Gritting my teeth, I tap the number.
“Cole!” Alix Key says, answering on the first ring. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I’m about to add to your workload,” I say, purposely keeping my voice light.
“We like to hear that from all our clients.”
“I want to run an auction. Three paintings—a Rothko, a Cezanne, and a Kahlo.” I’ve thought about this a lot. The Van Gogh would bring almost as much money as the other three combined, but the freeport’s curators probably have a lot of experience with the Dutch painter’s work. The three I’ve chosen are prominent enough to get hefty bids from Tarasov’s men, but they’re somewhat more obscure.
“I’m listening,” Alix says, interest quickening in her voice. Alix Key has two gifts every auctioneer needs—a true passion for her subject and the impeccable ability to read a crowd. I was the winning bidder at the first auction she ever ran, buying the Monet that hangs in the carriage house across the street.
“The works will be in my gallery today.”
“What’s the catch?” Her voice is light with good humor, but she’s worked at the freeport for long enough to know there’s always a catch.
“I want them sold next Monday.”
“You’re kidding.”
I don’t bother responding. Instead, I let my silence give her time to plot the impossible.
“Three days,” she finally says. “We won’t get any institutional buyers—there’s no way any museum can move that quickly. And private parties aren’t likely to bid up the price as high.”
“I understand. I have a handful of buyers who say they’re interested. They’d end up new customers for the freeport.”
“We always appreciate referrals from satisfied clients.” Alix sounds distracted as she delivers the standard line. I realize why when she follows up with: “We won’t have time to work through any tricky provenance issues.”
“My paperwork is up-to-date. There were no open issues when I took possession.”
“If you can spread out the timing even a little… Let me take the Cezanne next Monday—it will bring top dollar. Give me another week to round up an audience for the Kahlo. We can get to the Rothko before month-end.”
“I need them all on Monday.”
Her hesitation is almost imperceptible. I probably wouldn’t notice it if my ears weren’t trained by years of Shannon’s cons. “Fine then. Monday. Five o’clock?” she asks.
I don’t want to give Tarasov any more time than I have to. This entire plan goes to hell if he talks to his obshchak or goes to his pakhan. But I’m asking Alix to pull off a miracle. I have to be a tiny bit reasonable. “Five is fine,” I say.
“Have you thought about the reserve?” she asks.
I have. I need money, and I need it soon. I name a reserve price that is half what it should be for art of this caliber. If, that is, the art was real.
Alix sounds troubled. “I’d love to have my experts review similar auctions over the past few years. I think you might be setting yourself up for sales below fair market value.”
“I can live with that.”
I’m treated to another micro-pause. “You’ll give us access for a curatorial review and photos?”
“Of course,” I say. “The paintings are in transit now. They should arrive this evening, around five.”
Alix doesn’t answer immediately. I know she’s calculating the phone calls she’s about to make, the curators’ weekends she’s going to ruin, the marketing specialists who will be called in for heroic duty. “I’ll wait for them myself,” she says.
“You know where to reach me, if you run into any trouble.”
“There won’t be any trouble,” she says.
I know that’s not true. There will be plenty of trouble down the line. But I plan to keep Alix and Diamond Freeport clear of it.
As I end the call, I glance back at the bedroom monitor. Kate has finally awakened. She’s sitting on our bed, bare legs dangling. Her head is buried in her hands, hair streaming toward the floor, as if she’s doing battle against the world’s worst hangover.
