New York City, January 4
Goddammit! Surely somebody in this room is responsible for this disaster!"
The thundering from inside the conference room burst through the closed door like a warning. Kenzie, hand on the knob, fortified herself with a deep breath. Then, willing herself small, unimportant, invisible, she turned the knob and slipped inside.
The mahogany blinds were angled against the wintry sun, and seated at the head of the long table, Sheldon D. Fairey was a commanding silhouette against the cold slats of horizontal light.
"How the hell a mess of this ... this stupefying magnitude could occur to begin with is entirely beyond me ..."
Kenzie soundlessly shut the door and tiptoed to the far end of the conference table, where he and his small, captive audience were clustered.
"... but occur it has, and we are faced not only with a legal and public relations debacle, but an incident which has sparked a diplomatic crisis between the United States and Germany! I find this situation quite intolerable."
His audience flinched, but whether or not he even noticed was impossible to tell. For, like a beast catching a whiff of fresh prey, he slowly swiveled around on the ergonomic armchair from which, thanks to Dina Goldsmith, he was now forced to preside, and turned his flinty eyes in Kenzie's direction.
"Ah, the prodigal Ms. Turner, unless my eyes deceive me."
Kenzie froze, one tiptoeing foot ridiculously poised in midair.
"How kind of you to honor us with your presence," he said mockingly. "I haven't, by any chance, inconvenienced you by calling this meeting?"
Kenzie flushed brightly. "No, sir. Sorry I'm late."
He waited, but no excuse was forthcoming, which seemed to pacify him. "Please sit down, Ms. Turner."
"Yes, sir." Kenzie lowered her foot and darted the last few steps to the table, where she pulled out the empty chair beside Zandra's and quickly sat down. One look around confirmed her worst suspicions.
This was definitely a power meet. All the big wheels were out in full force.
Allison Steele, Burghley's chief operating officer. David W. Bunker, Jr., senior vice president. Ileane K. Ochsenberg, senior in-house counsel. Eunice Ffolkes, head of public relations. Fred Cummings, the chief comptroller. Plus the crew from Old Masters: Bambi Parker, Arnold Li, Zandra, and now Kenzie.
Sheldon D. Fairey was looking down the table at her. "As I was telling your colleagues, Ms. Turner, I received a call from the secretary of state. You wouldn't, by any chance, be able to venture a guess as to what we discussed?"
"Yes, sir. It's got to concern the Holbein."
"Very good." Fairey smiled a little, or rather, bared some teeth. "I was informed," he sighed, "that the German ambassador has lodged an official complaint over the sale of a stolen national treasure. Also, that at the general prosecutor's office in Frankfurt, the German Cultural Institute has filed a criminal charge of theft against person or persons unknown."
"Ouch." Kenzie winced.
"Ouch, indeed." Resting his manicured hands on the tabletop, Fairey laced his fingers and looked down, ostensibly inspecting his knuckles. "Tell me something, Ms. Turner. You were one of Mr. Spotts's bright young protegees." Raising his head, he once again glanced at her and made eye contact. "Would you be so kind as to tell us how you, personally, would rectify this appalling situation?"
Kenzie didn't hesitate. "Well, that's easy enough," she said. "We don't really have a choice, do we? I mean, that painting should never have been accepted for consignment in the first place. If you'll recall, I circulated a memo last November in which I detailed its shaky provenance, and argued that we either do not proceed with the sale, or at least hold off on it until the provenance could be established beyond all doubt. The memo was cosigned by both Mr. Li and Ms. von Hohenburg-Willemlohe."
"Yes, yes, yes," Fairey said testily. "But that's all water under the bridge. What I want to know is, what course of action would you take now?"
"The way I see it, we are faced with two unalterable facts. One: the painting was accepted for consignment. And two: it's featured right on the catalogue cover." Kenzie picked up a copy from in front of her and held it up. "There's no escaping this. The harm's already been done." She tossed the catalogue back down. "In my opinion, the most we can hope for is to contain the fallout."
"You mean, by withdrawing it from the auction."
"Yes, sir. And publicizing our intent to pursue a further investigation of its provenance. I'm afraid anything less would ... well, to put it bluntly, sir, would give the impression that we deal in stolen plunder."
Fairey grimaced at the last two words. "Well?" he asked, glancing around the table. "Would anyone like to comment on Ms. Turner's evaluation?"
"Yes," Allison Steele said. "Ms. Turner, isn't it possible that you might be reacting with undue haste and alarm?"
Kenzie shook her head. "On the contrary, Ms. Steele. In this particular case, I don't believe we can act hastily enough. And as far as alarm is concerned, I wasn't the one who called this emergency meeting."
There was no refuting that, and an uncomfortable silence hung in the room.
"We have a lot riding on that painting," Fred Cummings, the comptroller, spoke up. "First and foremost, there's the presale estimate of twenty-five million. If the painting's withdrawn from the auction, we lose two-and-a-half million in buyer's commission, and the same amount in seller's." He tapped the notepad with the end of the pen. "That's an outright loss of five million dollars. More, if it would sell above the estimate."
"With all due respect, Mr. Cummings," Kenzie countered, "but I have to disagree."
"Oh?"
"Yes," Kenzie nodded. "You're calculating on the assumption that the painting will reach its reserve price and sell. However, we all know that lots in every auction, even important lots, often go unsold. In other words, you're not talking about a bird in the hand, but about two in the bush. According to my calculations, Burghley's won't suffer any loss if we withdraw the Holbein, for the simple reason that we have no guarantee it will sell."
"True," Cummings conceded. He put down his pen, carefully aligned it with the edge of the notepad, and frowned. "But we must also remember that the Holbein is the star of this sale. Without it, a lot of important buyers are going to stay away."
"Yes," Kenzie agreed, "they might. But I feel that's a risk we're going to have to take."
"Even if it means shrinking the presale estimate from a hundred and twenty million down to ninety-five?"
"Yes."
"Ms. Turner," David Bunker, the senior vice president, said in a plummy voice. "Is it not true that without the Holbein, if other items in the sale go for below their estimates, or some do not sell at all, our actual sales figures could be much lower than the revised estimate of ninety- five million?"
She was beginning to feel like a witness undergoing interrogation. "That could very well be the case. Yes, sir."
"And you are resigned to the fact that, next to Christie's and Sotheby's, our Old Masters totals for the season might... er ... turn out to be spectacularly awful?"
"That's right."
"The shareholders won't be pleased," he murmured with a vinegary expression.
"No," Kenzie agreed, "I expect they won't."
It was like hearing the voice of doom. In the ensuing silence, there was no sound other than the ominous ticking of the longcase Dutch staartklok between the windows. Then, as if someone was slowly turning up the volume, the harsh sounds of the city filtered through the double- glazed windows: the honks of perpetually gridlocked traffic, the wails of converging sirens, the high-pitched screams of a car alarm, a jet scratching its way across the sky.
Finally, Sheldon D. Fairey cleared his throat, and the noises of the city once again receded. "David's brought up a valid point," he said. "Ms. Turner, indulge me, if you will. What would you tell a roomful of angry shareholders?"
Kenzie locked eyes with him. "Why not the truth?" she said bluntly.
"The truth!" There was chiding mockery in the rich fruity tones, in the strained, unpleasant little smile. "Surely, Ms. Turner, you are not as naive as all that! Unless, of course, shareholders suddenly care more about 'the truth,' as you call it, than about their quarterly dividends?"
"They might care," Kenzie declared, "if somebody told them how our coming out of this crisis—reputation intact—is directly linked to their profits!"
Her face was obstinate, passionate, almost childlike in its shining intensity.
"Pray do continue," he murmured, steepling his fingers and tapping them against his lips.
Kenzie raked a hand through her hair. "I mean, my God, sir!" she burst out, rolling back her chair and jumping to her feet. "Think about it! What's the financial loss from one item compared to Burghley's single most precious asset, its reputation? That—nearly three hundred years of unblighted consumer confidence—is the thing we must protect at all costs, everything else be damned!"
To make her point, she brought her fist crashing down on the table. Then, suddenly aware of how carried away she'd gotten, she blushed and quickly sat back down.
"Sorry," she said in a tiny voice.
"A moment or two longer, Ms. Turner, and I do believe you would have had me bidding for the Brooklyn Bridge."
Fairey no longer sounded angry, and his altered mood seemed to soften the hard, wintry light bounced back by the table's mirrorlike, calamander veneer.
"Perhaps you should address the next shareholders meeting for me?"
"Thank you, but I'd rather not, sir," she murmured.
Fairey permitted himself a faint smile. "I cannot say I blame you," he said. "At any rate, your impassioned plea has been duly noted. Keeping Burghley's reputation untarnished should be our first priority. Well, then." He looked at the others. "Anyone have anything to add? Eunice?"
"From the standpoint of public relations, I'd have to side with Ms. Turner," said the director of public relations. "Taking the Holbein off the market is certainly in our best interests."
Fairey looked at Ileane Ochsenberg. "What about the legal ramifications? Say the painting's withdrawn from the sale, but further investigation proves it to be plunder. Could we, in any way, be held liable for trafficking in stolen goods?"
"Not at all." Ileane shook her head. "As you know, under the law the seller, and not his agent, guarantees the title to the work. Therefore, under normal circumstances the seller would be held liable. However, in this instance the painting was inherited, and since the person who originally acquired it is dead, there is no culprit to convict. An heir cannot be held culpable."
"Good, good." Sheldon D. Fairey tossed his splendid silver-coiffed head. "Then that lets us all off the hook." Fairey was silent for a moment, then leaned back in his chair and frowned. "Which leaves us with one last dilemma. Our ethical duty to our client." He pursed his lips. "After all, it was one of our employees who accepted the painting for consignment."
"And?" Ileane looked at him questioningly.
"Well, what worries me is, won't withdrawing it from the auction be construed as deserting our client in order to save our own skins?"
"I don't see why it should," Ileane said. "We accepted the painting in good faith, and had every reason to believe that our client had free and clear title to it. It's not our fault that he didn't. Nor is this the first time something like this has ever happened."
"And it won't be the last," gloomed David Bunker, the senior vice president. "But at least we're not alone."
"Indeed not." Ileane pushed her glasses farther up her nose. "There are countless legal precedents . . . that Joachim Wtewael, which Sotheby's had to withdraw from their London sale ... the ongoing dispute over the Sevso silver, which both the former Yugoslavia and Hungary are claiming as theirs."
"Not to mention our own problems over the Kalimnos Kouros, back in 1982," Fairey murmured.
Ileane smiled. "I purposely left that one out," she confessed. "But to continue. Our first indication that the Holbein may have been illegally procured was a result of Ms. von Hohenburg-Willemlohe's research. We then immediately corresponded with our client's legal representative, stating that we couldn't go ahead with the sale unless it was cleared by the proper German authorities."
"Which," Fairey muttered, "it subsequently was. Only now they've obviously had second thoughts."
"I'm afraid so," Ileane said. "But we have copies of every piece of correspondence, all of which prove that we are above reproach."
"Also," David Bunker interjected, "don't forget that we—on our client's behalf—were the ones who initially contacted the Cultural Institute about it. We brought the Holbein to their attention, not vice versa."
Ileane nodded. "Of course, that's standard operating procedure in such cases. It gives the original owner the opportunity to purchase the work at a special price before it goes on the auction block. However, the reply we received from the Cultural Institute was that the museum could not afford to buy it, and that we should proceed with the sale."
"Famous last words," Fairey growled.
"Indeed. Still, there's a bright side," Ileane pointed out. "Aside from the unprofessional manner in which the consignment was initially accepted, our subsequent dealings in this matter will hold up to the closest scrutiny ... and that includes any and all legal and ethical questions which may arise."
"You're certain?" Fairey asked sharply.
"Oh, absolutely." Ileane nodded definitely.
"Still, taking it on in the first place was skating on very thin ice," Fairey said. "This would never have occurred under Mr. Spotts."
Everyone was silent.
He raised his head magisterially. "In order to avoid such future fiascos, until further notice, any major work accepted for auction by the Old Masters department must be agreed upon by committee. Specifically, that means three out of the department's four employees must approve any work of art valued in excess of one hundred thousand dollars." His eyes roved from Kenzie to Zandra, and then from Arnold to Bambi, on whom they rested accusingly. "Have I made myself clear?"
They all nodded and murmured their agreement.
"Good." He sat back. "Then I would like to take this opportunity to commend Ms. Turner, Ms. von Hohenburg-Willemlohe, and Mr. Li on a job well done."
Kenzie had to hand it to him. His solution for diluting Bambi's power was brilliant. If he'd insisted upon their unanimous agreement, Bambi would be able to sabotage their every decision.
But a vote of three out of four makes that impossible, she thought. Arnold, Zandra, and I can override her every time. Bambi was still head of the department, but a lame duck.
Fairey assumed an air of brusqueness. "I believe it's time we took a vote on the Holbein," he said. "The Old Masters department will kindly abstain. Now then, those in favor of withdrawing the painting from the auction, please raise your hands." He held up his own.
Kenzie glanced around; one by one, the others' hands crept up also, until each person's was raised.
"It's unanimous then. The painting shall be withdrawn and we'll publicize an in-depth investigation. Eunice, prepare a statement for Allison, will you? But I want to go over it with Ileane before you schedule a press conference."
"Will do," Eunice Ffolkes said.
Fairey looked around. "Any questions?" he asked.
There were none.
"In that case," he said in his best Chairman of the Universe voice, "this meeting is adjourned."
Chairs were scooted back and everyone began to file quietly out of the room. Bambi, shouldering her way past Kenzie, shot her a glare of pure venom.
Kenzie was nearly out the door when Sheldon D. Fairey's voice stopped her.
"Oh, Ms. Turner?" he called out.
Kenzie turned around. "Sir?"
"Could you please stay for a few minutes? There's something I'd like to discuss with you."
"Please sit, Ms. Turner."
The last person out had shut the conference room door. Kenzie, slipping into the seat next to his, waited for him to speak.
He was sitting erect, frowning at the far wall, apparently deep in thought. Kenzie's gaze wandered briefly in that direction. A van Gogh print of Provencal blooms hung there, gilt-framed and smug, a relic of the shop-till-you-drop eighties, when Burghley's had sold it for the world's auction record, an amount still unequaled.
When he spoke, his voice was quiet. "Do you know what Burghley's main function is, Ms. Turner?" he asked.
"Of course, Mr. Fairey. To sell art and decorative objects."
He drew his eyes back in. "Is it?" He gave a bitter little smile. "I used to think so. Now I'm beginning to wonder." He heaved a weary sigh. "More and more, it seems that the treasures we deal in are secondary to the commissions they generate."
She nodded. "That is true also."
Slowly he rose to his feet and switched chairs, seating himself directly opposite her. She gazed unblinkingly across the table at him.
"You look people straight in the eye," he observed.
Her expression did not change. "And so do you, Mr. Fairey."
Leaning forward, he eyed her thoughtfully. "Tell me something, Ms. Turner. This is completely off the record. What is your opinion of this ... this Holbein debacle?"
Kenzie shrugged, carefully keeping her face impassive, her voice neutral. "I suppose it's par for the course," she said noncommittally.
"Par for the course!" he exclaimed.
She nodded again. "Considering our volume of business, incidents like this are bound to occur every now and then."
"Indeed!" He raised frosty eyebrows. "Then are you saying this fiasco was unavoidable? Are you suggesting it was not the fault of that . . . that dim-witted, empty-headed dummy who was foisted upon us?"
She stared at him levelly. "Mr. Fairey," she said softly. "My job is to best serve the department. And I like to believe I do. However, what I don't like is to speculate or point fingers of blame. Especially after the fact. Art—not in-house politics—is what interests me."
"A devoutly noble sentiment," he murmured.
She was silent.
He held her gaze. "Does this mean you have no comment about this incident? None whatsoever?"
"Only that I'm glad it's under control, and that the worst damage can be contained."
She stared into his face, daring him to challenge her.
"I see ..." His breath sighed out. Then, bending his head over the table, he furled the fingers of both hands, as though intent upon inspecting his manicure. "Earlier, you suggested that we publicize further investigation into the Holbein's provenance."
"I did. Yes, sir."
"And you realize what this means, don't you?"
"That our efforts will be closely monitored by the press in general, and the art world in particular," she said, nodding.
"Good. Then you will undoubtedly understand why I'm putting you in charge of this investigation."
"Me! But ... but Ms. von Hohenburg-Willemlohe is more than capab—"
"Yes, yes, yes," he interrupted irritably, waving her to silence. "I'm quite aware of her proficiency. However, she's only been with us for three months, and we need an expert—an old hand, if you will—to supervise this investigation. Ms. von Hohenburg-Willemlohe can do the actual research, but you shall be in charge. And you will report directly to me."
He paused.
"I can count on you, Ms. Turner?"
"Yes, sir." Kenzie nodded.
"Thank you, Ms. Turner." He rubbed his chin. "I seem to recall that on several occasions you've worked closely with an officer of the art theft squad ... what is his name . . . ?"
"Charles Ferraro," she supplied automatically, before the name even registered in her brain. When it did, it pierced her like a poison arrow.
"Ah, yes," Fairey nodded. "Officer Ferraro. Well, then, I suggest you contact him immediately and work together on this. He will have resources available to him that we do not."
Kenzie's mind was reeling. Oh, God! He can't expect me to work with Charley, she thought with a sinking feeling. He can't!
It had been three months now since the party at the Met, and in all that time, she had refused to see either Charley or Hannes. She'd hung up on their phone calls. Had even had her locks changed, since she'd once given Charley a set of keys to her apartment.
And now, just when she thought she'd gotten rid of him once and for all, what had to happen? She was stuck with him again!
"Ms. Turner? Ms. Turner!"
The voice cut sharply through her turmoil, brought her to with a start.
"Is something wrong, Ms. Turner?"
"Only that ..." She swallowed to lubricate her throat. "... that I'd prefer not to deal with Officer Ferraro again."
"Oh?" His eyebrows shot up. "And why not, pray tell?"
"I'd rather not get into that, sir."
"I'm afraid that's not good enough, Ms. Turner. Too much is at stake here—to paraphrase your own words, nearly three hundred years of sterling reputation! Burghley's 'single most precious asset' is the way I believe you put it?"
She sighed miserably. Damn. She'd really painted herself into a corner this time! Why, oh why did I let myself get so carried away?
He was leaning forward. "Do you still have a problem with this simple request, Ms. Turner? Am I asking too much of you?"
"No, sir," she said in a weary voice.
"Good. Then I expect to be kept informed of any developments. That will be all, Ms. Turner."
And the discussion was over.
Kenzie returned to her office, sank into her chair, and just sat there looking dazed.
"Kenzie?" Zandra was eyeing her with speculative concern. "My goodness, darling, you look absolutely pale. Whatever's the matter?"
Kenzie didn't reply. She was staring balefully at the telephone in front of her.
Charley, she thought miserably. I've got to call Charley—
—and I'd rather walk on hot coals!
But what choice did she have?
Resigning herself to the inevitable, she lifted the receiver and punched his work number, wondering how long it would take before her memory erased it.
"NYPD," a female voice answered. "Art theft squad."
She shut her eyes. "Officer Ferraro, please."
"Who's calling?"
"Ms. Turner."
"One moment, please."
Kenzie heard the woman calling out, "Ferraro! Line two."
And in the background, Charley's all-too-familiar voice: "Who is it?"
"A Ms. Turner. Should I put her through?"
Silence. Then: "Naw. She's waited this long. Let her stew awhile. Might do her some good."
Kenzie slammed down the receiver. Fucking bastard! Christ, he was unbearable!
She clenched her jaw determinedly. But he hasn't heard the last of me, she vowed grimly. Unh-unh. Not by a long shot! Snatching the receiver back up, she hit redial. Same female voice: "NYPD. Art theft squad." "I would like to speak to Officer Ferraro," Kenzie said through clenched teeth. "This is official business."
A pause. Then: "I'm sorry, but Officer Ferraro just stepped out. Would you like to leave a mes—"
Kenzie slammed down the receiver. She was seething.