It was a bit like walking into the lair of a Bond villain as we followed Brunetti into another room. The look of it was midcentury mobster meets the air-traffic control tower at O’Hare International.
The surveillance cameras lining the ceiling of Brunetti’s casino—the “eyes in the sky”—were doing far more than simply filming. In addition to the feeds being filtered by a real-time facial recognition platform, they were using three-dimensional thermal imaging to detect concealed weapons of any kind. It was a level of security bordering on paranoia. On the other hand, this was a guy whose life and livelihood depended on knowing who his enemies were.
Perhaps the only real surprise was that Brunetti was making no attempt to hide any of this from us. Pictures of Elizabeth culled from news stories appeared on multiple screens above a console manned by two guys who looked like they came straight out of central casting for computer nerds. The only things missing were the pocket protectors on their shirts.
Brunetti very much wanted us to see all that. He was well aware that Elizabeth was a federal agent. Despite that, he was still inviting her backstage. Why? Because he could. That’s how untouchable he was. And that’s what he really wanted us to know.
“Have a seat,” he said.
Elizabeth and I made our way to a black leather couch that was kitty-corner to his desk, a monstrosity of glass and black lacquer. The thing practically glistened.
Opposite us were two other men, one standing and the other sitting in a matching black leather armchair. Thermal imaging would’ve surely revealed that they were both packing. They weren’t introduced to us.
“Thanks for agreeing to see me,” I said as Brunetti settled into the chair behind his desk. He gave a quick tug on both sleeves of his crisp, charcoal-gray suit. He was sporting a pink tie and a matching pocket square. At sixty-four, he looked to be in pretty good shape. Maybe a little puffy around the edges but not overweight.
“So you’re a friend of Allen’s, huh? He speaks highly of you,” said Brunetti. “Of course, Grimes is full of shit, so who knows, right?” He laughed. He was joking. Sort of. “Okay, so we’re all here now. What did you want to talk to me about?”
“A painting,” I said.
“What kind of painting?”
“A stolen one.”
Brunetti leaned back in his chair, amused. “That’s what this is? You think I stole a painting?”
“No. I think you might know of a stolen painting.”
“Are you always this cryptic, Dr. Reinhart?”
“In this case I need to be,” I said. “I’m representing the owner, and he wants it back.”
Brunetti looked over at Elizabeth. “And who are you representing, Agent Needham? Nice dress, by the way.”
“I’m not representing anyone,” Elizabeth answered. “Tonight I’m just a private citizen enjoying a gambling cruise.”
“Yes, of course you are,” he said. “It must be killing you, though.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“To get so close to me and yet be so far. What is it with you agents wanting to take me down so badly? And I do mean badly. You all suck at it.”
That got a chuckle out of his two henchmen, Thug 1 and Thug 2 (with apologies to Dr. Seuss). Meanwhile, Elizabeth was surely riffling through a hundred different comebacks in her mind, all of which were better left unsaid. But just in case she couldn’t stop herself…
“Fifty million,” I blurted out.
That quickly got Brunetti’s attention back on me. His eyes felt like two lasers. “What was that?” he asked.
“That’s how much the owner of the painting is willing to pay you to get it back,” I said. “Fifty million dollars.”