One Fifth Avenue

“I want it now,” she insisted. Billy let her take it with her, and was almost relieved to have it out of his apartment. Now all he needed was the money.

He had a cocktail party that evening but stayed home to wait for Sandy.

At eight o’clock, Sandy rapped impatiently on the door. He’d never been in Billy’s apartment, and he looked around, surprised and possibly shocked, Billy thought, by how small it was. “When you get the money, I guess you’ll be buying a bigger place,” Sandy said, opening his briefcase.

“No,” Billy said. “I like it here.”

“Suit yourself,” Sandy said, pulling out a yellow legal pad. He began outlining the particulars, and within twenty minutes, he and Billy had come to an agreement.

Afterward, Billy got into bed, exhausted. Sandy, no doubt, found the need for secrecy strange, but he’d assumed the cross was merely a bibelot, and Billy eccentric. But the arrangements were easy enough, and the money couldn’t be traced to the sale of the cross. Sandy would open an investment account for him at a bank in Genev

a, Switzerland, and would transfer the three million dollars into the account in increments of just under ten thousand dollars a day over the next ten months, which would avoid alerting the authorities, who tracked only transactions of over ten thousand dollars. Wrapping up their business, Sandy jokingly suggested Billy make a will.

“Why?” Billy said, taken aback.

“If something happens to you, the government will try to claim the money,” Sandy said, snapping his briefcase shut.

Billy closed his eyes. It was done now, and there was no going back. He promptly fell asleep and didn’t wake until morning. It was the first night in weeks he’d been able to fall asleep without taking a pill.

Two nights later, however, he had a terrible fright. It was the opening night of Balanchine’s Jewels at the New York City Ballet, and Billy decided to go alone, wanting an evening off from the obligation of having to maintain his persona in front of other people. He should have known better—as soon as one left one’s apartment, there was no privacy in New York—and strolling through the promenade in the State Theater during the first intermission, Billy ran into Enid Merle, accompanied, incongruously, by a cookie-cutter young beauty with enormous teeth. Enid didn’t introduce the girl and was, in fact, distinctly unfriendly. “Ah, Billy” was all she said before she turned away.

Billy didn’t put too much emphasis on it, reminding himself that Enid could be that way. Besides, he thought, rationalizing her behavior, like everyone else he’d known in New York for years, Enid Merle was finally old.

In the next second, he was distracted by a pat on the shoulder. Billy turned and found himself face-to-face with David Porshie, the director of the Metropolitan Museum. David Porshie was a bald man with olive skin and deep bags under his eyes; at fifty-five, he was relatively young to hold such a position, the hope of the board being that he might remain the head of the Met for another thirty years. “Billy Litchfield,” David said, folding his arms and looking at Billy scoldingly, as if he’d done something wrong.

Billy was terrified. As the director of the Met, David would know all about the mystery of the Cross of Bloody Mary, and it crossed Billy’s mind—irrationally—that somehow David had found out that Mrs. Houghton had had the cross and given it to him. But he was only being paranoid, because David said, “I haven’t seen you in ages. Where have you been keeping yourself?”

“I’ve been around,” Billy said cautiously.

“I never see you at our events anymore. Ever since Mrs. Houghton passed—God rest her generous soul—I suppose you don’t think we’re important enough.”

Was he somehow digging for information? Billy wondered. Struggling to maintain his composure, he said, “Not at all. I’ve got my calendar marked for the gala next month. I’m arranging to bring Annalisa Rice. She and her husband bought Mrs. Houghton’s apartment.”

He didn’t need to say more. David Porshie immediately understood the ramifications of bringing a potential donor into the fold. “Well done,” he said, pleased. “We can always count on you to have the inside track.”

Billy smiled, but as soon as David walked away, he rapidly made his way to the men’s room. Was it going to be like this from now on? Was he always going to be looking over his shoulder, wondering if people like David Porshie suspected him? Everyone in the art world knew him. He would never be able to avoid them, not as long as he lived in Manhattan.

He felt around in his pocket for an orange pill and slipped one in his mouth, swallowing it dry. It would only take a few minutes for the pill to take effect, but he decided it was too late. The evening was spoiled. There was nothing to do but go home. And passing through the promenade on his way out, he again spotted Enid Merle. She looked up at him briefly. He waved, but she didn’t wave back.

“Who was that?” Lola asked.

“Who, dear?” Enid said, ordering two glasses of champagne.

“That man who waved to you.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about, dear,” Enid replied. She knew exactly to whom Lola was referring, but she still felt a residual annoyance at Billy Litchfield over Mrs. Houghton’s apartment. She’d always considered Billy a good friend—so he should have come to her first and at least have had the courtesy to inform her of what he was planning to do with the Rices.

But she didn’t want to think about Billy Litchfield or the Rices and their apartment. She was at the ballet now. Attending the ballet was one of the great pleasures in Enid’s life, and she had her rituals. She always sat in the first row in the first ring in seat 113, which she considered the best seat in the house, and she always treated herself to a glass of the most expensive champagne during the intermissions. The elegant first act, “Emeralds,” was over, and after paying for the champagne, she turned to Lola. “What did you think of it, dear?” she asked.

Lola stared at the piece of strawberry in her glass. The ballet, she knew, was supposed to be the height of culture. But the first movement had more than bored her, it had literally made her want to scream and tear her hair out. The slow classical music grated on her nerves; it was so excruciating that for a moment, she actually questioned her wisdom in being with Philip. But she reminded herself that this wasn’t Philip’s fault—he wasn’t even here. He wisely—she realized—was at home.

“I liked it,” Lola said cautiously.

They moved away from the stalls and sat at a small table on the side, sipping their champagne. “Did you?” Enid said. “There’s a great debate over which ballet is better, ‘Emeralds,’ ‘Rubies,’ or ‘Diamonds.’ I personally prefer ‘Diamonds,’ but many people love the fire in ‘Rubies.’ You’ll have to make your own decision.”

“There’s more?” Lola said.

“Hours and hours,” Enid declared happily. “I’ve done quite a bit of thinking on the matter, and I’ve decided ballet is the very opposite of the Internet. Or those things you watch on your phone. What are they—podcasts? Ballet is the antidote to surfing the Web. It forces you to go deep. To think.”