Page 13 of The Picasso Heist
That’s not the answer I was expecting. “I thought that was done before my internship.”
“It was, but we’ve since had to update the parameters, as it were.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“It means last fall we hired an auctioneer whose sister, it turns out, was being investigated for financial fraud. Suffice it to say, that didn’t go over too well internally. So now we take a peek at family members.”
“A peek?”
“Nothing that isn’t out there in public records. Still, your signature on this page here,” she says, sliding another piece of paper in front of me, “acknowledges that you’re aware we’re doing it and have no objections.”
Shit.
“Oh,” I say. But it’s the way I say it. Uncomfortably. It’s pure reflex; I can’t help it. For the first time, I’ve gone off script.
“You don’t have a problem with that, do you?” asks Jacinda.
CHAPTER11
“WELCOME, HALSTON!”
With just two words, Terrance Willinghoff immediately has me off balance. This is not the Terrance I know. This is someone else. This guy is effervescent, exuberant, buoyant—adjectives that I can safely say have never been used in reference to Terrance Willinghoff once in all the years since he was born, which was most likely in some cold, dank hospital on the outskirts of London. The word to describe me now issuspicious.
This nice-and-welcoming Terrance is far worse than asshole Terrance. People acting like you expect them to is rarely unsettling. It’s only when people play against type that the alarm bells sound. Has he truly bought into Jacinda’s mandate that the valuations department needs some young blood, a person who isn’t eligible for AARP membership? It’s possible. It’s also possible that he’s merely playing mind games, that this is a ruse designed to do exactly what it’sdoing, which is make me wonder what the hell is happening. If that’s the case, well… what an asshole.
“Thank you so much,” I say. “I’m really excited to be working here, Mr. Willinghoff.”
“Please, call me Terrance. We’re all on a first-name basis here. We’re like a family.”
Maybe it’s the British accent combined with the Cheshire-cat smile, but never have the wordsWe’re like a familysounded more ominous. My only angle at this point is to play along. Better yet, play it up.
“Thanks so much, Terrance. You know, that’s exactly how Jacinda described this department,” I say. “A real tight-knit unit, like a family.”
“Brilliant,” he says, giving nothing away. There’s not even a hint of a flinch at my mentioning Jacinda. “So let me introduce you to some of your, shall we say, siblings?”
He laughs. I laugh. And the Oscar for Best Duo Faking It goes to Terrance Willinghoff and yours truly.
We leave Terrance’s office and he ushers me down the hall and through the subterranean space of Echelon’s valuations department. It’s technically the basement but to call it that would be like calling the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel “a decorative mural.” The House of Echelon was, once upon a time, the home of John D. Rockefeller— one of many, I’m sure—and his “basement,” all that remains of the original structure, was perhaps the very first man cave, an epic lounge-meets-speakeasy space with a Tiffany glass bar and an actual vault where Rockefeller supposedly stored everything from fine wines to gold bullion.
Nowadays that same vault is where Echelon locks up its art prior to auction, which explains the valuations department’s proximity to it. They need access to the vault more than other departments do. Simple as that.
As for how it’s accessed, that’s more complicated. Only certain employees can set foot in the vault, and only after swiping their security cards and having their thumbprints scanned. Throw in an iris scan and some voice-recognition software, and we’d be on the set of the next movie in the Mission: Impossible franchise.
Suffice it to say, I’ll probably never be given access to the vault.
So I’ll just have to take it.
CHAPTER12
TERRANCE WALKS BRISKLY.It’s hard for me to keep up. “And finally, let me introduce you to Pierre. He hopefully should be in by now,” he says before lifting his hand to the side of his mouth to whisper, mock conspiratorially, “You know the French, always setting their own pace.”
We’ve made the rounds of my new so-called family. If they’re my siblings, then I’m clearly the “whoops” child, the one Mommy and Daddy weren’t expecting. I’m the youngest, not by a few years but by decades.
“Actually, I met Pierre last summer during my internship,” I say.
Terrance grins. “Of course you did.” This is a less than subtle reference to Pierre Dejarnette’s other stereotypical French attribute: He is a lover of wine and women (and it’s only the wine that he likes aged). He is handsome and charming, can quote Victor Hugo and Charles Baudelaire, and is equally comfortable discussing the impact of realism in art during the Age of Enlightenment and his beloved Paris Saint-Germain football club.
“That’s soccer to you Americans,” he said to me at Echelon’s rooftop Fourth of July cocktail party last summer not long after introducing himself. He also said he wanted to take me to dinner. Never mind that I was less than half his age.
