Romano and Albright 01 - Catch Me If You Can (MM) (5 page)

“Just that damn oven—maybe a couple glasses. Nothing major. Why? You break something?”

“Maybe. I’ll talk to you later. Use a condom, Poppy dear.” I hung up.

Shep offered a heartfelt, “Thank you.”

“I’m not doing this for you, sweetheart, so save it. There’s a coatroom by the front door. Go see what you can find.” I poured my coffee, added two and a half sugars, and went back to my office. My space was puny, but at least there was a window. Daylight warmed my cheerful philodendron, its healthy leaves hanging in lush bunches nearly to the floor. I glanced around hopefully. Maybe an invoice had fallen under the bookshelf? Kneeling on the carpet, I checked for the fifth time. Shep came to stand in the doorway. He had on my jacket and it was too small. I wasn’t a little guy, but like many men of my ethnicity, I wasn’t reaching six feet in this lifetime.

I popped into my chair and my cell rang. It was Jean Luc. I swallowed a mouthful of coffee. “Hello?”

“Caesar.”

“Jean. How are you this morning?” I wanted to scream,
Do you have the missing head of Justin Timberlake?
but I closed my eyes and prayed for a miracle.

“Good. Better, now that a river of cash will be flowing in my direction.”

“Right. Congrats on a lucrative evening. Well done.”

“Yeah, it was. So listen, Mallory and I spoke last night and she finally bent enough to put together a show. An evening of New York-themed contemporary artwork.
Relevance
, I think she said. Some shit like that. I need you to take two of the heads down to Parinella’s—before you ship them, yeah?—and get them photographed.”

“Me? That’s not really in my job description—”

“Peter will call you. We had a powwow late last night. After you left.”

He hadn’t left a note. “Fine, which ones need to go?” I waited breathlessly for what I knew was coming. “We have stock photos from the printer, perhaps I can select—”

“No, she’s got some curatorial vision. Those won’t do.”

“Of course she does. Dandy. Which ones? The Bloomberg? That defines regionalism.”

“Nah. Not really interesting, is it? That was on commission. She wants the Timberlake.”

“Uh. But…he’s not from New York.”

“Whatever. She’s the boss. I just want to sell it.”

I cleared my throat. Shep watched me from the doorway, taking in every word. “Mallory wants these?”

“Yeah. The Timberlake and the Trump. I’ll have the transport guys come to crate everything. Are you there today?”

“No! No. Uh. I’ll be busy tomorrow. We can pack them Wednesday morning first thing, if need be. I’m off Monday and Tuesday. Uhm. Did you take any with you last night? Did anyone take one home?” What a stupid question.

“I wish. Okay, listen, don’t deliver the Trump to the lucky bastard who got it. You can sell the JT if anyone comes in and wants it, but they can’t have it until after Mallory’s done.”

“Right-o.” I sounded like Nana. “Will do. Any other sales that…I should…know about?” I hated stammering. It was an affliction I was prone to during times of stress.

“What’s wrong with you? You still drunk? Great party, Caesar. Jesus Christ, man, you can throw me a party anytime. Maybe do my next wedding when the time comes.”

Wedding planning? “I’m not actually doing that for a living—”

Jean Luc clicked off.

Hell. “Take my jacket off, Shep. Call Estelle and tell her you have thirty minutes to vacate because I need to leave.”

“What crawled up your ass?”

Exasperated, I threw my hands in the air again. “Are you effing kidding me?”

“I love when you do that. The hand thing.” He mimicked me. “Fahgettaboudit!”

“I do not do that.”

The gallery line rang and we both stared at the phone. “Stuhlmann Gallery,” I murmured, using no Italian hand gestures whatsoever—except for the one that employed my middle finger, which I waved at Shep.

“Caesar? It’s Mallory Albright.”

Of course it was. I dropped my hand. Sitting tall, I adopted Mallory’s cultured waspy tone. “Good morning, Mallory. How are you today?”

“I’m very well, thank you. What an interesting evening. I had a lovely time. Have you spoken with Jean?”

“Yes. Just now, as a matter of fact. He said you’ll need the Trump. You know, Mal”—here I went for my most conniving—“you should use the Son of Sam. It’s very…compact. And it’s regional and…the found pieces…particularly the buckles at the neck, are representative of New York justice overcoming—”

“No. The Timberlake. We’ll raise the price and it’ll sell. It’s pivotal to the show. Did you use that kind of bullshit at Manhattanville? It won’t work on me. I’ve heard it all.”

I said meekly, “Whatever you’d like, naturally.”

“I knew a girl who dated a cousin of that man—that Son of Sam man. It was all quite tragic.”

“I’m sure it was.” If Mallory’s assistant Stephanie put in her notice by nine on Monday, maybe things would work out. I’d have a new job. I could find the bust myself or call for help. I thought again of Detective Dan Green. Maybe a private eye would be better. Did they even have those anymore? A dick. I looked at Shep. He raised his eyebrow and then went to the kitchen.

“You may meet me Wednesday morning. Ten thirty, yes? Steph’s out this morning. I need the telephone number for your little caterer friend. Can you email that to me? I’ve misplaced it from the last time.” Her carefully modulated tone turned crisp.

“Yes. Absolutely.” Poppy had more work than she could handle, but whatever this woman wanted, she was getting if I had to cater it myself. Which, come to think of it, I could. “Whatever you need, Mal, you know that.”

“Thank you.” She hung up. I had time. I could find this thing. I opened my drawer and reached for a roll of Butter Rum Life Savers and the Pappineau catalogue. Justin Timberlake’s strangely accurate face stared sexily back at me. I popped a Life Saver and grabbed a pen. I needed to make a list of everyone who had stayed after I left.

It wasn’t much of a list: Jean Luc, Poppy, Peter, Rachel, Brandon, Andre…and Shep. Maybe a few of the other waiters. Mallory. I’d have to check.

“Who’s Mal?” Shep reappeared in the doorway, snacking on a handful of grapes he’d clearly swiped from my refrigerator. He’d made a skirt out of his tablecloth and looked like an extra for
300
. He offered me a grape, smiling in that friendly, heartbreakingly handsome way of his.

It was an act. I knew better. I sucked on butter rum, my mouth twitched around the candy, and then something chirped from overhead. Shep and I froze, eyeing each other with renewed distrust. It was a cell phone. He dashed off, his skirt billowing. The chirping came again, faint but insistent, and I leaned back in my chair as Shep clambered up the stairs like a bull in a china shop. He was tall and loud and currently ungainly. I heard him scrabble around the banister and pound down the hall. The philodendron swung on its hook.

“
Where is it?
” he bellowed. Something skittered across the floor.

Why hadn’t he called the phone to begin with, the moron? As it had so many times where he was concerned, suspicion gripped me. The phone stopped chirping, and I could hear the rough grumble of Shep speaking, but not make out his words. Beyond distrustful, a terrible resentment threatened to undo me. It also ruined the taste of my favorite candy. I swallowed hard, then snuck down the hallway to better eavesdrop.

“Yes. I know. Yes. I will. No. I didn’t. I won’t forget.” He placated someone in a voice I remembered only too well.

I crept toward the stairs—but a knock at the front of the gallery caught me off guard. What now? Shep went utterly silent somewhere on the second floor, and I gritted my teeth. That man was as capable of hiding as my father was from his priest every Saturday at five.

I checked my appearance in the beveled mirror hanging above the naked podium where Justin Timberlake’s head had once proudly rested. I looked good. My face was lean and strong, my chin smooth. No bear claw in my teeth. Eyes a little red, but the Visine was holding.

I went to the door. I saw the man who waited long before I reached the entrance. Detective Dan Green. How fortuitous. Somehow, he stood even taller and broader than he had last night. The morning sun gave his hair a deep, almost-red cast. He waited for me—in a mint-green polo and pair of opaque shades. The word
stalker
flitted briefly through my mind, but I dismissed it. He was here for something, and while I suspected part of the equation had to do with his apparent attraction to me, I’d lay money that he was working on a case.

I unlocked the door but blocked his entrance with a hand high on the frame. “Good morning, Detective.”

“Please. Call me Dan.”

I felt the weight of Sheppard’s fear bearing down on me. “Sure. Dan. How can I help you? We don’t usually open until eleven.”

He removed his shades and gave me a bland look. “It’s eleven thirty.”

I checked my watch. Actually, it was eleven thirty-eight. “Oh. Oh! Yes. C’mon in. Please.”

Dan came in, his shoes thudding softly on the wood floor. He sniffed as he passed me, and his lips twitched into a funny, flat smile. He had a dimple. “What smells like candy?”

“Me. Life Saver. Butter rum.” I followed him into the gallery. “So, Detective, is there something I can help you with?”

I took a surreptitious peek up the stairs, but Shep had disappeared. I couldn’t blame him. I’d like to hide right now too.

Dan Green ignored my question. “Dan. Please. That was some party last night, Mr. Romano.” His voice ricocheted through the sleepy stillness of the gallery. I needed to turn some music on to cushion the sound, but I already knew I wouldn’t open the gallery today. I was bailing as soon as I got these people out of here. I was going to steal Poppy’s car, call every waiter who’d been here last night and pinpoint exactly who’d slept with Shep. Maybe they all had, for all he remembered.

The man was still making small talk. “I was in the neighborhood. I thought I’d stop by to ask you a couple of questions.”

Please. What did he take me for?

“Really? About?” His presence here…I could…possibly…use him. I glanced at him again. He was a cop, right? I mean, I wasn’t sure if he was a menace or a savior, but I’d take either if it meant finding Justin Timberlake and keeping everyone happy and out of trouble. I cleared my throat and adopted my friendly management persona. “Were you quite taken by the show last night? Many were. Or is this part of some investigation?”

He gave a small, self-deprecating chuckle that set off alarm bells in my head. He was going to lie. Little frown lines appeared briefly, and then he smiled again. He seemed younger—maybe late thirties now. It was strange how transformed he looked today. I glanced down. No ring this morning.

“No. Not investigating. I’m curious about how this gallery operates. And about the artist, Jean Pappineau. You gave me a gallery brochure, but I was hoping to get a catalogue. I didn’t pick one up last night. It got a bit crazy.”

“It did. Better than Hooters, after all. So you need a catalogue. Yes, of course.” This gallery? He was interested in us specifically? Good Lord. What the hell was going on now? The gallery line began to buzz. “Excuse me, Detect—
Dan.
Let me just get this call.” I answered the phone in the hall. “Stuhlmann Gallery.”

“
Who’s that?
” Shep whispered from somewhere upstairs.

“May I help you?” My eyes flickered to the detective who stood respectfully at the doorway to the North Salon. I smiled stiffly.

“Is it a reporter or a photographer?” How could Shep achieve loudly demanding in a stage whisper? It was a credit to his acting ability. Dan Green could use some lessons from Shep, no question.

“No. Were you able to reach someone who can help you?” In other words:
Get dressed and help me.

“What? No. Look, Ce, is that or isn’t that a reporter or paparazzi with you right now?”

“Are you fucking kidding me? No.” I hung up while the cop gave me a curious look. “Wrong number.”

“Sure.”

Detective Dan wandered not so aimlessly around the South Salon, his keen eyes taking in every detail. The smell of gin was strong, but the floor was clear, and daylight lent us the dignity that Jean’s bikini briefs had denied the place last night. I watched as Dan considered the bust of Derek Jeter. What evidence did he see that I couldn’t? And what was his real reason for coming here? I didn’t know whether to join him or not, so I stood in the hall wrestling with indecision. The detective didn’t look so innocuous this morning. Nothing frumpy and fumbling about Detective Dan in the bright light of day. He looked powerful in his polo and jeans. He had motorcycle boots. How suspiciously butch. How shamefully appealing.

I waited—roasting in my sweater in the now-ovenlike building. Maybe this was a panic attack. I had to find the head, get Shep out of here, call the help, pick up Poppy’s truck and land a new job. I needed to get out of that house with my grandmother.

Direction. This situation required direction. I pushed my sleeves up, rolled my shoulders and, mind set, I stepped toward the detective. He’d know how to help.

A noise from upstairs startled me once again. Shep came manfully down the steps, his skirt gone. Unbelievably, he was dressed. His platinum hair was a bit worse for wear, but he was more handsome even than a young Brad Pitt. His blue sweater, his two hundred dollar jeans, the snakeskin boots—it was universally unfair. At least he was orange, otherwise he’d have been overwhelming.

“Caesar.” He smiled charismatically. He looked briefly to the man in the other room, saying for the benefit of our guest, “Thank you so much for the use of your men’s room.”

“
Prego.
”

He then nodded to the detective. I had the strange sensation that they were sizing each other up. The detective wondering who Shep was, and Shep wondering if he’d sucked the guy’s dick. Shep said heartily, “Well, I’m heading out now. Thanks for the coffee.” He had the audacity to shake my hand and smack me on the shoulder. If he knuckle-punched me, I’d take him down.

“I’m just finishing,
Sheppard
. Why don’t you wait for me in my office?” I bit out. He had better help me. “Where did you find—?”