“You’re nervous. That’s good. If you weren’t, I’d be worried.”
With the deputy’s help, Finch pulled the T-shirt back on.
Deputy Karl asked Finch to speak, to test the equipment, which Finch then did.
“All set, Sheriff,” Karl said.
Walt thanked Karl and dismissed her.
“If you can get him on the defensive,” Walt said to Finch, reminding her of what they’d discussed only minutes earlier.
“Yeah, I know: trip him up.”
“No, actually, I wouldn’t go there. He invited you. You’re not going to plant any land mines that he isn’t prepared for, that he hasn’t seen coming. But if you engage him intellectually, you might get an emotional reaction. You might get him off his game.”
“I’m listening…”
“We use these same techniques in interrogation. The idea is to get the subject in his own comfort zone, whatever that is. Then engage him on his own terms, not yours. Speak his language. Act as if you’re his guest, not the other way around. If he has a one-syllable vocabulary, keep with one syllable. Pull him out slowly and then challenge him, again on his terms. Don’t back him into a corner until you’ve led him out into the middle of the room. It’s an outgrowth of differential reinforcement. People allowed to win early will later defend their positions. People challenged from the start will shut down. The catch is, it requires you to forfeit your own ego. It’s tricky stuff, but I promise you it works.”
“Which means I do what?” she asked.
“Basically, let him do the talking as much as possible. Be aware that he may try the same techniques on you. One thing I wouldn’t do is state anything as fact. Questions are fine. Statements tend to backfire, and, in your case, may shut him down.”
“But I know what I’m talking about!” she protested.
“That’s exactly what you have to leave behind: that attitude. Someone may have been stalking you, maybe or maybe not related to Remy, but, from where I stand, it only makes sense. He may have wanted to scare you out of the valley. When that didn’t happen, he moved on to plan B, fraternizing with the enemy, dismissing your claims. If nothing else, by questioning you he finds out how to be prepared for you. He knows he has to come up with acceptable answers in case you try to crash the auction like you crashed the tasting. He’s playing you. If the bottles are forgeries-”
“They are!”
“Then he’s fooled a lot of people already. As you said, that means he’s already got a lot of time and money invested in this. So a lot is riding on the outcome, including his reputation. And you are the Antichrist.”
“If this was supposed to be a pep talk…”
“It wasn’t,” he said.
“And if he does try something…”
“He won’t. If he does, we’re two to three minutes away, tops.” Walt scooped up the CABO phone and handed it to her. “We’re recording everything. Go in and get what you can.”
Janet Finch stood at the front door of the Christensens’ house on Aspen Drive, the doorbell chiming, her heart in her throat. She took a deep breath to settle herself. It didn’t work.
Remy answered the door, his übercool glasses and stubble haircut, silk pants and linen shirt lending him a moneyed look.
“Ms. Finch.” He stepped aside, admitting her.
She entered the home, admiring the furnishings, including the piano in the living room. He pointed to a couch. She was swallowed by it. Remy took a sturdier armchair to her left. She found him intimidating.
“I would like to think you’ve come here of your own accord, Ms. Finch-what a lovely name, incidentally: a practical and decorative bird, the finch-that your thoughts are your own. Because I fear it is more likely that your so-called research is really an effort on someone else’s part to devalue or invalidate my historic find, either out of penurious underhandedness or scholarly jealousy.”
He had taken the high ground, attempting to drive her back on her heels.
She resisted the urge to defend herself. “I appreciate your time, Mr. Remy. I’m delighted you called.”
“You are aware of the due diligence a find like this is put through?” he said. “The rigors of research and testing involved in verification? I remind you: these bottles were discovered nearly eleven months ago, shortly after the Jeffersons, and have been undergoing authentication and verification ever since. The best experts have examined, reviewed, and analyzed this find, and yet you, a graduate student who originally majored in animal husbandry, believe the experts got it all wrong. Don’t you find that the slightest bit presumptuous?”
She took a deep breath. “I may have given you the wrong impression, Mr. Remy. Yes, I have some questions for you, it’s true. And, yes, they are of a scholarly bent and for my doctoral thesis. I did not, do not, expect to be compared in the same breath with such experts as Shilling, Partuuk, and Hamlin. I was hoping, however presumptuous it may be of me, to help you, not to challenge you; to prevent you from making what I believe would be a horrible mistake and thereby safeguard your incredible reputation… a mistake that would be bad not only for you but for our industry.”
He studied her, squinting suspiciously through his thick glasses. She felt violated, and crossed her arms high on her chest.
“That would presume I give your claims any credence,” he said.
“Indeed.”
“And I assure you, I do not. We have documentation and certification confirming the authenticity of this find. What is more problematic is the damage your dogged determination to prove me wrong can inflict on the auction price. If you are trying to make a name for yourself, Ms. Finch, you may want to rethink your strategy. I promise you, it’s not my reputation that’s going to suffer if you persist, it’s yours.”
Again, she fought the urge to do battle with him. “Ha! I see you figured me out,” she said sarcastically. “How clever you are, Mr. Remy.” She stood up from the couch. “Believe it or not, I didn’t come here to entertain you. If at some point you’re interested in keeping yourself out of the tabloids and maybe out of jail, you might study microfractures, especially as they pertain to glass of a wood-ash composition. You have my number.”
He came out of the chair with a remarkable agility, a catlike quickness that surprised her. He had her by the upper arm, his strength considerable. “I’ve insulted you,” he said. “How foolish of me.”
“You are a legend, sir. A broker that has put his name in the history books multiple times. You must have plenty of money. So I just don’t see the point of this… charade. You may believe me out of my element, and you’re entitled to your opinion, but in fact this is my element. I am a student of the very experts you’ve used in your verification. My interest is to complete the research necessary to finish writing my thesis.”
“Microfractures?” he said.
“Glass is a supercooled liquid,” she said. “As a result, there is no order to the molecules. They’ve been caught in a state between liquid and solid, and won’t achieve a solid state for aeons. Because of this random distribution of molecules, glass, when it is cut with an engraving tool or ground with a grinder, produces microfractures aligning away from the tool or grinder. Modern engraving is done with diamond tips spinning at phenomenal speeds, far faster than the tools of two centuries ago. Today’s tools produce microfractures aligning into the glass, not away from the tool.
“Dr. Weisling was not stabbed to death by a madman. He was stabbed to death because his microfracture research uncovered your bottles as fakes. Either you knew that going in or it was too late to stop what you’d started, but either way your reputation is on the line.”