Page 49 of Twisted Enemy
120 mill by June 14
Vig. Whoever’s raking me over the coals is used to loansharking. Or maybe they just watched a lot ofThe Sopranos.
I can raise the money—liquidate some investments, sell a handful of paintings. But once I pay one twenty, they’ll make another demand. And another one after that, and after that again, forever.
The only way to kill this snake is to cut off its head. But I don’t even have a grip on its fucking body.
Fine. 120. June 14.
They don’t reply, but I don’t truly expect them to. Instead, I start reviewing every text I’ve ever received from the blackmailer, searching for something, anything that will give me a clue to their identity.
I’m studying their demand from last month, going word by word, when my phone rings. This time, it’s Pyotr Tarasov. I stare at the screen deciding whether to pick up, or maybe I hope he’ll just get bored and go away.
Of course that will never happen. I finally answer: “Wolf.”
“I don’t like to be kept waiting,” Tarasov growls.
I don’t respond. He’s the one who placed this call. He can break the silence.
When he does, his voice is tight with annoyance. “I need an appropriate gift for Breagha Lynch. Something to mark our engagement.”
“I agreed to get you into the Canton Crew’s computers. Not to be your personal shopper.”
He giggles like a flute tuning up. “I want your painting, the one in your living room. To hang over our bed.”
He’s asking for Picasso’sScreaming Woman in Mirror, the one I bought from Fiona Moran. It’s a shattering portrait of Picasso’s much-abused first wife, and I can’t imagine a less appropriate engagement present.
“It’s not for sale,” I say.
Tarasov’s too-high laugh grates like teeth scraping the tines of a fork. “I do not intend to buy it.”
“Go to hell,” I say evenly.
“You have many other paintings,” Tarasov says. “It would be a pity if they all went up in flames.”
I wasn’t born into an organized-crime family, but I know the Baltimore bratva is famous for burning out its enemies—Molotov cocktails, gas explosions, car bombs, whatever. The painting cost me a lot—one hundred and sixty mill—but it isn’t worth dying over.
That’s a lesson I absorbed in Shannon’s womb: You walk away when the mark gets too smart, when the cops come too close, when your life or your limbs are literally at risk.
But there’s another lesson Shannon taught me: Greed makes smart men stupid.
A plan begins to simmer. On the one hand, Tarasov wants my Picasso without paying a cent. On the other, I need one hundred and twenty million dollars to pay off my blackmailer. If I play things right, one of my problems can solve the other.
Like any good sportsman, I cast out my line, checking to see if the fish are actually biting today. “Fine,” I say, sighing with mock reluctance. “I’ll hand over the painting. But you and I both know you won’t keep it. Remember what the IRS did to Al Capone. Make sure you set aside funds now for the tax you’ll owe.”
“Tax?”
There. That’s enough interest for me to play out the line.
“I bought it for one sixty, and I should have paid ten mill to the state. You can expect the same. More if you hold it a few years, so the value goes up.”
He noses at the bait. “Youshouldhave paid…”
“I bought the Picasso at Diamond Freeport.”
“What is Diamond Freeport?” He’s suspicious. As he should be.
“A tax haven. In Dover, Delaware. They have special status so all transactions at the freeport are tax-free. I buy and sell all my paintings there.”
