At Fifty-eighth I crossed to Fifth and roamed Bergdorf’s famed Seventh Floor while rationalising Dustin, Thomas, Jennifer, and Ethan’s opinions. The prickly sensation someone was watching me broke my train of thought, but I blew it off.
“Emma Paige?”
I jumped. Wilma Nash, flushed and flashing me the peace sign, hustled from the flatware displays. “Emma! Great to see you. I’m walking off a two Bloody Mary client brunch. Sealed a major deal over smoked salmon and quiche, due in large part to your advice. Thanks again for nudging me in the right direction.” She grinned. “Since here we are, I’m just buzzed enough to ask if all’s well with you. Feet on the ground?”
“Mayfair’s on very solid ground.”
“Not Mayfair’s feet. Your feet, your solid footing.” The grin was a bit lopsided. “Surveillance system in the conference room and all that.”
“What surveillance system?”
“Just the usual: Camera, microphones… Jules’ gadgets.” Jules.
“He hasn’t mentioned it? He set it up during a major run-in with a New York scumbag.”
“Carmine Isgro?”
“Yes indeed. With Jules being so global it helped keep tabs on board members and his executives. But Imperial was Isgro’s major supplier till things went south. Jules little system essentially kept him informed when the asshole threw his weight around in my conference room.”
I had no clue regarding the current Wilma-Jules dynamic. Engaging in Carmine rumours could blow up in my face. I worked at nonchalance. “Fortunately I moved Mayfair out of Rockefeller Centre and up Madison in January. Surveillance is a non-issue.”
She patted my arm. “Let’s just say you might want to figure out how to bring up the topic.”
“He’d consider installing devices without telling me? That sounds like something out of his parents’ espionage background.”
“Oh please. Not that Priory Bay, Cambridge Five war spy drama stuff. Priceless art? Emma, Emma. Fabrications.”
“I don’t think—”
“Maybe you know; maybe you don’t. Your boss and I had a torrid affair. I was privy to things that help make sense of who you’re beholden to. Whom.” She waved the air. “Beholden. Now there’s a Freudian slip. Bottom line, I can fill in the blanks on the always-Great Gatsby. Julian Petrenko’s reinvented himself just like something out of F. Scott Fitzgerald. True enough his German Jewish mother lost her family to the Nazis, and his father was a Russian immigrant. But they weren’t spies, they were some sort of housekeepers to the spies, or one of the group. That part’s very murky, but bottom line, they weren’t double agents bumped off on a London street by some Russian assassin. They were jaywalking in driving rain and hit by a cab. Their double agent government spy guy employer wangled a small education trust fund and the Priory Bay orphan place for Julian and Oksana.”
I stifled my shock. “But he does own the hotel?”
“You betcha. Part and parcel to his reinvention. I helped furnish his private quarters. Someone else’s monogrammed silver, high end estate sale furniture with just the right old money wear and tear, art from the best copyists.”
“Forgeries?”
“Bite your tongue.” Wilma laughed. “Perfectly legal. Paperwork included. Want a Picasso? If Harlequin With Glass hangs in the Met, you can’t very well say that’s the original above your mantel. But you sure as hell can hang that dead ringer pastel or black and white sketch of the scene and pawn it off as one of Pablo’s priceless preliminary studies for it.”
“Very creative,” I replied, sounding like Cousin Neil. “God knows he’s got the balls to succeed. The Brit’s a killer combo of street smarts and business savvy. I was the wrong arm candy for all his role playing and we know my lofty Mayfair position was to soothe his guilt. So be it. He has the financial resources to seek out whomever it takes to put Mayfair on the map. Whoever. That would be you, of course.”
“Wilma.”
“You’re right. Say no more. Lovely running into you, Emma.”
I wished her well, then ambled home up Fifth Avenue rewinding Priory Bay through my head. Could Wilma be believed The Julian I knew was practically a figment of his own imagination? A surge of empathy for the man driven to manufacture a fictional persona rolled right over my outrage. Hadn’t I’d been doing the same since my Wash U fraternity house episodes?
Actually no, I had not. I slowed at the Sixty-fourth Street Central Park Arsenal and zoo entrance. Tourists, dog walkers, and families shuffled around me as empathy evaporated. My all too-familiar gut grabbing angst took over. Passing off Turner and Picasso copies was one thing. Having way more to do with Carmine than he’d admitted, quite another. And god almighty, covert surveillance?
I crossed Fifth wondering if my FBI contacts might recommend an outfit to sweep our new headquarters for listening devices, then dug through my purse to answer my phone. Thomas Schuman. “Emma, sorry to bother you on the weekend,” he said over background chatter. “You’ve mentioned living close to the Met. My son’s at NYU and we’re catching the Struth photo exhibit at four. Any chance I could drop off some photos on my way or after we grab dinner?” He lowered his voice. “I’ll explain when I see you. Do you have a magnifying glass?”
“I do, actually, but no need to mess up family time. This can’t wait till our flight?”
“Can but I’m guessing shouldn’t.”
“Then I’ll meet you at the museum. I have a favour to ask, anyway.” At three-forty on the nose I circumvented hot dog trucks, tourist busses, then spotted him among the art lovers under the THOMAS STRUTH: STREETS banner at the top of the steps.
“Thanks for coming over,” he said opening a manila envelope. “I’ll be quick and you can take these home. No clue how relevant it is, but you might want to put a timeline together.” He slid a black and white glossy from the envelope.
“Claridge’s tea time,” I said, glancing at a smiling woman and two girls in the foreground. To their right, a couple in profile leaned in, cups raised. “Holy shit. Marsha and Julian?”
“Yup. This apparently ran in Fragrance International. It popped up in their archives under Marsha.” Thomas tapped the print. “Look behind them.”
“That’s me. High Tea was Marsha’s domain, but she’d call me to come down with paperwork when she was wheeling and dealing. She rarely introduced me.” I looked at Thomas. “During my first Mayfair interview, Julian mentioned having done some work with Platinum. Clearly he didn’t remember this any more than I do.”
“Doesn’t remember or didn’t mention tea for two? His free hands on top of hers.” He handed me the envelope. “Barely worth mentioning, or having you trek over here except it got me digging. I’ve included contact proofs from my Charade launch, tear sheets, plus a few I’ve printed on normal paper. Take this home and get them under some magnification.” He glanced over my shoulder and waved. “Sorry, Seth’s on the sidewalk.”
“Thomas, before my brain explodes, this morning I learned Julian had closer dealings with limelight loving Carmine Isgro than he’s admitted. I was going to call you about stock photos.”
“You want to me get nosy? I’ve got the company candids I shot for you. Getty Images is an option. Ciao!Beauty right?”
“Ciao!Beauty then Carmine used the Kinetic umbrella when he got his hands on it. Use both.”
“This is between us?”
“Julian had Mayfair’s Rockefeller Plaza board room wired to cover Carmine’s conversations with my predecessors.” I looked him straight in the eye. “You’re to bill me at home.”
“Understood.”
