(33)
She phoned Sam Rice first. “Ava, I’m glad you called. I was beginning to worry about you.”
“I’m okay, considering. You did hear the news reports about Edwin and the two women?”
“Of course. How tragic, how unbelievably tragic.”
Ava detected no sign of strain in his voice. “They were shot,” she said.
“I know. I called a friend of a friend who works at New Scotland Yard and he filled me in on the details. It was a robbery, evidently. Several paintings were missing from the walls.”
“Have you spoken to Glen?”
“Yes, twice. The first time when I came back from the gallery, and the second when I finished my chat with the chap at Scotland Yard. He’s devastated, obviously.”
“I was going to call him.”
“I would wait if I were you. He’s trying to reach Edwin’s family right now and plans to be in England tomorrow. Assuming we have the other thing well in hand, he can concentrate on rebuilding that relationship.”
“You intend to go ahead with the sale of the Picasso and the Gauguin?”
“Why, of course.”
“On the same schedule?”
“Why not?”
Ava looked out the window, trying to figure out what to say next. How could they not see the connection between the deaths and the paintings? She had expected alarm, panic, fear. Ignorance is sometimes a good thing, she thought. “Can you move even faster?”
“We had an understanding — ”
“I know. The thing is, this Edwin Hughes affair has upset me more than I can say. I’d like to put this job behind me.”
“Anything is possible, at a cost,” he said slowly. “I have specific buyers in mind for both paintings, but I was going to dangle them in front of a few other people and try to start a bidding war. If I go directly to the most likely purchasers and if I want them to respond quickly, I’ll lose some of that edge. Our final sale price will be lower. How much, I don’t know, but definitely lower.”
“I’m prepared to live with that.”
“But are we?” Rice said.
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“You want to net about seventy million dollars. I’ve calculated that after commissions and expenses, I can return that to you and still have about ten million for Glen and me. If I follow your directions now, we might gross only eighty or ninety million. Let’s say it’s eighty. Now, if you take your seventy, that leaves me with virtually nothing after commissions. As I see it, I’m the one creating the value and I’m the one taking the risk. Without me, there is no sale.”
“As a brokered sale, Harrington’s gets ten percent?”
“Yes, and that’s not negotiable.”
She calculated. “Are you sure you can get eighty million if you flip the paintings as quickly as possible?”
“Yes, I can get eighty.”
“Okay, Harrington’s gets ten percent and I’ll guarantee you and Glen five million each, regardless of the final selling price. I’ll still want the money to go to Liechtenstein until I give instructions for where my portion is to be sent.”
“And your clients will be okay with that?”
Ava thought about May Ling and Changxing high up in their castle in Wuhan, ready to unleash another killer. “My clients are my concern. I’ll handle them,” she said.
“When you say ‘sell them quickly,’ what kind of time frame do you have in mind?”
“Twenty-four hours.”
“Good God.”
“Is it possible?”
He paused and then said slowly, “It is, but we’re now most definitely in the eighty-million range.”
“I told you, I can live with that.”
“Then I’ll make my calls. I have one client on standby in Japan and the other is in Germany. I’ll press them to close. If I can get them to do it, I’ll let you know. I won’t call you directly, though. You’ll receive an email and probably a voicemail from my wife. Her name is Roxanne. And Ava, I think we should make it a matter of practice in future to conduct all this business between her and you.”
“Then I’ll look to hear from Roxanne.”
“That still leaves the other three paintings, especially the Modigliani that Locke is fretting about.”
“That paper you wanted me to sign this morning — show it to Locke and send it over to my hotel, will you? I’ll sign it and have it sent directly back. That should mollify Frederick. Tell him that as well as protecting Harrington’s, we decided under the circumstances to keep Edwin’s reputation intact. That’s one more piece of security for Locke.”
“I thought the very same thing. I think Locke will be completely onside with this.”
“Locke is your problem now,” Ava said. “I just want to finish this job. I’m ready to go home.”
(34)
Ava hung up from speaking with Sam Rice feeling that she had reassumed some measure of control. Now I need to talk to Uncle, she thought.
She tried his line and it again went directly to voicemail. She had a long list of phone numbers of people associated with him, and the first and most obvious choice was Sonny.
“ Wei,” Sonny answered on the second ring, the sound of traffic audible in the background.
“It’s Ava. I need to talk to Uncle. Do you know where he is?”
“He’s inside.”
“I don’t have a magic phone, Sonny. What do you mean by inside?”
“Massage.”
“This late?”
“He’s been sick. He slept most of the day and is better now. He thought that a guasha treatment would help.”
Ava had experienced a guasha treatment once: a hot porcelain spoon was dipped in hot oil and used to scrape the back until it was almost raw. It was supposed to leach out impurities. All it did was leave her back red and sore for a week. “When will he be done?”
“Maybe ten minutes.”
“Have him call me as soon as he’s out.”
“Okay.”
“Sonny, this is very important.”
“I’ll tell him.”
She turned on her computer and logged on to a site that listed all the U.K. newspapers. The Hughes Gallery killings were front-page news: a robbery gone wrong; three bodies found in the back office, hands tied, a bullet in the back of each head. The office had been ransacked and two paintings were missing. There were no known suspects, although several people in the area saw a tall blond man leaving the gallery around the time of the shootings.
Her cellphone rang.
“Why didn’t you phone me to tell me about the shootings?” she said before he could speak.
“I was ill,” Uncle said. “Not thinking very clearly, and I knew we would have an intense conversation.”
“Uncle, what happened?”
