The Black Madonna (4 page)

Not even Manalapan's superrich had managed to escape the Madoff plague. Bernard Madoff had wintered in Palm Beach. His clientele had included many of Palm Beach's finest. There were some streets on Palm Beach Island where every family faced bankruptcy, every multimillion-dollar home awaited the auctioneer's hammer, every bank account was wiped clean. The locals called these areas Bernievilles, after the Depression-era Hoovervilles that had infested U.S. cities.

Needless to say, it was not ideal timing for a lady to establish herself in the Palm Beach antiques and treasures trade.

As Storm slipped through the vultures clustered at the back of the room, someone softly called her name. She waved without seeing who it was. They might smile, they might wish her well. But her financial woes had the same effect as an arterial wound.

She found a seat, checked her catalogue, and saw the Pokhitonov oil would not come up for at least another hour. Then a man slipped into the adjacent chair and whispered, “I've been trying to contact you. Might I say, my dear, that is a most becoming outfit.”

“Until this spring, the only time I wore it was for Sean's funeral.”

“Then it fits the season.” Jacob Rausch lifted his paddle, bidding on a pair of Rodin marbles. “I am truly sorry to hear of your troubles. You deserve better. As does Syrrell's.”

Jacob Rausch's family was considered nobility within the New York antiques trade. Rausch was in his early fifties and was known for his polished manners and his Savile Row suits. His
expression of sympathy might have been genuine. But for the right commission he would have eaten his own young.

Storm replied, “Don't believe every rumor you hear.”

Jacob waited while the auctioneer went through his introductory spiel over a late Impressionist oil, then said, “I have made it my business to obtain the facts about Syrrell's. How long can you survive, a week? Certainly not a month.”

“Longer.”

Jacob Rausch offered a smile as welcoming as a polished blade. “I doubt that very much. While I admire you for settling Sean's outstanding debts, your timing could not have been worse. You can only live on consignments and the goodwill of your grandfather's allies for so long. The economy is in dire straits, the general market has dried up, you do not have a strong enough client list of your own to survive. Syrrell's is going under.”

Having her own conviction delivered by an outsider, and in such a courtly manner, only twisted the knife. “Thanks for your concern, Jacob. But I have—”

“Do me the courtesy of hearing my offer.” He raised his paddle. Again. Shook his head at the next counterbid. Then said, “My son is coming along well. I've decided he should establish a new base in Palm Beach. I want to buy you out. Your shop's entire contents, your lease, your name. The works.”

“That is not an offer. It's a death sentence.” When her phone chirped, Storm checked a readout she could not actually see and rose unsteadily to her feet. “I have to take this.”

Jacob Rausch chased her away with, “It's time you faced facts. Syrrell's is finished. At least this way Sean's name will live on.”

Storm crossed the foyer, passed the bodyguards, and reentered the brilliantly humid day. The phone's readout said the call came from Claudia. Storm said, “Give me a minute.” She paced the brick forecourt, searching for an easy breath, then lifted the phone and reported, “I just got savaged by Jacob Rausch.”

Claudia listened in silence as Storm related the offer, then said, “I hear Jacob's just gotten married again. For the fifth time. His bride is twenty-two. Which is probably why he wants his son out of the way. Reduce the in-house competition.”

“That's your response?”

“What were you expecting—for me to tell you to do it? I stopped singing that tune over a year ago.”

“So why did you call?” asked Storm.

“I am holding a very mysterious fax. Ordering you to purchase an oil by a Russian whose name I don't recognize.”

“I know,” replied Storm. “I've spoken to the buyer. And our bank.” She rubbed the aching wound over her heart. “But one new client doesn't make for a turnaround.”

“It's a start.” When Storm did not respond, Claudia pressed her. “Go in there and win us a commission. We can discuss funeral arrangements when you get back.”

TODAY'S SECURITY OFFICERS HAD BEEN
supplied by the auctioneers. Storm had met them at other stops along the bankruptcy trail. A number of Palm Beach's finest had clung to solvency through the high season, hoping against hope for a white-knight buyer who would permit them to depart with their dignity and credit ratings intact. But the season had never really gotten off the ground, and cash buyers remained absent. Hope drained as fast as the temperatures spiked. The auctioneers had never been busier. Their security possessed a well-honed talent for spotting their next client. They treated Storm with a courtesy normally reserved for the bereaved's immediate clan.

In order to avoid another confrontation with the genteel hangman, Storm selected a row where hers was the only unoccupied chair. She pretended to inspect her catalogue as a Klimt was placed on the stand beside the auctioneer. Before Hurricane Madoff struck Palm Beach, such catalogues were glossy and bound and boasted highly detailed prints on their covers. Nowadays
they were often little more than stapled computer printouts.

Storm lifted her paddle a few times, bidding early on the next several items, dropping out before the prices moved anywhere near closure, just establishing herself in the auctioneer's eye as a potential buyer. Despite the day's overcast mood, she felt a familiar adrenaline rush over being back in the game.

The Klimt was replaced by a lovely trio of Degas sketches, and they by a one-off Waterford crystal tiger with fiery rubies for eyes. Storm watched her painting begin its gradual procession up the side aisle. This was the game she was destined to play. The only job she had ever wanted. In the only world that ever mattered enough to push her heart to the redline. Even on a day as fractured as this.

“Item seventy-six. An intimate portrait by Ivan Pokhitonov, an important Russian realist.”

A lovely young assistant wearing a starched tuxedo shirt and matching white gloves paraded the oil before the gathering, then settled it on the easel to the right of the auctioneer.

“The painting, entitled
The Red Army Soldier
, holds a provenance beyond question. Acquired by the current owner directly from the painter's son.” The auctioneer tried to inject a note of significance into his windup. But he could not quite keep his gaze from drifting down the aisle to where his next item, an early Modigliani, beckoned. “An excellent example of Russia's struggle to preserve and reinvigorate their national culture.”

Storm shared the auctioneer's unspoken disdain for the portrait. It possessed the rough-hewn quality of many Russian artists of that epoch. Like late-nineteenth-century writers, Russian artists had struggled to redefine their national identity. In Storm's opinion, Ivan Pavlovich Pokhitonov was remarkable only for his attempts to draw from the nation's former intense interest in Orthodox mystical religiosity. This particular portrait was supposedly of a Red Army soldier who had saved the artist's life during one of the numerous uprisings that had swept
through the countryside prior to the First World War. The painting revealed a clash between the old Orthodox concept of divine protection and newer, colder Soviet attitudes. In Storm's opinion, the artist had failed to mesh the two. Yet this had not stopped the price of Pokhitonov's paintings and that of other pre-Soviet artwork from shooting into the stratosphere, propelled by Russian billionaires and their newfound patriotic fervor. All this had ended, however, when the price of Russian natural gas and oil had tumbled.

“Bidding will begin at seventy-five thousand. On my right, seventy-five. Who will offer me eighty?”

Storm held back until the painting reached what she assumed was the final stage of bidding at two hundred and ten thousand dollars. Bidding hung there for what to Storm felt like an electric eternity. Finally one of the original bidders, a female dealer from Boston with a fullback's jaw and orange hair, gave her white-knuckled assent.

“I am bid two fifteen by the lady here in the second row. Who will give me two twenty? No one? Two fifteen, going once. Anyone willing to offer me two twenty for this fine example of—”

Storm raised her paddle.

“Two hundred and twenty thousand, a new bidder to my right. Who will offer two twenty-five?”

The woman jerked in surprise but caught herself in the process of turning around. She nodded as much as her rigid muscles permitted.

“Back to you, madame, at two twenty-five. Am I offered two thirty?”

This time, when Storm raised her paddle, she felt eyes around the room begin to shift in her direction.

“Two thirty from the lady to my right. Two forty. Anyone? Come now. The price of Russian oil is bound to lift out of the cellar sooner rather than later. Consider this an investment in your company's future. Thank you, madame. Bidding stands at
two forty.” The auctioneer lifted his gavel at Storm. “Back to you at two fifty. Who will offer me two eighty?”

The woman's hesitation granted Storm a chance for some lightning calculations. At two hundred and fifty thousand, her 6 percent commission amounted to fifteen thousand dollars. Not nearly enough to erase their overdraft, but it would halt the banker's daily tirades, at least for—

“Two eighty from another new bidder at the back of the room. Who will offer me three?”

Storm fitted in her Bluetooth earpiece and hit the phone's redial button.

The mystery buyer had clearly been waiting for her call, for he answered on the first ring. “Where do we stand?”

“Bidding is at three hundred thousand and rising in twenty-five-thousand increments.” She lifted her paddle once more. “It is yours at three fifty. But not for long.”

“Who are we up against?”

“All of the original bidders have dropped out.” Storm turned in her seat. The man lifting his paddle in opposition shot her a furious look. Storm said into her phone, “It's down to you and Rausch.”

“The old man?”

“No. The son.” Storm lifted her paddle. “We've just hit four hundred thousand.”

“Who else is bidding?”

“No one. Sir, as your representative I feel I must tell you that given the current state of this market, four hundred thousand dollars for a Pokhitonov portrait may not be the best use of your—”

“Never mind that. Keep bidding.”

Storm touched a button on her phone and said, “I am now recording this conversation.”

“Good. Now follow my instructions and acquire that oil.”

“Sir, I need to have a limit.”

“Whatever it takes to keep Jacob Rausch from winning this article.” Her client's accent had grown stronger. “Where are we now?”

The auctioneer's voice had lifted a full octave with the excitement of having a bidding war over this most unexpected of items. “I am at five hundred thousand. Who will offer me five fifty?”

“Keep bidding,” said the voice in her ear.

The auctioneer used his gavel to gesture his acceptance of Storm's bid and said to Rausch, “Back to you, sir, at five fifty. Who will offer me six?”

Lifting her paddle had become a struggle against Storm's own natural instincts. “You understand, sir, that if you do not make good on the full purchase price, you will be out both the auctioneer's eight percent commission and my own six percent?”

“Of course I understand. Do I sound like a novice to you?”

“I merely wish to make the point perfectly clear, sir.” And to have a recording of his confirmation. Storm lifted her paddle. “We are now at seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

“Anyone else bidding against me besides Rausch?”

“To be honest, sir, no one in this market would be wise—”

“Answer the question.”

“No, sir.” She kept her voice at the proper level for someone who had a keenly attentive audience. “Rausch has just bid eight hundred thousand.”

“Stop this nonsense. Go to a million.”

“Very good, sir.” Storm did not so much stand as soar upward. “I offer one million dollars.”

Even the auctioneer was taken aback. He touched his hair, adjusted his bow tie, smoothed a lapel, and cleared his throat. “Very good, madame. One million dollars to you. Sir, at the back, do you care to respond? No? Anyone else? Item seventy-six, a portrait by Pokhitonov, going once for one million dollars. Going twice. Anyone? Sold to the lady on my right for one million dollars.”

Storm seated herself to a soft wash of applause and excited chatter. Such moments had become rare. These days, most dramas surrounded high-value items going for pennies. The man next to her beamed, as though delighted with the bidding insanity. Storm took a long breath, willing herself to stop shaking.

The voice in her earpiece shouted,
“Well?”

“Sir, the painting is yours for one million dollars.”

“I will immediately forward the funds to your bank. Do not leave today without that painting in your possession. Do you hear what I am saying, Ms. Syrrell? You
must
take that painting with you.”

“Very good, sir. Might I please remind you to include our commission with your—”

The phone went dead.