Desperate Measures

26

Cilla called Stone.

“Hello?”

“I feel in a celebratory mood,” she said. “Can I take you to dinner?”

“Sure. What time should I pick you up?”

“I’ll pick you up,” she said. “Be downstairs at seven o’clock.”

“As you wish.”

The silver Flying Spur glided to a halt in front of Stone’s house, and the driver held the door for him.

“This is beautiful,” he said, climbing in.

“It’s not as big as your Mulsanne,” she said, “but it had the virtue of being on the showroom floor, ready to drive away. I was in no mood to wait three or four months for delivery.”

“Where are we headed?”

“Brooklyn,” she said.

“I’m in your hands.” They crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, took a right or two, and drove up to the River Café. “Ah, one of my favorites,” Stone said.

“They know me here, so I was able to get a table on short notice.”

They were seated, ordered drinks, and perused the menu. When they had ordered, Cilla spoke up. “Do you know why I’m so happy?”

“Because you’re divorced?”

“That was last week. Now I’m happy because I moved into my new apartment today.”

“What are you doing for furniture?”

“The previous owner was a recent widow who was downsizing, so I bought enough of her furniture to live with. Oh, I’ll re-cover some things, and buy many others, but I’m comfortable.”

“Anything else?”

“Donald is out of the Greenwich house. I expected him to take his clothes and personal things, but according to my housekeeper he took everything — furniture, books, art, TVs, rugs — and he took an early Picasso that was my mother’s. I’ll probably have to sue him to get it back. Herb is on it.”

“What is it worth?”

“Millions, I expect.”

“Where did Donald move to?”

“He’s rented an apartment on the Upper East Side, in a nice building, far enough from me.”

“Good,” Stone said. “Just think of the stuff he took as a challenge to your decorating skills.”

“I’ll do that.”

“He took the safe in the study, too. That’s where he kept his guns.”

“So, he’s armed again? Dino’s guys never caught him with a gun; they didn’t know about his new apartment.”

“Herb is going over there as we speak, to get the Picasso back.”

“Does he know that Donald is armed?”

“He’s taking backup, don’t worry.”

Herb Fisher, accompanied by two uniformed NYPD officers hired for the occasion, rang the doorbell of Donald Trask’s new apartment. Trask opened it, wearing a new-looking silk dressing gown. “Hi, remember me?” Herb asked.

“All too well,” Trask replied. “What the fuck do you want?”

“The Picasso,” Herb said.

“What Picasso?”

“The one you stole from Ms. Scott’s Greenwich home.”

“I didn’t steal it. It was hanging in my study.”

“You also stole the furnishings of the study. There was no such right given to you in the separation agreement. May we come in, or do these two gentlemen have to arrest you first for grand larceny?”

“I want to call my lawyer,” Trask said.

“Call whoever you like,” Herb replied, brushing past Trask with the cops close behind. He walked quickly around the apartment, which was filled with unpacked boxes, until he found the Picasso on the mantelpiece in a small study.

“That one,” Herb said to the cops, taking it down. He found a sheet of Bubble Wrap in a pile of trash and wrapped the picture in it. “That’s it,” he said to the cops. “Let’s go.”

“I’m going to get that picture back,” Trask said.

“No, you’re not. It wasn’t marital property — Ms. Scott inherited it from her mother. If you try, you’ll end up in jail. Good evening.”

The three men left, slamming the door behind them.

Cilla’s phone rang, and she answered it and listened. “Thank you so much,” she said, then hung up. “That was Herb. Picasso recovered and on its way to its new home on Fifth Avenue.”

“I expect Herb short-circuited the process,” Stone said.

“As long as the picture is mine again,” she replied.

Uptown, in turtle bay, Faith went downstairs and looked around for Jimbo. It was past ten, so his relief was due. Impatiently, she left the house and began the walk to Lexington Avenue. “I’m not a baby,” she said aloud to herself.

Jimbo came out of the downstairs powder room as his relief rang the doorbell, and he let her in.

“Evening, Jimbo,” she said.

“Evening, Sylvia.”

“Is she ready for the hand over?”

“Let’s go upstairs.” They took the elevator to the top floor and let themselves into Faith’s apartment. “Faith?” Jimbo called out. No reply.

Jimbo and Sylvia quickly searched the apartment. “She’s gone out, and without me,” he said.

“Why would she do that? She had the riot act read to her by Barrington.”

“She’s impulsive,” Jimbo said, “and impatient.” He dialed her cell number, which went immediately to voice mail.

“Faith,” he said, “this is Jimbo, please call me immediately.”

Faith had the bell turned off and didn’t hear the cell phone. She continued her trip uptown, where she wanted to visit the Caswell-Massey pharmacy on Lex. All she needed was some soap; she’d go straight back to the house after she’d bought it.

She spent a half hour in the drugstore, sniffing things, then bought her soaps and left. She vanished into the night.