One Fifth Avenue

“How long before they get me?” Billy asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Before I go to jail?”

“You won’t necessarily go to jail. There are all kinds of things that can happen. You can plea-bargain or do a deal. If you went to the police right now, to the attorney general, and told him what you know, he’d probably agree to give you immunity.”

“I should turn in the Brewers to save myself?” Billy said.

“That’s what it amounts to.”

“I couldn’t,” Billy said. “They’re my friends.”

“They’re my friends, too,” Annalisa said. “But Connie hasn’t committed a crime by taking a gift from her husband. Don’t be foolish,” she added warningly. “Sandy Brewer won’t think twice about doing the same thing to you.”

Billy put his head in his hands. “This kind of thing, it just isn’t done. Not in our set.”

“It’s not a child’s tea party,” Annalisa said sharply. “Billy, you’ve got to understand. All of the imagined traditions in the world won’t help you. You’ve got to face the facts squarely and decide what to do. Meaning what’s best for you.”

“What happens to the Brewers?”

“Don’t worry about the Brewers,” Annalisa said. “Sandy is beyond rich. He’ll buy his way out of this, you’ll see. He’ll claim he didn’t know what he was buying. He’ll claim he bought art from you all the time. You’ll take the fall, not him. I was a lawyer for eight years. Trust me, it’s always the little people who get thrown under the bus.”

“The little people,” Billy said, shaking his head. “So it’s come to that. I’m one of the little people after all.”

“Billy, please, let me help you,” Annalisa said.

“I just need some time. To thin

k,” Billy said, showing her to the door.

Two days later, Detective Frank Sabatini, accompanied by four police officers, arrived at the offices of Brewer Securities at three P. M. sharp. Detective Sabatini had found this hour most propitious for the arrest of white-collar criminals: They were back from their lunches by then and, with their bellies full, were much more compliant.

Frank Sabatini was very sure of his man. The day before, Craig Akio, having denied any knowledge of either the e-mail or the cross to Detective Sabatini, had mysteriously left for Japan, and citing the fact that his suspect might be given to run, like Mr. Akio, Detective Sabatini was able to obtain a search warrant for the Brewer abode. It happened to be the week of school vacation, and Connie had taken the whole brood, including the two nannies, to Mexico. The only ones home were the maids, who were helpless in the face of the law. It was, Sabatini thought, a very exciting morning, as the safe had to be opened by use of explosives. Nevertheless, his gunpowder man was very good, and nothing in the safe was damaged, including the cross. The confirmation that this was indeed the stolen item long missing was made by David Porshie, who’d been waiting for the detective’s call.

Now, at Brewer Securities, hearing a commotion in the hallway, Paul Rice walked out of his spacious, entirely white office to join the few other partners and employees in watching Sandy Brewer being led out in handcuffs. “Jezzie,” Sandy said to his assistant on his way out, “call my lawyer. There must be some mistake here.” Expressionless, Paul observed the spectacle, and when Sandy was safely in the elevator, Paul went back to his desk. The office erupted in gossip and speculation: Everyone assumed Sandy had committed some kind of financial fraud, and they hurried back to their computers to clean up their accounts. Paul decided to take the afternoon off.

He found Annalisa in her prettily decorated office, researching something on the Web. When he appeared in the doorway, she jumped and quickly hit a button on her computer. “What are you doing home?” she asked in alarm. “Has something happened?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Of course,” Paul said. “Why shouldn’t it be?”

“Considering what’s gone wrong in this building in the past two months,” she said with an edge of sarcasm, “I don’t know.”

“There’s nothing to worry about now,” Paul said, heading upstairs to visit his fish. “I’ve taken care of it. From now on, everything is going to be fine.”

Billy Litchfield spent the two days leading up to Sandy Brewer’s arrest in a haze of fear. He called no one, not trusting himself to behave normally, afraid, if asked, that he would inadvertently blurt out the story of his involvement with the cross. Four or five times, he considered leaving the country, but where would he go? He had a little bit of money, but not enough to stay away forever. Perhaps he could go to Switzerland, where he’d be able to collect some of his money. But the fear paralyzed him. Although he spent hours on the Internet Googling Sandy Brewer’s name to see if anything had happened, the reality of booking a flight and packing a suitcase overwhelmed him. The very thought sent him to his bed, where he curled up in the fetal position under the covers. He had random, unhealthy, repetitive thoughts and kept thinking about a line from a ghost story that had terrified him as a kid—“I want my liver.”

It also occurred to him that maybe Sandy Brewer wouldn’t be caught, and they’d both go free. Who knew how much evidence the detective had? Perhaps it truly was nothing more than a rumor that might persist for a while and then go away. Mrs. Houghton had kept the cross on her bureau in her bedroom in One Fifth Avenue for years with no one the wiser. If he wasn’t caught, Billy vowed he would somehow change his life. He had predicated his entire existence on social obligations, on the desire to be with the right people at the right time and in the right place. Now he saw all too clearly his mistake. He’d thought that this desire for the best in life was going to add up to something substantial and concrete. It hadn’t.

Trapped in his apartment, he remembered the many times in his life when he had told himself, “Who needs money when one has rich friends?” He wondered how his rich friends could help him now.

Staring out his living room window at the same view he’d had for years—the Episcopal Church, the stones brown with grime—he saw that a scaffolding was being erected around his building. Of course. The owners were renovating to prepare for the conversion to co-op. He’d done nothing about his apartment situation, not knowing if he would be able to stay in New York City. Was it too late? Would it even matter? Taking himself back to bed, he turned on the television.

The story about Sandy Brewer’s arrest was all over the evening news. The clip of Sandy being led out in handcuffs and then, with a policeman’s hand on his head, pushed into the backseat of a squad car, played over and over. The newscasters claimed Sandy Brewer had been caught in possession of an invaluable English treasure believed to have come from the estate of one of the city’s most important philanthropists, Mrs. Louise Houghton. There was no mention of Billy.