Chapter 2 - SEVEN MINUTES SLOW
The first thing Dominic did after the elevator began moving again was call the hotel security director.
The second was call a physician.
The third was remove his father's watch.
That final action frightened Vivien more than the others.
He unfastened the Rolex and stared at its dial as though he might find an answer beneath the scratched crystal.
"Seven minutes," he murmured.
Vivien sat on a leather sofa in the penthouse while a doctor cleaned the cut on her jaw and examined her feet.
She'd been exposed to freezing temperatures, but fortunately had escaped serious injury.
The blood on Mateo's jacket wasn't hers.
Dominic stood at the window, listening to a report from Marcus Bellini, his longtime head of security.
"The terrace cameras lost their feed for eleven minutes," Marcus said. "The service gate was opened using an authorized staff credential."
"Whose?"
"The account belonged to Lorenzo's driver."
Dominic closed his eyes.
"Find the driver."
"He's missing."
"Of course he is."
Marcus hesitated.
"Tommy's been found. Someone sent him to the parking level with a forged message from you. He's shaken, but unharmed."
Dominic looked toward Vivien.
She was watching him over the doctor's shoulder.
He lowered his voice.
"Keep Tommy out of this. He's a kid."
Marcus nodded.
After the doctor departed, Vivien folded her hands in her lap.
"You're going to ask me to take off the jacket again."
Dominic turned.
"No."
She looked surprised.
"Why not?"
"Because you nearly froze wearing it."
He crossed the room, stopping a few feet away.
"Can I look at it?"
Vivien nodded.
He knelt before her.
The position startled her.
Men knelt before Dominic Russo.
Dominic Russo did not kneel before anyone.
He studied the cracked collar, the tarnished zipper, and the faded insignia stitched over the left pocket.
A small silver airplane.
Vivien touched it.
"What does that mean?"
"Mateo flew crop-dusting planes one summer when he was nineteen. He wasn't supposed to. Our father nearly disowned him."
A ghost of a smile appeared.
"He bought this jacket at a military surplus store in Wisconsin and wore it for twelve years."
Dominic turned the sleeve inside out.
A crooked line of blue stitching ran along the cuff.
"Our mother repaired this after Mateo caught it on a fence."
He swallowed.
"She always made three stitches where one would do."
His fingertips lingered on the thread.
Vivien watched grief rearrange his face.
"Then it's really his."
"Yes."
"Could someone have stolen it?"
"Of course."
"But the message?"
Dominic looked at his watch.
"When we were kids, Mateo used to set every clock in the house seven minutes slow."
"Why?"
"So our father would think he was late for work and leave before breakfast."
Vivien frowned.
"Why would he want that?"
Dominic's eyes darkened.
"Because breakfast was when the arguments started."
She said nothing.
He fastened the watch again.
"After our mother died, Mateo gave me this Rolex. It had belonged to our father. He told me to keep it seven minutes slow."
"Did you?"
"For years."
"What changed?"
Dominic looked toward Lake Michigan.
"When Mateo died, I had it repaired."
Vivien understood.
The message wasn't just proof that someone knew an old family joke.
It was a reminder of a private promise between brothers.
"Who identified his body?" she asked.
Dominic looked at her sharply.
"Why?"
"Because you're thinking the same thing."
He stared.
Vivien continued.
"People who counterfeit paintings exploit assumptions. A canvas looks old, so the buyer assumes the signature is authentic. A certificate has a seal, so an auction house assumes the provenance is reliable."
"And your point?"
"Everyone assumed Mateo died because the paperwork said he did."
Dominic's expression changed.
"I saw his coffin."
"Did you see him?"
Silence.
The answer was written across his face.
"No."
Vivien leaned forward.
"Then stop treating a sealed coffin like proof."
For a long moment, Dominic said nothing.
Then he reached for his phone.
"Marcus. Find the medical examiner's original identification records."
The next morning, Vivien returned to her gallery with two security professionals remaining discreetly nearby.
Dominic objected.
She ignored him.
"Being protected isn't the same as being owned," she told him.
He stared at her.
Then, with visible effort, nodded.
"You're right."
The gallery smelled of linen paper, beeswax polish, and fresh coffee.
It was the first place Vivien had ever truly belonged.
Her assistant, Ada Kim, looked up from the reception desk.
"Oh my God. What happened to your face?"
"A bad evening."
Ada hurried around the counter.
"Are you okay?"
"Mostly."
"Is Russo responsible?"
Vivien shook her head.
"No. But the people around him may be."
Ada studied the jacket.
"That's not yours."
"No."
"Whose is it?"
Vivien hesitated.
"Someone everyone thought was dead."
Ada stared.
"That sounds like the beginning of a very expensive problem."
Vivien almost smiled.
"It is."
In the rear conservation room, she placed the jacket under a bright examination lamp.
Something had bothered her since the hotel.
The lining along the left seam sat unevenly.
Not torn.
Altered.
The thread was a different shade from the original stitching.
Someone had opened the seam and closed it again.
Recently.
She retrieved a magnifying lens.
Inside the lining, near the waist, she found a series of tiny perforations.
They looked random.
Until she noticed their spacing.
Three close together.
One apart.
Two close together.
A coded pattern.
Vivien photographed the marks and enlarged them.
Then she remembered something else.
The collar smelled of engine oil and menthol cigarettes.
But beneath that was an unfamiliar chemical odor.
Not perfume.
Not ordinary grease.
Solvent.
The kind used to remove adhesive from antique frames.
She picked up the jacket.
Turned it over.
Examined the inner pocket.
And found a strip of transparent film folded into a narrow rectangle.
On it were six handwritten numbers.
41-08-23
Below them was a single word.
VERITAS.
Truth.
Vivien's heart accelerated.
Then the gallery's front bell rang.
Ada called from the reception desk.
"Vivien? There's a gentleman asking for you."
"Who?"
A pause.
"He says he's from the insurance company."
Vivien looked at the film in her hand.
The six forged Renaissance sketches had been insured through a firm she had never trusted.
"What's his name?"
Another pause.
"Arthur Vale."
Vivien froze.
Arthur Vale was the claims investigator who had supervised the original valuation dispute.
He had disappeared three months earlier.
And according to the news, he'd been killed in a warehouse fire.
She slipped the film into an evidence envelope.
Then answered quietly.
"Tell him I'll be right out."
But when she reached the front gallery, the man waiting beneath the oil paintings wasn't Arthur Vale.
It was Lorenzo Costa.
He smiled.
"Good morning, Vivien."
May you like
Her blood turned cold.
"I hear you've acquired an interesting jacket."
