When he returned to the living room, the detective was standing by the side table, examining Billy’s photographs. “You know a lot of important people,” he remarked.
“Yes,” Billy said. “I’ve lived in New York a long time. Nearly forty years.
One accumulates friends.”
The detective nodded and got right to it. “You’re a sort of art dealer, aren’t you?”
“Not really,” Billy said. “I sometimes put people together with dealers. But I don’t deal in art myself.”
“Do you know Sandy and Connie Brewer?”
“Yes,” Billy said softly.
“You were helping the Brewers with their art collection, right?”
“I have in the past,” Billy admitted. “But they were mostly finished.”
“Do you know about any recent purchases they might have made?
Maybe not through a dealer?”
“Hmmm,” Billy said, stalling. “What do you mean by ‘recent’?”
“In the last year or so?”
“They did go to the art fair in Miami. They may have bought a painting. As I said, they’re mostly finished with their collection. I’m actually working with someone else right now, quite intensely.”
“Who would that be?”
Billy swallowed. “Annalisa Rice.”
The detective wrote down the name and underlined it. “Thank you, Mr. Litchfield,” he said, handing Billy his card. “If you hear anything else about the Brewers’ collection, will you contact me?”
“Of course,” Billy said. He paused. “Is that it?”
“What do you mean?” the detective asked, moving to the door.
“Are the Brewers in trouble? They’re very nice people.”
“I’m sure they are,” the detective said. “Keep my card. We may be contacting you again soon. Good afternoon, Mr. Litchfield.”
“Good afternoon, Detective,” Billy said. He closed the door and collapsed onto his couch. Then he quickly got up and, sidling next to the curtain, peered out at Fifth Avenue. Every kind of cheap television crime scenario entered his mind. Was the detective gone? How much did he know? Or was he out there in an unmarked car, spying on Billy? Would Billy be tailed?
For the next two hours, Billy was too terrified to make a call or check his e-mail. Had he given himself away to the detective with his question about that being it? And why had he given the detective Annalisa Rice’s name? Now the detective would get in touch with her. How much did she really know? Sick with fear, he went into the bathroom and took two more pills. Then he lay down on his bed. Mercifully, sleep came, a sleep from which he prayed he wouldn’t have to wake.
He did, however — three hours later. His cell phone was ringing. It was Annalisa Rice. “Can I see you?” she asked.
“My God. Did the cop call you, too?”
“He just came by here. I wasn’t home. He told Maria it had something to do with the Brewers and did I know them.”
“What did she say?”
“She said she didn’t know.”
“Good for Maria.”
“Billy, what’s going on?”
“Are you alone?” Billy asked. “Can you come over here? I’d come to you, but I don’t want the doormen seeing me going in and out of One Fifth. And make sure you aren’t followed.”
Half an hour later, Annalisa, seated in front of Billy, held up her hands. “Billy, stop,” she said. “Don’t tell me any more. You’ve already told me too much.” She stood up. “You mustn’t tell anyone anything.
Not a word about this. Anything you say from now on can be used in a trial.”
“Is it really that bad?” Billy said.
“You need to hire a lawyer. David Porshie will convince the police to get a search warrant — for all we know, the attorney general is already involved — and they’ll search the Brewers’ apartment and find the cross.”
“They might not find anything,” Billy said. “The cross isn’t even in the apartment anymore. I told Connie to put it in a safety-deposit box.”
“Eventually, they’ll search that, too. It’s only a matter of time.”
“I could call Connie. And warn her. Tell her to take the cross away.
Stash it in the Hamptons. Or Palm Beach. It was in One Fifth for sixty years, and no one knew a thing about it.”
“Billy, you’re not making sense,” Annalisa said soothingly. “Don’t make this worse for yourself than it already is. You’re implicated, and if you contact the Brewers, you’ll be charged with conspiracy as well.”
“How long before they get me?” Billy asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Before I go to jail?”
“You won’t necessarily go to jail. There are all kinds of things that can happen. You can plea-bargain or do a deal. If you went to the police right now, to the attorney general, and told him what you know, he’d probably agree to give you immunity.”
“I should turn in the Brewers to save myself?” Billy said.
“That’s what it amounts to.”
“I couldn’t,” Billy said. “They’re my friends.”
“They’re my friends, too,” Annalisa said. “But Connie hasn’t committed a crime by taking a gift from her husband. Don’t be foolish,” she added warningly. “Sandy Brewer won’t think twice about doing the same thing to you.”
Billy put his head in his hands. “This kind of thing, it just isn’t done.
Not in our set.”
“It’s not a child’s tea party,” Annalisa said sharply. “Billy, you’ve got to understand. All of the imagined traditions in the world won’t help you.
You’ve got to face the facts squarely and decide what to do. Meaning what’s best for you.”
“What happens to the Brewers?”
“Don’t worry about the Brewers,” Annalisa said. “Sandy is beyond rich.
He’ll buy his way out of this, you’ll see. He’ll claim he didn’t know what he was buying. He’ll claim he bought art from you all the time. You’ll take the fall, not him. I was a lawyer for eight years. Trust me, it’s always the little people who get thrown under the bus.”
“The little people,” Billy said, shaking his head. “So it’s come to that.
I’m one of the little people after all.”
“Billy, please, let me help you,” Annalisa said.
“I just need some time. To think,” Billy said, showing her to the door.
Two days later, Detective Frank Sabatini, accompanied by four police officers, arrived at the offices of Brewer Securities at three P.M. sharp.
Detective Sabatini had found this hour most propitious for the arrest of white-collar criminals: They were back from their lunches by then and, with their bellies full, were much more compliant.
Frank Sabatini was very sure of his man. The day before, Craig Akio, having denied any knowledge of either the e-mail or the cross to Detective Sabatini, had mysteriously left for Japan, and citing the fact that his suspect might be given to run, like Mr. Akio, Detective Sabatini was able to obtain a search warrant for the Brewer abode. It happened to be the week of school vacation, and Connie had taken the whole brood, including the two nannies, to Mexico. The only ones home were the maids, who were helpless in the face of the law. It was, Sabatini thought, a very exciting morning, as the safe had to be opened by use of explosives. Nevertheless, his gunpowder man was very good, and nothing in the safe was damaged, including the cross. The confirmation that this was indeed the stolen item long missing was made by David Porshie, who’d been waiting for the detective’s call.
Now, at Brewer Securities, hearing a commotion in the hallway, Paul Rice walked out of his spacious, entirely white office to join the few other partners and employees in watching Sandy Brewer being led out in handcuffs. “Jezzie,” Sandy said to his assistant on his way out, “call my lawyer. There must be some mistake here.” Expressionless, Paul observed the spectacle, and when Sandy was safely in the elevator, Paul went back to his desk. The office erupted in gossip and speculation: Everyone assumed Sandy had committed some kind of financial fraud, and they hurried back to their computers to clean up their accounts. Paul decided to take the afternoon off.