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8
LACHLAN
After spending two hours with the fraud squad, I walked out of the police station. I couldn’t decide what pained me more: being taken for a ride by Florian or how I’d treated Miranda.
If anyone was to blame, I was, for not getting my insurance in order.
I stopped walking when I realized the paintings were insured but not revalued.
I grabbed my cell and called Britney.
“I’ve been trying to call you all morning,” she said.
“Yeah… well… it’s been a fucking trying day.”
“I’ve got good news,” she said.
“Oh?” I let out a tired sigh.
“You could try to sound a little more upbeat.”
“The Pollocks, bar one, have been stolen, and a close friend has just become fucking paralyzed. I’m not exactly in the mood to party.”
“Holy shit. The Jackson Pollocks are gone?”
A compassionate person would have asked about the friend but not Britney. “Yep.”
“I knew she couldn’t be fucking trusted,” she said.
“It’s not Miranda’s fault.”
“That’s your dick talking.”
“Stop being crass. Dig out the insurance on the Pollocks for me. I’m coming now.”
“How are you going to pay the investors?”
“We’ll figure something out. I’ve still got half a collection of contemporary art, and there’s always the apartment.”
“You can’t sell the penthouse.”
“I don’t know what that’s got to do with you,” I said.
“Well… it’s a sought-after penthouse.”
“I couldn’t give a shit. I’ll be there soon. I just have to drop into the hospital.”
“Clarke’s not doing too well,” she warned me.
“I’m not visiting him.”
“You sound angry. He’s pretty upset about how you spoke to him.”
“I don’t give a fuck.”
“He’s your dad.”
“I’ve got to go,” I said and hung up.
