“What?” asked Tracy. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Congratulations,” I said. “You got the part.”

  CHAPTER 65

  A junior suite at the Roxy Hotel, directly across the street from Frankie’s restaurant in Tribeca, served as our rehearsal stage the following night. I had finally caught up on sleep, and Tracy was officially “off book,” as they say in the theater world. He knew the script cold.

  “He’s ready,” I said.

  “Maybe. But let’s rehearse it one more time,” said Elizabeth, channeling her inner Stanley Kubrick in the pursuit of perfection. She reached for the last quarter of her turkey club. Please don’t burn the toast or undercook the bacon, she’d told room service.

  “Actually, that’s one thing we didn’t discuss,” said Tracy, watching her take a bite. “Do I have a reservation to eat or am I just going to the bar?”

  “You definitely don’t have a reservation,” I said.

  As a former CIA operative I still had the ability to engineer a few minor miracles. Getting a reservation at Frankie’s on short notice, however, was absolutely not in my toolbox. Ditto for Elizabeth. To think, we both even knew the owner.

  Frankie’s restaurant was one of Frank Brunetti’s other legitimate holdings. If his gambling boat was his bread and butter, Frankie’s was his pride and joy—not to mention a poke in the eye to everyone with a badge who wanted to bring him down. Reason being, the restaurant was one of the hottest reservations in town, and had been for years. The food was excellent (Brunetti had brought in a two-star Michelin chef from Rome), but what really gave the place its buzz was the mob-boss aura. Frank Brunetti himself—“Frankie,” if you were a regular—was almost always in the house.

  Thankfully, tonight would be no different.

  Tracy went over his lines with us one more time. Once again, he nailed it. Elizabeth was sold. He was as ready as he was ever going to be, at least for the first act of the evening. We turned our attention to the second act.

  “You’ve got the picture, right?” asked Elizabeth.

  “Right here,” said Tracy, patting the breast of his suit jacket. That was good enough for me. Of course, I should’ve known better when it came to Elizabeth.

  “Show it to me,” she said. “I want to make sure.”

  Tracy chuckled as he reached inside his breast pocket to prove he had the picture. “I know what you’re doing,” he said. “You just want to take another look at the guy.”

  The guy was agent Danny Sullivan, Elizabeth’s coworker. I’d only just met him face-to-face at the Chelsea Piers ice rink after the favor he’d done for me—arranging a meeting with Vladimir Grigoryev—had spectacularly backfired. Danny intervened with Grigoryev and basically saved my life. So how do I repay him? Ask him to do another favor, of course.

  But I knew he’d be on board. He was that kind of guy. Plus, it didn’t hurt that he had the hots for Elizabeth. It was pretty obvious at the rink. And, yeah, given the way she was looking at the photo of Danny, the feeling was definitely mutual. Not that this was the time or place for me to point that out to her.

  As for everything Tracy knew about Danny, that was next to nothing. Tracy wanted it that way, too. I’m pretty sure it was a method-acting thing. Stanislavsky and Stella Adler, all rolled into one. He wanted to think of Danny only in terms of the character he’d be playing. All he needed to know was what Danny looked like.

  Tracy glanced at the picture of Danny again before putting it back in his pocket. “I swear, he looks like he could be Ryan Gosling’s brother,” he said. “What do you think, Lizzie?”

  Elizabeth wasn’t about to take the bait, glancing at her watch instead. “It’s showtime,” she said.

  I’d convinced myself that I was okay with the idea of turning Tracy into an operative for one night, and one night only. But as Tracy stood and straightened his tie in the mirror by the door, I got this sudden jolt of regret. What are you doing, Reinhart? Are you nuts?

  It certainly didn’t help the guilt meter when Tracy casually turned to remind me that I should check in on Annabelle at some point. Lucinda had agreed to babysit her for the evening, although by now she was already snug in her toddler bed.

  “Don’t forget,” said Tracy.

  “I won’t,” I told him. “Same goes for you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means remember everything we talked about. Most of all, expect the unexpected.”

  Tracy smiled, nodded, and buttoned his suit jacket. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve got this.”

  Maybe he did. But the second he left the hotel room to head across the street to Frankie’s, I was on my phone. “He’s on his way,” I said.

  CHAPTER 66

  Tracy walked into Frankie’s, his ears hit first by the loud hum of a packed house. It was wall-to-wall tables, not a single one empty.

  The smell came next, a mixture of garlic and basil. Also, freshly cut flowers. Yellow winter jasmine, mostly. Someone on the staff had the good sense to avoid the Christmas go-to of red poinsettias. Smart, thought Tracy.

  He glanced at the stunningly attractive woman behind the reservation desk who was wearing an off-the-shoulder black dress. She flashed a well-practiced smile and was about to greet him when Tracy performed his first bit of acting: pretending to recognize someone.

  “Oh, I see my friend at the bar,” he said, never breaking stride.

  The bar along the right side of the restaurant was crammed, as well, not a single gap between elbows. Tracy knew it wouldn’t matter if he couldn’t find a seat, so long as he could spot Brunetti. He scanned the dining room once, then twice. No Brunetti. And still no seat at the bar.

  The tap on his back startled him. A man getting up to leave pointed at his chair, offering it to Tracy.

  “Thanks so much,” said Tracy. “Really appreciate it.”

  “Must be your lucky night,” said the man, cradling a whiskey glass in his hand. His suit was slightly rumpled, and the British accent a touch garbled. That wasn’t his first whiskey. Probably not his second or third, either. He took his last sip, draining the glass before landing it hard on the bar. “She’s all yours.”

  Tracy thanked him again as he slid into the seat, scooching up to the bar. Within seconds, the space in front of him was cleared of the glass, as well as the twenty-dollar tip next to it.

  “What can I get you?” asked the bartender.

  He was one of a half dozen working behind the bar, and living proof of the difference between restaurants that barely make money versus those that seemingly print it. Liquor was where the real profits were. The faster you served it, the bigger your profit.

  “Broken Shed martini, a drop of vermouth, two olives,” said Tracy.

  “Right away,” answered the bartender. This was the man’s job, his career. He wasn’t some unemployed actor paying his rent. He was a professional. Midfifties, not midtwenties. Hadn’t lost a step, though. Tracy had barely blinked before the man was filling a shaker.

  Again, Tracy scanned the dining room, craning his neck. There was a sea of people eating, but the owner was nowhere in sight. His imprint on the place, though, was unmistakable. Frankie’s felt like a smoke-filled room without anyone actually smoking.

  “Here you go, sir.”

  Tracy turned back to see his vodka martini being placed in front of him. Two olives and filled to the rim, with a few ice shavings floating on the surface.

  “Thank you, Salvatore.”

  Tracy had spotted his nameplate on the black vest over the rolled-up white sleeves as soon as he’d sat down, but waited until now to say the man’s name.

  “You’re welcome. Enjoy,” said Salvatore. He was about to seek out his next order a few seats down the bar.

  “Quick question,” said Tracy before he could. “Is Frank here tonight?”

  Salvatore shot him a look. Who wants to know? Tracy didn’t exactly have a “from the neighborhood” vibe to him. And by neighborhood, that meant Bensonhurst or Red Hook over in Brooklyn, not Tribeca.

  “You mean, Mr. Brunetti?” asked Salvatore.

  “No, I mean Frank,” said Tracy pointedly.

  “Are you a friend of his?”

  “I didn’t know he had any.”

  Salvatore cracked a smile. “Good one,” he said. More important, it was something that an actual friend of Frank Brunetti’s might say. “I think he’s back in the kitchen.”

  “Do me a favor,” said Tracy, sliding Ben Franklin’s face across the bar. “Tell him there’s a guy out here who wants to talk to him about a painting.”

  Salvatore glanced at the hundred-dollar bill for a second before scooping it up. “A painting?”

  “Yes. That’s right.”

  For the next minute there were only five instead of six bartenders pouring drinks at Frankie’s. As for the man who came back from the kitchen with Salvatore, he was definitely from the neighborhood. The clothes alone were a dead giveaway—a black turtleneck underneath a black sport coat that looked ready to burst at the seams. This was one of Brunetti’s henchmen. His muscle.

  “Who are you?” the guy asked.

  “I’m an art dealer,” said Tracy.

  “Who do you work for?”

  “Myself. Who do you work for?”

  The guy gave Tracy the once-over. Damn, his neck was thick. “Stay here,” he said. He walked off, returning to the kitchen.

  Tracy watched until he was gone. Then he proceeded to break the world record for finishing a martini. Stay calm, he kept telling himself, you’re doing great. He’d stuck to the script. Talked the talk. Didn’t let any jitters show.

  Brunetti’s henchman returned. “Come with me,” he said.

  CHAPTER 67

  Tracy nodded like it was never in doubt.

  He pushed back from the bar and fell in line behind the black turtleneck and sport coat, weaving through a few tables before reaching the swinging door to the kitchen. After a quick left before a grill and prep station, they headed through another door to a wine-tasting room. The guy even turned to Tracy at one point along the way and, of all things, smiled at him. It was all very civilized.

  Until it wasn’t.

  The door to the wine-tasting room closed behind Tracy. In front of him sat Frank Brunetti at the head of a long table with a glass of red in his hand. Over his shoulder was another henchman. This one was younger, leaner, and now coming right at Tracy with a head of steam. “You a cop?” he asked, getting right up in Tracy’s grill. His breath smelled like an ashtray. “Huh? You a cop?”

  “No,” said Tracy.

  “Then who are you?”

  “You’re going to mug me anyway, so go ahead. It’s in the back right pocket.”

  Tracy turned and glanced at the guy who’d led him from the bar into the tasting room. He was standing off to the side by some crates of wine, flashing that same smile. All along, this guy knew what was coming next.

  Tracy didn’t. He never saw the punch. It came so fast and hard to his gut that by the time the pain kicked in he was on his knees and falling flat on his face. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. It was as if his stomach were superglued to the floor.

  “Yep, you were right,” said ashtray breath. “Back right pocket.”

  He removed Tracy’s wallet, handing it over to his boss. Brunetti casually glanced at the driver’s license. “Nice to meet you, Mr. William D’Alexander from the Upper East Side.”

  At any given time, the CIA has about five thousand invented people roaming the planet as various covers for their field operatives. They possess official passports and driver’s licenses from all over the world, and hold down every conceivable job as evidenced by their made-up internet profiles, including social media posts. Mr. William D’Alexander was an art dealer now living in Manhattan, after years of managing a gallery in São Paulo. There was another gallery before that in Lisbon. All the information was there in plain sight, just in case Brunetti wanted to google him at some point.

  In the meantime, Tracy still couldn’t catch his breath from the sucker punch. Off Brunetti’s nod, he was helped to his feet. Slowly, his lungs started to work again.

  Dylan had said it, and said it again. Expect the unexpected. Tracy now nodded as if nothing had happened. What sucker punch?

  “Nice to meet you, too, Frank,” he said.

  Brunetti cracked a smile. Full caps, not veneers. “What do you do, William?”

  “Call me Bill. I’m an art dealer.”

  “Do you have a gallery, Bill?”

  “I used to. Not anymore.”

  Brunetti thumbed through Tracy’s wallet again. “Do you have a business card?”

  “No. Not these days.”

  “Why not?”

  “Let’s just say I don’t like paper trails anymore.”

  Tracy stared silently at Brunetti, waiting for the subtext to land. It didn’t take long.

  “Do black-market art dealers actually refer to themselves as black-market art dealers?” asked Brunetti.

  “I prefer the term facilitator.”

  “And who are you facilitating for?”

  “All my clients are confidential.”

  “Of course they are. That would only make sense. Now, would you mind removing your clothes?”

  “Excuse me?” asked Tracy.

  “Your clothes,” said Brunetti. “Strip. Everything off.”

  “You’re not going to at least buy me dinner first?”

  Brunetti stared back at Tracy. There wasn’t even a hint of a smile this time. “Do you really want that joke to be the last one you ever tell?”

  Tracy started taking off his clothes.

  CHAPTER 68

  “Satisfied?” asked Tracy, down to his underwear. He swung his arms out wide, palms flat up to the ceiling. His stomach was still killing him but he wasn’t about to show it. “I’m not wearing a wire.”

  “But you’re still wearing clothes,” said Brunetti.

  Tracy looked down at his boxers. “You’re joking, right?”

  “Do I look like I’m joking?”

  “Okay, but I’m drawing the line at a body cavity search.”

  Tracy dropped his boxers. The embarrassment of stripping completely naked for Brunetti and his crew in the tight confines of a wine-tasting room was mitigated slightly by the fact that Tracy, a graduate of the Yale School of Drama, had once performed in an off-off-Broadway adaptation of Equus, appearing nude onstage for five nights a week, with two shows on Wednesdays and Saturdays.

  But still.

  “Now are you satisfied?” asked Tracy, standing full monty.

  “Shut up and put your clothes back on,” said Brunetti.

  Only this wasn’t the time to shut up. As Tracy began to get dressed he launched right into the pitch. Everything about this deal, if it was going to happen, had to be quick. It was about impulse, not reflection. Emotion, not intellect. Tracy needed Frank Brunetti to do one thing, and one thing only, with his offer, right on the spot.

  Turn him down.

  “You have a painting that a new client of mine very much wants to buy from you,” said Tracy. “You’re going to deny that you have it, but we both know you do. My client is willing to pay you fifty million dollars for it, no questions asked. More important, there’ll be no paper trail. It’s the cleanest deal you’ll ever make. And the most money you’ll ever make in a single deal.”

  “What about you?” asked Brunetti.

  “What about me?”

  “What’s your cut from this deal? Or is that confidential, as well?”

  “Funny you should ask,” said Tracy. “Normally I wouldn’t discuss my fee, but I’m going to make an exception because God forbid you think I’m a fool for being here.” He zipped up his pants. “My client offered me a choice. I could take a 5 percent commission on the back end, were the deal to happen, or a flat fee of five hundred thousand up front, regardless of whether the deal happens. Which one do you think I chose?”

  “I’m pretty sure you just told me,” said Brunetti.

  “You’re right. I did, Frank. May I call you that? Because frankly I don’t give a shit what you decide.”

  “Of course you do,” said Brunetti, “and of course I know who your client is. Von Oehson’s giving you a shot at this because his first guy fucked it up for him. If it makes you feel any better, you didn’t fuck this up. You did everything you could. But you’re still getting the same answer I told his first guy. No.”

  “Are you sure I can’t change your mind?”

  “What do you think?” It wasn’t a question.

  “I think I gave it my best shot,” said Tracy.

  “Exactly.” Brunetti took a sip of his wine. “And what’s a punch to the gut and a little loss of dignity in exchange for five hundred large, right?”

  Tracy reached for his jacket off the floor, sliding both arms through the sleeves and giving a tug to both lapels. He was fully dressed again, ready to leave. “For what it’s worth,” he said, “I totally get it.”

  “What’s that?” asked Brunetti, handing back Tracy’s wallet.

  “Given what I know about the painting, especially some of the rumors surrounding it, I wouldn’t blame you for not trusting my client. I mean, how would you really know until it was too late that you weren’t being set up? Besides, it’s a beautiful painting. You should hold on to it.”

  “I don’t know what painting you’re talking about,” said Brunetti.

  “Right. Of course,” said Tracy, with a wink. He turned to leave, mumbling something under his breath.

  “What did you say?” asked Brunetti.

  “Nothing.”

  “It was obviously something.”

  “I was just talking to myself, that’s all. No big deal.” Tracy glanced at Brunetti’s guys. He clearly wasn’t leaving that wine room without explaining. “It’s just that…well…it suddenly occurred to me that I was representing the wrong client.”

  Brunetti put down his wineglass, edging forward a bit in his seat. “What is that supposed to mean?”