Page 63 of The Picasso Heist
“So you say.”
“So I know.”
“How can you be sure?” he asks.
“Because I’m not the one they’re following.” I look around the apartment. Very swanky in all directions. “Do you have any water?”
“Wait.What?”
“Water,” I say, pretending I didn’t just drop a verbal grenade. “You know, to drink? Where’s your kitchen?”
He’s turning beet red, and I’m enjoying every moment of it. “What do you mean, you’re not the one they’re following?” he asks.
“I mean it’s you. You’re the one they’re following.”
“So you know who they are?”
“Nope.”
“Then how do you know I’m the one they’re following?”
“Because I’ve been following them,” I say.
He laughs. He thinks I’m joking. I stare at him, straight-faced. “Hold on,” he says. “You’re actually serious?”
“Yes,” I say. “Now, for real, can I get a water? Is the kitchen this way?”
I start walking down a hall off the foyer.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake. It’s the other way,” he says.
I follow him into the kitchen, where I practically have to shield my eyes from the glare. The appliances, the counters, and the cabinets are all stainless steel. He grabs a bottle of Evian from the Sub-Zero, hastily hands it to me.
“Do you have anything else?” I ask. “Evian has a bit of an after-taste.”
He blinks. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. How about anything sparkling?”
Bergamo wants to scream, I can tell. He’s keeping his cool only because he’s desperate for me to keep talking. The Evian quickly gets switched for a bottle of San Pellegrino. “Okay,” he says. “Now talk.”
“There isn’t much to tell beyond the headline. You’re the target,”I say, twisting off the cap of the Pellegrino. I take a sip. “It’s funny. People who are following people never seem to look over their own shoulders.”
“I’ve barely traveled anywhere in the past two days,” he says.
“You traveled enough. Also, what’s with the security team?” I ask.
“What about them?”
“They look likeGQmodels. Where’d you find them?”
“It was the best I could do at the last minute,” he says. “They worked on Harry Styles’s tour.”
“Great. If you’re attacked by a mob of teenage girls, you’ll be safe.”
“You think this is funny?”
“No, you’re right,” I say. “Sorry, I tend to crack jokes when I’m worried.”
