Fallen Idols (41 page)

They shared a joint, drank Dom Perignon straight from the bottle. She unzipped his fly. After a minimal amount of foreplay he entered her from behind, holding back so they could climax together.

They rested side by side, playing with each other's genitals, one of his fingers slipping in and out of her tight, lubricated pussy, she stroking him easily, gently. They finished the bottle of champagne and she took him in her mouth and sucked him until he was hard again and they fucked again, this time using the missionary position.

After Tom got out of the shower, clad in his suit pants and untucked-in shirt, he found his hostess sitting on her couch Indian-style, wearing a silk kimono. “I ordered in a pizza,” Celia told him. “Peppers and mushrooms, I'm a vegetarian. That okay? Or did you have dinner plans?”

“No plans.” He dropped down next to her, smiling to himself. Some vegetarian: she'd gone for his piece of meat like it was a prime filet from Smith & Wollensky.

They toasted each other with another glass of champagne. She lit a cigarette, blew out a thick cloud of smoke. “I might have a former client of Diane's to hook you up with,” she said.

“That would be helpful,” he replied, trying not to sound too excited.

“When can you meet with him?”

“Any time. The sooner the better.”

“Let's hope he's in town,” she said, biting a nail. “He travels a lot.” She got to her feet, crossed the room, and booted up a laptop that was on a small desk. “I'm going to need my glasses for this,” she said self-consciously. She rummaged around in a drawer under the desk and round a pair of old-fashioned, librarian-style half-glasses.

Okay, so she was older than he'd thought, if she needed reading glasses. After the excellent sex they'd had lie didn't give a damn if she was a hundred.

“I'm accessing Jesse's personal files,” she explained, when the screen lit up. “He doesn't know I have his secret codes.” She giggled. “He'd kill me if he knew.” She squinted at some information that came up on the screen. “Here you are, you sly dog.”

She picked up the phone and punched in the prospective buyer's numbers. “Keep your fingers crossed he isn't in Japan or somewhere.” She waited a moment, then smiled, giving Tom a thumbs-up. “Mr. Michaelson? This is Celia Pettibone, from Addison Galleries. Do you have a minute?”

Tom got off the Number 1 subway at the Franklin Street stop in TriBeCa and walked west toward the Hudson River. He had left his suit back at the hotel and was wearing a pair of khakis, a sweater, his well-worn leather jacket, and running shoes. He felt more comfortable in this attire, although he could have worn an evening gown and high heels, it wouldn't have made any difference. What he was hoping to find out today didn't require fancy clothing.

Checking the address Celia had given him, he stopped in front of a former industrial building that had been converted into loft apartments. A young doorman with a Gold's Gym physique guarded the entrance.

“I'm here to see John Michaelson,” Tom announced.

The doorman picked up the intercom telephone and punched in a number. “Guy here to see Mr. Michaelson.” He listened a moment. “What's your name?” he asked Tom.

“Tom Lucas.” He hoped he wouldn't be asked for ID.

The doorman repeated the name Tom gave him into the phone. “Okay.” He hung up. “Top floor,” he instructed Tom.

He buzzed Tom in. Tom walked through the stark lobby to the elevator, and rode it up to Michaelson's apartment.

Diane's former client's apartment was the penthouse duplex. It covered the length of the building, front to back, a full city block long. Tom stood at a southwest-facing window in the main lower-floor room, looking out. He could see past the devastation that had been the Twin Towers to the tip of Manhattan, the Statue of Liberty, and beyond. Far below, tiny ants on a vast landscape, people walked the sidewalks, cars drove the West Side Highway, boats chugged up the Hudson River.

This is the real deal, he thought, as he watched the passing parade from this imperial aerie. Serious money.

The apartment's decor was a wild mixture of sports bar, video arcade, and fraternity house. PlayStations and Xboxes were scattered around the huge open room. Three classic pinball machines were against one wall, and two Sony plasma high definition television sets were hung side by side in a separate screening area. One television was turned to VH1, the other to ESPN. The sound on both was muted. A commercial-sized bar in another section of the room featured several beers on draft. It was the kind of over-the-top place a college kid might have if he had as much money in the world to spend as he wanted.

Celia had made the arrangements with Michaelson the night before while Tom listened in on her end of the conversation. Michaelson had agreed to meet with Tom as soon as he heard the name Diane Montrose. They could meet right now, Michaelson had said, if that's what Tom wanted, or the following day. He was up to his ass in a million projects and was on his way out of town, but he would shoehorn Tom into his schedule.

Tom had been eager to make the connection, but he wasn't going to do it after a night of smoking dope, drinking, and screwing himself jelly-legged. They had agreed to meet at Michaelson's apartment the next day, at nine in the morning. Just the two of them; Celia wasn't invited. She had nothing more to contribute, and for her own security she had to put as much distance between herself and them getting together as possible.

For the moment, Tom was alone. He had been admitted into the apartment by a beefy security employee. The security person had politely but firmly requested that Tom spread his arms and legs so he could be patted down. Not that they were concerned that Tom had a gun on him, the man explained as he was doing his frisk, but to be sure that he wasn't wired, as part of some kind of law enforcement scam. The cops had tried to entrap Michaelson before on art deals and other business transactions, so he was extra careful.

After assuring himself that Tom was clean the security man got him a Coke, told him Michaelson would be with him in a moment, and vanished into another area of the vast space.

“I bought this place for the view.”

“It's a good one.” Tom turned to face his host, who was standing a few feet behind him.

Michaelson was young, not much older than Tom, if that. Despite his obvious wealth, he didn't appear to be pretentious—just the opposite. His wardrobe was a Nike workout T-shirt and a baggy pair of jeans over which hung his ample gut. No belt, no socks, no shoes. His hair was straggly and he sported a couple days’ growth of beard. In one hand he held a slice of cold pizza and in the other a Sprite—his version of the breakfast of champions.

“I got a good deal,” Michaelson said through a mouthful of pizza. “The building, I'm talking about. I own the whole pile of bricks. Bought it off a dot.com competitor who hung on too long.” He swallowed and chugged from the Sprite can. “That's the secret. You can't be greedy. Bulls make money, bears make money, but hogs get slaughtered.”

Sounds familiar, Tom thought. Too damn familiar.

John Michaelson was a geeky computer entrepreneur who had hit a grand slam home run almost on the scale of Michael Dell or Mark Cuban. He and two partners had started an Internet information company in their dorm suite at Rutgers, and in less than five years they had sold it to Yahoo! for almost three billion dollars. Michaelson's cut had been a third. Since then he had raced sports cars, bought and sold two minor league baseball teams, put together a three-thousand-bottle wine cellar, dated MTV starlets, and become an eclectic, serious art buyer.

“Lucky break you caught me,” Michaelson said. “I was going to Paris this morning. Delayed my flight. An advantage of owning your own airplane. But I do have a lot on my plate, so this can't take long.” He gave Tom a lupine smile. “I couldn't resist after you said the magic word—Diane Montrose.”

They sat at a massive granite dining table. Tom put his empty Coke can to the side.

“Nobody's had a whiff of Diane in a coon's age,” Michaelson said. “She folded her tent after that woman was killed down in the jungle in Central America.”

The woman who was killed was my mother, Tom thought with a heavy heart. And I've had more than a whiff of Diane, he also thought, flashing back yet again to that insane, magical night.

But that was all he had. What he needed was information about her, and this man, he hoped, could provide it. If he struck out here, the investigation he and his brothers had undertaken would be seriously stalled, if not detailed

“So,” Michaelson said. “Why do you want to know about Diane? And what?”

Tom skirted the first part of the question. “Did you buy art from her?”

“Yes, but indirectly,” Michaelson answered, swigging down some more soda. “She's not a dealer, she's more like an agent. She would buy art for me and other collectors. At auctions, through private sellers, the usual. She has a great eye and a good sense of value. Her clientele list was excellent, particularly for someone who wasn't that old. I'd show you some of the stuff she got for me, but I keep my serious art at my place in the Hamptons.” He smiled. “Here it's fun and games. Out there, I try to act like a grown-up.”

Tom didn't know how much time Michaelson was going to give him. He had to cut to the chase, hopefully without scaring the man off. “Some of the stuff Diane bought from you. Was any of it pre-Columbian art?”

Michaelson leaned back in his chair. “We might talk about that, but you've got to answer my question first. What's your interest in Diane?”

Tom stared at him. “She burned me on … let's call it a transaction. I'm trying to find out how legitimate she really is. Or was. So I can figure out where to go with my problem with her.”

Michaelson smiled. “Join the party. Like I said, she had the eye, but she was a world-class confidence man, too.” He leaned forward. “We're in the same boat, I can see that from the sour look on your face.” He thought for a moment. When he spoke again it was clear he'd decided that he and Tom were kinsmen to Diane Montrose's machinations. “I did buy some pre-Columbian stuff from her,” he admitted. “Actually,” he amended, “I was going to, but she went to ground before we could finalize the deal, so technically, I never did.”

“From that place where the woman was killed?”

Michaelson put his soft drink can down. “This is a ticklish matter. I don't know if I should be talking to you about that.”

“Because technically it's illegal?” Tom asked.

“More than technically,” Michaelson answered. “People have gone to jail for selling it.” He snorted, like a bear shaking off an aggravating swarm of flies. “Not that I personally give a shit about taking stun out of backward-ass countries. If they're so lame down there they can't secure their own borders then the stuff ought to get out. Better in a good collection or a museum than buried in the mud where no one's ever going to see it.”

Tom nodded, as if silently agreeing.

“I could tell you of an ugly incident I heard about between Diane and one of her other clients about art from that region,” Michaelson said.

“Can you give me a name?” Tom asked. This might be it—a direct link between Diane and La Chimenea.

Michaelson shook his head. “Yeah, but then I'd have to kill you.” He smiled. “Seriously, no names. But what I can tell you is damn interesting.”

Tom didn't want to reveal how antsy this conversation was making him. “Whatever you can tell me I'm sure will be helpful,” he said as calmly as possible.

Michaelson got up, walked to a huge built-in refrigerator the open kitchen, and got himself another Sprite. He walked back to the table, lobbing Tom another can of Coke. They popped their tops and drank. Michaelson put his drink down.

The word on the street was that Diane had a connection down at that place where the woman was killed, who was smuggling artifacts out. Awesome stuff, millions of dollars’ worth of antiquities. It's also been said that her person down there was one of the archaeologists who was working on the site. I don't know about that but I could believe it, because it would have to be someone who had sterling access and wouldn't normally be suspected of stealing.” He paused. “On the other hand, it easily could have been someone in the government down there, they're incredibly corrupt. One of those two options, most likely.” He took a drink from his can. “Doesn't matter,” he continued. “She had an ironclad setup, supposedly.” He scowled. “But then that woman was killed and the shit hit the fan, because Diane didn't get the artifacts out.”

“So the deal between this friend of yours and Diane was never completed?” Tom asked.

“That's correct. Or any other deals Diane had in the fire.” Michaelson's tight grimace was not one of mirth. “The problem was that in this particular instance her client had given her a quarter-million dollars up-front money to pay bribes and whatever other grease she had to apply. But when Diane got back to the States, she didn't pay the client his money back. She took off into the wild blue yonder. And nobody's heard diddly about her since.”

Tom managed to control the emotions he was feeling from what he had just heard. It's you, he thought, looking at his host. You're the fish she didn't pay back. Michaelson was trying to distance himself both from the attempted theft and from looking stupid by being ripped off by Diane, but his clumsy body language had given: him away.

“That's tough,” Tom commiserated, playing out some line. “Did this friend of yours try to find her?”

Michaelson shook his head. “Not yet. He's been tool busy, and a quarter of a million isn't going to break him, he drops that in a weekend in Vegas. It was the principle of the thing,” he said darkly. “The betrayal. He'll catch up with her sooner or later,” he added ominously. “ ‘Cause he's one of those guys who under his good-natured facade doesn't put up with being burned.”

He finished his Sprite and crushed the can in his fist, “Diane's gone underground, but she'll turn up. They always do. Sometimes they don't turn up alive, but eventually, they turn up. Even Jimmy Hoffa's going to be accounted for someday.”

Your threat isn't very veiled, Tom thought. I can understand why Diane wanted to lose herself and invent a new personality.