False Impression

An old school friend advised Chris that the way to double his money would be to invest in the dot.com revolution. Chris, Jr., pointed out that he didn’t have any ready cash, just the gallery, the paintings, and Christina, his father’s old yacht—and even that was half owned by his younger sister. Fenston Finance stepped in and advanced him a loan of twelve million dollars on their usual terms. As in so many revolutions, several bodies ended up on the battlefield: among them, Chris, Jr.’s.

Fenston Finance had allowed the debt to continue mounting without ever troubling their client. That was until Chris, Jr., read in the Los Angeles Times that Warhol’s Shot Red Marilyn had recently sold for over four million dollars. He immediately contacted Christie’s in L.A., who assured him that he could expect an equally good return for his Rothkos, Pollocks, and Jasper Johnses. Three months later, Leapman rushed into the chairman’s office bearing the latest copy of a Christie’s sale catalogue. He had placed yellow Post-It notes against seven different lots that were due to come under the hammer. Fenston made one phone call, then booked himself on the next flight to Rome.

Three days later, Chris, Jr., was discovered in the lavatory of a gay bar with his throat cut.

Fenston was on holiday in Italy at the time, and Jack had a copy of his hotel bill, plane tickets, and even his credit-card purchases from several shops and restaurants.

The paintings were immediately withdrawn from the Christie’s sale while the L.A. police carried out their investigations. After eighteen months of no new evidence and dead-ends, the file joined the other LAPD cold cases stored in the basement. All Chris’s sister ended up with was a model of Christina, her father’s much-loved yacht.

Jack tossed Chris, Jr.’s, file to one side and stared down at the name of Maria Vasconcellos, a Brazilian widow who had inherited a house and a lawn full of statues—and not of the garden-center variety. Moore, Giacometti, Remington, Botero, and Calder were among Señora Vasconcellos’s husband’s bequest. Unfortunately, she fell in love with a gigolo, and when he suggested—The phone rang on Jack’s desk.

“Our London Embassy is on line two,” his secretary informed him.

“Thanks, Sally,” said Jack, knowing it could only be his friend Tom Crasanti, who had joined the FBI on the same day as he had.

“Hi, Tom, how are you?” he asked even before he heard a voice.

“In good shape,” Tom replied. “Still running every day, even if I’m not as fit as you.”

“And my godson?”

“He’s learning to play cricket.”

“The traitor. Got any good news?”

“No,” said Tom. “That’s why I’m calling. You’re going to have to open another file.”

Jack felt a cold shiver run through his body. “Who is it this time?” he asked quietly.

“The lady’s name, and Lady she was, is Victoria Wentworth.”

“How did she die?”

“In exactly the same manner as the other three, throat cut, almost certainly with a kitchen knife.”

“What makes you think Fenston was involved?”

“She owed the bank over thirty million.”

“And what was he after this time?”

“A Van Gogh self-portrait.”

“Value?”

“Sixty, possibly seventy million dollars.”

“I’ll be on the next plane to London.”

8

AT 7:56, ANNA closed the Wentworth file and bent down to open the bottom drawer of her desk. She slipped off her sneakers and replaced them with a pair of black high-heeled shoes. She rose from her chair, gathered up the files, and glanced in the mirror—not a hair out of place.

Anna stepped out of her office and walked down the corridor toward the large corner suite. Two or three members of the staff greeted her with “Good morning, Anna,” which she acknowledged with a smile. A gentle knock on the chairman’s door—she knew Fenston would already be seated at his desk. Had she been even a minute late, he would have pointedly stared at his watch. Anna waited for an invitation to enter and was surprised when the door was immediately pulled open and she came face-to-face with Karl Leapman. He was wearing an almost identical suit to the one Fenston had on, even if it wasn’t of the same vintage.

“Good morning, Karl,” she said brightly, but didn’t receive a response.

The chairman looked up from behind his desk and motioned Anna to take the seat opposite him. He also didn’t offer any salutation, but then he rarely did. Leapman took his place on the right of the chairman and slightly behind him, like a cardinal in attendance on the Pope. Status clearly defined. Anna assumed that Tina would appear at any moment with a cup of black coffee, but the secretary’s door remained resolutely shut.