Page 14 of The Picasso Heist
We compromised and had lunch. Pierre flirted and I acted flattered. I also made a point of telling him how in love I was with my boyfriend, although I didn’t actually have one. That didn’t entirely stop Pierre from flirting, but he graciously accepted that he was never going to sleep with me and never made me feel pressured or uncomfortable, which probably explains why Echelon tolerates his behavior, even when he’s hitting on the home-team roster, so to speak. Pierre is a lot of things but he’s also a gentleman. He never crosses the line.
In return, as second in command under Terrance Willinghoff in the valuations department, Pierre provides Echelon with something well beyond his keen appraising skills. He gives Echelon access to the highest of high-end collectors as well as the latest gossip from Paris to Nice and all points in between. In short, he’s Echelon’s French Connection.
Which is how, the story goes, he was the first to learn of a certain never-before-seen Picasso that had been tucked away in a Frenchman’s attic for over fifty years. And any minute now, Pierre is going to be texting Terrance to tell him that he won’t be coming into the office until later today because he’s currently waiting on someone from ConEd to come and check his brownstone penthouse apartment for a gas leak. Pierre woke up this morning, and the smell was unmistakable, he’ll say. How my brother dragged that propane tank and hose up to the roof vent without being seen, I’ll never know. More important, no one else will ever know either.
“Hmm. He’s not in yet,” says Terrance when we arrive at Pierre’s empty office. Instinctively Terrance takes out his cell, checks hismessages. Sure enough, there’s the text. He even mutters the words out loud: “Gas leak?”
“Excuse me?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says. “Well, actually, it’s something. Pierre’s going to be out for the morning, an issue at home…”
Terrance’s voice trails off. He’s distracted, wondering if and how this affects him. Perfect.
“You look like you need to call him,” I say. The power of suggestion.
“I do,” he says. “He’s supposed to have lunch with a potential client visiting from Avignon.” He hesitates. “But I still have to show you your desk and get you situated.”
“Of course. Tell you what—while you go make the call, I’ll use the bathroom. I think I saw it earlier. Down the hall?”
“Yes, at the end of the hall on your left. Swing by my office afterward, okay?”
We both head down the corridor in separate directions, and Terrance never looks back. Why would he? If he did, though, he’d see me returning to Pierre’s office.
I’ve got about two minutes, tops, to find what I need. It’s a small key.
A key that unlocks everything.
CHAPTER13
“DON’T DROP MEoff in front,” I tell the driver. “Go past the house about a hundred yards.”
Make that two hundred yards. That’s how big Enzio Bergamo’s East Hampton estate is. It’s like that joke: By the time you’re finally done mowing the lawn, it’s time to mow the lawn again. The mansion, the oceanfront property it sits on—everything about this place is over the top. Just like the man himself.
Enzio Bergamo is known for two things. The first, in case you’ve been living under a rock for the past decade, is his fashion empire, Bergamo Fashion and Design, BFD for short. It became a household name around the world on the heels of its Bergy bag, a square-shaped purse that is now a must-have for the insecure wealthy who feel the need to announce publicly that they have fifty thousand dollars to spend on some sewn-together pieces of leather with a shoulder strap. After the Bergy bag came other BFD designs, including shoes, clothing, and accessories. It’s been an amazing Americansuccess story for the first-generation Italian, and Enzio Bergamo has embraced every penny of it. Or, rather, spent every penny of it.
Which brings us to the second thing Bergamo is known for: his lavish and outlandish parties. They’re epic, and they attract every boldface name from actors to athletes, rock stars to rocket scientists, a true cross section of the entire fame spectrum. Bergamo welcomes them all and basks in their limelight, ever the charming and charismatic host, with his wife, Deborah (pronounced “De-bore-ah”), alongside him.
Is there an actual guest list for this party? Maybe, although it’s not as if anyone’s walking around with a clipboard. But supposedly, someoneiswalking around. If you believe the tabloids, Enzio Bergamo employs a spotter, a man whose sole job is to roam the party and make sure every woman is wearing at least one thing with a BFD label. If she’s not, she’s asked to leave or, worse, brought before Bergamo for a public shaming.
Odds are I could crash this party by simply walking through the front door, but since I’m not wearing a stitch of BFD clothing, I need to make sure I’m not intercepted by the spotter—if there truly is such a thing—before I get close to Bergamo. Better safe than sorry, according to Anton Nikolov. I believe his exact words were “Don’t get your ass kicked out before you even get in.”
So, wearing my new black Bottega Veneta dress, courtesy of a Bulgarian mob boss, I walk around some tall hedges to the backyard, which faces the beach, and wait for the perfect moment to step out of the shadows and blend in as if I’ve been at the party for hours.
Once I’ve done that, I wait for the next perfect moment—when the ever-schmoozing Bergamo is between conversations and finally alone for a split second.
“So, is it true?” I step up behind him and ask.
He turns around. “Excuse me?”
“That you actually pay someone here at the party to make sure all the women are wearing at least one of your designs?”
Enzio Bergamo smiles. “Now, where would you ever get a silly idea like that?”
“I read it somewhere.”
“And do you believe everything you read?” he asks.
“Only the gossip pages,” I say.
