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69
North Haven
The Somersets of North Haven were owners of his-and-hers Range Rovers. Phillip’s was a fully loaded 2022, black, tan interior. With the help of a security guard, he placed five aluminum-sided suitcases by Rimowa of Madison Avenue into the spacious rear storage compartment. Two of the suitcases contained cash; two, gold ingots. The largest was filled with clothing, toiletries, and a few personal mementos—including a collection of luxury wristwatches valued at $12 million.
Inside the house, Phillip found Lindsay where he had left her, seated at the island in the kitchen, the food properly plated and arrayed before her. She had lit candles, poured wine, touched nothing. The air smelled of lilies and grilled octopus. It turned Phillip’s stomach. He checked the display screen of the hardline phone. Lindsay had made no calls during his brief absence.
“Shall I pack a bag for you?” he asked.
She stared silently into an emptiness of Phillip’s making. She had not spoken a word since his ill-advised threat of violence. It was Lindsay who had drawn her sword first, but it had been reckless of Phillipto respond in kind. Almost as reckless, he thought, as divulging the name of the country where he planned to take refuge.
“You won’t tell them where I am, will you?”
“The first chance I get.” She gave him a counterfeit smile. “But not tonight, Phillip. I’ve decided it would be best if you simply disappeared. That way, I’ll never have to look at your face again or, heaven forbid, visit you in prison.”
Phillip returned to his office and executed a series of wire transfers, all designed to leave little if no trace of the money’s final destination. Taken together, they had the effect of draining every cent from the accounts of Masterpiece Art Ventures. There was nothing left. Nothing but the real estate, the toys, the debt, and the paintings. The genuine works in the company’s inventory were worth at least $700 million, but all were leveraged to the hilt. Perhaps Christie’s would hold a special evening sale to auction the works off.The Somerset Collection...It had a certain ring to it, he had to admit.
Rising, he went to his window and for the last time surveyed his realm. The bay. His boat. His manicured garden. His blue swimming pool. He realized suddenly he hadn’t used it once all summer.
A green light flared on the multiline desk phone. Phillip snatched up the receiver and heard Lindsay abruptly hang up downstairs. Evidently, she was still entertaining thoughts of turning him in. He switched lines and dialed East Hampton Airport. Mike Knox, the regular evening head of flight operations, answered.
“Your helicopter arrived about twenty minutes ago, Mr. Somerset. The passengers decided to stay on board.”
“Any other inbound birds?”
“A Blade, a couple of privates, and a Zip Aviation charter from downtown.”
“What’s the ETA on the charter?”
“Twenty-five minutes or so.”
“Is my helicopter fueled?”
“Finishing now.”
“Thanks, Mike. I’m on my way.”
Phillip hung up the phone and opened the bottom drawer of his desk. It was where he kept his unregistered firearm.
Not if I kill you first, Lindsay...
It would certainly guarantee a clean departure, he thought. But it would also saddle him with eternal infamy. If the truth be told, a part of him was actually looking forward to exile. Keeping the Ponzi scheme up and running all these years had been exhausting; he was sorely in need of a vacation. And now it seemed he would have beautiful Magdalena to keep his bed warm, at least until the storm blew over and it was safe for her to return to Spain.
Or perhaps not, Phillip thought suddenly. Perhaps they would live out their lives together in hiding. He imagined a Ripley-like existence, with Magdalena playing the role of Héloïse Plisson. With the passage of time, he might come to be viewed in a more favorable light—as an alluring figure of mystery, a villain protagonist. Putting a bullet into Lindsay would spoil that. The whole of the Upper East Side would be rooting for his death.
He closed the drawer, deleted his documents and emails, and emptied his digital trash. Downstairs, he returned Lindsay’s phone. She stared through him as though he were made of glass. “Leave” was all she said.
The Blade commuter helicopter arrived at East Hampton Airport at ten minutes past nine o’clock. Six passengers, Manhattanites all, spilled onto the tarmac and, after collecting their luggage, traipsed off toward the terminal. Magdalena watched them from the window of the Sikorsky. Tyler Briggs sat in the opposing seat, legs spread, crotch on full display. Magdalena calculated the odds of delivering adebilitating strike and then snatching the phone from his hand. They were reasonable, she reckoned, but retribution would likely be swift and severe. Tyler was ex-military, and Magdalena was already damaged from her skirmishes with the gray eminence. She’d had quite enough excitement for one evening. Better to ask nicely.
“May I borrow your phone for a moment, Tyler?”
“No.”
“I just want to check a website.”
“The answer is still no.”
“Will you please check it for me, please? It’sVanity Fair.”
