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56
Galerie Watson
The destruction of Masterpiece Art Ventures commenced the following morning at 10:45 a.m. London time—5:45 a.m. in New York—when Christopher Keller presented himself at Galerie Olivia Watson in King Street. The small placard in the window readby appointment only. Christopher hadn’t made one, wagering that a surprise attack would prove more successful. He pressed the call button and, wincing, awaited a response.
“Well, well,” breathed a sultry female voice. “Look what the cat left on my doorstep. If it isn’t my dear friend Mr. Bancroft.”
“It’s Marlowe, remember? Now open the door.”
“Sorry, but I’m all tied up at the moment.”
“Untie yourself and let me in.”
“Idolove it when you beg, darling. Hold on, I can’t quite seem to reach the button for the damn lock.”
Several additional seconds elapsed before the deadbolt thumped and the door yielded to Christopher’s touch. Inside, he found Olivia seated at a sleek black writing table in the gallery’s main exhibition room. She had arranged herself with care, as though posing for an invisible camera. As usual, her chin was turned slightly to the left, theright side of her face being the one that the photographers and advertisers had preferred. Christopher had never had a favorite. Olivia was a work of art, regardless of the vantage point.
Rising, she stepped from behind the table, crossed one ankle over the other, and placed a hand on her hip. She was clad in a fashionably cut jacket and matching slim-fitting trousers, suitably summer in color and weight.
“Marks and Spencer?” asked Christopher.
“It’s a little something that Giorgio threw together for me.” She lifted her chin a few degrees and stared at Christopher down the straight lines of her nose. “What brings you to my corner of the neighborhood?”
“A mutual friend needs a favor.”
“Which friend is that?”
“The one who cleaned up your dreadful past and allowed you to open a respectable gallery here in St. James’s.” Christopher paused. “A gallery filled with paintings that were purchased with your boyfriend’s drug money.”
“Our mutual friend performed a similar service for you, as I recall.” Olivia folded her arms. “Does your adorable American wife know what you used to do for a living?”
“My adorable American wife is none of your concern.”
“Is it true she used to work for the CIA?”
“Wherever did you hear a thing like that?”
“Neighborhood gossip. There’s also a nasty rumor going round that I’m involved in a flaming shag-fest with Simon Mendenhall.”
“I thought you were dating a pop star.”
“Colin is an actor,” said Olivia. “And he’s currently starring in the hottest play in the West End.”
“Are you two serious?”
“Quite.”
“So why are you shagging sleazy Simon on the side?”
“The rumor was started by your wife,” said Olivia evenly.
“I find that difficult to believe.”
“She also whispers the wordbitchevery time she sees me in Wiltons.”
Christopher smiled in spite of himself.
“I’m glad you think it’s funny.” Olivia scrutinized his clothing. “Who’s dressing you these days?”
