Page 69 of The Picasso Heist
He looks at me like I’m a dog chasing its tail. “I thought you were smart,” he says. “Do you want to end up like your father? Because I sure don’t.”
“My father’s in prison because he didn’t tell the truth when he had the chance.That’swhy he’s there, remember?”
“Yeah, all too well. But that was about money.”
“And this isn’t?” I ask.
“There’s a dead body this time. Money’s one thing, murder’s another.”
“What are you proposing?”
“We lie low,” he says. “Just like we were doing.”
“That’s because we were being followed. Or, rather, you were,” I say. “Everything’s changed now.”
“All the more reason to go about our lives as if nothing’s happened. Because that’s the least suspicious thing we can do.”
“But all of our planning, the work we put in… I know you’re covered on the Picasso with the insurance money, but—”
“After tonight, I don’t give two shits about those two vases,” he says. “And if we can get through this, consider your father’s debt paid.”
“I don’t know, though. It might be a big risk to go to the police, but not going might be even bigger.”
Bergamo stays silent. He knows I’m no longer talking to him. It’s just me and my conscience. He also knows that he’s already played his trump card: my father’s debt to him. It’s gone—poof—as long as I play this his way. That’s twenty-five million dollars.
Enzio Bergamo has my number.
CHAPTER60
THIS IS MEgoing about my life as if nothing happened.
I do everything as I normally would for the next couple of days. I even do the one thing I really don’t want to do but can’t avoid. I have lunch with Smarmy Waxman.
“May I start you off with something to drink?” asks our waiter at Le Chanteclair in Midtown, standing poised with pen and pad.
Smarmy lowers the wine list that he’s buried his face in for the past few minutes and smiles at me. I’m getting creepy-uncle vibes. “You know, we have a very strict rule at Echelon about consuming alcohol during the workday.” He leans forward and says, his voice dropping to a whisper, “But I won’t tell the boss if you won’t.”
He thinks he’s hilarious. It doesn’t help that ever since he became CEO, every Echelon employee has been laughing at his dumb jokes in the name of career advancement. I’m already a VP at twenty-two but my dignity has no problem playing along.
“That’s funny,” I say, laughing.
Smarmy orders a bottle of Brunello, which I assume is ridiculously expensive given the way our waiter genuflects before bringing over a decanter.
“I’m glad we could do this, Halston,” he says after we’re alone again.
“Me too,” I say, laughing for real on the inside. “Me too.”
I don’t expect him to get the joke. He’s not supposed to. The guy is leveraging his power and position in the hope of getting into my pants. It’s as if he were in a coma during the entire #MeToo movement.
Before I can even think of what to say next, we’re interrupted. But not by our waiter. Not by any waiter. It’s not even one person; it’s two. They’re dressed in ill-fitting, off-the-rack suits. One guy is standing slightly in front of the other, and he does all the talking. He makes no apology for interrupting.
“Are you Halston Graham?” he asks.
I look at him. I look at the two of them. They clearly don’t work for the restaurant. In that case—“That depends,” I say. “Who wants to know?”
I couldn’t have teed him up better. This is the moment that all FBI agents must absolutely relish—getting to whip out the badge and hold it up like a gin card.
“I’m Agent Bryant,” he says. He points to his partner. “And this is Agent Daniels.”
