She closed Michael’s message and saw that she had one from Frederick Locke. How are things proceeding? Please let me know, and try to keep me updated on a more regular basis, could you? Frankly, this entire crisis is wearing on my nerves. I’m having trouble sleeping and my concentration is shot. I can’t stop thinking about all the possible ramifications of our discovery, he wrote.
Our discovery? Ava thought. She wrote to him, Please stay calm. Everything is under control.
She logged out of her email account and took a shower. When she came out of the bathroom, she took her time dressing. She chose her pink Brooks Brothers shirt and the black linen slacks, completing the outfit with her black leather Cole Haan pumps. She had about an hour to get to Glen Hughes’ residence, enough time, she figured, to take a detour around Central Park.
Ava packed her bag with her notebook and some of the files. She was still left with the three bound with a rubber band, which she carried in her hand.
From the hotel on 60th Street she headed north on 8th Avenue, with Central Park to her right. She had been in, through, and around the park many times. Its southern perimeter was marked by 59th Street, and 110th Street was to its north, a distance of about four kilometres. From west to east the park spanned less than a kilometre. She calculated her route from the Mandarin to Hughes’ place on East 65th to be about eight kilometres, which meant she had to maintain a brisk pace. After ten minutes she knew it wasn’t going to work. Her shoes weren’t built for speed, and the sun was so bright that she was already sweating.
At West 85th she turned into the park and crossed the Great Lawn towards Fifth Avenue. As she exited onto Fifth she saw a sign for the Guggenheim Museum to the north, and another for the Metropolitan Museum of Art to the south. Ava headed over to Lexington Avenue and walked south, past signs pointing to the Whitney Museum of American Art and then the Frick Collection. Glen Hughes had evidently planted himself in the middle of the high-class art world.
She got to 65th Street with ten minutes to spare. Hughes lived in the middle of a row of eight townhouses, each three storeys high. Ava couldn’t even begin to guess what they would cost — three million? six million? One housed a psychiatrist’s office. Two were lawyers’ offices. A brass plaque that read glen hughes, art consultant was screwed into the wall to the right of Hughes’ bright red door.
There was no knocker and no buzzer. Ava rapped on the door and waited. No answer. She rapped again. No answer. She was trying to extract her cellphone from her bag when the door was flung open.
Glen Hughes towered over her. He was at least six foot four, long and lean like his brother, but his blow-dried dark blond hair hung down over his ears. He was wearing blue silk pyjamas, and Ava wondered if she had woken him until she saw the cup in his hand. “Ms. Lee, right on time,” he said, and then stood aside to let her pass. “Go through to the first door on the left,” he directed.
The hallway had dark oak floors, pearl-white walls, and a ceiling that was a facsimile of the Sistine Chapel’s. Ava couldn’t help but stare, her mouth slightly ajar.
“It’s striking, isn’t it? I wish I could say it was my idea, but the previous occupant was a rabid Roman Catholic,” Hughes said.
She turned left into what was obviously his office. It had the same dark oak floor but was covered with a rich, glorious Persian rug. Rows of paintings hung three and four high. There was an antique desk, and behind it was a floor-to-ceiling bookcase, every inch filled. In front of the desk were two delicate wooden chairs, their seats upholstered in white silk.
Ava couldn’t remember ever entering a room that was quite so opulent, so beautifully put together, and the words tumbled from her mouth before she could think. “This is stunning.”
“Why, thank you. We do try to represent our values and tastes in everything we do,” he said.
He was behind her, and when she turned, his face was not more than a foot from hers. She saw the long, pointed nose, the chin that ended sharply, the thin red lips. But it was his eyes that held her attention. Helga had said it looked as if he had one large eye, and at that close proximity Ava had the same sensation. The eyes were blue like his brother’s, but not so open, not in the least curious. Dead — that’s the right word, Ava thought.
She sat without being asked and he moved to the chair behind the desk. “Would you like something to drink?” he asked as he settled in.
“No, I’m fine.”
He smiled at her. “So here we have the vicious little Ms. Lee.”
“That isn’t a word I would choose to describe myself.”
“And what word would you choose?”
“I’m an accountant.”
“I know you are.”
He’s awfully casual, she thought, and remembered Edwin Hughes’ description of his brother as cocky. His reference to her as an accountant, his whole manner, was a bit unsettling. Had she told Edwin she was an accountant? She couldn’t remember.
“You quite panicked my brother, you know, putting ideas about prison — not to mention disgrace and bankruptcy — into his head.”
“This is a serious business.”
“A man selling newspapers on a street corner thinks he’s involved in a serious business. Isn’t it all a matter of perspective?”
Ava sat back in the chair and tried to engage Glen Hughes’ eyes, but they were wandering, almost blissfully, from painting to painting. She said, “Edwin told you about the information I have?”
“About the three paintings Maurice O’Toole did for us? About your threat to write to Harold Holmes and the rest? About the million dollars you intend to extort from us?”
Ava felt her stomach turn. “I beg your pardon?”
“It’s an entire crock,” Hughes boomed.
“Mr. Hughes, I have proof positive that you and your brother commissioned and sold three fake paintings to some of the most prestigious collectors in the United Kingdom.”
“I know that, but that’s not why you’re here, is it, Ms. Lee? You have no interest in a million dollars.”
“What are you trying to say?” she asked.
“You’re here about the Fauvist pieces I sold to that ignorant amateur in Hong Kong. What was his name? Kwan? Wang? Wing?”
So Edwin told him absolutely everything, she thought. “Kwong,” she said.
“Yes, Mr. Kwong. That’s why you’re here.”
He stared triumphantly at her. A man full of himself, a man who loves to hear himself talk, she thought.
“I know all about what you’re up to,” he said, as if he had just scored a debating point.
“And what is that?”
“You want me to repay the money that some fool in China paid Kwong for that art.”
Ava closed her eyes. “Yes, that’s why I’m here,” she said.
“And my understanding is that you intend to use O’Toole’s rather excellent Manet and Modiglianis as your bargaining chips. Pay in China, save our skins in the U.K. and here. That’s the general idea, yes?”
“Yes,” she said, wondering what Edwin hadn’t told him.
He had been holding the cup in his hand, letting it hover in midair, a prop. Now he placed it gently on the saucer. Ava noticed a tiny dribble of saliva at the corner of his mouth. He’s more agitated than he’s letting on, she thought.
“Before we go down that rather complicated path I would like to see the proof you supposedly have. Edwin did go on about it, but he has less experience with this kind of thing and is prone to overreact. You have no objections, I assume?”
Ava removed the rubber band from the files she’d been carrying. She found the file with records of the Modigliani that had been purchased by Harold Holmes, and passed it to Hughes.
“I need to go to the toilet,” he said. “Do you mind if I take this with me?”
“It’s only a copy,” she said.
“I wasn’t going to flush it,” he said with amusement.
He didn’t look at her as he walked past, but when he brushed by she could smell perfume.