One Fifth Avenue

“You were helping the Brewers with their art collection, right?”

“I have in the past,” Billy admitted. “But they were mostly finished.”

“Do you know about any recent purchases they might have made? Maybe not through a dealer?”

“Hmmm,” Billy said, stalling. “What do you mean by ‘recent’?”

“In the last year or so?”

“They did go to the art fair in Miami. They may have bought a painting. As I said, they’re mostly finished with their collection. I’m actually working with someone else right now, quite intensely.”

“Who would that be?”

Billy swallowed. “Annalisa Rice.”

The detective wrote down the name and underlined it. “Thank you, Mr. Litchfield,” he said, handing Billy his card. “If you hear anything else about the Brewers’ collection, will you contact me?”

“Of course,” Billy said. He paused. “Is that it?”

“What do you mean?” the detective asked, moving to the door.

“Are the Brewers in trouble? They’re very nice people.”

“I’m sure they are,” the detective said. “Keep my card. We may be contacting you again soon. Good afternoon, Mr. Litchfield.”

“Good afternoon, Detective,” Billy said. He closed the door and collapsed onto his couch. Then he quickly got up and, sidling next to the curtain, peered out at Fifth Avenue. Every kind of cheap television crime scenario entered his mind. Was the detective gone? How much did he know? Or was he out there in an unmarked car, spying on Billy? Would Billy be tailed?

For the next two hours, Billy was too terrified to make a call or check his e-mail. Had he given himself away to the detective with his question about that being it? And why had he given the detective Annalisa Rice’s name? Now the detective would get in touch with her. How much did she really know? Sick with fear, he went into the bathroom and took two more pills. Then he lay down on his bed. Mercifully, sleep came, a sleep from which he prayed he wouldn’t have to wake.

He did, however—three hours later. His cell phone was ringing. It was Annalisa Rice. “Can I see you?” she asked.

“My God. Did the cop call you, too?”

“He just came by here. I wasn’t home. He told Maria it had something to do with the Brewers and did I know them.”

“What did she say?”

“She said she didn’t know.”

“Good for Maria.”

“Billy, what’s going on?”

“Are you alone?” Billy asked. “Can you come over here? I’d come to you, but I don’t want the doormen seeing me going in and out of One Fifth. And make sure you aren’t followed.”

Half an hour later, Annalisa, seated in front of Billy, held up her hands. “Billy, stop,” she said. “Don’t tell me any more. You’ve already told me too much.” She stood up. “You mustn’t tell anyone anything. Not a word about this. Anything you say from now on can be used in a trial.”

“Is it really that bad?” Billy said.

“You need to hire a lawyer. David Porshie will convince the police to get a search warrant—for all we know, the attorney general is already involved—and they’ll search the Brewers’ apartment and find the cross.”

“They might not find anything,” Billy said. “The cross isn’t even in the apartment anymore. I told Connie to put it in a safety-deposit box.”

“Eventually, they’ll search that, too. It’s only a matter of time.”

“I could call Connie. And warn her. Tell her to take the cross away. Stash it in the Hamptons. Or Palm Beach. It was in One Fifth for sixty years, and no one knew a thing about it.”

“Billy, you’re not making sense,” Annalisa said soothingly. “Don’t make this worse for yourself than it already is. You’re implicated, and if you contact the Brewers, you’ll be charged with conspiracy as well.”