Authors: Andrew Grant
I wriggled forward in my seat and surveyed the front of the Town Car. It wasn’t like a cab—there wasn’t a radio or a screen to indicate the next pickup—but the chauffeur must have had a phone. Where would he keep it?
Not in his pocket, please!
I moved a little farther, and breathed a silent sigh when I spotted it lying facedown on the passenger seat.
“Look out! Stop!” I shot my arm out, pointing to the chauffeur’s left. He slammed on the brakes. The car shuddered to a stop. And the phone skidded forward on the shiny leather, slipping off the edge and disappearing into the foot well.
“What the hell—”
“Sorry. I thought something ran out. A deer, maybe. I’m coming up front with you. I’ll keep watch. Damn creatures are everywhere. They’re a menace.”
Before he could object I grabbed my jacket and moved to the passenger seat, carefully planting my foot on the fallen phone. At the next bend I allowed the jacket to slide off my knee. Cursing, I reached down to retrieve it. And with it, the phone. I took a quick glance to locate the power button. Then I made a show of refolding the jacket, wrapping it tight to smother any sounds the phone might make as I surreptitiously switched it off.
What should I do next? Continuing to Manhattan was out of the question. So was staying in the Town Car much longer, given the
number of police in the area. But where else could I go? Then I noticed the chauffeur glancing down at his instrument panel.
“You know, the fancy dinner at the Hyatt’s not till tomorrow. And I’m off the leash tonight.” I winked, then gave him an alternative address. “Take me there, instead. It’s not far. I’m thinking, a hand or two of cards. A friend of mine has a little place above a restaurant. The kind of place you don’t go with your wife in tow …”
I had no idea whether there was a card school above the restaurant I’d named. But I did know it was only a block away from somewhere I’d be safe.
Troye’s gallery.
T
ROYE’S GALLERY WAS, OF COURSE, CLOSED
.
I stood in front of the building, wondering what to do next and worrying about prying eyes in the darkness around me, when I noticed a car parked in the corner of the gallery’s tiny lot. Just one, on its own. A Rolls-Royce. Maybe from the 1970s. Not old enough to be really valuable. Not new enough to impress anyone. But still a classy ride. The kind of car you buy to please your own eccentric taste, not to fit in with the crowd. And given that it was painted metallic gold, only one person’s name sprang to mind. Troye’s. I moved over to take a closer look and when I saw the license plate—ART-LVR—there was no doubt left. Troye had to be nearby, but where?
I went to check around the back of the gallery in case there was an office entrance. Maybe he was working late. Troye didn’t strike me as a paperwork kind of guy, but you never knew. There were two large, evil-smelling Dumpsters crammed into the space below a rusty metal fire escape at the north side of the building, so I crossed to the south and made my way cautiously into the shadows. A single naked lightbulb was burning farther ahead. I hurried toward it. Beneath it was a plain gray door. The faint remains of painted-out graffiti were still visible across its surface. There were no windows, no mailbox—not even a company name marked anywhere—but there was an intercom. I hit the button, more in hope than expectation. There was no reply. I tried it one more time, and was about to turn and hurry away when the tiny speaker crackled into life.
“What is it?”
“Hello? I’m looking for Troye Liptak.”
“Who is?”
“I’m a friend of his.” I wasn’t about to broadcast my name, with the police searching for me.
“What’s this about?”
“It’s personal. I need to speak to Troye. Urgently!”
“The gallery’s closed. Come back tomorrow.”
“No, wait. Please. Is Troye there? I really need to speak to him. Is he there?”
“You’re wasting my time. Tell me who you are, or get lost.”
“I’m Marc Bowman,” I said, in desperation. “And I want—”
“Marc? Is that you? This intercom’s crap. I didn’t recognize your voice. Wait there. I’ll be right down.”
I heard a door slam somewhere inside the building, then heavy footsteps on creaky wooden stairs. Chains rattled, a lock ratcheted back, and finally the door swung open to reveal a plump bald guy in a stained T-shirt and ratty sweatpants.
“Thank you. I’m looking for … Troye, is that you?”
“Of course it’s me. Who else did you expect to be in my apartment?”
“But your voice? Your accent’s different. And your clothes. And your …”
“Hair? I wear a wig when I’m working. It’s part of the costume. Like the suits. No big deal. But what you see now—this is the real me.”
“Why?”
“I’m an art dealer, Marc. That means I need to look like one, if I want to eat. You think people from round here are going a trust a slob from Paulsboro, New Jersey, to help them invest their millions? Of course they’re not. They want an exotic East European with a flamboyant taste in clothes. So that’s what I give them.”
“OK. I’m just … surprised, I guess.”
“You can’t take anything at face value in this world, Marc. You should know that by now. Anyway, what’s up? Look at you. Is that blood on your coat? And your face? It’s filthy. Did you get mugged or something?”
“It’s a long story. And no, honestly, I’m not OK. I need help, Troye. Can I come in? Tell you about it?”
“I suppose you better. But it’s Brian.”
“What is?”
“My name. It’s Brian. That’s what my friends call me.”
THE MAIN ROOM IN
Brian’s apartment was a giant rectangle, the full length of the gallery beneath and maybe three-quarters of the width. One end was set up as a small kitchen, and there was a broad arch in the far wall that I guessed led to his bedroom and bathroom. One of the remaining walls was taken up with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and the other was filled with a random jumble of paintings and drawings. The floor was covered with rugs—maybe a dozen, different sizes and patterns—which didn’t quite meet in places, revealing patches of rough, unfinished floorboards. There was no TV or stereo, and not much furniture. Just a coffee table, a worn La-Z-Boy chair, and a couch that looked like a reasonable copy of a Robin Day design from the sixties.
“Make yourself comfortable.” Brian gestured to the couch.
I lowered myself down, happy to rest my aching muscles.
“Are you hungry? Have you eaten? I have leftovers.”
“Now you mention it, yes. I’m starving. Thirsty, too.”
“Leave it to me.” Brian crossed to the kitchen area and pulled a cardboard delivery box and a bottle of Evian out of the fridge. “Eat. Drink. Then tell me what the hell you’ve gotten yourself into.”
BRIAN SAT IN THE CHAIR
opposite me and between bites of cold pepperoni and spinach pizza—a strange combination, but it worked—I replayed everything that had happened since I left his gallery on Monday. Well, not quite everything. I didn’t get into every last detail of the situation with Carolyn. I gave him the sanitized version that I’d fed to the police and Homeland Security. I figured that would be enough for him to get the gist of things.
“I don’t believe you, Marc.” He leaned forward and the impassive expression on his face finally cracked.
“It’s true. Every word. Which part don’t you believe?”
“I believe what you’re telling me. I just don’t believe you’d come here. To my
home
. What were you thinking, dragging me into this? This is your mess. It has nothing to do with me.”
“I need help. I’ve got nowhere else to go.”
“What if you were followed? I’m harboring a fugitive right now. Did you think of that? If I get arrested, do you know what that’ll do to my business? And these other guys? With the bikes? Whoever they are? Sounds like they’d do a lot more than flush the gallery down the toilet. Probably flush me down there with it.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have involved you. But I didn’t know what else to do.”
Brian crossed to the window and peered out.
“OK.” He stepped back after a moment and flopped into his chair. “Well, you’re here now, and no one’s kicked the door down. Yet. So, I’m thinking industrial espionage? Is that what this thing’s about?”
I shrugged.
“I bet it is.” He nodded encouragingly. “I bet there’s a secret on those memory sticks, and that’s what the motorcycle guys were after.”
“Maybe. But I can’t think what. There’s only a bunch of run-of-the-mill data on the sticks.”
“Not run-of-the-mill if there’s a new kind of virus, too.”
“New viruses appear all the time.”
“Maybe. But you thought the virus was to spy on your work. What if you’re wrong? What if AmeriTel’s the target? Like I say, industrial espionage.”
“If it was just the police after me, I’d buy that. Maybe. Or the FBI. But not Homeland Security. They don’t get out of bed for stuff like that.”
“If it was about a company’s secrets, I was thinking there might be a few dollars to be made.” Brian crossed to the couch and sat down next to me. “But sabotage of a government database? That’s big-time. Maybe you should think about turning yourself in. Homeland Security, you can’t outrun.”
“I would, but who do I trust? Peever? Or McKenna? What if I pick the wrong one? I need to figure out who’s on the level, first. And I need proof that I’m not involved, in case I get it wrong.”
“How do you do that? What do you need?”
“I don’t know. A bed for the night? I need time to think. I’m making this up as I go.”
“No.” Brian shook his head. “No way. You’re not spending the night here. That’s way too dangerous.”
“Brian, please. I’ve got nowhere else to go.”
“No. And don’t ask me again. Don’t make
me
the asshole.”
I looked around the room, taking in all his possessions. I thought about the years they must have taken to collect. The memories they must represent. And suddenly I was hit by a wave of guilt.
“You’re right.” I stood up. “It was stupid of me. I’ll go. And if I get picked up, your name will stay out of it. I promise.”
“Where?”
“What?”
“Where will you go?”
“I don’t know. But I’ll figure something out.”
“Have you got any money?”
“No.”
“What about your cell phone?”
“The Homeland Security agents took it.”
“Good. They can track your cell phone. You’re better off without it. OK. Wait here.”
He disappeared through the archway and I heard a couple of drawers and maybe a cupboard being opened and closed. When he came back he was holding four things, which he gave to me—an old flipstyle cell phone, a charger, a black suit jacket, and a wad of cash.
“That’s a pre-paid phone. It’s safe to use. And here’s two hundred dollars. That’s all the money I have in the house.”
“Thank you.” It took me a moment to overcome the surprise.
“You can’t keep wearing your own jacket. And you better lose the old guy’s suitcase. Just don’t dump them anywhere near here.”
“Right. Yes. And, Brian? I’ll pay you back. As soon as I can.”
“No rush. Now, listen carefully. This is what we’re going to do
about getting a roof over your head for the night. First, you’re going to wash your face. And then I’m going to give you an address. It’s a house. It belongs to a friend of mine. He’s in Europe. I’m keeping an eye on the place. You should be able to walk there in ten minutes, quarter of an hour, tops. Find it, go to the end of the yard, and you’ll see a wooden summerhouse. It won’t be locked. You can sleep in there. But only for tonight. I’ll come by tomorrow to straighten up. And if you’re still there—”
The intercom crackled. Neither of us breathed for a moment, then Brian crept back to the window.
“A squad car.” He turned to face me. “I’m sorry, Marc.”
He’d been alone, when he was fetching the phone and the cash. For what? A couple of minutes? Long enough to call 911 …
“I didn’t call them, Marc.” It was as though he was reading my mind.
“I know.” I picked up Mr. Schmidt’s suit carrier, feeling guilty for the suspicion. “I’ll go down there. Give myself up. And don’t worry. I won’t drop you in it.”
“Don’t be stupid. I can take care of myself. I’ll go down. You—go through the archway. Second door on the right. It leads down to the gallery. Get out that way. I’m not going to screw myself, but I’ll buy you as much time as I can.”
I
MADE IT HALFWAY ACROSS THE DESERTED GALLERY, THEN STOPPED
. Running had almost got me caught. More than once. Maybe it was time to hide?
But hide where? I knew the gallery well, and nothing sprang to mind. There were no alcoves or storerooms, and all the sculptures in the place that night were too short. The only other option was the desk. But was that too obvious? It was a giant thing, antique, probably French, made from polished mahogany with gold inlays and grotesque Grecian statues supporting the four corners. It completely dominated one corner of the room. Brian couldn’t have found a more extreme contrast for the brand-new iMac he’d placed on it if he’d tried.
An iMac? That set my thoughts running in a completely different direction.
I rushed to the desk, woke the computer, and searched for a connection to the gallery’s security system. Twenty-nine seconds later I was inside the CCTV archive. I located the records for Monday. Identified the file for the parking-lot camera. Opened it. Skipped ahead to lunchtime. And found the image of me, striding back to my Jaguar.
Holding my breath, I isolated the video frames I needed—starting with me two paces from the car—and imported them into the Mac’s home movie program. A few keystrokes later, I’d made the background darker to roughly approximate the parking lot at night. I turned the computer around so its screen was facing the door to the stairs. Crossed to the main exit. Pushed it open, triggering the alarm. Then dived under the desk, taking the Mac’s wireless mouse with me.