Sacrifice

by Alexandrea Weis

  The elevator doors closed and we began our way to the top. “Must be convenient to live above your gallery,” I commented.

  “I have homes above all of my galleries.” He smiled as he nudged my shoulder gently with his. “And I get a needed tax break from living and working out of the same building.”

  I grinned at him. “I’m sure the IRS just hates you.”

  The elevator doors opened to reveal a spacious apartment complete with a wall of windows that looked out over the Mississippi River. The original warehouse brick walls had been left bare, but new hardwood floors had been installed, adding a contemporary feel to the residence. Above, track lighting hung from old wooden beams, highlighting selected paintings of New Orleans landmarks that had been placed on the walls. To the right was an open kitchen with black and white tile counter tops and stainless steel appliances. To the left was a living room filled with soft Italian leather furniture and a complex entertainment center with two wide screen televisions. Thick wooden stairs, with shiny iron railings, stood directly in front of me and led upward to an open master bedroom. To the far right of the apartment, a wide door had been painted to match the color of the surrounding brick wall. I found myself staring at the odd door, trying to figure out why it was in such an unusual spot.

  “The ‘emergency exit’,” Greg explained behind me. “Left over from when the place was a working warehouse and required by the city’s fire marshal.” He took my purse and placed it on one of the nearby leather chairs.

  “Nice bachelor pad,” I said unable to hide my smug grin.

  The man looked close to fifty but still insisted on living like he was twenty. It made me wonder why women were expected to mature as they got older, but the same standard never seemed to apply to men.

  Greg laughed beside me. “I guess one would think that, but in actuality it’s designed more for function rather than for appearances.” He glanced up to the second floor “I have a second bedroom off to the right of the master upstairs. My son stays there when he comes to visit.”

  I turned to him. “Your son?”

  He nodded. “His name is Joshua. He’s ten and lives with his mother in Atlanta. I get to see him several times a year when he comes to stay with me. He loves dinosaurs and baseball. Can’t decide if he wants to be a second baseman or a paleontologist when he grows up. He’s smart, funny, talented, and the best thing that has ever happened to me,” he avowed with a real glint of joy in his dark eyes.

  “You sound like a very proud father.” I gave Greg a once over with my eyes. “Were you married?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

  “I’ve never been married,” he replied as he ushered me deeper into the apartment. “Joshua’s mother used to work at my New York gallery. We had an affair and she got pregnant,” he continued as he walked over to the kitchen. “I’ve always wanted children, I just never wanted a wife,” he added as he motioned to a silver tray sitting on the kitchen counter. On the tray were two empty crystal flutes.

  He went to his refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of La Grande Dame Champagne.

  “I had one of my assistants run out and get this for us,” he reported as he showed me the bottle.

  I nodded approvingly. “I’m glad your assistant went to so much trouble.” I walked over to a built in breakfast bar, dividing the kitchen from the rest of the apartment, and took a seat on a shiny iron stool.

  Greg expertly opened the champagne with a kitchen towel.

  The aroma of Cajun spices filled the air. “Smells wonderful. What are we having?” I inquired.

  He filled the two glasses before him with the golden liquid. “I had the chef at Antoine’s whip us up a delightful meal of Oyster Foch, Trout Pontchartrain, and beef tenderloins in a hollandaise sauce.” He put the bottle down, picked up both flutes of champagne from the silver tray, and handed one to me. “To us,” he said as he tipped his glass against mine.

  I took a sip from my flute. The cool, gold liquid felt like velvet as it slowly made its way down my throat. “Very good,” I stated.

  He looked from his glass to me. “You’re right. It is better than Dom.” He placed his flute of champagne down on the counter. “What other secrets do you wish to share with me, Nicci?”

  I put my glass of champagne down next to his and delicately ran my fingers up and down the fine crystal. “I have lots of secrets, but doesn’t every woman.” I leaned in closer to him. “What about your secrets? Surely a man of your influence must have numerous secrets to protect?”

  Greg smiled at me. “There is something I wish to share with you; a very important secret. Something only David Alexander’s Jenny could truly appreciate.” He extended his hand to me. “What I want to show you is right over there,” he said as he nodded toward a far corner of the room.

  He led me across the expansive floor to a small door located off to the side. He removed a key chain from his pocket laden with a few different sized keys. He selected a square, gold key and placed it in the lock above the door handle. The door snapped open. As he stepped inside, a flood of bright fluorescent light filled the small room.

  The storage room was covered from floor to ceiling with built-in shelves. Every shelf was filled with a variety of vases, urns, clay tablets, and what appeared to be pottery and sculpture fragments. Placed along the far wall were three easels, standing one next to the other, and covered with one long white sheet.

  “My most prized treasures I keep up here in my private storage room. I collect antiquities mostly, but over the past couple of years I have started to delve into fine paintings. More specifically, David Alexander’s paintings.”

  “Why David’s paintings? I know there are other artists whose paintings are much more valuable than David’s.”

  “The first time I saw one of David’s Jennys was at an art gallery in New York and it floored me. I was awed by his use of light and distortion to highlight your beauty and not detract from it.” He shrugged slightly. “But after he was killed, the few Jennys he had painted were very difficult to acquire.”

  He took my hand and guided me toward the easels. He grabbed the white sheet covering all three easels and quickly yanked it away.

  I heard my breath catch in my throat as I gazed at the paintings before me. The Jennys were definitely David’s and done in his unique style. In one, Jenny was standing on a porch, looking out over a beautiful sunset. The evening sun had captured her beauty against the magnificence of the red and gold sky. In another, she was sitting in the morning light of a French Quarter courtyard sipping from a blue coffee mug. And in the last, she was laughing with a man, his back painted slightly off to the side, but I recognized the individual’s wavy, brown hair.

  Greg was almost beaming with pride. “Imagine the reaction when I present these lost works to the art world. I will do for art, what Howard Carter did for Egyptology. Finding an undiscovered masterpiece in this business gains you so much recognition. I will be the envy of every art gallery owner from here to Los Angeles.”

  “Where did you get these?” I asked as I examined his dark eyes for the slightest hint of deception.

  He waved my question away with his hand. “How I acquired them does not matter.”

  “But these are not David’s,” I asserted, knowing that was not what he wanted to hear.

  He laughed at me, looking thoroughly amused. “Of course there David’s!” he shouted happily. “No one could capture you in such a way. Look at his use of light, the bold colors, and the way he makes the picture look blurred as if capturing a second in time. These are all his signature trademarks. They’re lost works. I can’t honestly believe that you don’t recognize any of these portraits?”

  “I know all of David’s work,” I replied as I waved at the paintings. “I was with him when he painted some of his best portraits and these were not among them.”

  Greg’s face fell. His dark eyes looked over at the paintings and then back to me. “And what would it take to convince you these three portra
its are legitimate David Alexander’s?” He asked in a harsh tone.

  “Greg I just told you—”

  “How much Nicci?” he snapped, cutting me off. “How much to get you to go acknowledge that these works are genuine? Name your price.”

  I stopped for a moment and thought about what he was offering. If I backed the paintings as genuine then no one would ever question him. But if I spoke out against them, his reputation would be destroyed and his credibility in the art world would disappear. And that was a blow I was sure Greg Caston would never be able to overcome. I finally saw what Simon had planned for him.

  Fighting to keep the flurry of emotions from my face, I turned to Greg. “I’m intrigued. But you do realize it will take a great deal to make me want to accept these as genuine David Alexander’s.”

  He nodded his head firmly. “I know that.”

  I looked back at the paintings. “Can I think about your offer?” I asked.

  “Of course.” He waved me out of the room.

  Once we had stepped out of the storage room, Greg securely locked the door and placed his keys back in his tuxedo jacket. He took my elbow and escorted me to the dining room table.

  “I have to admit I find your initial refusal to accept my Jennys as authentic a bit confusing,” he stated as we walked up to the long mahogany table.

  “Why?” I asked as I inspected the sterling silver chaffing dishes, Baccarat Crystal, and Royal Dalton China before me.

  “Because I have had more than one expert go over each of those pieces and they have deemed them credible.” He pulled a bottle of wine wrapped in a white linen napkin from a silver ice bucket set on the table. “But yours is the authenticity I need. If you say they are legitimate, then no one will doubt they are anything but genuine.” He stepped over to my side and filled my wine glass.

  I smiled at Greg. “I see your point. And you would be willing to pay my price. No matter how steep it might be?”

  “If you give me what I need, Nicci, you will find me to be a very generous man. I will do whatever it takes for me to be able to reveal this fabulous find to the world.” Greg walked around the table and filled his own wine glass. He returned the bottle to the ice bucket and then raised his glass to me. “To my Jennys,” he softly said.

  I raised my glass to him.

  Greg glanced down at his expensive wine goblet and his face grew somber. “Nicci, I’ve just entrusted you with a very precious secret. Don’t even think of betraying me,” he warned in a grave tone.

  I fought to keep the saccharin smile on my face. “Your secret is safe with me, Greg.”

  He waved his hand over the table and his countenance lifted. “Now let’s enjoy this wonderful meal and have no more talk of business. For the rest of our time together I want to hear only about your life with the remarkable David Alexander. Tell me how you became his Jenny and don’t leave out the slightest detail. Start at the beginning. How did you two meet?”

  As we dined on our lavish late night dinner, and drank his expensive chardonnay, I reminisced about my time with David. And Greg Caston listened attentively to every last detail.

  ***

  When I arrived at Val’s front door. Greg stood patiently by as I fiddled with my keys, making sure I made extra noise to alert Dallas of my return. Once I had opened the door, I turned to Greg.

  “Thank you for this evening,” I said with a smile.

  Greg glanced from me to the door and realized he was not being invited inside.

  He nodded at me as a disappointed frown tugged at his lips. “I look forward to seeing you again.” He leaned in closer to me. “Perhaps you will allow me to paint you one day,” he whispered.

  I looked into his dark eyes. “I did not know you were an artist.”

  “I only paint when I am inspired. And you inspire me, Nicci. Like no other woman I have ever known.”

  I leaned back from him. “But you must know you don’t stand a chance with me, Greg. My heart belongs to another.” I laughed playfully. “Are you a masochist Gregory Caston or just a fool?”

  His eyes filled with an intense heat. “Oh, I’m no fool, Nicci. I want to find out more about you. What makes you tick?”

  “I’m a woman, Greg, not a timepiece.” I made an attempt to step inside the door, but his arm came up and bared my way across the threshold.

  “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  I took in a breath and tried to read his face. Unfortunately, it has been my experience that sincerity is never revealed by the eyes but by the deeds.

  He lowered his arm. “I will be expecting your answer about our little business arrangement in the next few days.” He took out a card from his tuxedo jacket pocket and handed it to me. “My private cell number is on the back. Don’t take too long to make up your mind, Nicci. The sooner we reach an arrangement, the happier we both will be. Good night,” he said as he leaned toward me.

  “Good night,” I responded and then hurried inside the door.

  I quietly shut the door behind me and drove the dead bolt home. I had not even moved from the entrance when I felt a man’s hand grab my arm.

  “I’m glad you didn’t let that fool kiss you good night,” Dallas’s deep voice rang in my ears.

  I turned to face him. “Were you watching us?” I questioned.

  He let go of my arm. “Damned right I was. I expected you over an hour ago.”

  I frowned at him. “He showed me David’s paintings. There were three of them. I told him I knew they were all forgeries because I had never seen David paint them during our time together.”

  “What did he think of that little revelation?”

  “He seemed surprised to hear it. He told me he had more than one expert go over the paintings and they were deemed to be credible.”

  He smirked. “That’s because they are, but he can’t know that. What does he want?”

  “He wants me to endorse the paintings as genuine. He seems to think no one will question my approval. He offered to buy my silence. Anything I want.”

  “What did you say?”

  I held up the white card Greg had given me. “I told him I would think about it. I’m supposed to call him in the next few days with my decision.” I placed the card in my purse.

  “That does not give us much time.” Dallas raised his dark brows to me. “You do realize that we have been given a golden opportunity, don’t you?”

  “For what?”

  “Exposing Simon.” He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “But you’re adding in a lot of variables here, Nicci.”

  “Uncontrollable variables?” I questioned, using a term he had once used to describe my unpredictable nature.

  “Very funny.” Dallas took my arm and led me deeper into the living room. “Check your cell phone.” He nodded to the table next to the front door where I had left my phone. “Your father called three times while you were gone to remind you of your appointment with Dr. Appell in the morning.”

  I sighed as I let my shoulders sag. “I can’t deal with my father right now.” I looked over at him. “And I can’t believe Sammy Fallon showed up at the party.”

  Dallas laughed. “What did she say to you?”

  I threw my purse on a nearby chair. “She wanted an apology for my behavior at Val’s party last year. She was shocked you and I suspected her of being involved in David’s murder. Fortunately, Greg sent her on her way before we started throwing punches.”

  “We can’t have you trying to dodge people like Sammy Fallon every time he takes you out. We need to move this job along as quickly as we can.” Dallas paused. “Perhaps the time has come for you to set Caston against Simon,” he suggested.

  “Me? Why me?”

  “Because you can tell him that your price for going along with the forgeries is getting rid of Simon. If Caston does not go for it, then tell him Simon is using these new David Alexander paintings to trap him.”

  I raised my eyebrows at him “So I expose Simon to Greg instea
d of David doing it?”

  He nodded. “You tell him Simon forced you to do it. Once he knows Simon is out to get him…”

  “You think that will make Greg want to go after Simon?” I inquired, trying to read his thoughts. “I mean I know he hates Simon, but will that be enough to push him over the edge.”

  Dallas shrugged. “From what I know about Caston, probably. And that way we can make sure David never has to appear. We’ve got to try and keep David’s resurrection a secret for as long as we can. We don’t need the added headache of trying to explain where he has been for the past three years to anyone.” Dallas moved back to the entrance of the living room. “In the meantime, I suggest that you pack up a few things. In case you and David need to quickly disappear.”

  “What do you mean me and David? What about you?”

  “I’ll be fine. You don’t need to worry about me.” He took a breath and shook his head. “Look, no matter what happens, you and David will probably have to get out of the city until everything calms down. If David’s existence were discovered, Simon’s organization would be exposed. And then a lot of innocent people associated with that organization could be hurt or even killed.”

  I felt my heart sink. “So David has to stay dead?”

  “David Alexander does, but not Dan Goldvarg.” Dallas paused as the lights from a passing car danced in the front street window. “He knows that, Nicci, and he’s prepared to live his life as someone else.” Dallas turned to me. “Are you willing to accept that fact?” he inquired.

  “Do I have a choice?”

  The weight of the unfolding events was beginning to make my body feel like a heavy anchor at the bottom of a vast dark ocean.

  “I’m juggling so many dangerous secrets. I don’t know how much more I can take before everything comes falling down around me.” I paused and glanced over at Dallas. “Was it like this for you when you worked for Simon?” I asked, wondering about his life as a purveyor of secrets.

  He shrugged. “Sometimes. The position that we are in now is much more difficult because we have to deal with Simon La Roy and Greg Caston.”