The Chrysalis (15 page)

A good idea. I am thinking about a night at the opera.

Keep me posted.

Mara froze. She read the e-mails over and over, and her mind raced through the possible interpretations. But only one seemed to fit.

The door behind her creaked open. Mara swiveled around in Michael's chair to find Hannah looming in the doorway. Mara blocked the computer screen, hoping that Hannah hadn't witnessed her prying, but Hannah seemed her usual imperturbable self.

“Michael just called. He's running extremely late and won't have time to meet you here. He wants me to apologize and to request that you meet him under the red Chagall at seven fifty. Does that make sense?”

“Yes, it does. Thanks, Hannah. I‘ll just pack up my things and head over there now.” Mara prayed that Hannah couldn't hear her heart hammering.

Hannah shut Michael's office door. Mara pivoted back to the screen and hit Print.

nineteen

NEW YORK CITY, PRESENT DAY

M
ARA COULD NOT REMEMBER MAKING HER WAY TO LINCOLN
Center, greeting Michael, locating their seats, watching the opera house's famous rock-candy crystal chandeliers rise, or listening to the melodic strains of Puccini.
Son venuta al richiamo d'amor.
She could see and feel and hear only the roar of questions in her own head.

A surge of emotions accompanied the roar. At first, she wanted to rage at Michael, confront him with her suspicions, and physically hurt him. But her fury faded away in place of shame, as she began to feel that everyone around her must know her secret. She must somehow bear the mark of her naïveté, her foolish, unknowing participation in Michael's deception. She looked down at her hands. She saw that they clapped, just like everyone else's. She felt the fingers touch. But there was no sound.

As the crowd rose, she did, too. She could almost see herself through another's eyes, following Michael's lead and Michael's smile and touching Michael's hand as they exited through the throngs. Oh God, touching Michael's hand. Why were the people around her not staring? Worst of all, what would her grandmother think?

She must have allowed herself to be led into the cab. For, with a jolt, she came back into herself, just as Michael leaned toward her with a kiss and they approached her building. She recoiled, winding herself into the corner of the cab. His eyes anticipated the usual invitation upstairs, but Mara quickly muttered something about not feeling well and rushed inside.

Once upstairs, her door bolted shut, Mara reached into her fridge for a bottle of white wine. She knew that she really shouldn't, that she needed to remain clearheaded. But her confusion and pain were too much to bear. Hands shaking, she poured a second glass, and a third.

She awakened hours later on the couch, with a bone-dry bottle on the coffee table. For a moment, her consciousness was free of the specter of the e-mails, but when it rushed at her in a deluge, she returned to the fridge again and opened a new bottle, the pit in her stomach growing. Just one glass to take the edge off, she told herself. Then she could face it. Then she could decide what to do. But, of course, it wasn't the one glass.

It was still dark. She proceeded with her normal motions, washing her face, brushing her teeth and hair, changing into pajamas. She padded back to the family room, picked up the half-empty bottle, and poured the rest of it into a tall glass. She downed a good portion of the wine, crawled into bed, and, as she flicked through the channels, finished off the rest.

Early the next afternoon, she returned to herself. Foggy, but strong enough not to head back to the fridge, she checked into her impersonation of a life and reviewed her messages. At work, all seemed under control—just a few voice mails from legal assistants and junior associates, all excuses to let her know that they were working on Saturday.

At home, it was different. On Saturday morning, her father called on the return leg of a business trip, checking to see if she had reigned victorious on her summary judgment argument. Michael called three times to see how she was feeling. The pit in her stomach expanded. She had never once heard the phone ring.

Mara called Sophia and arranged to have an early dinner with her, even going so far as to suggest that she had an important issue to discuss. Sophia's curiosity would keep Mara focused and hopefully spark the anger that had diminished in favor of shame the night before. She needed to get herself into a more active mode. If what she was thinking were true, then she had been played for a fool, her professional authority taken advantage of, and her emotional vulnerability mocked. At the moment, she was still stunned and incredulous, but she needed Sophia to help her get her strength back so she could act.

Finally, she tried Michael. Thank God, she got his voice mail and could elaborate on her illness to explain her behavior. She told him she was heading back to bed for the day. He had plans to leave for Paris the next day, and she needed to buy herself as much time as she could.

Then Mara lined her stomach with a bagel and headed out for a punishing run. She showered, poured herself a cup of coffee, and removed the documents from her bag. Her hands trembled, but whether it was from the booze or the e-mails, she didn't know. She handled the papers with care and laid them out on the dining room table. Deliberately, she slowed her breath.

Maybe she'd misread them and jumped to conclusions. She carefully studied the printouts. But once again, it was clear that there was no other interpretation to make. The documents Michael had given her to prove the airtight nature of
The Chrysalis
provenance were false. “Actual papers” existed that told a different story. Although Mara did not know the exact details of this story, she knew that somehow her legal attacks on Hilda Baum's claim, her skillful, calculated undermining of the old woman's emotional appeal, had been based on lies. Most damning and humiliating of all, Michael had used Mara as his pawn and exploited her—blinded her vision with the pink clouds of their relationship—to ensure his victory. All of this duplicity and subterfuge to dupe a victim of the Holocaust. What game did Michael play? She assumed the Saint Peter of Michael's e-mails was the Saint Peter of Michael's office sketches, but what was Saint Peter holding “under lock and key”? She had to find out.

Mara sealed the e-mails in a bag and headed off to meet Sophia. She clenched her fist so tightly around the strap that welts formed on her palm. As she worked her way up Third Avenue, the doorways of numerous bars reminded her how she wanted to drown out the emotions starting to emerge from her night of anesthetization, the feelings of rage at Michael's abuse of her and devastation at the wound to her heart and her pride. She tried to focus her mind on uncovering Saint Peter's secret, on the practical steps she could take to rectify the damage done, but she kept coming back to the fact that whatever Michael had done, he had done with her oblivious help.

Mara arrived at the designated diner, sank deep into the worn crimson leather of her favorite booth, ordered a large coffee instead of the Greek wine she so desperately wanted, and waited for Sophia. She watched the clock tick with growing desperation. Of all the times for Sophia to be late.

After a seeming eternity, Mara saw Sophia round the corner toward the diner. She exhaled. Her friend walked in, and Mara rose to give her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. They faced each other in the booth, and Mara felt as if the past day had been a dream. Maybe she could slip back to her reality, no matter how ill-fitting it had become, and forget it all. After expunging Michael from her life, of course.

“So, what's going on? You sounded so mysterious on the phone.”

Mara burst into tears.

She pushed aside Sophia's outstretched arms of consolation and dashed to the bathroom. There, in the corner of the coolly tiled room, she sank back on her haunches and let herself sob at the thought of Michael's deception, at her complicity, at the damage they had inflicted on Hilda Baum and all the others like her, at her own selfishness at even caring about Michael in light of the magnitude of their acts, at all of it.

When she recovered her breath, she ran her hands under the cold water and pressed them onto her eyes. She tucked her hair behind her ears and walked back to the booth with as much confidence as she could muster, even painting on a tiny smile. But Sophia was not to be deceived.

“Don't bullshit me, Mara, with that smile. What the hell has happened?” Sophia looked ready to fight, prepared to take on whatever, whoever had caused her stalwart friend such pain.

Mara reached into her purse and spread out the evidence for Sophia.

twenty

NEW YORK CITY, PRESENT DAY

T
HE NEXT DAY, MARA'S HEART QUICKENED WITH EACH ADVANCING
step as she strode to the front desk of Beazley's. She made a point of giving Larry a little wave and a wide smile.

“Good evening. May I help you?” the receptionist cooed from her lair. Though Mara had visited Beazley's more times than she could count, the receptionist always behaved as though it were her first time.

“Yes, my name's Mara Coyne. I've an appointment to collect some items from Michael Roarke's office.”

“Certainly. Let me just ring his assistant.”

An interminable pause followed, and a river of sweat poured down Mara's back. She was never so thankful to be wearing black.

“Ms. Coyne, Mr. Roarke's assistant doesn't have you listed as an appointment in his calendar, and she says that he's traveling outside the country at the moment.” The receptionist held her hand over the phone's mouthpiece.

Mara prayed her voice would not quiver. “Oh, I'm aware of that,” she answered in as haughty a tone as she could muster. “Michael actually left a box of documents for me to look through in his absence.” She hoped that her use of the informal “Michael” would smooth the way.

“I see.” The receptionist sounded skeptical. “Let me just check with Ms. McCordle.” Another endless wait, with indecipherable whispering.

Gesturing to the elevators, the receptionist granted Mara a begrudging leave to enter. “Please go right up. Ms. McCordle will meet you at the elevator bank and escort you to Mr. Roarke's office.”

Mara stopped a moment at Larry's desk for their routine exchange. His eyes twinkled. “Can I give a pretty girl a lift?”

“Sir, it would be my pleasure.” Mara curtsied.

Mara maintained her composure and kept a lighthearted banter going with Larry on the ride up, but when the elevator doors opened onto Hannah's mirthless face, her fragile confidence faltered. Larry gave Mara a grandfatherly pat on the shoulder and handed her over.

Mara launched into her rehearsed speech, ignoring the shakiness of her voice. “Hannah, I'm sorry I've arrived unannounced. I just assumed Michael would've told you that I'd be over to look through the documents he left for me.”

“Please, Ms. Coyne, it's no trouble at all. I just wanted to be sure you knew that Mr. Roarke wasn't here, that he'd be out for several days traveling in Paris. Of course, if he left some documents to look through, I'll lead you directly to his office.” She was as unflappable as always.

With her key, Hannah opened Michael's office. “Shall I get you a cup of tea to sip on while you work?”

“How thoughtful of you. That'd be wonderful, Hannah. Thank you.” As Hannah closed the door behind her, Mara unsealed the box she had asked Michael to leave for her when she called him in the evening after talking with Sophia and planning this exploratory visit to his office. She didn't mention she would be reviewing it right there in his office, but at least there was a box for her. As soon as the box was open and the papers spread out, Mara began scanning the wall that displayed Michael's sketches of Saint Peter, a study on a single subject, a muscular man draped in timeless robes with the outline of a key in his hand. The sketches had never drawn her in before; although exquisite, they were minute and monochromatic, not designed to lure the viewer. Even now, she was not inclined to admire the skill of their design, just what they were hiding.

Moments later, Hannah knocked. Mara, deep in the soft suede of Michael's couch, signaled for her to enter. As Hannah set up the tea tray, resplendent with a vase of roses and some miniature, exquisitely crafted cookies, she apologized. “Ms. Coyne, I have to leave within the half hour. Had I known you would be here, I would've made other arrangements. Will you be all right? Do you need anything further from me?”

Mara couldn't believe her luck. She had thought she would have to search under Hannah's watchful eye. To be allowed free rein of Michael's office was more than Mara had dreamed.

Mara contained her euphoria. “Thank you so much, Hannah. I'll be fine. I just need a bit of time to review these documents, then I'll be off. Do you need me to lock up or anything before I go?”

“Actually, if I could leave Mr. Roarke's keys with you to lock his door behind you, that would make me feel much more comfortable. I'd hate to think that his sketches would be accessible all evening.”

Mara cast another, furtive look at the sketches. Regaining her composure, she said, “I'd be happy to. Will you show me how?”

Hannah instructed Mara on the wiles of Beazley's archaic lock system, then entrusted the keys to her possession. Hannah requested that Mara return the keys to their carefully hidden spot, a false drawer beneath her desk. Then she left Mara alone.

Mara spent the next half hour pretending to look busy, poring through meaningless documents, arranging them in equally useless piles, pushing from her mind the admonitory words her father would surely utter if he knew what she was up to. She eyed the sketches on the wall, knowing in her gut that somewhere, somehow they hid the treasure trove. She willed her heart to stop racing and the sweat to stop pouring in time to wish Hannah a respectable farewell.

Once Hannah left at 5:30, Mara thought it wise to wait an additional half hour to let the rest of the office depart, but the clock's hands dragged around its face. At 6:04 precisely, Mara made her rounds. Key tucked in her hand, she left Michael's office, closing but not shutting his door. She meandered, as if she were deep in thought, to the ladies' room, which was typically Beazley's: decorated with glowing pink cherubs and the most ornately bedecked chaise longues that Mara had ever seen.

Office by office, assistant's station by assistant's station, Mara checked to make sure that everyone was gone. Like clockwork, the employees all had vanished.

She hurried back to Michael's office. This time, she tightened the door behind her and dashed over to the five sketches. The four smallest sketches were arranged in a square, surrounding the largest like a frame. Mara feared that one of Beazley's famed security systems might protect the sketches, so she lowered the first of the four small sketches from its wall mounting very slowly. No alarm sounded—at least, none that she could hear. There was nothing behind the sketch but wallpaper. Mara breathed a sigh full of both relief and disappointment. Not sure exactly what she was looking for, she patted down the back of the sketch before she replaced it on the wall. It was clear to the touch that the framing was not hiding anything. Mara followed this same protocol for each of the four small sketches and found nothing.

Just as she sized up the fifth, larger central sketch, the door flung open. Mara squealed.

It was Larry. “Hey there, doll, sorry to scare you. What're you still doing here?”

“Larry, it's me who's sorry. For screaming like that.”

“Don't worry, Miss Coyne. I was just doing my usual rounds when I heard some noises in here and, knowing that Mr. Roarke is away and all, had to pop in and check.”

“My apologies. Should I have called down to security to let you know I'm still here working?”

“No, no. You're fine. You going to go home anytime soon, though? Shouldn't you be letting some nice young man take you out to dinner?”

“Larry, you're sweet. I do have dinner plans later, with one of my girlfriends. But I have something I have to finish up here first.”

“You young lawyers. All work, no play these days. Well, I‘ll let you get to it. Give me a holler if you need anything.”

“Thanks so much, Larry. I'll do that.”

He closed the door behind himself. Mara sank into the couch, breathing as if she'd just run a marathon. She was unsure if she had the courage to go through with her search, so she looked for fortification from the e-mails in her briefcase.

After waiting a suitable amount of time, Mara made the sign of the cross and offered a silent prayer of intercession to Nana. Then she carefully lifted the fifth sketch off its hook. This time, instead of wallpaper, she found a safe built into the wall.

Now what should she do? Safecracking skills were hardly part of the typical law school curriculum. This one looked pretty straightforward, like those she had seen in movies, so she tried out a few combinations. Michael's birthday, her birthday, the date of Beazley's founding, but nothing happened.

Mara scoured the room looking for clues. She rummaged through Michael's drawers, his shelves, and his in-box. They yielded no secrets and only confirmed Michael's meticulous organization. His calendar proved more promising. She made a list of his family members' birthdays, including the date of a memorial service for Michael's uncle Edward—the one referred to by Philip—and tried them out on the safe. Still nothing happened.

Frustrated, Mara sat in Michael's chair and scrutinized the sketches from the vantage point of his desk. Maybe the code related to Saint Peter rather than something personal to Michael. She grabbed art history reference books off the shelves and recorded Saint Peter's celebrated dates to test them out. The safe refused to budge.

Stymied, Mara peered again at the sketches. Suddenly, she remembered a late-night conversation she and Michael once had about their Catholic upbringing with its attendant study of saints' lives and recalled that Michael's favorite was indeed Saint Peter, because he had formed the foundation upon which the Church was built. It triggered a memory from all the nights spent studying saints' lives with her grandmother: the biblical quote commonly associated with Saint Peter's keys and the formation of the Church. She grabbed an antique Bible off Michael's shelf and began poring through it. There it was: “You are Peter, and upon this Rock I will build my church, and the gates of the netherworld shall not prevail against it. I will give you the keys of the kingdom of Heaven. Whatever you bind on earth shall be bound in Heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in Heaven.” Matthew, 16:18–19.

She tried the numbers. Saint Peter had it “under lock and key” after all.

Mara reached into the safe, hands shaking. She slid out two large, unsealed manila envelopes. The first contained the will of Michael's uncle Edward Roarke—his great-uncle, as it turned out. The will named Michael as the sole beneficiary of Edward's rather substantial estate. It looked like traditional investments, the apartment in which Michael lived, and an impressive art collection, of which the sketches formed a part.

Mara examined the second envelope; it was directed to Michael, with Edward Roarke as the return addressee. It held a stack of aged documents, curling and frayed at the edges. The very first yellowed page looked almost identical to the copy of
The Chrysalis
purchase document Lillian had given her, even the same handwritten “September 20, 1944,” in the upper right-hand corner. But one critical line was different: The name of the individual who had sold
The Chrysalis
to Beazley's was listed not as Albert Boettcher & Company but as Kurt Strasser.

Who was Kurt Strasser? Mara didn't recall his name from either her research or her sessions with Lillian. Whoever he was, his name instilled such fear, such worry, that someone—Michael, his great-uncle Edward, or Philip—wanted to eliminate it from the provenance. Perhaps keeping Strasser secret was an unspoken pact Michael had made with Edward in exchange for the inheritance. But why?

Mara continued to look through the yellowed pages as she thought, and there was more. It appeared that
The Chrysalis
was hardly alone. In 1943 and 1944, Kurt Strasser sold twenty-four paintings to Beazley's. Whatever the nature of the deception Mara had fallen victim to, it appeared that Beazley's had purchased and sold many paintings somehow tainted by Kurt Strasser's ownership—and that Michael was using Mara to cover it up.