“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.
Wednesday. Late evening.
TROYE’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.”