Page 56 of The Picasso Heist
“To be honest, I had a similar thought. Or, actually, I was worried others might think it. You know, because—”
“Because the painting got destroyed? Nonsense.” He gets up from the couch and sits on the edge of the coffee table directly in front of me. “That’s how the sheep think, and you’re no sheep, Halston. That’s why you’re moving upstairs to the top floor. That’s where the shepherds are. You are a shepherd, aren’t you?”
He stares at me and I realize it’s not a rhetorical question.Okay, sure, I’ll play along.“I’m definitely not a sheep,” I say.
“That’s right, you’re not. Even I didn’t run after the thief, and I’m supposed to be the king shepherd around here.” He places a hand on my knee. Above my knee, actually. He’s almost in thigh territory. “So how ’bout it, Halston? Will you help keep me in line?”
Just like that, I go from being promoted to being hit on, and in the office of the head of human resources, no less. I’m not sure exactly what’s happening, but I do know one thing.
Smarmy Waxman has just made it impossible for me to leave Echelon.
CHAPTER50
I TELL BERGAMOto pick me up that night in the cheapest car he owns, something inconspicuous. He and his driver show up in a four-door Porsche Cayenne Turbo GT.
“Really?” I say, climbing into the back seat. “The cheapest car you own is a Porsche Turbo?”
At least he got the time and location right—midnight and nowhere near my apartment. The address I gave him is a parking lot on the Lower East Side near the Houston Street entrance to FDR Drive.
Bergamo thinks I’m being silly with the cloak-and-dagger arrangements. There’s a fine line between prudent and paranoid, he tells me, and paranoid never looks good on a woman.
He ain’t seen nothing yet.
“No driver,” I say.
“What? What do you mean?”
“You heard me,” I say. “This trip can only be the two of us.”
“Halston, you haven’t even told me where we’re going,” he says.
“You’ll see.” I lean forward and tap his driver on the shoulder. “No hard feelings, okay? There’s a diner across the street. We won’t be more than an hour.”
Bergamo’s driver doesn’t work for me. He waits on his boss to tell him what to do, his eyes fixed on the rearview mirror.
“Apologies, Nico,” says Bergamo. “Grab some coffee. We’ll be back.”
Nico steps out and I go around and take his place behind the wheel. Bergamo doesn’t budge from the back seat. It figures.
I might be driving, but I’m not about to be his driver. “Get in the front, Enzio,” I say.
“Christ, you’re bossy.” He takes his time walking around the car and plops himself in the shotgun seat with a sigh. “You do have your driver’s license, don’t you?”
I answer by gunning the gas and peeling away from the lot. I think Bergamo curses my name but the screeching tires drown him out.
Porsche. There is no substitute.
After a few blocks I still haven’t told Bergamo where we’re heading, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it out.
“Chinatown,” he says. “We’re going to Chinatown?”
“Yes.”
“Are we eating?”
“No,” I say. “Gambling.”
Minutes later, I turn onto Mott Street, then go down an alley that gets only garbage and delivery trucks for traffic. When the sun’s up, at least.
