“Thomas, not Oliver,” said Jack.
“Not bad, Stalker,” admitted Anna.
“You can blame it on my father,” said Jack. “Whenever he was out on patrol on a Sunday, my mother would take me to a gallery or a museum. I thought it was a waste of time, until I fell in love.”
“Who did you fall in love with?” asked Anna, as they jogged up Pilgrim’s Hill.
“Rossetti, or, to be more accurate, his mistress, Jane Burden.”
“Scholars are divided on whether he even slept with her,” said Anna. “And her husband—William Morris—admired Rossetti so much that they don’t even think he would have objected.”
“Foolish man,” said Jack.
“Are you still in love with Jane?” asked Anna.
“No, I’ve moved on since then. I gave up the pre-Raphaelites for the real thing, and started falling for women whose breasts often end up behind their ears.”
“So you must have been spending a lot of your time in MoMA.”
“Several blind dates,” admitted Jack, “but my mother doesn’t approve.”
“Who does she think you should be dating?”
“She’s old-fashioned, so anyone called Mary who’s a virgin, but I’m working on her.”
“Are you working on anything else?”
“Like what?” asked Jack.
“Like what R stands for,” said Anna, almost out of breath.
“You tell me,” said Jack.
“Romania would be my bet,” said Anna, the words puffing out intermittently
“You should have joined the FBI,” said Jack, slowing down.
“You’d worked it out already,” said Anna.
“No,” admitted Jack. “A guy called Abe worked it out for me.”
“And?”
“And both of you were right.”
“So where is the Romanian Club?”
“In a run-down neighborhood in Queens,” replied Jack.
“And what did you find when you opened the box?”
“I can’t be absolutely certain,” replied Jack.
“Don’t play games, Stalker, just tell me what was in the box.”
“About two million dollars.”
“Two million?” repeated Anna in disbelief.