Despite pouring over the antiquities catalogues whenever he could, Batty was more of an
Whoever had invented the tuxedo, he decided, had definitely been a sadist. Probably the same guy who invented the bra and the corset. The tux he’d rented this afternoon felt half a size too small, and the tie Mrs. Broussard had so kindly agreed to strangle her husband with was cutting into his neck like a dog taking to a particularly juicy bone.
Batty was convinced that Callahan was a bit of a sadist, too.
She was also quite a looker tonight. The black strapless gown she’d chosen hugged all the right places in just the right ways, and he wouldn’t be a man if he didn’t take notice. She sat next to him in the middle of the Garanti auction room, and he was fairly certain that she was not suffering the indignity of wearing either a corset
Considering the size of the building, the auction room was small and intimate, no more than three hundred people of various persuasions crammed into it, sitting on stiff-backed chairs, dressed in their finest, including enough jewelry to cover half the U.S. deficit.
This was one healthy crowd.
Callahan had expressed doubts about Mr. Broussard blending in-but Batty thought he’d cleaned up pretty well. He’d even allowed her to apply a little CoverGirl to his bruises-the same stuff she was using to doctor the circles under her eyes-and if you didn’t look too hard, you might consider him handsome.
“I have one hundred thousand lira,” the auctioneer said into a microphone.
On the table next to him was a vase with a missing piece that was several centuries old. A relic, they’d been told, of the late Ottoman Empire.
“Do I have one-twenty?”
A man two rows ahead of Batty gave a subtle flick of the fingers and the auctioneer nodded.
“One hundred twenty thousand lira from the gentleman in forty-seven J. The bid now stands at one hundred twenty thousand. Do I hear-”
“One seventy-five,” a voice called out.
Although Batty had witnessed some spirited bidding in the last half hour, the crowd seemed subdued. The night’s festivities had begun in the lobby with a short, emotional memorial to Koray Ozan, who, according to the auctioneer, would have wanted them to carry on.
So carry on they did, their enthusiasm tempered by grief. Ozan had been a popular and well-loved figure in the city, a reformed smuggler and black marketeer who had turned his life around and donated millions to charity. This only convinced Batty that the collector he’d spoken to had been right. Missing medallion or not, Ozan had been a perfect candidate for
“One hundred seventy-five thousand lira,” the auctioneer said. “The bid is now one hundred seventy-five thousand. Do we have two hundred?”
Callahan touched Batty’s knee and in her best Louisiana accent-which wasn’t half bad-said, “Excuse me, darling, but I need to go visit the little girls’ room.”
This was their signal.
She rose and slipped past him, and he watched her glide up the aisle, lost for a moment in the graceful fluidity of movement. He was seeing her in a whole new light tonight. She stopped briefly to ask one of the auction house ushers for directions to the restroom, then a finger was pointed, pleasantries exchanged, and Callahan pushed through the doors and turned right.
As the doors closed again, Batty returned his attention to the bidding war. It was up to two hundred twenty- five thousand now, and it seemed the value of the vase in question was about to double before everyone’s eyes.
He waited. Knew what was coming.
He’d shown Callahan a sketch indicating that she had three easily accessible choices ahead of her, one of which was conveniently located near the restrooms, and not in the immediate view of any of the guards.
It was a simple but effective distraction. One of Batty’s favorites from his days back at Jefferson Junior High.
Less than a minute later, the building’s fire alarm started to ring.
After tripping the alarm, Callahan had hustled into the ladies room.
Now she emerged, looking appropriately frightened and harried, as the guards mobilized around her and began herding people out of the building, urging them to “remain calm.”
With their attention on the crowd, it was easy enough for her to slip away and move toward the stairwell, although working in an evening gown was not something she was fond of. She’d kicked off her Dolce and Gabbanas in the ladies’ room, figuring she’d be much better off without the five-inch heels.
A moment later, LaLaurie was beside her, and as they moved wordlessly together down the steps, she had to admit his call for simplicity had been a smart one.
Or maybe not.
Halfway down, they were confronted by a security guard hurrying up the stairwell toward them. He gestured for them to turn around. “No way out down here. Please exit through the-”
Callahan knocked him back, then pulled a travel canister of hairspray from her purse and sprayed his face. He crumpled to the steps, out cold.
“What the hell is that?” LaLaurie asked.
“Something our lab cooked up. He’ll be out for a while.”
They continued down the steps until they reached a dimly lit room, cluttered with antique furniture, pieces of art, paintings, books, and other collectables, some sitting on oblong tables, others peeking out from open wooden crates that were lined up along the walls. The tables were littered with rags and bottles of solvent and toothbrushes and polish, and Callahan realized that this was the staging area, where items were carefully cleaned and buffed and readied for auction.
She and LaLaurie moved through the darkness until they reached a brightly lit hallway, dotted with office doors. Each door had a pebbled glass window that was clearly labeled with the occupant’s name, including one at the far end, marked KORAY OZAN
Beyond this was a narrow stone archway that led to another stairwell. A sign above it read ARSIV. The archive rooms.
Callahan signaled for LaLaurie to follow her, and they moved down the steps into darkness. When they reached the bottom, she fumbled for a light switch and flipped it on.
The light was dim but serviceable, revealing another hallway-or tunnel, really-this one made of old mottled stone. It had a low rounded ceiling with light fixtures strung along it and looked like something out of a horror movie. It occurred to Callahan that the auction house had probably been built here after an older structure had been torn down, leaving this part intact.
“Smugglers’ tunnel,” LaLaurie said.
“What?”
“If I’m not mistaken that’s what this was. Ozan was once a black marketeer, so I’m not surprised he was drawn to this place. I’ll bet there was a lot of traffic down here once upon a time.”
There were three wooden doors ahead. One to the right and two to the left-marked BIR, IKI and UC. But none of them showed any signs of a recent police presence. No crime-scene tape in evidence.
Callahan and LaLaurie worked their way along the curve of the tunnel and came to a juncture, where it branched off in two different directions. Callahan mentally flipped a coin and was about to go to her left, when LaLaurie took her by the forearm.
He gestured to the right fork. “This way.”
“You’re sure?”
“Trust me.”
A moment later, they were standing in front of another wooden door, an
