I expect to find Kate on a bench outside the door, or maybe standing by the car like a kid late for school, but she’s nowhere in sight. I shove down my ripple of concern. I need to keep all my attention on Tarasov.
He can’t be armed; the security desk saw to that. In fact, he stays on his best behavior as we check in at the front desk of the building that houses our galleries. He stands back as I work thebiometric locks on my space. He keeps his hands where I can see them as he passes over my threshold.
Nilsson has done the job I demanded. The Picasso is on an easel, in front of a black velvet curtain that hides all my other holdings.
“May I?” Tarasov asks, nodding toward the masterpiece.
“It’s yours now.”
He studies the painting from head-on, and then from either side. He takes a jeweler’s loupe from his pocket and bends close to inspect the signature. He taps one finger against the simple wooden frame.
“This conveys?” he asks.
“Sure.” I won’t start a turf war over a goddamn frame.
He holds out his hand. “It’s a pleasure doing business with you.”
I’ll watch him terrify my wife. I’ll give him my Picasso. But there’s no way in hell I’ll shake his fucking hand. “Go on, then,” I say, nodding to the painting. “I need to get ready for the auction.”
He hasn’t brought anything to protect the canvas. He doesn’t know the first thing about owning fine art. He’s taking the Picasso because he has the upper hand, because Nutmeg thought she could con him, because Kate slipped up and let him in my house. He’s a bully and a thief, and I close the door on him so quickly I almost catch the heel of his shoe.
Alone in my gallery, I bow my head and take three steadying breaths. Tarasov won that round. Now it’s time to turn the tables.
Back in the office building, Alix is waiting in the large conference room. All three of the works I’m selling are displayed on high-quality easels that place them at the perfect angle for the pinpoint spotlights set in the ceiling. Immaculately bound copies of a quickly prepared catalog are stacked on a table, ready forbidders to review. Someone has placed copies of my legitimate provenance for each painting into a binder. A fully stocked bar waits in the corner, so winners can celebrate and losers can ease their pain.
I’m not surprised that Alix noted the auction is unusual. All sorts of details are off—the timing, the audience, the mix of paintings, and more. I knew she’d have concerns.
Part of running a successful con is maintaining the appearance of control at all costs. I’ve done everything I can to remind her that I’m one of the freeport’s oldest clients. That I was the winning bidder at her first auction, overpaying for the Monet. That she owes me a personal debt.
That’s why I drove the Mercedes today. I need her remembering I bought that car here at the freeport. I made dangerous evidence disappear when she was at her most vulnerable.
And if she has to look the other way at any point in today’s proceedings, well, that’s the cost of doing business.
Trap Prince comes in as bidders start to arrive. “Wolf,” he says, eyeing my black suit like he once saw something like it in a museum.
I nod a greeting, but I don’t try to shake his hand.
“You kept my staff awfully busy this past weekend,” he says.
“I’m sorry for the rush.”
“Alix was worried your time constraints will affect your bottom line.”
“I appreciate the concern.”
He looks at me, long and steady, a boxer sizing up an opponent across the ring. “You know I can’t afford to play motherfucking favorites around here.”
I don’t blink. “I wouldn’t expect you to.”
He finally shrugs. “Let’s see which of these cocksuckers has money to burn.”
In the end, the auction is anticlimactic. I don’t know any of the bidders—bratva or other freeport clients. Alix does her job with cool professionalism. She pushes bidding on the Kahlo most of all—Mexican art is enjoying a revival, and Frida always has a dedicated fanbase. The Rothko does better than I think it will. The Cezanne comes in at twenty mill less than I paid for the one in my guest room.
All told, I clear one hundred thirty-seven, after I pay the seller’s commission. The Russians get all three paintings, but one of Tarasov’s thugs had to bid an extra twenty mill to get Frida away from a Cayman banker.
It’s over.
It’s done.
