Paul Christopher - Michelangelo_s Notebook

And there it was, right next to the Huxtable house of the Cosby Show, one of a score of three-story brownstones on a pleasant tree-lined street that looked into Hudson Park. A block west was Hudson Street and 421, once a warehouse, now a renovated yellow brick condo building. Beside it another red brick industrial building, this one with a forest of huge satellite dishes on the roof. There was a restaurant on the corner of Hudson and St. Luke’s but other than that the street was residential. Two blocks south she could hear the sounds of Houston Street. She was willing to bet there were fifty places within spitting distance where you could buy a five-dollar cup of coffee.

Eleven St. Luke’s Place was much like its neighbors: black-edged windows, black wrought iron fence around the well leading to the basement floor, an outside central air unit and a brass knocker beneath the classic stone pediment over the front door. In the case of number 11 there was also a small brass plaque, blindingly polished. Even from here she could see the iron grilles over the basement window. The cars in front of the building included a dark green Lexus, a silver Mercedes and a black Jag coupe.

She’d been sitting there for half an hour now, staring at the house and second-guessing herself. Too much longer and someone was going to look out the window and spot her there. She took a deep breath, let it out and stood up. She straightened her short black skirt, tucked her plain white blouse in at the back and adjusted the leather bag on her shoulder. She felt as though she was wearing a parochial school uniform. She spent a few seconds putting her hair back with a covered elastic, stuffed the unruly ponytail through the back of a blue-and-gray LA Dodgers cap and crossed St. Luke’s Place. She swallowed, cleared her throat and headed up the steep flight of steps and paused. The brass plaque said:

The Grange Foundation

McSkimming Art Trust

Despite the unmistakable notice, Finn ignored the knocker on the door and turned the knob. Nothing happened. She noticed a large flat plate screwed to the door, painted black to blend with the wood. Up in the corner by the pediment she spotted a small closed-circuit camera. It appeared that entering without knocking was not an option. She lifted the black iron ring clamped in the mouth of the black iron lion and hammered it down three times. There was a ten-second pause and then a crackling voice came out of nowhere and asked her business.

“On Time.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“On Time. Courier. I’m supposed to make a pickup.” This was the plan she and Valentine had concocted the night before. It didn’t seem to be working too well. There was a long pause, then the voice buzzed out of the ozone again.

“We don’t have anything for you.”

This was the clincher. “Topping, Halliwell amp; Whiting.” The firm of lawyers in Chicago that had provided the original shell for the Grange Foundation.

“Excuse me?”

“That’s the name they gave me.”

“Who gave you?”

“Dispatch.” She let out a long-suffering sigh. “Look, I just go where they tell me to-there’s no pickup, it’s no skin off my whatever. I’ll see you.” She waggled the fingers of one hand up at the video camera. “Bye now.” She turned to leave, holding her breath as she turned. She had her foot down one step when the electronic voice came again.

“Wait.”

Bingo.

“I’ll have to check. Wait.”

“I’m not going to stand around out here.”

Another pause and finally a sharp click from behind the plate on the door.

“Come in.”

“Thanks a bunch.” Finn turned the knob and pushed in through the heavy door, trying to keep the bored, faintly annoyed look on her face.

Once inside she found herself in a plain, narrow foyer with a second door directly in front of her. As the first door clicked shut behind her there was a faint sound from the second door and it popped open slightly. A second closed-circuit camera looked down on her from the doorframe. The foyer was an airlock, trapping anyone they considered a risk.

Finn went through the second door and stepped into a large reception room furnished in Arts and Crafts-style with what appeared to be a genuine Stickley desk and office chair set, a pair of armchairs and a long wooden “settle” complete with leather-covered pillows. The floors were dark cherry. On the cream-colored wall behind the middle-aged male receptionist’s head there was a framed oil that looked a lot like one of Monet’s Garden at Giverny series. If it was genuine, it was probably worth in the neighborhood of twenty million dollars.

Nice neighborhood.

The receptionist had dark thinning hair, broad shoulders, a white shirt with a blue-on-blue silk tie and what appeared to be a Hugo Boss suit that didn’t quite disguise the heavy-looking bulge under his left shoulder or the broad, pale leather rig that held it in place. A gun. Which made sense if the Monet was real. Finn was in too deep to back out now: the bluff was on.

“Wait here,” said Hugo Boss with the obvious shoulder holster.

Finn did as she was told, slowly turning in a full circle, taking in the entire room. Beyond the expensive furniture and the Monet it could have been the office of any tasteful professional in Manhattan-lawyer, accountant, upscale consultant. There were two doors at the end of the room, one folding, a closet, the other leading deeper into the building. Somewhere behind it Finn could hear the flat thumping of a photocopier and the whirr-click-hum of an office-sized laser printer. She looked carefully. The phone on the receptionist’s desk had half a dozen lines, four of which were lit. Once again, nothing out of the ordinary.

Hugo Boss returned. “There’s nothing here for you. And we don’t use any courier company called On Time. When we use couriers we use Citywide.”

“That’s right,” said Finn, trying to go with it. “Only when Citywide is overbooked they give the slush to us.”

“Slush?”

“Overflow. And like I said, I just pick up and deliver. You say there’s nothing here, then there’s nothing here. No problem.” She pulled the Dodgers hat more firmly down on her head and turned to go. At the last second she paused and gave Hugo her brightest eager-beaver “I’m just a shy country girl in the big city” look. “Uh, can I ask you a favor?”

“What?”

“I’ve really got to pee.” Which was true enough; Hugo and the gun he was wearing were scaring the hell out of her.

“We don’t have a public toilet.”

“I’ll only be a second, promise. You can check out that pickup for me again.”

Hugo Boss paused and then frowned. Finn turned up the wattage on her pleading look, the same one she’d used in high school when she hadn’t done her homework.

“All right,” said Hugo. “Through there. First door on the right.” He pointed. Finn trotted down to the far end of the room, watching from the corner of her eye as Hugo picked up the phone on his desk. She went through the door and shut it behind her. She was in a short hall between the front and rear of the house. To the left was a copy room, the source of the photocopier noise. To her right was a plain door with a sign that said WASHROOM. Straight ahead was an archway leading into an inner office. Two women and a man were sitting at computer work stations in a brightly lit windowless room. A flight of narrow stairs led up to the second floor. Yet another door led even farther back into the building, probably into what had once been the kitchen. No one was paying attention, so Finn ignored the toilet for the moment and ducked into the copy room. There was a big floor-standing Canon digital copier, an office fax machine and an industrial-sized scanner as well as a shelf full of coffee-making equipment and a row of coat hooks. Someone had left a bunch of keys beside the photocopier and without thinking Finn scooped them up and slipped them into her shoulder bag. She left the room, slipped into the bathroom and sat down, breathing hard. She gave herself a few seconds to calm down, flushed the toilet, ran the water and then hurried out to the front office again.