Steal, page 12
“Pritchard would probably love it,” she said. “He hates Brunetti.”
She had a point. True power is when no one can touch you, and Frank Brunetti didn’t have a single fingerprint on him. For decades, the FBI—not to mention the IRS, and even the SEC—had all tried to take him down, to no avail. With the best legal and public relations teams that dirty money can buy, Brunetti had never so much as paid a parking fine. His was the kind of power that would seriously piss off a Bureau division head like Evan Pritchard.
Still. “It’s not a good idea,” I said.
“It’s better than the idea of your going alone. Also, you have zero chance of talking me out of it.”
“Zero, huh?”
“Nada,” she said. “Zip.”
Okay, Lizzie. If you insist…
CHAPTER 46
The only sure bets in life: death, taxes, and mobsters worshipping Martin Scorsese films.
Frank Brunetti’s yacht was called Aces High. That made sense, given that it was a licensed offshore gambling boat, but the true inspiration actually came from Brunetti’s obsession with the movie Casino. As he explained to Allen Grimes, the boat was named after the talk show hosted by the character that Robert De Niro played. “I’ve watched that flick a hundred times, easy,” Brunetti went on to say in the interview.
I could only imagine how many times he’d seen Goodfellas.
“Welcome aboard,” said the chief steward, or so read his shiny nameplate, as Elizabeth and I stepped out of the cold and onto Aces High a few minutes before it left from the North Cove Marina in Battery Park at exactly 8 p.m. That was another thing I’d read about Brunetti. Like Jimmy Hoffa, he was big on punctuality.
There were roughly eighty to a hundred people on board, all of us gathered in a posh stateroom with blue velvet curtains that had been converted into a bar and lounge and, of course, a cozy, high-stakes casino. There were four blackjack tables, two roulette tables, and one craps table, all of which had to remain empty until we reached international waters three miles offshore.
Everyone around us looked as if they had a lot of disposable income, although not necessarily any of it earned legally. Meanwhile, Elizabeth simply looked stunning.
“Check out the stares. I’m the envy of every man here,” I said, as she and I hung out in the corner, nursing our glasses of the champagne that had been passed around.
She glanced down at her very form-fitting red dress. “Too much?”
“Just right,” I assured her. “Very Christmas-y.”
“So what’s the plan now?”
“We’re doing it.”
“You mean, waiting? That’s the plan?”
“Grimes got us the meeting. We just don’t know when it will be.”
“Are we even sure Brunetti is on the boat?”
“I’m not sure of anything right now,” I said. “But he’s supposed to be.”
“In other words, we’re betting on the come.”
“Wow. Someone did her homework.”
“It’s a common expression.” She cracked a smile. “Okay, maybe I did a little light research on casino games this afternoon. Betting on the come. It’s a bet you can make on a craps table.”
“I’m impressed,” I said. “Did you also read that the game of craps has the smallest house advantage of all table games, with 1.41 percent on pass-line bets, or 0.606 percent if you combine it with a standard free-odds bet?”
With one look Elizabeth made it very clear that she 100 percent didn’t care. “I don’t get this whole attraction-to-gambling thing that people have,” she said. “There’s too much risk.”
“So says the woman who basically risks her life for a living.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?” I nodded at the craps table. “No matter how big you lose over there you’re still only losing money.”
“Great,” she said, letting that sink in. “Now I’ve got to go find a new line of work tomorrow.”
“Assuming we make it through the night,” I said. “Did you see those two bags of concrete mix on the deck when we walked on?”
“Very funny.”
In a perfect world, Brunetti would have made some grand entrance at that moment and said a few welcoming words to his guests before heading over to Elizabeth and me with an invitation to some discreet parlor room for our meeting. But this was Brunetti’s world. His boat, his timetable. Our waiting. And waiting, and waiting…
Two hours later, with the casino in full swing but still no sign of Brunetti, it was time for a different plan.
“Let’s go play some blackjack,” I said.
“You’re joking, right? The minimum is a hundred dollars a hand.”
“Even better.”
“Better for what?” she asked.
“For how we’re going to win.”
“And how’s that?”
“It’s simple,” I said. “We’re going to cheat.”
CHAPTER 47
The higher the stakes at a blackjack table, the faster the dealers. Casinos are a volume business, after all. The more bets that are placed, the better their house advantage can pay off for them—no matter how slight that advantage might be.
Not surprisingly, Frank Brunetti had hired some of the quickest hands in the business to work his tables. Watching the dealer at my table was like watching the blur of a speeding train. Only I wasn’t watching the train. Just the tracks. The cards he was laying down.
“How would you like it?” the dealer asked after counting out the ten thousand in cash I’d placed on the felt in front of him. A dealer in any casino never takes money directly from another person’s hand.
“Six yellows, the rest in black,” I said. “Please.”
Twin stacks of black hundred-dollar chips, along with six yellow thousand-dollar chips, were slid over to me, for a total of ten grand. That was followed by the two words all gamblers hear when the exchange is complete. “Good luck,” said the dealer.
Subtext being, You’re going to need it.
Not tonight, though. All I needed were some quick hands of my own along with my partner in crime.
I glanced over at Elizabeth, who was standing exactly where I’d asked her to—left of the dealer, behind the shoe of cards. I’d intentionally sat in the anchor seat of the table on the opposite side. She could see me perfectly. More important, she could see my cards.
This was all about timing. Of course, a little luck wouldn’t hurt, either.
I looked down at two face cards on my very first hand, a combined twenty to the dealer’s eight and a seven. Everybody stayed pat and the dealer hit his fifteen. Boom. He busted with another seven.
Take it away, Lizzie.
Elizabeth screamed at the top of her lungs. Every head turned, even the ones that were being paid not to. Our dealer couldn’t help it. It was pure reflex. For a split second his brain forgot that he had to keep his eyes on the chips at all times.
“Oh, my God,” said Elizabeth, looking up from her phone to see everyone staring at her. She slapped a palm over her forehead, the picture of embarrassment. “Sorry! I just got a text from my youngest brother. He was accepted early decision to Dartmouth.”
And like that, her scream made sense to everyone. A few people even offered up congratulations.
At the same time, our dealer began quickly paying off everyone at our table. Grabbing a stack of black chips in one hand and yellow chips in the other, he moved left to right in a well-practiced, fluid motion. When he got to me, though, he stopped and cocked his head. I knew what he was thinking. He didn’t remember seeing three yellow chips as part of my bet before dealing the hand. Yet there they were, staring back at him—three yellow chips at a thousand dollars apiece tucked underneath three hundred-dollar black chips.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“Are you sure that was your original bet, sir?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
“I could’ve sworn that—”
“What exactly are you suggesting?” I raised my voice. “Are you calling me a cheater?”
All heads turned once again. Between Elizabeth and me, we were giving everyone on the boat whiplash.
“How we all doing?” asked the pit boss, stepping in. “Is there a problem?”
Nothing triggers the casino brass hierarchy faster than an unhappy customer. Not because they necessarily want to make the customer happy. They just want to get the customer to shut the hell up as fast as possible so all the other customers can resume losing their money.
“Yes. There’s a problem,” I said. “A really big one.”
That’s when I felt the hand on my shoulder. “Actually, no. There’s no problem here at all, Dr. Reinhart.”
I turned around to see Frank Brunetti standing behind me.
“What took you so long?” I asked.
Brunetti grinned through his clenched jaw. “Come, let’s talk,” he said. He nodded at Elizabeth. “And bring along your pretty accomplice.”
CHAPTER 48
It was a bit like walking into the lair of a Bond villain as we followed Brunetti into another room. The look of it was midcentury mobster meets the air-traffic control tower at O’Hare International.
The surveillance cameras lining the ceiling of Brunetti’s casino—the “eyes in the sky”—were doing far more than simply filming. In addition to the feeds being filtered by a real-time facial recognition platform, they were using three-dimensional thermal imaging to detect concealed weapons of any kind. It was a level of security bordering on paranoia. On the other hand, this was a guy whose life and livelihood depended on knowing who his enemies were.
Perhaps the only real surprise was that Brunetti was making no attempt to hide any of this from us. Pictures of Elizabeth culled from news stories appeared on multiple screens above a console manned by two guys who looked like they came straight out of central casting for computer nerds. The only things missing were the pocket protectors on their shirts.
Brunetti very much wanted us to see all that. He was well aware that Elizabeth was a federal agent. Despite that, he was still inviting her backstage. Why? Because he could. That’s how untouchable he was. And that’s what he really wanted us to know.
“Have a seat,” he said.
Elizabeth and I made our way to a black leather couch that was kitty-corner to his desk, a monstrosity of glass and black lacquer. The thing practically glistened.
Opposite us were two other men, one standing and the other sitting in a matching black leather armchair. Thermal imaging would’ve surely revealed that they were both packing. They weren’t introduced to us.
“Thanks for agreeing to see me,” I said as Brunetti settled into the chair behind his desk. He gave a quick tug on both sleeves of his crisp, charcoal-gray suit. He was sporting a pink tie and a matching pocket square. At sixty-four, he looked to be in pretty good shape. Maybe a little puffy around the edges but not overweight.
“So you’re a friend of Allen’s, huh? He speaks highly of you,” said Brunetti. “Of course, Grimes is full of shit, so who knows, right?” He laughed. He was joking. Sort of. “Okay, so we’re all here now. What did you want to talk to me about?”
“A painting,” I said.
“What kind of painting?”
“A stolen one.”
Brunetti leaned back in his chair, amused. “That’s what this is? You think I stole a painting?”
“No. I think you might know of a stolen painting.”
“Are you always this cryptic, Dr. Reinhart?”
“In this case I need to be,” I said. “I’m representing the owner, and he wants it back.”
Brunetti looked over at Elizabeth. “And who are you representing, Agent Needham? Nice dress, by the way.”
“I’m not representing anyone,” Elizabeth answered. “Tonight I’m just a private citizen enjoying a gambling cruise.”
“Yes, of course you are,” he said. “It must be killing you, though.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“To get so close to me and yet be so far. What is it with you agents wanting to take me down so badly? And I do mean badly. You all suck at it.”
That got a chuckle out of his two henchmen, Thug 1 and Thug 2 (with apologies to Dr. Seuss). Meanwhile, Elizabeth was surely riffling through a hundred different comebacks in her mind, all of which were better left unsaid. But just in case she couldn’t stop herself…
“Fifty million,” I blurted out.
That quickly got Brunetti’s attention back on me. His eyes felt like two lasers. “What was that?” he asked.
“That’s how much the owner of the painting is willing to pay you to get it back,” I said. “Fifty million dollars.”
CHAPTER 49
“That’s a hell of a chunk of money,” he said. “This must be some painting.”
“It has a lot of sentimental value to its owner.”
Brunetti nodded. He was waiting for me to continue. I didn’t. “I’m pretty sure this is the point in our little chat here where you tell me who the hell this guy is,” he said.
“Does it matter?” I asked.
“I’ll let you know once you give me his name.”
Good one, Frank. Don’t worry, I have every intention of telling you. “It’s Mathias von Oehson,” I said.
“That explains the fifty million. The hedge fund guy, right? You’re working for him?”
“Representing him. On this one particular matter.”
“Now repeat the part you said before.”
“Which part?” I asked.
“You know the one. I want to make sure I heard you right.”
Oh, that part. “What I said was that I don’t think you had anything to do with the painting’s disappearance. You had no involvement whatsoever.”
“Yet you somehow think I know where this missing painting is?”
“If you don’t already know, I trust you have the ability to find out.”
“I’m not sure whether that’s a compliment or an insult,” he said.
“I think the better word is candid. I’m being candid with you.”
“Good. So let me be candid with you.” Brunetti leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the desk. He didn’t raise his voice but the veins in his neck were bulging. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about with this painting.”
“Okay,” I said.
“No. It’s not okay. I don’t appreciate what you’re suggesting. Not one bit. Do you understand?”
“Yes. I understand,” I said. “My mistake. My apologies.”
My job is done here.
I stood and extended my hand to Brunetti, thanking him for his time. He clearly didn’t expect to be done with me so fast. Even better.
“What did you buy in for?” he asked.
“Excuse me?” I’d heard him just fine.
“At my blackjack table. What did you buy in for?”
“Ten thousand,” I said.
“How much did you win on your first hand?”
“I wouldn’t call that winning.”
“What would you call it?”
“The same thing you did. Cheating in order to get your attention.”
“Yes. You switched out the black chips for yellows, I know. But what was your original bet?”
“Six hundred.”
“Then that’s your winnings.” Brunetti turned to Thug 2. “Give him that plus his ten grand back.”
“Just the buy-in would be fine,” I said. “I don’t deserve more than that.”
“You’re right, you don’t,” he said. “But that’s the real funny thing about money, Dr. Reinhart. Those who have the most are rarely the ones who deserve it.”
CHAPTER 50
James Bond would’ve somehow arranged for a sleek helicopter to take him off Brunetti’s boat the moment the meeting was over. Reinhart, Dylan Reinhart, had no such pull.
It was another hour and a half before the cruise ended, well after midnight. Elizabeth and I couldn’t even kill time discussing whether we thought my plan had worked for fear that Brunetti had the entire boat bugged or was using the latest in lip-reading software. I could manipulate the guy, hopefully, but what I couldn’t do was underestimate him.
“Now what?” asked Elizabeth, once we were off the boat.
I glanced down at my phone. “Now we wait another two minutes for your Uber driver to show up to take you home. His name is Jackson and he has 4.94 stars.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes. I do. And I also know what you’re thinking.”
“Men always think they know what a woman is thinking. They never do.”
“You’re thinking you want to be the one agent who finally brings Frank Brunetti down,” I said.
“Okay, maybe you know this one time.”
“I get it. He’s a smug son of a bitch who more than has it coming to him.”
“So let me help you bring it,” she said.
“That’s not what I’m trying to do. This is just about a painting.”
“Why can’t it be about both?”
“For starters, it could get you fired. Or worse.”
“What did you tell me back on the boat about what I do for a living? The risk?”
“All the more reason why you shouldn’t be getting involved with this,” I said.
“I already am.”
I glanced again at my phone. “Two minutes,” I said. “Jackson and his 4.94 rating can’t get here soon enough.”
Forget how cold it was outside. Elizabeth was fired up. “Why are you being so damn stubborn about this? You originally wanted my help, and I gave it to you. Now I’m asking if I can help even more, and you’re giving me a hard time. Why?”
“Because things are about to get a little dicey,” I said.
“Dicey?”
“Yes, dicey.”
“So what else is new?”
“I’m talking unorthodox.”
“Right,” she said. “Because Dylan Reinhart normally plays it so straight.”
“Was that a gay joke?”
“Shut up.”
She had a point. True power is when no one can touch you, and Frank Brunetti didn’t have a single fingerprint on him. For decades, the FBI—not to mention the IRS, and even the SEC—had all tried to take him down, to no avail. With the best legal and public relations teams that dirty money can buy, Brunetti had never so much as paid a parking fine. His was the kind of power that would seriously piss off a Bureau division head like Evan Pritchard.
Still. “It’s not a good idea,” I said.
“It’s better than the idea of your going alone. Also, you have zero chance of talking me out of it.”
“Zero, huh?”
“Nada,” she said. “Zip.”
Okay, Lizzie. If you insist…
CHAPTER 46
The only sure bets in life: death, taxes, and mobsters worshipping Martin Scorsese films.
Frank Brunetti’s yacht was called Aces High. That made sense, given that it was a licensed offshore gambling boat, but the true inspiration actually came from Brunetti’s obsession with the movie Casino. As he explained to Allen Grimes, the boat was named after the talk show hosted by the character that Robert De Niro played. “I’ve watched that flick a hundred times, easy,” Brunetti went on to say in the interview.
I could only imagine how many times he’d seen Goodfellas.
“Welcome aboard,” said the chief steward, or so read his shiny nameplate, as Elizabeth and I stepped out of the cold and onto Aces High a few minutes before it left from the North Cove Marina in Battery Park at exactly 8 p.m. That was another thing I’d read about Brunetti. Like Jimmy Hoffa, he was big on punctuality.
There were roughly eighty to a hundred people on board, all of us gathered in a posh stateroom with blue velvet curtains that had been converted into a bar and lounge and, of course, a cozy, high-stakes casino. There were four blackjack tables, two roulette tables, and one craps table, all of which had to remain empty until we reached international waters three miles offshore.
Everyone around us looked as if they had a lot of disposable income, although not necessarily any of it earned legally. Meanwhile, Elizabeth simply looked stunning.
“Check out the stares. I’m the envy of every man here,” I said, as she and I hung out in the corner, nursing our glasses of the champagne that had been passed around.
She glanced down at her very form-fitting red dress. “Too much?”
“Just right,” I assured her. “Very Christmas-y.”
“So what’s the plan now?”
“We’re doing it.”
“You mean, waiting? That’s the plan?”
“Grimes got us the meeting. We just don’t know when it will be.”
“Are we even sure Brunetti is on the boat?”
“I’m not sure of anything right now,” I said. “But he’s supposed to be.”
“In other words, we’re betting on the come.”
“Wow. Someone did her homework.”
“It’s a common expression.” She cracked a smile. “Okay, maybe I did a little light research on casino games this afternoon. Betting on the come. It’s a bet you can make on a craps table.”
“I’m impressed,” I said. “Did you also read that the game of craps has the smallest house advantage of all table games, with 1.41 percent on pass-line bets, or 0.606 percent if you combine it with a standard free-odds bet?”
With one look Elizabeth made it very clear that she 100 percent didn’t care. “I don’t get this whole attraction-to-gambling thing that people have,” she said. “There’s too much risk.”
“So says the woman who basically risks her life for a living.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?” I nodded at the craps table. “No matter how big you lose over there you’re still only losing money.”
“Great,” she said, letting that sink in. “Now I’ve got to go find a new line of work tomorrow.”
“Assuming we make it through the night,” I said. “Did you see those two bags of concrete mix on the deck when we walked on?”
“Very funny.”
In a perfect world, Brunetti would have made some grand entrance at that moment and said a few welcoming words to his guests before heading over to Elizabeth and me with an invitation to some discreet parlor room for our meeting. But this was Brunetti’s world. His boat, his timetable. Our waiting. And waiting, and waiting…
Two hours later, with the casino in full swing but still no sign of Brunetti, it was time for a different plan.
“Let’s go play some blackjack,” I said.
“You’re joking, right? The minimum is a hundred dollars a hand.”
“Even better.”
“Better for what?” she asked.
“For how we’re going to win.”
“And how’s that?”
“It’s simple,” I said. “We’re going to cheat.”
CHAPTER 47
The higher the stakes at a blackjack table, the faster the dealers. Casinos are a volume business, after all. The more bets that are placed, the better their house advantage can pay off for them—no matter how slight that advantage might be.
Not surprisingly, Frank Brunetti had hired some of the quickest hands in the business to work his tables. Watching the dealer at my table was like watching the blur of a speeding train. Only I wasn’t watching the train. Just the tracks. The cards he was laying down.
“How would you like it?” the dealer asked after counting out the ten thousand in cash I’d placed on the felt in front of him. A dealer in any casino never takes money directly from another person’s hand.
“Six yellows, the rest in black,” I said. “Please.”
Twin stacks of black hundred-dollar chips, along with six yellow thousand-dollar chips, were slid over to me, for a total of ten grand. That was followed by the two words all gamblers hear when the exchange is complete. “Good luck,” said the dealer.
Subtext being, You’re going to need it.
Not tonight, though. All I needed were some quick hands of my own along with my partner in crime.
I glanced over at Elizabeth, who was standing exactly where I’d asked her to—left of the dealer, behind the shoe of cards. I’d intentionally sat in the anchor seat of the table on the opposite side. She could see me perfectly. More important, she could see my cards.
This was all about timing. Of course, a little luck wouldn’t hurt, either.
I looked down at two face cards on my very first hand, a combined twenty to the dealer’s eight and a seven. Everybody stayed pat and the dealer hit his fifteen. Boom. He busted with another seven.
Take it away, Lizzie.
Elizabeth screamed at the top of her lungs. Every head turned, even the ones that were being paid not to. Our dealer couldn’t help it. It was pure reflex. For a split second his brain forgot that he had to keep his eyes on the chips at all times.
“Oh, my God,” said Elizabeth, looking up from her phone to see everyone staring at her. She slapped a palm over her forehead, the picture of embarrassment. “Sorry! I just got a text from my youngest brother. He was accepted early decision to Dartmouth.”
And like that, her scream made sense to everyone. A few people even offered up congratulations.
At the same time, our dealer began quickly paying off everyone at our table. Grabbing a stack of black chips in one hand and yellow chips in the other, he moved left to right in a well-practiced, fluid motion. When he got to me, though, he stopped and cocked his head. I knew what he was thinking. He didn’t remember seeing three yellow chips as part of my bet before dealing the hand. Yet there they were, staring back at him—three yellow chips at a thousand dollars apiece tucked underneath three hundred-dollar black chips.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“Are you sure that was your original bet, sir?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
“I could’ve sworn that—”
“What exactly are you suggesting?” I raised my voice. “Are you calling me a cheater?”
All heads turned once again. Between Elizabeth and me, we were giving everyone on the boat whiplash.
“How we all doing?” asked the pit boss, stepping in. “Is there a problem?”
Nothing triggers the casino brass hierarchy faster than an unhappy customer. Not because they necessarily want to make the customer happy. They just want to get the customer to shut the hell up as fast as possible so all the other customers can resume losing their money.
“Yes. There’s a problem,” I said. “A really big one.”
That’s when I felt the hand on my shoulder. “Actually, no. There’s no problem here at all, Dr. Reinhart.”
I turned around to see Frank Brunetti standing behind me.
“What took you so long?” I asked.
Brunetti grinned through his clenched jaw. “Come, let’s talk,” he said. He nodded at Elizabeth. “And bring along your pretty accomplice.”
CHAPTER 48
It was a bit like walking into the lair of a Bond villain as we followed Brunetti into another room. The look of it was midcentury mobster meets the air-traffic control tower at O’Hare International.
The surveillance cameras lining the ceiling of Brunetti’s casino—the “eyes in the sky”—were doing far more than simply filming. In addition to the feeds being filtered by a real-time facial recognition platform, they were using three-dimensional thermal imaging to detect concealed weapons of any kind. It was a level of security bordering on paranoia. On the other hand, this was a guy whose life and livelihood depended on knowing who his enemies were.
Perhaps the only real surprise was that Brunetti was making no attempt to hide any of this from us. Pictures of Elizabeth culled from news stories appeared on multiple screens above a console manned by two guys who looked like they came straight out of central casting for computer nerds. The only things missing were the pocket protectors on their shirts.
Brunetti very much wanted us to see all that. He was well aware that Elizabeth was a federal agent. Despite that, he was still inviting her backstage. Why? Because he could. That’s how untouchable he was. And that’s what he really wanted us to know.
“Have a seat,” he said.
Elizabeth and I made our way to a black leather couch that was kitty-corner to his desk, a monstrosity of glass and black lacquer. The thing practically glistened.
Opposite us were two other men, one standing and the other sitting in a matching black leather armchair. Thermal imaging would’ve surely revealed that they were both packing. They weren’t introduced to us.
“Thanks for agreeing to see me,” I said as Brunetti settled into the chair behind his desk. He gave a quick tug on both sleeves of his crisp, charcoal-gray suit. He was sporting a pink tie and a matching pocket square. At sixty-four, he looked to be in pretty good shape. Maybe a little puffy around the edges but not overweight.
“So you’re a friend of Allen’s, huh? He speaks highly of you,” said Brunetti. “Of course, Grimes is full of shit, so who knows, right?” He laughed. He was joking. Sort of. “Okay, so we’re all here now. What did you want to talk to me about?”
“A painting,” I said.
“What kind of painting?”
“A stolen one.”
Brunetti leaned back in his chair, amused. “That’s what this is? You think I stole a painting?”
“No. I think you might know of a stolen painting.”
“Are you always this cryptic, Dr. Reinhart?”
“In this case I need to be,” I said. “I’m representing the owner, and he wants it back.”
Brunetti looked over at Elizabeth. “And who are you representing, Agent Needham? Nice dress, by the way.”
“I’m not representing anyone,” Elizabeth answered. “Tonight I’m just a private citizen enjoying a gambling cruise.”
“Yes, of course you are,” he said. “It must be killing you, though.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“To get so close to me and yet be so far. What is it with you agents wanting to take me down so badly? And I do mean badly. You all suck at it.”
That got a chuckle out of his two henchmen, Thug 1 and Thug 2 (with apologies to Dr. Seuss). Meanwhile, Elizabeth was surely riffling through a hundred different comebacks in her mind, all of which were better left unsaid. But just in case she couldn’t stop herself…
“Fifty million,” I blurted out.
That quickly got Brunetti’s attention back on me. His eyes felt like two lasers. “What was that?” he asked.
“That’s how much the owner of the painting is willing to pay you to get it back,” I said. “Fifty million dollars.”
CHAPTER 49
“That’s a hell of a chunk of money,” he said. “This must be some painting.”
“It has a lot of sentimental value to its owner.”
Brunetti nodded. He was waiting for me to continue. I didn’t. “I’m pretty sure this is the point in our little chat here where you tell me who the hell this guy is,” he said.
“Does it matter?” I asked.
“I’ll let you know once you give me his name.”
Good one, Frank. Don’t worry, I have every intention of telling you. “It’s Mathias von Oehson,” I said.
“That explains the fifty million. The hedge fund guy, right? You’re working for him?”
“Representing him. On this one particular matter.”
“Now repeat the part you said before.”
“Which part?” I asked.
“You know the one. I want to make sure I heard you right.”
Oh, that part. “What I said was that I don’t think you had anything to do with the painting’s disappearance. You had no involvement whatsoever.”
“Yet you somehow think I know where this missing painting is?”
“If you don’t already know, I trust you have the ability to find out.”
“I’m not sure whether that’s a compliment or an insult,” he said.
“I think the better word is candid. I’m being candid with you.”
“Good. So let me be candid with you.” Brunetti leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the desk. He didn’t raise his voice but the veins in his neck were bulging. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about with this painting.”
“Okay,” I said.
“No. It’s not okay. I don’t appreciate what you’re suggesting. Not one bit. Do you understand?”
“Yes. I understand,” I said. “My mistake. My apologies.”
My job is done here.
I stood and extended my hand to Brunetti, thanking him for his time. He clearly didn’t expect to be done with me so fast. Even better.
“What did you buy in for?” he asked.
“Excuse me?” I’d heard him just fine.
“At my blackjack table. What did you buy in for?”
“Ten thousand,” I said.
“How much did you win on your first hand?”
“I wouldn’t call that winning.”
“What would you call it?”
“The same thing you did. Cheating in order to get your attention.”
“Yes. You switched out the black chips for yellows, I know. But what was your original bet?”
“Six hundred.”
“Then that’s your winnings.” Brunetti turned to Thug 2. “Give him that plus his ten grand back.”
“Just the buy-in would be fine,” I said. “I don’t deserve more than that.”
“You’re right, you don’t,” he said. “But that’s the real funny thing about money, Dr. Reinhart. Those who have the most are rarely the ones who deserve it.”
CHAPTER 50
James Bond would’ve somehow arranged for a sleek helicopter to take him off Brunetti’s boat the moment the meeting was over. Reinhart, Dylan Reinhart, had no such pull.
It was another hour and a half before the cruise ended, well after midnight. Elizabeth and I couldn’t even kill time discussing whether we thought my plan had worked for fear that Brunetti had the entire boat bugged or was using the latest in lip-reading software. I could manipulate the guy, hopefully, but what I couldn’t do was underestimate him.
“Now what?” asked Elizabeth, once we were off the boat.
I glanced down at my phone. “Now we wait another two minutes for your Uber driver to show up to take you home. His name is Jackson and he has 4.94 stars.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes. I do. And I also know what you’re thinking.”
“Men always think they know what a woman is thinking. They never do.”
“You’re thinking you want to be the one agent who finally brings Frank Brunetti down,” I said.
“Okay, maybe you know this one time.”
“I get it. He’s a smug son of a bitch who more than has it coming to him.”
“So let me help you bring it,” she said.
“That’s not what I’m trying to do. This is just about a painting.”
“Why can’t it be about both?”
“For starters, it could get you fired. Or worse.”
“What did you tell me back on the boat about what I do for a living? The risk?”
“All the more reason why you shouldn’t be getting involved with this,” I said.
“I already am.”
I glanced again at my phone. “Two minutes,” I said. “Jackson and his 4.94 rating can’t get here soon enough.”
Forget how cold it was outside. Elizabeth was fired up. “Why are you being so damn stubborn about this? You originally wanted my help, and I gave it to you. Now I’m asking if I can help even more, and you’re giving me a hard time. Why?”
“Because things are about to get a little dicey,” I said.
“Dicey?”
“Yes, dicey.”
“So what else is new?”
“I’m talking unorthodox.”
“Right,” she said. “Because Dylan Reinhart normally plays it so straight.”
“Was that a gay joke?”
“Shut up.”
