Romano and Albright 01 - Catch Me If You Can (MM) (4 page)

I couldn’t believe him. “That’s too bad. You need to get dressed.”

“We could call Estelle—my agent.”

“Fine.” I handed over my phone and left him tying a makeshift toga around his shoulder, his big feet naked on the cold tile. I could step around the corner to Urban Outfitters and buy some clearance jeans, but, goddamn him, I wasn’t going to help. I had work to do. “There’s mouthwash under the sink.”

In principle, that was helping me, not Shep, because his breath could strip the varnish from the floor.

I went to the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. As I swung back out the door, coffee burbling behind me, I realized where I’d seen that watch.

Justin Timberlake.

The featured piece from the collection—the one that graced the cover of the catalogue my Uncle Vito had printed for me at cost—was no longer perched on its display stand. How could I have missed that?

“
Sheppard.
”

I stood for a moment, scowling at the empty space above the pedestal, and then I bustled down the hall, breathing heavily. I searched every square foot of the gallery—the North Salon, the South, the men’s room—I lapped the damn building in a haze of confusion. I didn’t want to panic. There was a reasonable, plausible explanation for this. There had to be.

I dove into my office, the spindly desk naked except for the few business cards some of the guests had left and a neat stack of invoices written in Peter’s elegant hand. No words uncovering the fate of JT. Only notes on which heads went where, how they were paid for, and what time to deliver. Donald Trump, Derek Jeter, the Bloomberg, Rudy, Riley Albright, Howard Stern…all of them sold and accounted for. I tossed the notes in a pile and hyperventilated for ten seconds.

That head was worth fifteen thousand dollars.

Then I put the brakes on useless thinking and got pissed. I took the stairs two at a time and knocked into Shep.

“Hey. Slow down, man. I’m unwell.”

“What the
fuck
did you do last night?”

He held his toga closed with his fist and grumbled, “I don’t know. I thought we covered this ground already. Let’s move on.”

“Justin Timberlake is gone, genius, and you had a piece of him on your dick.”

He struggled to make sense of that. “The watch? It was part of one of those statue things?”

“Yes, it was part of one of those statue things,” I mimicked. “Did you break it? Obviously you did.”

“I…” He hung his head in his hands. Was that true remorse or was he channeling Othello? “Can I get a drink of water?”

No. It was self-absorption. “Where is it? That thing is worth fifteen thousand dollars.”

His head popped back up, his disbelief plain. “You can’t be serious. Jean’s stuff is that pricey? No way. Go Jean Luc.”

“Where is it?”

“I don’t know. Stop screaming. It’s like nails on a blackboard, Caesar. Mellow out, man.”

Hard-pressed not to shove him down the stairs, I bit my jaw so tightly my teeth were creaking. I clomped back to my office to check the messages for the gallery. No text messages. I scrolled the gallery email on my cell and grappled with the facts. Could someone have paid cash and…brought it home in their own car? Oh dear God. But Peter would have said. He’d have left a note right on my desk. Maybe the sculpture was with him? On its way to New Mexico? He was drunk last night, he could have done anything. I’d have to wait for Peter.

I stared out the tiny window facing the back alley, considering my options, which boiled down were: A) call the cops or B) call for Peter.

If I called the police, well that could be free publicity for the gallery, and after last night, we’d make every blog on the east coast—but Peter would flip, and we’d lose our credibility. Peter would want me to speak with him first. No question.

I drummed my fingers on the desk.

You know, I wasn’t really the one responsible for the loss of Justin Timberlake. I could relax because none of this was my fault. I would have set the goddamn alarm. I could just point a finger at my boss, quit this place, and go work for the very lovely (and better paying) Mallory Albright. She’d take me under her wing. She might even allow me to occasionally have some creative input. Something other than dealing with overworked caterers and the fine-art transport guys from Long Island City—Peter could crate his own art and serve his own food. I’d be finally using my ninety thousand dollar education.

But Poppy’s catering company would pay the price if indeed Shep had been fucked and then robbed by one of her staff. I couldn’t do that to Poppy.

Outside my window, all was bright and shiny, though trash overflowed the small dumpster. Some insane impulse seized me. Maybe…maybe Shep and his new friend had broken JT and he was in the trash. I could fix it. Little hot glue, little floral wire, and no one would be the wiser. Dick Blick was only a few blocks away—art supplies just around the corner. How difficult could it be?

I unlatched the hardware keeping the back door safe and walked away from the heady scent of coffee. I’d pour a cup when I was done. I’d certainly have earned it. Squinting, I stepped into the daylight.

A couple bums sat in the alley watching as I crossed to the reeking dumpster. Big and brown, it was full of germs and slime and vermin and disease, and I knew at once that I…I couldn’t go in that thing. I wasn’t cut out for dumpster diving.

“Hey.” I waved to the bums. “I’ll give you twenty bucks to find something for me in here.”

“Fuck you, buddy. I ain’t goin’ in dere.” A scruffy man in a red knit cap and a dirty buffalo plaid jacket laughed at me. He poked his friend. Man number two sat crouched in his own grimy coat. He nodded, peering up from his book. The two of them were side by side on a piece of filthy cardboard and watched me like I was the morning show. There was a bottle of my Uncle Tino’s discount gin sitting between them. It was nearly empty.

I threw the lid open on the dumpster, and then I frowned at the cashmere sweater I’d gotten on markdown from Bloomingdale’s. It was the single best article of clothing I owned, living on the peanuts that I did. I wasn’t a clotheshorse, not really, but this was a V-neck in soft, unblemished, buttery yellow. I could not crawl into that rancid dumpster with this garment on. “Fifty bucks,” I called. I didn’t have fifty, but I’d bet the sweater that Shep did.

“Sixty.” He blew his nose with his fingers and wiped his hand on his dirt-colored pants.

“Are you…are you
haggling
with me? I don’t have sixty bucks.”

“That’s a nice sweater. Looks like cashmere.”

I crossed my arms and narrowed my eyes. “I’m not trading. I’ll give you fifty bucks to climb in here and see if there’s a sculpture made of watches.”

“Aw. No. It ain’t in dere, man. I was in dere about ten minutes ago.”

“You were already inside the dumpster?”

He nodded. “Had some of that cake from last night’s orgy. And Joseph found some, uh, spirits.”

“Did you see anyone leave that door?” I pointed to the steps and the wide-open door to the gallery kitchen.

“Couple of ’em. They was loading a van, and one guy had a big box. He drove off late.”

Ah. Useful information. “The guy, what did he look like?”

“White guy. He didn’t have no shirt on, and he had a bow tie.”

Goddamn it. “Hair? How tall?”

“Oh. Tall, fit, and had a ball cap on. It was dark out. You still gonna give me fifty bucks?”

“You already were in the dumpster.” I gave him ten anyway. It was my lunch money and subway fare. “What time did you see him?”

“Last night. Right, Joseph?”

Joseph, obviously the name of the bum reading a romance novel on his pallet of cardboard, nodded. “Ayup. Afta midnight, I reckon,” he drawled. “Captain said he was nekkid.”

“Nah. I said he was flauntin’ himself.”

Captain? The guy’s name was Captain? “What kind of car?”

“Taxi. It was yellow and banged up.”

I needed to call the police. I dialed Jean Luc instead. His phone went straight to voice mail. Then I dialed Peter. For him, I left a message. “Peter. I have a question about one of the pieces. Call me directly.”

I ran back inside and was brought up short by the sight of Shep McNamara lounging in the kitchen, his strong hands gorgeously proportionate to the rest of him, his tablecloth draped effortlessly. He was sipping my coffee from my mug. He was as chiseled and compelling as Michelangelo’s David. He was about as hairless as well. Although— “Why are you orange, Shep?”

“Estelle. She had me go to a shoot for the show—
Mr. Potter’s Lullaby
—and they thought I was too pale.” He smiled unselfconsciously. “I think it makes my hair look white.”

“You look like an oversized Oompa Loompa.”

He chuckled. “Thanks. Yeah it’s supposed to fade in a couple days. It’s bad, isn’t it?”

I boiled over. “I need you to sober up and get out of here. This isn’t a social visit. You need to remember who you were with. The guy in the alley said someone left here last night.”

Shep ran a hand down his stomach, muscles rippling under muslin. He sipped more coffee and rested against the counter, striking his familiar
man having breakfast
pose. He’d employed it a time or twelve in cereal commercials. Not that I took notice. The terrible truth was that even orange, hung over, smelling of puke—he had that
it
quality which destined him for fame. I’d have bought anything he offered to sell me if I hadn’t already sampled the lot.

“I don’t know, Ce. But…you know I can’t tell anyone I do guys. Not yet. I mean, at least not until the show is out, or after the first season.”

“Ppfffft,” I sputtered. I’d heard it all before. Not until Christmas; not until spring break; not until graduation; not until the second coming of Christ. “I need to call the police.”

“What?” He set his cup down, his patina of charm dissolving. “No. No… Now let’s not be hasty, Caesar.”

“Hasty? This is my career on the line.”

“Mine too.”

“There was a cop here last night. I could call him. Detective Green.” I recalled his too-interested gaze and that tight, knowing smile—but I’d tossed his card without a second thought. Perhaps that action had been premature.

“…because if you make that call, they’ll write a report and my name will be in it and…”

“This is
not
only about you. We were robbed by whomever you hooked up with last night in my goddamn gallery. You selfish dick.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes I do. Firsthand. You’re a selfish dick.” Before I beaned him with the coffeepot, my phone rang again. It was Poppy. “Poppy. Can you get over here and bring Shep some pants?”

“Where are you? What do you mean? Oh my effing God, did you sleep with him? Tell me you didn’t do something that stupid.” She was shrill. A deep voice rumbled something unintelligible behind her.

“Of course not. I’m not an idiot.” Well, not anymore. Shep opened a cupboard door, rattling around for something. His color was high. He was smoldering a bright, angry orange. “He had sex with one of the patrons last night in the gallery and then he passed out. Whoever it was must have kindly stolen his clothes and left him.”

Shep fumed. “Thanks a lot, man. Now she’s going to be all over me. You got any Tylenol?”

I shook my head. “Where are you? Who’s with you? Is that a man?”

“I’m taking a day off,” she said carefully. Someone grumbled again in the background. Obviously Poppy had a secret.

“When did you decide to take time off?”

“This morning…look I’ll be gone all weekend. I parked my car in the lot. Can you bring it back to my place? I don’t want to pay for two days. Keys are in my desk.”

“Poppy. One of the—”

Shep shook his head furiously at me. “Don’t tell her.”

I threw my hand up. “What?”

Poppy said, “Oh no. He’s still there, isn’t he?”

“Yes. Hence the call about the pants. Hang on.”

Shep begged, “Please. Just wait. Don’t tell her. Please.”

“That’s not good enough.”

He grew more upset, losing his wide-eyed appeal. “Because this
will
lose me my job. I’ll help you. I swear.”

“Lie to Poppy? Just like old times, Shep?”

“I can’t lose this gig. I need one day. I’ll call every waiter who was here last night, okay? Give me the guest list. I promise to help you. I’ll remember who it was, and then I’ll find out what happened.”

I couldn’t believe I was considering it, but he was sweating, hung over, and more panicked than I was at the thought of Poppy or anyone else finding out he’d been part of this. “One day—but I’m going to have to tell my boss.”

He nodded in relief. “If you have to call the cops, please, leave my name out of it.”

“You need to grow up, Shep. You’re twenty-eight years old.” I spoke into the phone, “I’ll bring your car home.” I had her studio key on my ring for exactly this kind of emergency.

“Ce. I’m sorry about Shep. I had no idea he would come to the show. He’s such an asshole.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“You’re kidding me, though. Right? He’s in the gallery buck naked?”

“In the kitchen as we speak. He’s wearing a tablecloth. He’s orange and he smells like puke.”

Shep leaned back to watch me warily. His drape barely covered his thighs and was split to his armpit on the right side. He clutched the folds over his hip, but one wrong move and I’d see everything again. Big hairless deal.

Poppy whispered, “Can he hear me?”

“Not now he can’t.”

She hissed, “Sex in your workplace? Like he picked up someone in your place of business and banged that skank—wait, was it a chick? Not that it matters—and then he waited until you came to work to leave? Oh. That’s just exactly like him. Exactly. That prick.”

“Yes. Got it. Nutshell. Let’s move on.”

“I’m so,
so
sorry. I looked for him last night. I thought he left or I’d have thrown him out. It was just so fucking crazy with the clean up and the waiters and then I…packed everything and went home.”

I could hear some mumbling again and Poppy covered the phone. There was some muffled talking and then, “I’m going to have to go in a sec.”

“Wait. Did anything get broken last night?”