Chapter 11
The L subway platform is relatively empty as I wait by the escalator for Edmund. Even though Edmund doesn’t have a financial motive, if it’s personal, he’s the one I suspect. Maybe because we used to be rivals as children competing for Annabelle’s attention. If I spend time with him, he might reveal something.
I stand with several other people, studiously not making eye contact and yet clocking where each person is on the platform. The MTA service posters on the blue, metal columns confirm the L is running all the way to our stop.
Finally, Edmund, dressed in a suit and carrying a briefcase, comes down the escalator. He looks like he’s off to a business meeting, not an assignation with nefarious connections. That’s reassuring. I’m wearing a baseball hat, large sunglasses, and workout clothes—the better to run if I need to.
I didn’t tell Officer Johnson about Edmund’s connections, but I did alert him that Edmund said he heard the Kimimoto was for sale. Officer Johnson said he’d heard that too. It was a good sign. It hadn’t disappeared into some mobster’s art collection as future collateral for a lighter sentence or as the proceeds of a money laundering scheme. He said they were on it. I wonder if they’re going to set up a sting operation. They did that once when I was working at Christie’s. It breaks my heart to think of a unique piece of art being damaged or never seen again. Officer Johnson hadn’t heard anything about Playing Around 1:30.
Edmund reaches me. “Sorry I’m late. I was talking to some investors.”
Other than remotely managing olive oil farms, what Edmund actually does is a mystery to me. He must run some fund. He’s always talking about his investors.
“How are you doing?” he asks.
“I’ve been better.”
“You look like you’re doing okay, considering,” he says.
Should I pretend that I have another painting for the show? Like Takashi advised? Would Edmund even believe it?He is leaning slightly forward, his shoulders hunched. Typical insecure Edmund posture. Not the stance of someone gloating.
“I just can’t give up hope yet that we won’t find the paintings.”
He nods. “There is that.”
“You’ve weathered some pretty traumatic events,” I say. His mother died when he was a baby, and he was raised by an older, distant father.
“When Annabelle told me that she was going to marry David, I couldn’t get out of bed.”
He did look like crap at Annabelle’s engagement party. “But you did.”
“I remembered how many marriages end in divorce and decided not to give up hope either,” he says. “But then I think the statistics for the return of stolen paintings are not as high.”
“Are you trying to bring me down?” I ask.
“No, actually,” he says. “Anyway, I’m dating someone new now. I found a woman who appreciates me.”
I stare at him. He’s dating someone? Is he over Annabelle? Then maybe he doesn’t have a motive.
A sudden wave of air swooshes through the station, signaling the L train is arriving. We board, shuffling in toward the middle, each holding on to the bar.
At the next stop, the people seated in front of us leave and we grab their seats. Across from us is a dusty construction worker, his eyes closed as he leans back to rest against the seat.
Edmund opens his suit jacket and places the briefcase on his lap. I sincerely hope he’s not carrying a briefcase stuffed with five hundred dollars in cash like in the cartoons.
He whispers to me, “I’ve got the cash in my briefcase. In unmarked bills. The thousand-dollar payment.”
Shit.
“I said five hundred.”
“He said a thousand. It’s not as much money as your painting and the Kimimoto are worth on the open market,” he says. “You can pay me back when you sell them.”
“But then we’re not actually buying the paintings back now,” I say. “We’re only getting information, which may or may not be correct. I’d definitely prefer not to pay that kind of money now. Have you ever met these people before?”
“No, but I’ve met the guy who set us up. He wanted to sell me a painting once before, but I was worried about the provenance. Ultimately, I decided not to purchase it.”
“Because you doubted its provenance?” I ask. “That’s not reassuring.”
“Because I wasn’t in love with it.”
Just when I think I don’t like Edmund, he says something that wins me over. You have to be in love with a painting to buy it. A painting should make you feel something when you look at it. But that was a high standard to meet. And if people want to buy my art as an investment, I fully support that approach too.
“How’s your painting going?” Edmund asks solicitously.
“Not so well. I’ve lost my mojo. But I’ll get it back.”
“Because of the loss of the exhibit?” His expression is concerned.
“And my painting.” I didn’t like knowing that my painting was gone—potentially forever. It was one thing to sell it to someone who valued it, and another to think of it being destroyed out of spite or left to gather dust as collateral.
Edmund used to gloat openly when I got into trouble. My eyes narrow. This solicitous Edmund is a red flag.
“Why were you with Takashi’s nephew?” he asks. “I could have driven you up to Vinnie’s. You just had to ask.”
“He wants to find his uncle’s painting. I didn’t know you knew Vinnie so well. It would have been a bit much for me to ask you to drive me.”
“I would go just for you.”
“Because I’m Annabelle’s sister?” I ask slowly.
“Because we grew up together. I’m here for you.”
That’s what Edmund always says, but once he drove us to a graduation party in Long Island and then left me there. He told Annabelle I’d gone with Rex, and they left together. Alone time with Annabelle trumped bringing me home.
“How do you know Vinnie so well?”
“I don’t know him that well,” Edmund says. “We have similar taste in art. It seems like we can be useful to each other.”
How useful?Vinnie’s taste in art is far broader—the Kimimoto being one prime example of abstract art that he likes.
We exit the subway and walk down the wide, deserted street. A pair of sneakers hangs from a lamppost. No trees break the concrete sidewalks. A sign for a metalworking shop hangs crookedly, a notice of eviction plastered on the shopfront’s grate. An empty, plastic bag billows down the street.
“We shouldn’t have met here,” I say. We pass a butcher shop, the hooks for the meat slabs hanging empty, the smell of dried blood lingering. “We should have met in Manhattan on a very crowded street in a packed diner.”
“They would only meet here,” he says. “I didn’t particularly want to come to Brooklyn.” Edmund doesn’t usually stray far from his Upper East Side neighborhood, similar to those New Yorkers who never go north of Fourteenth Street.
We pass by a stone-making place that looks like a quarry—and a good place to be buried.
Edmund has no muscle to him. He’s skinny. He didn’t even do sports in high school.
I know self-defense, but I can’t afford to get hurt. I need to be able to waitress and perform if no money is coming in from selling paintings.
This might have been a mistake.
I did check the meeting place on Google Maps. It’s a coffee shop, and the back door leads out to a parking lot. What if we are hustled out the back door into a car? My imagination is in overdrive. Tessa is tracking me on her phone, unless she’s called into a meeting.
My phone rings. It’s William. I silence my phone.
“How will we know who we’re meeting?” I ask.
“He’ll have a book,” he says.
“Not a rose?” I ask.
“It’s good to know you haven’t lost your sense of humor yet.” Edmund pushes open the glass door to the small, no-frills restaurant. A bell jingles. A waitress by the cash register on the back counter gestures to find a table and then returns to checking her phone. A huge, muscular man with a mustache commands the Formica table in the corner, his back to the wall. He holds a book as if reading it. The restaurant is otherwise empty.
Edmund retrieves his book from his briefcase. What is with this old-school code? I would have thought they’d call each other. I’m in a bad B-movie. And you know what happens to the stupid girl in those movies—the one who decides to wander around at night in her lingerie.
The man nods.
We approach. As I pull out my chair, it makes a raspy sound against the linoleum-tiled floor. I flinch.
“You said you had information about the Kimimoto?” Edmund asks.
“I do,” the guy replies in a deep, gravelly voice with a New York accent. “First the money.”
“First we need to know if the information is actually worth the money,” Edmund says.
Oh, go Edmund.I had not expected him to be good at this.
The two men take each other’s measure like bulls preparing for a fight. I edge my chair back so that I’ll be out of the way.
The man says, “There’s a Staten Island art ring. They steal art and sell it in Europe, in countries where provenance matters less. They’ve put out the word that the Kimimoto is for sale.”
I tilt my head. He knows something about how art theft works.
“How can we contact them?” Edmund asks.
“What about Playing Around?” I ask.
He looks at me briefly, dismissively. “Yeah, that one too.”
“How much are they selling it for?” I could use my savings to buy it back. It would be worth it to me.
He holds out his thick hand for the money.
One thousand dollars. Three weeks’ full-time waitressing to earn.
I stare at him, considering. His jaw is set, protruding, and he’s crossed his arms, waiting. He ignores me, keeping his eyes on Edmund.
The mustache is fake. An edge of the mustache is curled away from his skin. It’s a costume mustache. It looks remarkably real, but not to me. I’ve grown up watching characters created from pots of makeup and racks of accessories.
I put my hand out to stop Edmund as he unlocks his briefcase.
“I’m not sure—”
“You’re not sure what?” growls the guy.
“I want to discuss this with Edmund in private,” I say. “Outside.”
Edmund gets a pinched expression, and his lips compress into a slash. I stand and walk out, not looking back. He’ll follow. As I open the door, his chair rasps on the floor. He’s following. Outside, the street is still deserted.
Inside, the guy stands and pulls out his phone. Standing, he looks even more imposing. I turn away from the café window.
“He’s wearing a fake mustache,” I say. “I don’t think he’s for real.”
“What are you talking about?” Edmund paces. “We can’t not pay him the money. He just told us about a Staten Island art ring.”
“I’ve never heard of a Staten Island art ring.”
“You haven’t worked at Christie’s for years. I’m sure new rings start up. How would you know?” Edmund’s tone is scornful.
“Why is he wearing a fake mustache if he’s for real?”
Edmund stops cold. “How do you know it’s fake? What does the fake mustache have to do with this?” But he says it in a tone of “what do you know?” as if channeling my mother.
I stand firm. “It has everything to do with this. A criminal is not going to be wearing a fake mustache. Pay him one hundred dollars and let’s go. We’re not paying him one thousand dollars.”
“What if he doesn’t accept that?” Edmund pales. “I’d rather pay him the money than get hurt.”
We stare at each other. Edmund’s eyes blink rapidly. He crosses his arms, his hands in his armpits. He seems genuinely scared.
I bite my lip. For some reason, this guy is pretending to know about the art ring, so someone put him up to this. But even though the criminal underworld is not wearing fake mustaches, the fact that he’s here, even if he’s pretending, is still concerning.
“I’ll pay him the hundred dollars, and you stand out here then,” I say. “Call us an Uber or something that can come get us quickly.”
Edmund checks his phone. “The only Uber is twenty minutes away.”
“Take it anyway,” I say. “I’ll negotiate.” I have a hundred dollars in my wallet. Edmund clicks to request the Uber.
“I can’t let you face him by yourself,” he says.
“Be ready to run,” I say.
Edmund gives me a curt nod.
We march back inside. The guy lumbers forward. He has absolutely huge biceps. He’s wearing a black T-shirt, but are there coats that fit arm muscles that big?
Concentrate.
“Look, I don’t believe you,” I say to the guy—from a distance of ten feet. “I’ve never heard of a Staten Island art ring. We’ll pay you a hundred bucks for your time and this information, but we don’t need any more.”
The guy does a double take. He glares at us.
“That’s not enough. I gave you good information,” he says. “I can get you in touch with them.”
Edmund says, “We’ll give you two hundred.”
“Edmund.” I feel like I’m playing bad cop.
Edmund takes out two hundred dollars and hands it to him. I shake my head.
The guy pockets the money. “Your loss.” He snickers.
Am I wrong?But there’s no way he’d be wearing a fake mustache. Plus, if there is some Staten Island art ring, we can figure it out from here.
We hurry out of the diner ahead of him. Now we’re stuck waiting for the Uber. I walk a safe distance away from the door, but Edmund takes his sweet time, as if he’s oblivious to any danger.
“Edmund,” I bite out.
The guy exits and turns left, but then suddenly doubles back around, runs over, and grabs Edmund’s briefcase. Edmund gives a shout of shock, his mouth open, his body frozen. The guy takes off in the opposite direction.
I give chase. He’s fast, but he’s heavy and shorter than me. I’m gaining.
Out of the corner of my eye, a car is pulling alongside. Shit. Probably his accomplice. No Edmund behind me.
The car stops. Last chance. I leap to tackle him. He flings me off with his arm. I stumble, but I’m up again. Going for the shoulders was a mistake. Aim for the legs. I sprint to catch up, and I dive for his legs, grabbing them.
We both go down.
Aargh. Shooting pain. My knees hit the concrete.
He lets go of the briefcase as he puts out his hands to stop his fall. My knees sting. At least my upper body is on top of him.
“Oof.” He curses me.
I scramble up quickly and grab the briefcase.
He gets to his feet, cursing me again, and crouches. He’s going to tackle me or grab the briefcase. We lock glances, and his eyes narrow. His jaw clenches.
I can smell my fear. I should turn around and run, but my legs are jelly. He juts his forehead out, like a bull about to charge, his eyebrows drawn together. I whimper and back away. Okay, Miranda, on three, run as fast as you can. One, two—
His phone rings. He looks down.
I whirl around and race back to Edmund. He’s holding his phone and opening the door to the Uber. I yell for him to get in. He gets in. I slide in behind him.
“Go!” I say to the Uber driver, who has turned around in his front seat to stare at us.
“What is this?” the Uber driver asks.
“That man just tried to steal our briefcase.” My voice cracks.
A woman exits what I thought was the getaway car. Not an accomplice, then.
The guy has disappeared. My whole body quivers. He was so enraged, he might’ve hit me if he’d gotten the chance. I take deep breaths and stare out the window at the passing cars. My legs and stomach still feel jittery. The anger in his eyes—that seemed very real. I squeeze my hands between my knees so Edmund can’t see them shaking.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“I’m fine. Just processing it all.”
“I thought I’d better secure our Uber to hasten our departure.”
I can feel him leaning closer, trying to see my face.
I keep my face glued to the view of the streets passing by. Don’t let Edmund see. Pull yourself together. Who planned this? Did Edmund plan this? He looked surprised.
I’m afraid my voice will be shaky if I speak.
His hand touches my shoulder as if to pat it. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
This is even worse. Edmund seeing me scared. I straighten my shoulders and take a deep breath. Think of a calming, blue painting. Matisse’s Leaf Cutouts. The ultramarine-blue apples. The pink, green, and orange leaves. The serenity of Wildlife. The pressure in my chest subsides. I relax my face muscles. Smile.
I face Edmund. “It was good to get the Uber. I can’t afford to lose that kind of money.”
“I wouldn’t have made you pay that back. That was my fault,” Edmund says. “But I still think we got something useful from him. A Staten Island art ring. I will look into that. We should work together to crack this case.” His shoulders curve, his palm is up, but the way that guy looked at me … as if he was deciding whether or not to hit me …
“I appreciate that you set this up, but I don’t know what it was,” I say. “It feels like a scam where I nearly lost one thousand dollars.”
Edmund’s face turns red.
I need to calm down. I don’t want to piss off Edmund; he has to think that I trust him. “I’m happy to work together. Just not now. I want to go home.”
“Are you giving up on finding the perpetrator?” He leans forward, his gaze intent on my face.
I don’t trust Edmund. I never have. But I feel bad not trusting him because we have grown up together and I don’t have any basis for not trusting him—except for some teenage pranks. Mostly, it’s just a sixth sense. And my family always makes fun of my sixth sense.
I have no definitive proof that Edmund was responsible for those teenage pranks. In one case, I was responsible for watering my mother’s prized rosebush. She gave me some supplements to feed it, and it died shortly thereafter. I caught Edmund with the supplements once—before I’d fed the plants the supplement. When I’d turned around, he had been smiling slyly until his glance met mine and his face went blank. But why? Except that my mom said I had to buy a new plant—she was convinced I had not watered them properly—and he’d had time alone with Annabelle while I had to take on more babysitting jobs.
And then he’d given me rose soap for my birthday. Because he wanted me to know he got away with it. My mother thought rose soap was romantic. As if.
“I probably should let the police do their job,” I say.
We drive under a subway track overpass, negotiating with other cars as we head for the Williamsburg Bridge.
“Do they have any leads?” Edmund’s tone is searching.
“I’m not exactly the first person they’re going to call to tell.” Let Edmund think that the detective doesn’t trust me. “As far as I know, I’m still a suspect.”
“Remember, I’m here for you. Let’s discuss later this week if you still want to do any investigating.” He shifts in his seat. “Where do you want to be dropped off? I’m meeting someone for dinner in Little Italy.”
“I’ll get off with you. There’s a good art store in that neighborhood.” Plus, I can walk across town to William’s apartment.
“You should not waste your money buying more art supplies. It’s not like you’re rolling in dough.”
“Now you sound like family,” I say.
“I consider you to be my family. My found family,” Edmund says. “Especially given how remote my father was.”
“Aw,” I say, even though I hate it when Edmund says this. And he knows it. He knows that I don’t consider him to be part of my family. He shouldn’t want to join my messed-up family. It just shows what a disaster his family was. “Thanks for trying to find the paintings.”
“Do you have any hypotheses as to who might have stolen them?” he asks.
“No.” We’re stuck behind a white truck labeled Sal’s Deliveries.
“What about Tony’s theater colleagues? Isn’t there a lot of infighting there?” he asks.
“No. They get along pretty well.” I pay him the hundred dollars I have.
“I want to help you find them,” he says.
The Uber lets us off on Mulberry Street by Di Palo’s Fine Foods, and we part. A sense of relief fills me as I walk away. I look back. He waves. He’s watching me. I walk up a block because SoHo Art Materials is over on Wooster, but I’m not planning to go there. Once Edmund disappears inside a restaurant, I walk south down Mulberry. Strings of lights crisscross above the street. Italian music is playing and conversations buzz in the crowded cafés. Italian flags wave above the restaurant signs. A sign says Made Fresh Daily, Mozzarella * Burrata * Ricotta.
I turn left at Hester Street, passing by signs in Chinese and English announcing a foot spa and take-out restaurant. Even if Edmund has a girlfriend, I doubt he’s over Annabelle. He just bought that Versal. Does Edmund want to help me out to get in my good graces so he can woo Annabelle without my interference? So did she tell him what I said?
I call Annabelle as I stand on the corner of Canal, waiting to cross west. Across from me is the East Bank, a beautiful, large, traditional, Chinese-architecture-styled building with a red, ceramic-tiled roof slanting down to overhanging eves with slightly upturned corners. The Freedom Tower stands tall off to the south. Annabelle picks up.
“Did you ever tell Edmund that I didn’t think you should marry him?”
“And hello to you too,” she says.
“I’m sorry. But Edmund seems to be trying to make a good impression on me.”
“I do wish you and Edmund got along better,” she says. “Even if I did tell him that I wasn’t in love with him and that you also thought we didn’t suit.”
“Great.” So Edmund could be trying to help me to get my support for his suit, or he could be the person who stole the painting and just orchestrated that snitch scenario. Someone who hates me enough to sabotage my career.
“Yeah, I’m sorry about that. I should’ve left you out,” Annabelle says. “But he’s changed recently. I think we might suit after all.”
No. You’re much better than him, Annabelle.That’s what I said last time.
“I can’t believe David cheated on you,” I say. “But for sure, Edmund’s been so in love with you for so many years, he’s not going to cheat.”
“That’s one consolation,” she says wryly.
“What were the subjects of the photos he gave you?” I ask.
“Photos of us as kids. One in front of the tree house we all played in.”
My dad had built that for me. It was the coolest tree house ever.
“Were there any secret pockets?” I ask. Edmund and she passed notes as kids via a secret pocket in the back of my painting. “Did you look behind them?”
“Nothing. The police inspected them when they were here interviewing me,” she says. “I’ve got to get back to work. You should let Edmund help you find your painting. He wants to help.”
I’d rather stick with William. I call Officer Johnson and tell him about the meeting. He agrees with me that it sounds like it was a setup to get money out of me—and maybe scare me.
“It doesn’t seem professional,” Officer Johnson says.
I breathe easier. It was worth going, just for that intelligence. Because either Edmund set that up, or he was used by Vinnie to set that up. But it shows that the thief is not content with just stealing the paintings and lying low. So, eventually, the thief will make a revealing mistake.
And now to call William, who will not be impressed that I met the nefarious connection against his advice. As I walk west along Canal Street, past the McDonald’s with the signs in Chinese and English, the smell of fresh-ground coffee beans from a café permeates the air. Vendors hawk their wares in front of stores stuffed with suitcases, NYC souvenirs, sunglasses, T-shirts, bags, and hats.
“Hey,” William says. “You didn’t pick up earlier.”
“I went to meet Edmund’s contact.”
“Shit. Are you crazy?”
“It was fine.” No need to tell him the details. I sniff myself to see if I still detect the scents of sweat and fear. Maybe a little.
“It’s not fine to meet people who identify themselves as criminals,” he says, sputtering.
“I’m not sure he was for real.”
“What do you mean you don’t think he was for real?”
“Where are you? Do you want to meet up?”
“I’m at home.”
“Okay, I’ll come over. What’s your address?” I skirt around a hot dog cart.
“Uh, right now?”
“Yes, I’m a spur-of-the-moment kind of gal. Plus, I’m in your neighborhood.” Or I will be in a few blocks. “Edmund just dropped me off. Why? Are you doing something?”
“Yes, I do work. And April is tax season, so I’m particularly busy.”
“I’m sure you’ve got it all under control. And you probably need a break. Have you had dinner yet?”
“No.”
Not much of an invitation, but that doesn’t deter me. “Great, we can have dinner together.”
He gives me his address. I’m a few blocks away. Broadway disperses into the wider, quieter streets of Tribeca. A subway whooshes by under the grates in the sidewalk. Now we’re in the land of neo-Greek fa?ades with huge, Grecian columns surrounding glass-windowed art galleries, fire escapes climbing down the front fa?ades, and metal steps leading up to entrances. An orange-and-purple abstract painting lights up one of the art-gallery windows. The artist was an MFA student a few years ahead of me at Columbia.
The bright-pink fa?ade of a donut shop beckons ahead. I should come bearing gifts, and donuts create a lighter touch, especially sprinkled, pink-frosted ones. Which one will he choose among the pink, chocolate, and white frosting options? Plain chocolate is my bet, but he has shown hidden depths before. I can’t even contemplate the possibility that he doesn’t eat donuts, even if he doesn’t take sugar in his coffee.