But of course it wasn’t simple at all. Monique had a long history with Riley. Most of it actually was business. But there had been one night when they were celebrating a spectacular success, and things had gone way beyond business—all the way into bed. It had been surprisingly good—for both of them, she was sure. And still, it had been a mistake. Even if it was a wonderful, memorable mistake that still made her shiver when she remembered.
But it was impossible, out of the question, ridiculous, even to think about repeating it. Riley was the most arrogant, conceited, self-centered man she’d ever met. She had to admit that some of the arrogance was justified. He really was the best in the world at what he did. Even so; if he ran into more than he could handle, it would probably be because he thought he was so freaking good nobody could touch him. And when they did—well, in a way it served him right.
But Monique wasn’t worried. Not really. Riley was the proverbial bad penny. He’d always come back. If he was late? No big deal.
Still, a small and nagging worry stayed with her. And the longer it nagged, the more irritating it was. Finally, Monique did what any sane Manhattan woman with money to burn would do under the circumstances. She went shopping.
For several hours, Monique drifted from one high-end boutique to another. Money was certainly not a problem. She had plenty—partly thanks to Riley and the work he’d brought her. More so because she was probably the best art forger in the world. Riley certainly thought so. He’d backed up that belief, too, getting some of her best work and paying her exorbitantly for it. A big chunk of the money in her offshore account came from him, and she knew she should be grateful. The problem was, Riley seemed to think so, too. And he had very definite ideas about how she ought to express her gratitude.
When that popped into her head, she found herself grinding her teeth in frustration. And as a result, she found herself buying a pair of handmade glove-leather boots that cost nearly as much as a new car.
Of course, the thoughts of Riley stayed with her, part worry and part something else Monique would rather not define. So she was very much lost in her own thoughts as she hurried along the crowded sidewalk carrying the new boots. So much so that she didn’t notice the woman who began carefully tailing her as she left Marina Rinaldi. The follower was very skillful, but it wouldn’t have mattered if she was a rank novice. Monique was from an upper-middle-class background. And art forgers don’t generally do a lot of fieldwork. Street skills were not in her armory.
Even if she had been more savvy, she still might not have noticed. The woman following her looked so ordinary, no New Yorker would see her even if they were looking right at her. And even if Monique had noticed her tracker, she would not have seen the camera the woman used. It was well hidden in a Louis Vuitton handbag, and at the end of the day, Monique still had no idea that she’d been followed and photographed during her entire shopping trip.
7
Whatever else you could say about Patrick Boniface—and I could think of plenty—he was a good host. I mean, once you put aside the whole chain-you-to-a-stone-wall-and-threaten-you thing. And the polite, nonstop reminder of limitless suffering that Bernadette represented. All that stuff aside, Boniface kept me entertained. I stayed for three more weeks, and he gave me a real-life bed in a beautifully furnished room. And he kept me entertained, too. He knew I have a thing for music, like he seemed to know everything else. He had a library of the best—some really rare recordings, too.
And Boniface showed me his art collection. It knocked my socks off. I mean, I’ve seen the very best, all over the world, everywhere from the Louvre to MoMA. But in a cave on a nowhere chunk of rock called Cabbage Island, Boniface had a collection that ranked with the most famous. He had stuff I’d never heard of, and he had pieces that had been “missing” for years, and other things that were theoretically still in museums somewhere but clearly were not. He didn’t just have name-brand stuff, either. What he collected was exactly what he’d told me: beauty. There were paintings and sculptures by artists I’d never heard of, and they were not in any museum catalog I’d ever seen, but they were beautiful, no question about it.
So maybe he was right. Maybe he really did have a soul. He just didn’t carry it with him when he did business.
The only downside was the food. It turned out that the green glop they’d been feeding me while I was chained up in the cell was standard fare. Boniface had started out as a vegan, stirred that up with massive paranoia and unlimited funds, and come up with an entirely synthetic blend of algae and who-the-fuck-knows. It was all grown and concocted right here on Île des Choux so he didn’t need to import any food. He said it contained all the vitamins and trace minerals needed to promote health. But one thing it didn’t contain was flavor. The stuff tasted just like it looked—like it had been made from synthetic algae.
Happily for us all, it turns out vegans can drink alcohol—even the vegans who only eat green slime. Boniface was generous with his drinks, and he let me browse through his library of rare and amazing whiskeys, cognacs, Armagnacs, marcs—all the stuff I like, plus bottles of legendary brews I’d heard about but never even seen before. His wine library was every bit as good, stocked with classic vintages from all the world’s great domains. The only downside was deciding which one to pair with the slime. I mean, what goes best with algae? Red or white? You’d have to think a really big white—but why not a Beaujolais? And there were so many other great reds in the rack. Boniface pulled out a 1965 Château Lafite that—well, that isn’t important. What matters is that with just a few belts of the good stuff I could almost believe the green slime was food.
So we had a jolly old time of it, swilling hooch and yakking about art, and under other circumstances good old Patrick Boniface and I would have become brand-new besties. Of course, that was sort of tough to do under the present conditions. I mean, when somebody is going to kill you unless you do something that can’t be done, it’s a real strain on a budding bromance. And with Bernadette hovering in the background and watching me with a stare like a deranged hungry tiger, it wasn’t something I had any luck forgetting about.
It did begin to wear a little, too, especially after the first week. But there was no help for it. Boniface hadn’t intended to keep me for three whole weeks. I mean, Riley says yes and gets to work, or he says no and goes in the ocean. After Bernadette had her quality time, of course. But apparently it was storm season out there in this part of the world, and no boats could get through right now, so I was stuck until the weather cleared.
Still, it was just about as much fun as you could have under the circumstances. I mean, if you’ve never taken a bottle of truly great Armagnac and sat with a collection of mind-bendingly great art—just sat with it. Sip, stare, ponder, sip some more. And the whole time you’re listening to something like Christian Tetzlaff’s recording of Sibelius’ string quartets—it doesn’t get much better than that, unless you throw in a hot woman with really low self-esteem. Sadly, Boniface didn’t stock those, and Bernadette was definitely not a replacement option.