The Price of Inheritance (26 page)

When I got to Bellevue and through Jane's gates, I was hyperventilating. And when Jane opened the door, I was just panting.

“I can't—I can't breathe,” I said, trying my best to regulate my gasps.

“Sit down. Right now. Hold your breath, count to ten, and then let it out again. Do it five times. Slowly. Slower.”

We sat like that for five minutes until my muscles started to relax. I put my hands over my forehead, turned away from the gates, and looked at Jane.

“You're fine now. You're fine,” she said, smoothing my hair.

“I'm not fine,” I said softly. “I'm so far from fine, Jane.”

“Why? What happened?”

“It's Tyler. Two NCIS agents came to the store today. They think . . . I mean, I think they think that the bowl that connected us, that bowl I told you about, was stolen from Iraq.”

“What! NCIS? The naval crime unit? You spoke to them? To whom? To agents?”

I nodded yes. My panic for Jane was real, but it wasn't just Tyler I was worried about. It was Hannah, and me. That bowl could not be old. They had to be wrong.

“When did this happen?”

“Just now. A few minutes ago. Two agents, stationed on base as part of their NCIS unit, came to the store and started asking me questions. They said they knew everything. That I fucked Tyler Ford. They actually said that. ‘We know you're fucking Tyler Ford.' They asked if I was going to sell it privately to a buyer on the black market.”

“This is really bad, Carolyn. Were you, I mean, did you have plans to do that?”

“Jane! Haven't you known me since birth? You think I'm involved in art crime?”

“No, I don't. Of course not. But what do they know? I mean, what information do they have to even want to come to the store? They're clearly in the middle of some full-blown investigation!”

“That's the thing. I don't really know. They were making me talk more than they were talking. But they had pictures. When I first bought the bowl, I thought it could be worth a lot of money. I wanted it to be. So I took pictures of it, from every angle, just like we do at Christie's or at William's, of any object we're intending to sell, and I sent them to Max Sebastian at Sotheby's.”

I didn't need to explain to Jane who Max Sebastian was. Her family knew every important person in the auction industry and they all scrambled to know the Dalbys.

“Really? Straight to Max?”

“I wanted an answer about Middle Eastern art, so I emailed Max because he's the best. But I never heard back from him. I sent him the pictures in February; it's April, and not a word. I also took it to Brown but Blair Bari, the prof there, said it wasn't worth looking into. Not an antiquity, he said.”

“But these guys from NCIS think it is. And they had the pictures?”

“Not the pictures I sent to Max. They had other pictures. Ones I had never seen before.”

“Where did they get them?”

“I have no idea. The only person who has been in my apartment since I bought the bowl was Tyler.”

“Do you really think it's worthless?”

“At this point I don't know. Now I'm second-guessing every decision I've ever made. Islamic art is probably what I'm worst at. I never studied it in college and never dealt much with it at Christie's. There were a few things that made me hope it was an older piece: the sophistication of the design, the style of the glaze, and the fact that there is a very faint etching on the bottom of the base. A few Hebrew letters that read ‘First and the last.' I thought Max would be able to help me with that, but like I said, he never wrote back. And you know Max, he's a seller. He wants every good piece he can get for Sotheby's, so if he thought it was anything, he would have responded.”

“I think war trophies and looting happened more than people care to acknowledge. I remember reading something about soldiers taking gold-plated AK-47s from a palace and trying to get them home to Georgia.”

“That's embarrassing. Of all the things to steal.”

“I know, but it definitely could have happened before with Iraqi and Afghani antiquities. Soldiers stealing stuff. Maybe even Tyler. How old was he when he went to Iraq?”

“He was eighteen. Just out of high school.”

“And when was he first deployed?”

“Eleven or twelve years ago, since he's twenty-nine now. 2002, 2003.”

“The National Museum was raided in two thousand three, remember? It was looted.”

“Of course I remember. That was the first thing that came to mind, but Tyler Ford? You met him. He is not an art thief. He's like . . .”

“He's like what? You don't really know him. I mean, you know him a little now, but maybe he was a very different person eleven years ago. What were you like eleven years ago?”

“The same. Jane, I was exactly the same. I'm sorry, I just don't see Tyler Ford as some art-thieving mastermind. Not to belittle his intelligence, but I don't see it.”

Jane looked at me with a worried frown. “The last thing I'm going to say is this: I don't know how much you read about the raid of that museum—we were pretty young when it happened—but I don't think the people involved were like, the head of the Met and art history professors at Princeton. So maybe don't discount that dramatic theory just yet.”

She had no idea.

When we stood up and went inside the house, Carter took one look at my face and simply said, “I told you.”

“You told me what, Carter?”

“I told you to stay away from that guy. That's why you're here, aren't you? And upset like this. It's something about him.”

“Yes, Carter. You're so smart. It is something about him. You must feel very proud of yourself.”

“You shouldn't have been associating with any of those guys. Any of those base guys. You belong here, in this house, or you belong in New York in your old apartment, not living in some squat house hanging around with guys who picked the army over unemployment.”

“The army is an entirely different military branch, Carter! What is wrong with you? Why do you know so little about this? Are you secretly Canadian or something?”

“Canadian? Have you gone fucking insane? I don't know about the military because I don't jerk off to guys in uniform like you suddenly do. Are you hearing me, Carolyn? All that Christie's crap screwed up your brain. And now you're just rebelling. So what happened? Whose ass do I have to kick?”

Jane looked at me and I just told my story again. When I said the word
NCIS
Carter's face tightened. “This is real classy, Carolyn. Keep this up and the world's your oyster.”

“Shut up! Both of you. I can't even handle this,” said Jane, standing up. “Carter, just go. Go drive around, go to Boston.”

“Fine. Goodbye, Carolyn. I'm sure the lesbians will love you in prison.”

Carter walked out the door, letting in the sunshine, and didn't bother to close it.

Jane looked at the door and didn't walk over to shut it. We both knew there were big iron gates protecting Jane's perfect multimillion-dollar world against the outside.

“This sounds really bad, Carolyn,” she said, pouring us a glass of scotch to share. Jane and I always shared drinks. When we were teenagers, we always swore that when we were old alcoholics, we'd share one very large glass, so we might as well start now.

“I know it does. But that piece. I swear to God I still don't think it's a precious Middle Eastern antiquity. There's something wrong about it.”

“Maybe it was glazed over.”

“Maybe. But it's more than just the glaze. I've sat through those auctions before in London. I've seen all the catalogues. And I used to handle some of it when I first got to Christie's and worked in appraisals. It just doesn't fit the norm.”

“What about Max Sebastian from Sotheby's? Could he have set off some sort of alarm about it but bypassed you?”

“I don't know. You've met him. I'd be surprised. He's not an ethical choirboy when it comes to stolen goods. There was once a big mess with the sale of Nok terra-cotta heads from Nigeria at a London gallery. They were all stolen by grave robbers and brought to the U.K. on cargo planes. He owned the gallery, he knew how they were obtained, and he was going to let them sell anyway. The sale was stopped and his hands somehow remained clean, but lesson learned. Max is not the type to tip off the cops.”

“But they're not really the cops.”

“They're
worse
. Tyler could get a dismissal because of them if this is what they're alluding to, or fines. Jail time.”

“How do you know?”

“I googled it.”

“Oh, goody, well then, it's gospel.”

Jane took the drink out of my hands and finished it.

“Have you talked to anyone else but those two agents?”

“No. I've talked to no one. Tyler wasn't home and he didn't answer his phone. I called on repeat. Ten times. I'm too scared to go to base and ask for him.”

“Do you want to stay here for a while?”

“I do, but I don't think I should. I don't want these NCIS guys to think I'm hiding under the cloak of privilege. They're coming back to the store tomorrow to see the bowl. And I guess I have to give it to them. I can't just refuse, can I?”

“No, you can't. They know you have it somehow, so you have to give it to them. Or cooperate, as they say. But they're not after you; they just asked you some questions. They don't care where you stay.”

No, they probably didn't, but I wanted to be exactly where Tyler would expect me to be.

“I'm sorry to bother you with this, Jane,” I said, standing up to leave. “Apologize to Carter for me. And try to keep him from getting involved.”

I smiled at her and walked out the open front door. The long walk to the gate felt good and I looked out toward the east, to the little house that used to be mine. I could see myself, running in the yard with Brittan and Jane, cradled in a world of ease.

I walked slowly back up Bellevue toward my apartment. I tried Tyler again. This time, when I called, his phone was off. Before, it had rung and then went to voicemail; now it was just dead. I called again. Same thing. I thought about calling Hannah, but the agents hadn't even placed her at the University of Hartford. I started running. I had forgotten my jacket at Jane's and now I was stunned cold in my T-shirt and jeans, running past rows of houses that had been built for very genteel people. Carter was wrong. I didn't belong in the Dalby house and my New York apartment felt like something that suited my former, untainted self. I belonged somewhere in the middle, a gray area I'd been fighting to avoid my entire life.

When I got closer to my apartment I saw someone standing outside, but I knew it wasn't Tyler. It was Greg LaPorte. As soon as I saw him I stopped moving. He was in a white button-down shirt tucked into pressed khakis and he looked very calm. Annoyingly calm. He turned and looked at me and started walking my way. I stood where I was, wanting him to run toward me, but he just sauntered.

He looked at my face, my worry, and tried to take my hand. “They talked to you. I thought it would happen today.”

“Greg. Jesus. Why didn't you tell me anything first?” I put my head on his chest without thinking about it and started to cry.

“I'm sorry, Carolyn. I'm sorry. I wanted to, but that's not exactly protocol. Don't worry, this isn't about you. It's about Ford and you're just a small part of all of this. You're not in any trouble.”

“A small part of what? I still have no idea what's happening to Tyler.”

“Let's take a walk,” Greg said, starting to move away from my apartment. “I don't want to talk about it here and I'm not going to ask to come into your house right now. You would be right to say no.”

I looked at him helplessly. He nodded at his car, the burnt orange Jeep Wrangler that the man at Goodwill had first told me about, and I got in. We drove in silence, first back to William's, where he got out and checked the door of the store to make sure I had locked it when I ran out, and then to Ruggles Avenue. We parked by the water, got out of the car, and headed toward the Cliff Walk. Part of it was closed to tourists because of storm damage, but everyone who lived in Newport ignored the thin rope and warning sign the town had strung up. Greg helped me climb under it and toward the rocks. This part of the walk had never been paved, and now that it was closed, it was almost secluded. I jumped to a big, slick gray boulder overlooking the ocean, one of the area's best surfing spots when it was open, and sat down. I didn't care if my shoes got wet or if I slipped and cut my hands. I wanted to feel something. Greg sat next to me and tried to take my hand, but I pulled it away from him, looked out to the water, and said, “Tell me everything you know.”

He put his freckled hands in his lap and laced his fingers together. They looked dry and cracked.

“It was something you said that night at Brittan's when we were standing outside her house and it was so cold. You were shivering. Brittan was with Mason and it was just us. Remember, we walked around to the side, past the tennis court, so we could see the water.”

He looked at me for some sort of emotional response but I didn't say anything. The wind was blowing hard and I was freezing, but this time, I was not going to let Greg attempt to put a jacket around me in some feigned gentlemanly fashion.

“That night, you asked me if I had known a lot of people who died in the war. I remember it really well because you asked very genuinely. Some people ask because they want to see if you're all messed up from PTSD, or they just like all the gruesome crap, but you asked like it mattered. And I was going to answer, but you said that you'd tried asking Ford. That he wouldn't tell you.”

“He wouldn't.”

“But you said that Ford told you his translator had died. The translator he'd had on all four tours.”