by Alex Dolan
In the satchel she’d brought with her, she kept a crowbar and a spring baton in case she needed to smash anything. Doors or people. She hoped she wouldn’t have to use them.
The steel door reminded her of the rear entrance to the Fern Gallery. She tried several keys before she felt the top bolt slide and the tumblers fall into place. Even though she was fairly certain no one was home, she opened it gingerly, just wide enough to get inside. She walked in through a kitchen the size of the bedroom in Brooklyn Heights, with black-and-white mosaic tiling and granite counters that had been swabbed until they shone. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out across other rooftops along the Upper East Side, and she caught a glimpse of the Central Park tree canopy between the buildings.
She listened for sound and heard nothing.
She looked around for alarm systems and didn’t find any.
Paire left the door open, in case she had to run through it on the way out. After passing through the kitchen, she entered a long corridor. Kasson had a railroad-style flat, where the central hallway served as a spine, leading to various rooms. A narrow Persian runner covered a beige wall-to-wall carpet, running from the kitchen down to another set of windows on the other side of the building. A half dozen doors, all shut, stood in between. Paire followed the sunlight.
The carpet muffled her feet, but she still crept slowly, in case her foot landed on a squeak spot. All down the corridor, Kasson had hung pieces of art. One of Derek Rosewood’s laughers hung between the doors, and she couldn’t remember if this was one of the pieces taken from the Fern.
The hallway led out to a grand living area, possibly half the footprint of the entire flat. Like the kitchen, the windows stretched floor to ceiling, overlooking Park Avenue. At the center of those windows, a set of French doors could open onto a shallow balcony lined with balustrades, not deep enough to sit a table and chairs, but enough to step out and admire the view. A marble fireplace adorned the center of the wall, opposite a burgundy leather sofa and two wing chairs. Above the fireplace Kasson had hung a vintage oil painting of a mounted hunting party, the dogs going wild for a pheasant they had scared out of the brush.
The room was so cluttered with knickknacks Paire needed a moment to take them all in, almost forgetting that she was trying to get out as soon as possible. Kasson had filled the room with art and collectibles: an Italian mantel clock, a Napoleon III gold leaf console, a child’s colonial American rocking chair. A stylistic mishmash. More things for Kasson to collect. Here a black lacquer chinoiserie Louis XVI commode with bronze d’ore mounts, there a Victorian fainting sofa, none of the items with so much as a scratch in the wood or an ass-print on the cushions. The inlaid bookshelves, traditionally reserved for books, were cluttered with all sorts of trinkets, from a small jade Buddha to a handheld football video game from the 1980s. An autographed baseball from what appeared to be the entire 2000 Yankees. Hummel figurines of a nativity scene.
She almost missed it, but a corner of wood grain peeked out from behind a worn pirate trunk. Chinese red birch. Paire noted the artist’s chop on the back, otherwise she might have overlooked the bright wood grain camouflaged among the artifacts. She had expected to find it on audacious display over the mantel, or in a bedroom, where she’d planned to hang it. But since Qi’s last surviving work was a source of shame to the Kasson family, it made sense for them to hide it. She was just relieved he hadn’t destroyed it.
Her heart raced to be so close to it again.
The frame had been removed, so the side of the wooden board had been stripped of ornamentation. She lightly placed her fingertips along the edge of the wood and turned it around. She leaned it against the wall, stepped back to admire it and check that it hadn’t been forged. She was no expert, but she’d been snorting distance from the tempera enough to recognize the texture of the brushstrokes. This was the real deal.
Producing a large white plastic bag from her pocket, Paire sheathed the birch panel.
On the way out, she briskly stepped sideways like a fiddler crab, maneuvering the portrait awkwardly back to the kitchen. She moved with less caution. Her feet fell more heavily on the carpet. And she made more noise. The floor creaked.
And when it creaked, one of the doors opened—only an inch, but Paire froze. She heard the knob squeak as it turned. Pure chemical panic. She held her breath, afraid to look behind her to see who might be in the doorway.
Paire thought about running. She could easily make it to the kitchen. The back entrance was twenty feet away. But in her moment of fight-flight-or-freeze decision making, she remained rigid on the infinite Persian runner. Resting the painting on the floor, tipped against the wall, she reached inside her satchel and found the spring baton. A snap of the wrist and it sprang to from seven to sixteen inches, telescoping down to a weighted tip designed to fracture bone.
With some will, Paire turned to face whatever was in the door crack. She couldn’t see much. But it was a person. The hallway was dark, and the light behind the door silhouetted a figure—a man, she guessed by the height. Not Abel Kasson. She couldn’t make out features, other than one dull eye hogging the gap, but she knew it wasn’t the banker. The eye looked at her, glanced at the baton and the white plastic wrap around the empress. Then back at the baton.
The door slowly closed, more quietly than it had opened.
For a moment or two the corridor was silent. Then Paire remembered to breathe. She gathered up the painting again in a wide embrace and retreated to the back door, closing it just as delicately. As fast as she could, she ran down the steps and burst out of the building’s service exit, avoiding the doorman completely.
• • •
Twelve hours later, Paire emerged from the Fifty-Ninth Street Columbus Circle station to the heavily trafficked rotary at the southwest corner of Central Park. She carried a bulkier duffel, her arms spread wide to tote the large panel wrapped in plastic. To fit in, she wore a hoodie and sweats from the John Jay College of Criminal Justice, located just a few blocks away. If a cop stopped her, maybe he’d be less suspicious. Because the school specialized in everything from correctional studies to forensic psychology, the school mascot was a bloodhound. Specifically, a bloodhound with a deerstalker hat.
Across the street, the curved façade of the Time Warner Center rose up from its spacious lobby to the two towers that housed the Mandarin Oriental. The bottom four stories were occupied by a glossy retail mall, with floors too smooth to run on in new shoes. By this time of night almost all the lights were out, and the rows of shops had all pulled down their theft-deterrent gratings. Gigantic ornamental orbs dangled from the lobby ceiling, each of them her height. The red, white, and blue accent lights hinted that Independence Day was coming up.
A young man in a matching bloodhound sweatsuit met her on the sidewalk, outside the lobby doors. They nodded to each other without stopping for hugs or handshakes, and she shadowed him as he walked down Broadway and rounded the corner.
“You shaved,” she said. This was the first time she’d seen Lazaro without facial hair.
He rubbed his bare chin. “I was happy to be rid of that thing. And that shower felt like an orgasm.”
“Everything go all right?” she asked.
“Fine. Dropped off the cab, cleaned it, and swapped out the plates.” He nodded to the plastic-wrapped birch board. “I see everything went smoothly on your end. Anyone see you?”
She lied. “No.”
“No dogs or anything?”
“Just in and out.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” he joked.
She smiled. “Can I ask you something and have you promise not to get offended?”
“Sure.”
“Do you do this because you’re an artist, or because you’re a criminal?”
She wanted a serious answer, but he just laughed softly. “We’re going to be right around the corner.”
They came to a service entrance around the rear of the building. He knocked shave-and-a-haircut
on the door and they waited.
“When does Rosewood get back?” Lazaro asked.
“I don’t know. I don’t even know where he went this time,” she said. Her body gave a slight spasm that someone might mistake for chills.
“He’s like that.”
The door was opened by a bulky man with curly red hair whom Paire had never seen before. Because of the hair color, she wondered if he and Charlie were related. He wore a security guard uniform.
Lazaro asked Paire, “You have it all?”
She dug out a roll of cash as thick as a scone, and handed it to the guard.
“I’m blind for fifteen minutes,” he said. “Can you work with that?”
“Yes.”
“After that I have to call the police. That’ll be bad for both of us.”
“I understand.”
Lazaro shook the man’s hand. “I’ll leave you to it,” he said, and left them both.
Paire lingered for a moment as he walked away from them, wanting to thank him but remembering that all of these stunts had gotten her into this trouble in the first place.
The guard extended a hand. “Joyce.”
She didn’t know if that was a first or last name, but didn’t ask.
Because of his jowls and the beard, at a quick glance he had the look of someone who might carry extra weight around his middle, but he was lean. An old scar ran through an eyebrow, and the tip of a vine tattoo peeked out from underneath his uniform collar. “Get inside,” he said.
They hustled down a service corridor lit sporadically with yellow bulbs. Toting the birch board between them, Joyce carried the front half as he led at a brisk pace. They entered a service elevator, open and waiting for them, and he pressed the top button. “You realize right now I’m in the men’s room with digestive troubles.”
The doors closed and the cables lifted them.
“Cameras?” she said.
“The video files will be deleted.” He checked his watch. “I disabled them right before I opened the door. They’ll be down for a few minutes, but the power outage will trigger an alarm and a backup system will come up in about ten minutes. That’s also when the police will be coming. Work quick.”
The elevator doors opened to scaffolding that looked down over the eighty-five-foot atrium. Between the metal grates, she could see straight to the floor. Joyce sped up, and they hastened across the catwalk to the window, a wall of glass that looked out onto Columbus Circle, down Central Park South and into the lush treetops. If she were high enough, she might be able to see Kasson’s building on the other side of the park. Even at this hour, a few people were coming out of the subway stop, and two yellow taxis spun around the rotary.
When they reached the window, Paire unzipped her duffels and unwrapped the plastic. Gazing down through the grating, she became acutely aware of how high she was, possibly as high as Gilda’s backyard cliff in Abenaki. Previously, this height might have terrified her, but after weeks of rock climbing she performed without hesitation. At a Derek Rosewood pace.
Behind her, Joyce cooed as he took in the empress for the first time. Even under the pressure of his own limited time, he couldn’t help but dawdle for an extended glance.
Paire had reframed the birch board in a simple ebony, and screwed sets of twin eye hooks into the top and bottom. She retrieved two fifty-foot coils of hanging wire, and a small bolt of ruby-red fabric, as close as possible to the hue of the empress’s cheongsam.
She speedily wrapped one end of the hanging wire through the eye hooks at the top of the painting, twisting the ends the way one closes a bread bag. She latched two clips on the red fabric to the eye hooks at the bottom of the frame. Then she and Joyce quickly lowered the painting down from the scaffolding, unwinding the wire yard by yard. Down into the abyss they lowered the portrait. The red sash unrolled and hung from the birch board like Superman’s cape.
Joyce asked, “How do we know it’s not crooked?”
“Like this.” Paire dialed her cell phone, steadying the wire in her other hand. Out by the statue of Columbus, the tiny figure of a man in a hoodie sweatshirt stood out in the rotunda. Lazaro was still out there, hoodie and all. He picked up his phone and muttered into Paire’s ear.
She repeated to Joyce, “A little up on the right.” They made adjustments. “No, your right.” She let some wire go gently through her fingers until he said, “That’s it. We’re good.”
After disconnecting, she tied off the wire to the scaffolding, wrapping each end around itself like a caduceus.
“We’re good?” Joyce asked.
“Let’s go.”
She tucked everything back in the duffel and they raced back to the elevator and rode it back down to the ground level. When the doors opened, Joyce slowed down. “You know how to get back to the exit, right?”
She nodded.
“So there’s the other thing we have to do now.”
She didn’t understand, but the unexpectedness of the statement made her nerves hum.
Joyce tapped the crown of his head with two fingers. “About here.”
Lazaro hadn’t explained this part to Paire.
Joyce said, “You got to hit me.”
“I’ve got to get out.”
“I’m a security guard here. You don’t hit me, they’re going to find a way to blame me.” He pulled out two white strips of plastic and tossed them on the ground. “When you’re done, zip tie my wrists behind my back so they find me like that.”
“Will you lose your job?”
He laughed. “I was going to lose my job anyway. You knew that, didn’t you?”
“Why did you do this?”
“Because it seems like it’s worth it. Now hit me. You don’t have any time.” He turned to face away from her. “Do it from behind. That way I don’t have to give a fake description of some other perp. I never saw you. You crept up on me from behind.”
“I don’t want to do this.”
“You’ve paid for it. Get it done.”
Back in Abenaki, Katie Novis had tried to fight bullies, but she was too petite to do serious damage. Then again, Katie Novis didn’t carry a telescoping spring baton. She found it in her duffel and snapped it open. Her hand shook.
“I don’t think I can.”
“You must have someone you hate bad enough. Pretend I’m them.”
Paire took his advice and imagined a host of people she would have wanted to club in the head. A stream of faces flickered through her mind like spinning numbers on a roulette wheel. Surprisingly, instead of her mother or father, school bullies, or even Derek Rosewood, she landed on Abel Kasson. She took a deep breath, and as she mustered the strength to swing, Joyce interrupted. “One thing. Don’t kill me.” He looked over his shoulder and they smiled at each other. “Come on.”
The spring baton came down against the side of his head near the top, around where he had tapped his fingers. Although he was a foot taller than Paire and possibly a hundred pounds heavier, his shoulders dropped and his knees buckled. Joyce dropped to the floor, flumping along the right side of his body. Flecks of blood sprayed over her clothes. Paire gulped in shock. She remembered Nicola Franconi, and checked that Joyce was still breathing before she tied his hands and ran out the exit.
Chapter 18
By morning, every major national news outlet covered the scene. This time, it was front page news.
According to the media, the security guard, who was not named in the piece, was knocked out from behind and then left tied up on the floor while a person—or persons—broke into the Time Warner Center. Other than a mild concussion, he had received no injuries. The spectacle was so visual in nature, the morning shows even ran it. CNN rotated footage every hour. The painting had been stolen from a local gallery during a theft that had left two people dead. Presumed missing, the painting had turned up in one of the most visible locations in Manhattan. The photos that circulated around the web caught the striking image of the piece. Taken from one of th
e mall balconies, the empress dangled halfway to the floor, with New York as its backdrop. The sash that draped a red tail from the bottom of the portrait bore an embroidered message on both sides, so that it would be readable from the front and the back. The message was a dare for discovery:
WHO AM I?
• • •
Within a few days, the story gained even more momentum. Paire followed it casually.
A few reporters had called Brooklyn Heights and left messages for Rosewood. While not a suspect in the Fern Gallery shootings, he was still exhibiting at the gallery when everything happened. Now that he had announced his retirement from the art world at thirty-two years old, he was someone reporters wanted to talk to. Paire unplugged the phone.
Most articles pieced together a chronicle of the forgotten artist who called himself Qi. They quoted Melinda Qi in a number of pieces, and she helped fill in the blanks to connect her father with Gabriel Kasson.
Melinda discussed how the vast inventory of her father’s work had been purchased by the Kasson family. She hinted that his works might be hidden among the crated stacks at the MAAC. She even allowed the media to reprint the contract signed by her father and Gabriel Kasson, which helped fuel the story. The press loved a villain.
So far, Abel Kasson hadn’t made himself available for comment.
Rumors speculated that Melinda herself had orchestrated the stunt at Columbus Circle, which would have connected her to the shootings at the gallery. Her response had been quoted in an article in the Wall Street Journal: “You’d probably want to look at someone with greater resources and more free time.”
