line was different: The name of the individual who had sold The Chrysalis to Beazley’s was listed not as Albert Boettcher & Company but as Kurt Strasser.
Who was Kurt Strasser? Mara didn’t recall his name from either her research or her sessions with Lillian. Whoever he was, his name instilled such fear, such worry, that someone—Michael, his great-uncle Edward, or Philip—wanted to eliminate it from the provenance. Perhaps keeping Strasser secret was an unspoken pact Michael had made with Edward in exchange for the inheritance. But why?
Mara continued to look through the yellowed pages as she thought, and there was more. It appeared that The Chrysalis was hardly alone. In 1943 and 1944, Kurt Strasser sold twenty-four paintings to Beazley’s. Whatever the nature of the deception Mara had fallen victim to, it appeared that Beazley’s had purchased and sold many paintings somehow tainted by Kurt Strasser’s ownership—and that Michael was using Mara to cover it up.
twenty-one
NEW YORK CITY, PRESENT DAY
THE FRIENDS SAT IN SILENCE WITH A SECOND BOTTLE OF chardonnay between them. Sophia, known for her abstinence, joined Mara this time and chugged glass after glass. The evidence of their immoderation upset the equilibrium of Sophia’s stark, nearly sterile apartment, where, unlike Mara’s, even the concealed places were subject to merciless order. Tonight, however, Sophia ignored the empty bottle, crumpled napkins, and bowls of half-eaten pasta. Both women were focused on the purloined documents spread out before them.
Sophia shook her head. “Oh my God, I still can’t believe you took these. This is not what we talked about, Mara. We specifically agreed that you’d go in there and look around—nothing more. What if you’d gotten caught?” The wine turned Sophia’s wrath into mere terror. Just an hour before, she had raged at Mara for taking the documents from Michael’s office. But Mara had known from the start that the strict, ambitious Sophia would never sanction the risk.
“Sophia, we’ve been through this before. I had no choice. Without these papers, I can’t begin to understand what scheme Michael’s involved in to hide this Strasser information and why he used me. I couldn’t leave the documents there—I’d lose whatever leverage I have in Michael’s game.” Even saying the words aloud made Mara furious again, at the injury done to her pride and the damage done to the Baums and others like them.
“But, Mara, what are you going to do when Michael finds out you’ve stolen the papers from his safe? It’s only a matter of time.”
“I’ll replace them before he discovers they’re gone, I hope. He won’t be back from Europe for a few days. In the meantime, I need them to investigate what he’s really up to—and why he felt the need to use me like some kind of insurance policy.” Mara wondered what had happened to the righteousness Sophia had felt on Mara’s behalf on Sunday evening; it seemed to have disappeared. To be sure, it had been preceded by her anger over “the stupidity” of Mara’s relationship with Michael, but Sophia had softened and even helped Mara plan her search of Michael’s office. When Mara arrived unannounced at Sophia’s apartment earlier in the evening, loot in hand, she harbored no illusions that Sophia would condone the extent of her search, but she was astonished that the damning documents did not make her friend more supportive.
“What do you mean by ‘investigate’ what Michael’s up to?” Sophia asked, her tone sharp.
“I have to learn who Kurt Strasser is, or was, so I can appreciate what Michael’s trying to hide. That means taking advantage of his absence and going back to Beazley’s library to do some research.”
“Mara, how do you know he doesn’t have a perfectly good reason for keeping these papers tucked away?”
“I don’t, and believe me, I hope he does. But I can’t leave it to his word.”
Sophia stood up, a little wobbly from the wine. She pleaded, “Mara, please forget about this nonsense. Return the documents before he notices they’re gone and put this behind you. Please focus on what’s important: yourself and your career.” Mara silently added the words Sophia did not utter, the plea to consider Sophia’s career, too; it was all too clear to her that Sophia was alarmed at how Mara’s actions might reflect on her as well.
“Fee, I can’t do that. I can’t pretend this hasn’t happened. Uncovering all this may be more important than winning the case and advancing my career.” Curious, Mara thought, how comfortable she felt now that she had a clear line of principles to follow, how at peace she was with stepping off the path she had followed for so long. It was a thorny mantle, but it fit much better than the cloak of success. Her father would rankle, but her grandmother would be proud.
Sophia stared at Mara as if she had grown unrecognizable. “Then, Mara, I can’t help you. I can’t watch you destroy all that you’ve worked for. You’re on your own.”
Sophia retired to her bedroom. Without intending to, Mara fell asleep on the couch, utterly spent. She awakened in a sweat, remembering restless dreams.
THE NEXT EVENING, MARA EXITED THE ELEVATOR AT BEAZLEY’S. She did not feel at all nervous. She sensed the adrenaline pumping through her veins, but its speed was almost a relief after the endless day of feigning composure at the office. She advanced down the first hallway, already darkened for the evening, but so familiar that she could see without the light. Turning left, she spotted the guards in the distance. Coming closer, she forced herself to smile.
“Hey, guys, how’re you doing tonight?” she greeted the men.
Th
e guards looked up from their steaming cups of coffee and deeply layered pizza, astonished to see her, surprised to see anyone after 6:00 P.M. Her favorite, the jolly Santa-faced one with the long white beard whose name she could never remember, replied, “We’re doing fine down here. What brings you to our neck of the woods so late at night?”
She attempted humor. “Late? You guys know that this isn’t late for lawyers—I wish it were. Nope, some court ordered me to gather up more information. Sorry about that.”
The jolly one retorted, “Nothin’ to be sorry about. We’re always glad to see your pretty face, Miss Coyne. We’re just sorry you have to spend your nights poking around through some dusty old papers.” She waited to see if they would let her in. “Come on, we’ll get you in there.”
Still chewing on a big bite of pizza, the other one—Tommy she thought his name was—hoisted himself out of his seat, wiped his greasy hand on his pants, and lumbered over to the door with the keys jingling in hand. Mara winced; Tommy was more of an adherent to the rules. She had been banking that Santa would unlock the door for her.
After he unbolted the door, she fluttered her eyelashes and asked, “Oh, I might need to have a few documents copied tonight. Would you mind unlocking the back door for me, too?” It was her entrée to the document room.
Tommy glanced back at his fellow guard. “You know, you’re supposed to have a research staff person with you to do that.”
“Oh, you’re right. Shoot. I’m sure they’re all gone by now.”
Santa yelled over. “What the hell, Tommy, we know her by now. Let her in. Don’t be a stickler.” Waves of guilt engulfed Mara. She hadn’t thought through the trouble these guys would get into if she were caught. But it was too late to go back.
She nodded at Santa. “Thanks.” Then, at Tommy, “Thanks to both of you. I really appreciate it.”
Mara trailed after the rotund guard into the library, trying her best to look nonchalant as he painstakingly opened the door to the document room. “We’ll be right out here if you need anything.”
The Chrysalis Page 13
