JACK DELANEY PARKED his car on Broad Street just after nine thirty He switched on the radio and listened to Cousin Brucie on 101.1 FM, as he settled back to wait for Leapman. The venue for their meeting had been Leapman’s choice, and he’d told the FBI man to expect him some time between ten and eleven, when he would hand over their camera containing enough damning evidence to ensure a conviction.
Jack was suspended in that unreal world somewhere between half awake and half asleep when he heard the siren. Like all law-enforcement officers, he could identify the different decibel pitch between police, ambulance, and fire department in a split second. This was an ambulance, probably coming from St. Vincent’s.
He checked his watch: 11:15 P.M. Leapman was running late, but then he had warned Jack that there could be over a hundred documents to photograph, so not to keep him to the minute. The FBI technical boys had spent some considerable time showing Leapman how to operate the latest high-tech camera so he could be sure to deliver the best results. But that was before the phone call. Leapman had rung Jack’s office a few minutes after seven to say that Fenston had told him something that would prove far more damning than any document. But he didn’t want to reveal the information over the phone. The line went dead before Jack could press him. He would have been more responsive if it hadn’t been his experience that plea bargainers always claim they have new information that will break the case wide open, and therefore the FBI should reconsider the length of their sentence. He knew his boss wouldn’t agree to that unless the new evidence clearly showed an unbreakable link in the chain between Fenston and Krantz.
The sound of the siren was getting louder.
Jack decided to get out of the car and stretch his legs. His raincoat felt crumpled. He’d bought it from Brooks Brothers in the days when he wanted everyone to know that he was a G-man, but the higher up the ranks he climbed, the less he wished it to be that obvious. If he was promoted to run his own field office, he might even consider buying a new coat, one that would make him look more like a lawyer or a banker—that would please his father.
His mind switched to Fenston, who by now would have delivered his speech on Moral Responsibility for Modern Bankers, and then to Anna, who was halfway across the Atlantic on her way to meet up with Nakamura. Anna had left a message on his cell phone, saying she now knew why Tina had taken the job as Fenston’s P.A., and the evidence had been staring her in the face. The line had been busy when she called, but Anna said she’d phone again in the morning. It must have been when Leapman was on the line. Damn the man. Jack was standing on a New York sidewalk in the middle of the night, tired and hungry, while he waited for a camera. His father was right. He should have been a lawyer.
The siren was now only a couple of blocks away.
Jack strolled down to the end of the road and peered up at the building in which Leapman was working, somewhere on the thirty-second floor. There was a row of blazing lights about halfway up the skyscraper, otherwise the windows were mostly dark. Jack began to count the floors, but by the time he’d reached eighteen he couldn’t be sure, and when he counted thirty-two, it just might have been the floor that was blazing with lights. But that didn’t make any sense, because on Leapman’s floor, there should only have been a single light. The last thing he would have wanted was to draw attention to himself.
Jack looked across the road to watch an ambulance come to a screeching halt in front of the building. The back door burst open and three paramedics, two men and a woman dressed in their familiar dark blue uniforms, jumped out onto the sidewalk. One pushed a stretcher, the second carried an oxygen cylinder, while the third held a bulky medical bag. Jack watched them as they charged up the steps and into the building.
He turned his attention to the reception desk, where one guard—pointing to something on his clipboard—was talking to an older man dressed in a smart suit, probably his supervisor, while the second guard was occupied on the telephone. Several people strolled in and out of the elevators, which wasn’t surprising, as they were in the heart of the city where finance is a twenty-four-hour occupation. Most Americans would be asleep while money was changing hands in Sydney, Tokyo, Hong Kong, and now London, but there always had to be a group of New Yorkers who lived their lives on other people’s time.
Jack’s train of thought was interrupted when an elevator door opened and the three paramedics reappeared, two of them wheeling their patient on the stretcher, while the third was still holding onto the oxygen cylinder. As they walked slowly but purposefully toward the entrance, everyone in their path stood aside. Jack strolled up the steps to take a closer look. Another siren blared in the distance, on this occasion the droning pitch of the NYPD, but it could be going anywhere at that time of night, and in any case Jack was now concentrating on the stretcher. He stood by the door as the paramedics came out of the building and carried their patient slowly down the steps. He stared at the pallid face of a stricken man, whose eyes were glazed over as if they’d been caught in the blaze of a headlight. It wasn’t until he’d passed him that Jack realized who it was. He had to make an instant decision. Did he pursue the ambulance back to St Vincent’s or head straight for the thirty-second floor? The police siren now sounded as if it could be heading in their direction. One look at that face and Jack didn’t need to be told that Leapman wasn’t going to be speaking to anyone for a very long time. He ran into the building with the sound of the police siren no more than a block or two away. He knew he had only a few minutes before the NYPD’s finest would be on the scene. He paused at the reception desk for a moment to show them his FBI badge.
“You got here quickly,” said one of the guards, but Jack didn’t comment as he headed for the bank of elevators. The guard wondered how he knew which floor to go to.
Jack squeezed through the elevator doors just as they were about to close and jabbed at the button marked 32. When the doors opened again, he looked quickly up and down the corridor to see where the lights were coming from. He turned and ran toward some offices at the far end to find a security guard and two engineers in red overalls, along with a cleaner, standing by an open door.
“Who are you?” demanded the security guard.
“FBI,” said Jack, producing his badge but not revealing his name as he strode into the room. The first thing he saw was a blown-up photograph of Fenston shaking hands with George W. Bush, which dominated the wall behind the desk. His eyes moved quickly around the room until they settled on the one thing he was looking for. It was in the center of the desk, resting on a pile of spread-out papers beside an open file.
“What happened?” demanded Jack authoritatively.
“Some guy got himself trapped in this office for over three hours and must have set the alarm off.”
“It wasn’t our fault,” jumped in one of the engineers, “we were told to downgrade the call, and we’ve got that in writing, otherwise we would have been here a lot sooner.”
Jack didn’t need to ask who had set off the alarm and then left Leapman to his fate. He walked over to the desk, his eyes quickly scanning the papers. He glanced up to find all four men staring at him. Jack looked directly at the security guard. “Go to the elevator, wait for the cops, and the minute they turn up bring them straight back to me.” The guard disappeared into the corridor without question and headed quickly toward the elevators. “And you three, out,” was Jack’s next command. “This may be a crime scene, and I don’t want you disturbing any evidence.” The men turned to leave, and in the split second their backs were turned, Jack grabbed the camera and dropped it into one of the baggy pockets of his trench coat.
He picked up the phone on Fenston’s desk. There was no dial tone, only a continuous buzzing noise. Someone had disconnected the line. The same person who triggered the alarm, no doubt. Jack didn’t touch anything else in the room. He stepped back into the corridor and slipped into the adjoining office. A screen was fixed to the corner of the desk and was still relaying images from inside Fenston’s office. Fenston had clearly not only witnessed Leapman’s actions but had enough time to set in motion the most diabolical revenge.
Jack’s eyes moved across to the switchboard. One lever was up, illuminating a flickering orange light, indicating that the line was busy. He must have cut Leapman off from any hope of contacting the outside world. Jack looked down at the desk where Fenston would have been sitting when he planned the whole operation. He’d even written out a list to make sure he didn’t make a mistake. All the clues were there for the NYPD to gather and evaluate. If this had been a Columbo investigation, the switch, the handwritten list left on the desk, and the timing of the alarm going off would have been quite enough for the great detective to secure a conviction, with Fenston breaking down and confessing following the last commercial break. Unfortunately, this wasn’t a made-for-TV movie, and one thing was certain: Fenston wasn’t going to break down and would never consider confessing. Jack grimaced. The only thing he had in common with Columbo was the crumpled raincoat.
Jack heard the elevator doors open and the words, “Follow me.” He knew it had to be the cops. He turned his attention back to the screen on the desk as two uniformed officers marched into Fenston’s office and began to question the four witnesses. The plainclothes men wouldn’t be far behind. Jack walked out of the adjoining office and headed silently toward the elevator. He’d reached the doors when one of the cops came out of Fenston’s office and shouted, “Hey, you.” Jack jabbed at the down button and turned sideways, so the officer couldn’t see his face. The moment the doors opened, he quickly slipped inside. He kept his finger pressed on the button marked L and the doors immediately closed. When they opened on the ground floor thirty seconds later, he jogged past reception, out of the building, down the steps, and headed in the direction of his car.
Jack jumped in and started the engine, just as a cop came running around the corner. He swung the car in a circle, mounted the sidewalk, drove back onto the road, and headed for St. Vincent’s Hospital.
“Good afternoon, Sotheby’s.”
“Lord Poltimore, please.”
“Who shall I say is calling, madam?”
“Lady Wentworth.” Arabella didn’t have to wait long before Mark came on the line.
“How nice to hear from you, Arabella,” said Mark. “Dare I ask,” he teased, “are you a buyer or a seller?”
“A seeker after advice,” replied Arabella. “But if I were to be a seller . . .”
Mark began to make notes as he listened to a series of questions that Arabella had obviously prepared carefully.
“In the days when I was a dealer,” Mark replied, “before I joined Sotheby’s, the standard commission was 10 percent up to the first million. If the painting was likely to fetch more than a million, I used to negotiate a fee with the seller.”
“And what fee would you have negotiated, had I asked you to sell the Wentworth Van Gogh?”
Mark was glad Arabella couldn’t see the expression on his face. Once he’d recovered, he took his time before suggesting a figure, but quickly added, “If you were to allow Sotheby’s to put the picture up for auction, we would charge you nothing, Arabella, guaranteeing you the full hammer price.”
“So how do you make a profit?” asked Arabella.
“We charge a buyer’s premium,” explained Mark.
“I already have a buyer,” said Arabella, “but thank you for the advice.”