Page 28 of The Picasso Heist
I turn to look. “He’s not a member?”
“Oh, he’s a member, all right. Mr. Fashion himself. Loves Chinese vases, huge collector. Obsessive, really. But I can’t remember the last time he showed up to bid on a painting. Then again, it’s not your average painting, is it?”
“I wouldn’t know,” I say.
“What do you mean?”
“I haven’t seen it. Like, up close. Someone was supposed to give me a tour of the vault but never did. Hint, hint.”
“You were supposed to have drinks with me first, as I recall.”
“You have it backward. First the vault, then the drink.”
“Drinks,plural.”
“That depends on how good the tour is,” I say.
I’m now officially flirting with Pierre. He’s fluent in French and English but this is the only language he truly understands.
“I assure you,” he says, “no woman has ever complained.”
“Are we still talking about your tour?”
“I don’t know—are we?”
I keep up the banter with Pierre, I’m looking at him and smiling, but my attention’s elsewhere. The moment’s coming. Any second now.Just keep smiling and wait for it, Halston.
Then I see him out of the corner of my eye. Terrance Willinghoff is heading back to us, but he’s looking only at Pierre. He’s walking as fast as he can without drawing attention to himself. His pink bow tie is crooked.
Terrance whispers when he arrives, “We have a situation.”
CHAPTER24
PIERRE HEADS OFFwith Terrance, leaving me alone. I’m now invisible.
I slip through the back exit, quietly go up the stairs, and find a spot next to a pillar where I can view the auction floor. If anyone turns around and looks up, I’m just the new girl watching and learning. But no one’s turning and looking. The works of art, the objects of their desire, hold their attention like superglue. All the action’s in front of them. That’s what they think.
From the moment Anton Nikolov told me in his limo parked outside MoMA that he wanted the dead man’s Picasso for himself, the calculus changed. Instead of trying to jack up the price, we’re now trying to limit it. We want to suppress the action, do whatever it takes to prevent a bidding war.
“Skip, can you hear me?”
My brother doesn’t respond. I casually reach up under my hair as if I’m scratching the back of my neck, but I’m actually tapping my earpiece for more volume. “Skip?” I whisper more loudly. Still nothing.Panic sets in. The only thing I can hear is my heart pounding faster and faster, about to explode through my chest. “Skip, are you there?Skip?”
“Gotcha,” he says finally.
I’m too relieved to curse him out. “Seriously?”
“It never gets old.”
“And if it ever gets funny, I’ll let you know,” I say. Okay, it’s a little funny, but I’m not about to admit it. “How’s my level?”
“You’re good, coming in clean,” he says. “How’s the room?”
“Over two hundred billion in net worth.”
“Big turnout, huh?”
“Huge,” I say.
