“When I know I’m going to do it, it’s something I’m looking forward to, and there isn’t much of that in my life nowadays. But I’m also afraid he’ll see me. When he appears, it’s like this huge wave comes over me. Almost as if I feel invincible or something, because I can see him, but he can’t see me. And then, when he walks away, I feel stupid for being there. I vow that I won’t do it again, but that never holds. Within a day or two, I’m there again.”
“Does that remind you of anything else you do?”
“What?”
“The sequence you just described. Does it fit any other activity you engage in?”
She thought for a moment. “No, not really.”
“It’s actually not such an uncommon pattern. It is the progression that often is described by people suffering from addiction, be it drugs or alcohol or something else. They all share a commonality regarding the anticipation, combined with the fear of getting caught, the thrill of the act in the moment, followed by guilt, then a powerful need for more. Which, of course, is what makes it such a vicious cycle.”
It had now been nearly two years since James had left her, and her hope that time would heal the wound was becoming more tenuous every day. She had experienced some obsessive behavior in the past over failed relationships, sometimes lasting long enough that her friends expressed concern, but it had always eventually passed. By now, she knew the fallout from her divorce was not going in that direction. If anything, things were getting worse. Her need to crash the anniversary party was prime evidence of that.
As was the fact that, as she left Sant Ambroeus that morning, she was already planning her return later that evening. She wanted—no, needed—to know what Reid and James were doing together.
“Tell me about this guy,” Reid said.
Reid sometimes got this feeling. It wasn’t quite a tingling of the hairs on the back of his neck, but it was a sixth sense of sorts that something wasn’t right. He wasn’t sure he was experiencing that feeling now, but he might be. Maybe it had nothing to do with the deal. Maybe it was a sign he had chosen the wrong business partner.
When he had asked James to help, Reid had expected a little pushback. There was something too holier-than-thou about James for his taste. Then again, being a Boy Scout in the art world was akin to being the world’s tallest little person. Even the most scrupulous art dealers cut corners when real money was on the line. Which was why Reid was taken aback when James initially turned the deal down. Then when James called him back to change his mind later that day, Reid wondered whether his original disinclination was all for show, although that seemed a bit over-the-top for even James to demonstrate his scruples.
Reid might have let that go without a second thought if it hadn’t been for the fact that immediately after James said he was in, he suddenly had a buyer. Like some guy was just waiting to buy an unsigned Pollock, and all James had to do was add water.
Reid wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but it seemed a little too good to be true that, in less than twenty-four hours, James had not only changed his mind about doing the deal but also found an all-cash buyer. Could James be setting him up somehow?
Reid shook the thought away. James wasn’t that way. Besides, what would his angle be?
No matter how much he tried to assuage his fears, Reid couldn’t completely dispel them, however. It all seemed a bit hinky. Even for a semiclandestine art deal.
“His name is Noah Reiss,” James said. “I sold him a Miró a year or two ago.”
“And what’s his business?”
“Not clear. He’s a No Footprint Guy.”
A No Footprint Guy meant that the client had no internet footprint. Google his name, nothing would come up. No Footprint Guys kept their business interests under the radar.
No website. No social media presence. No press about them at all.
It made sense that a No Footprint Guy would buy a Pollock of dubious provenance in an all-cash deal. But Reid still thought it was hinky.
“Why not sell him all four?”
“That’ll scare him off. You want every buyer to think they’re getting the only one.”
Though Reid talked a good game about art, that’s all it was—talk. He didn’t know much about actually selling it.
The buzzer to James’s office was too loud, startling Reid. As soon as it went off, James walked over to the intercom to tell Mr. No Footprint Guy to come up.
“It’s showtime,” he said to Reid.
To James’s surprise, two people entered his studio. One was his expected buyer, Noah Reiss. Beside him was a woman James might have thought was Noah’s wife except for the fact that she was a ten and Noah Reiss was a three, tops. He was a lump of a man, practically the same size around as he was vertical, and his face was largely hidden by a scraggly beard under a pair of beady eyes. By contrast, Reiss’s companion was James’s height, with the slender figure of a ballerina; she carried off a pixie cut as only an exceptionally beautiful woman could. Still, money made for strange partners, so maybe the woman was Mrs. Reiss.
“Noah, good to see you again,” James said heartily while shaking Noah’s hand. “This is my partner on this deal, Reid Warwick. Reid, meet Noah Reiss.”
While gripping Reid’s hand, Noah said, “This is Allison Longley. Allison’s an expert in midcentury modern American art. I asked her to come along to give me some comfort that everything is kosher. No offense, James. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but you know how it is. Trust, but verify.”
“Of course,” James said with a big smile. “I wouldn’t have
