Page 25 of The Picasso Heist
There’s a moment when you know you’ve gotten to someone. It starts with the body language—a hesitation, a pause. It’s as if you can see your words sinking in, a new perspective being formed. It’s almost always followed by some utterance along the lines of…
“Jesus Christ,” says Jacinda. “That’s horrible.”
That’s when you have to pounce. “What if I told you my father wasn’t guilty?” I ask.
Of course, Jacinda’s no sucker. She plants a hand firmly on her hip. “He was convicted, Halston.”
“He was set up.”
“I’m sure you want to believe that.”
“I can prove it.”
“If you actually could, he wouldn’t be in jail, would he?”
“He won’t be,” I say.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Give me maybe a month. If he’s not out of jail by then, you won’t have to fire me—I’ll quit.”
“What, are you planning some big prison break at midnight?”
“No, what I’m telling you is that he’ll be released. He’ll walk out the front door in broad daylight, a free man.”
“Do you know how crazy you sound right now?” she asks.
“A month, Jacinda,” I say. “Just give me a month.”
CHAPTER22
WOLFGANG DOESN’T LIKEsurprises. What forger would? As he told me when I hired him, “My world is expectation and duplication. Lather, rinse, repeat.”
Those words quickly come back to me the second he opens his door and angrily points a paintbrush at Enzio Bergamo. “Who the hell is this?” he asks.
Bergamo’s more amused than insulted. “Really, kid? You don’t know who I am?” He peeks into Wolfgang’s windowless basement studio. “You really need to get out more.”
I make the formal introductions and apologize to Wolfgang for not giving him a heads-up. Then I roll my eyes at Bergamo as I walk into the studio. “Not everyone readsVogueand Page Six of thePost,” I say.
This gets a chuckle from both Blaggy and Anton Nikolov, who are bringing up the rear of our cozy foursome on this field trip to inspect our fake Picasso. It’s just another Wednesday night in Manhattan.Me, a Bulgarian crime boss, his right-hand man, and a famous fashion designer, albeit one who’s not quite as famous as he thinks he is.
But it’s not Bergamo’s humility we need. It’s his commitment. And I can tell that Nikolov has his doubts.
Yes, we have the recording of Bergamo making a pass at me at his party. It should be more than enough to keep him in check, especially since Bergamo has no prenup with his wife, Deborah. Excuse me, De-bore-ah. When the two of them married, Bergamo’s fledgling fashion company was a household name in only one house—his own.
Still, Nikolov knows Bergamo. Although he’s the one who roped him in, he’s still wary. Nothing’s a done deal until it’s a done deal.
“Okay, so where is this masterpiece?” asks Bergamo.
So much for any small talk. Wolfgang walks us back to the far wall of his studio. The place is a mess. I don’t know if Wolfgang truly needs to get out more but he for damn sure needs a maid.
“Here it is,” he says, pointing with his paintbrush.
“What’s with the glass box?” asks Bergamo.
“Or maybe ‘Wow, that looks incredible, and I could never tell the difference between this one and the real one,’” I say. “Maybe start with that?”
“‘Wow, that looks incredible, and I could never tell the difference between this one and the real one,’” Bergamo parrots back. “Now, what’s with the glass box?”
