The Objects of Her Affection (25 page)

Harry snorted. “What business.
Our
business! You—me—our arrangement. It was really starting to come together. I was finally getting to a point where I could make my dad proud. Or at least, less infuriated.”

“Your dead dad.”

Harry balled up his fists and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Yes.”

“The one who poured silver polish on your head.”

“Do me a favor and stop coming here, okay? Just stop. You’ve got your life back, now go live it.”

A guard appeared by Harry’s side; their time was up. Sophie watched him being led away, and felt their friendship—imagined or real—turn to mist in the stale air. Check Harry off the list, she thought bitterly. Just one more person who wouldn’t care if she disappeared from the face of the earth. Harry was behind bars, and for whatever reason, he seemed determined to stay there. But Sophie was entirely, terrifyingly free.

***

As a cooperating witness, Sophie wasn’t allowed to attend Harry’s trial, so on the day she was summoned to testify she felt like someone intruding on a sensitive conversation. Fifteen or twenty people sitting in the gallery paused and shifted on their benches to watch as she entered behind the bailiff. On the left side of the courtroom the jurors, who had the soft, sunken look of people who have spent a long time in their chairs, regarded her with dull expressions. She took her place in the front of the room, facing Harry. He wouldn’t look at her, and for this she was grateful.

She’d never liked speaking in front of groups; the judge, a drily authoritative woman whose black hair was pulled tight with a bow clip, ordered her many times to repeat her answers more clearly into the microphone. Sophie spoke haltingly, her mind slow to find the right words. It had probably been a mistake to come without an ally; the gallery seemed to radiate hostility. She imagined that one of the men sitting in the front row, arms crossed, must be Jeffrey. She also recognized Hilda Ross, the museum’s head of collections, and behind her, Marjorie.

As Sophie’s story emerged, painstakingly plucked out of her with the tweezers of jurisprudence, she enjoyed no confessional release, no soothing balm of truth. Instead, she felt herself being slowly transformed from cooperating witness into defendant. She joined Harry in his small, stuffy cell, walled in by the gray cement of people’s revulsion, incredulity, and scorn. As she recalled each object—the little snuffbox, the wavy-haired dog, the proud tazza—she was struck, simultaneously, by the smallness of her crime and the enormity of her transgression. She had stolen from an institution whose sole purpose was to protect and share the work of artists. The fact that her crime was ultimately considered petty by the criminal justice system made her feel even worse.

Bringing up the mirror probably wouldn’t have changed the case much in the eyes of the law, but in the eyes of the museum it would have made Brian and his colleagues seem like criminals on a whole other level. If Harry was right about the mirror—if it really was a Jamnitzer, or even a successful copy of a Jamnitzer—the department would be considered beyond negligent…not just for having overlooked a Renaissance masterpiece, but for letting it get thrown into a jumble of objects on a storage cart, then left in an office to be pocketed by a sleep-deprived spouse. Brian’s job was already hanging by a thread. Bringing up the mirror would only make things worse.

When she was finally released from the courtroom, Sophie rushed outside into the chilly autumn air, eager to get back to Carly’s condo so she could strip off her uncomfortable black tights and slip between the cool sheets of the guest bed, where she planned to spend at least the next twelve hours. But before she could cross the street she heard a familiar voice calling after her.

“Wait,” Marjorie said, still pulling on her coat, a square purse dangling from one hand. “I want to talk to you.”

Sophie winced. “Hi, Marjorie.”

“I need you to explain how you can just walk out of here.”

Sophie wasn’t sure if Marjorie was asking about her conscience, or the law. “I was a cooperating witness. I helped them catch a bigger fish in exchange for immunity.”

“But that’s ridiculous. You’re a criminal. You should be locked up!” Marjorie hitched her purse over her shoulder. “It’s disgusting, what you did. Making us look so…unprofessional.”

Part of Sophie wanted to turn and walk away from this. Marjorie had never given her the time of day; why did she deserve an explanation? But she decided to accept this fresh punishment. “I’m sorry. If it matters, I didn’t do it to hurt the museum, or you, or anyone.”

Marjorie didn’t seem to hear. “Anyway, I don’t see how that dealer is important enough to let
you
go scot-free. Come on. What about the objects? Where are they?”

“That’s what the FBI is trying to find out. That’s why they’re squeezing Harry. He’s supposed to tell them where the stuff is, but he won’t talk.”

Marjorie waved her hand at this. “Regardless, you belong behind bars. Look at you. You don’t even care.” Marjorie lifted one side of her upper lip. “You got away with it. You’re
smug
!” She jerked her chin in Sophie’s direction, then turned and marched away.

“I am not smug!” Sophie shouted after her, adding, “I feel terrible!” But Marjorie kept walking, her broad shoulders and thick neck stiff with indignation.

Sophie walked slowly to Rittenhouse Square, where she found herself drawn to the bench where she’d seen that homeless woman months ago. Scot-free, Marjorie had said. Where did that expression come from, anyway? Sophie sat down, her body heavy with exhaustion. It was basically true, she thought; she was free to start a new life. Free to disappear.

Was this how her mother had felt, after Randall’s funeral? Hollowed out by guilt, a numb husk, ready to sail off on the wind? Had she thought about her daughter, who was wrapped in her own confused grief, before setting off? Or had she flipped a switch in her mind? Sophie knew how that switch worked; she’d always done it right before a move. Letting go of her school, her friends, her favorite bike routes. Putting the car into reverse, backing out of her life. She knew how to do it: start fresh and unfettered. No weight of responsibility, no need to control other people, no more secrets bogging her down.

People were always asking why she didn’t try to find her mother. Hire a detective, they always said. Search public records. But Sophie knew her mother didn’t want to be found. She felt this, now, more keenly than ever: Maeve didn’t want to be taken care of, and she certainly didn’t want to take care of anyone else.

Sophie looked up into the reddening branches above her head. She’d once heard that a tree was a natural fractal: a pattern that keeps making smaller and smaller copies of itself. There was so much of Maeve in her, and now she saw so much of herself in Lucy. But if she quietly backed out of Lucy’s life—could she break the cycle? Elliot, too, would probably be better off—free to become his own person, without her meddling influence. He was such a fine person. More like Brian, really, than like Sophie. Patient, loving, and kind. Innocent.

Sophie shook her head. She needed to steel herself, control her thoughts. She needed to do what was best for everyone. Think about someone else’s happiness for a change.

Grief welled in her throat. It was ironic, really. Maeve hadn’t been responsible for Randall’s death, no matter how much she blamed herself. It was a structural flaw, a maintenance issue, something unconnected to her design. Sophie, on the other hand, had brought Brian crashing to the ground through genuine stupidity. If anyone deserved the full luxury of guilt, it was Sophie. She deserved to be exiled…and clearly, Brian didn’t want her back. She’d waited for him to make a move in her direction, to make some sign of warming or thawing…but there was none. He had set her free—or rather, she remained as free as she had always been.

Sophie stood and walked into Carly’s building, giving the doorman an apologetic smile. Upstairs she got into bed and pulled the silky pillow over her head. Here, there were no small voices to listen for, no demands on her consciousness. Here, she could sleep for as long as she wanted. If only sleep would come.

Minimum two bedrooms, maximum three. Washer/Dryer. Air-conditioning. Philadelphia. Radius—twenty miles? Fifty? One hundred? Sophie clicked “100.” The rental site delivered several pages of results, but she didn’t look at them. She erased “Philadelphia” and entered “San Francisco.” She didn’t look at those results, either. She closed the browser. Reopened it. She read some headlines, checked her RSS feed, scrolled through some blogs. She felt time slipping comfortably down the Internet funnel.

She latched on to a passing thought the way a drowning person grabs a branch: how was Brian filling his time, now that he couldn’t go in to the office or access his museum email? Was he looking for another job? Could he write articles from home, separated from his filing cabinets and books? Sophie had fully cooperated with the head of security, telling him everything (or almost everything) about the few times she’d had access to the objects. She’d assured him that Brian’s only real crime had been trusting his wife. She’d pleaded with the museum to let Brian keep his job, but his fate still hung in the balance. The Board of Trustees had to meet for a vote, and the FBI was still trying to recover the objects. That’s what people seemed to care about most—the objects.

Sophie slumped in her chair, staring at the computer screen. Then she sat up and went to Yahoo’s home page.

Hacking into Harry’s email turned out to be surprisingly easy. Resetting his password was a simple matter of finding his birth date and the name of his primary school. Both were available in public records, for a small fee. She was surprised to find that his account was still up and running, then figured the FBI must be monitoring his incoming mail. In any case, his inbox was a mess, which was good in a way: he’d kept every message ever sent to him. But he only had a few folders set up, and had neglected to sort most of his emails. Sophie idly clicked through them, scanning notices about antiques fairs, auctions, exhibitions. Mixed in with his business messages were hundreds of personal emails: notes about dinner plans, travel itineraries, terse conversations with his brother about Christmas. There were even a few messages from Sophie, from the early days of their friendship, before she’d decided to limit their communications to the prepaid phone. She opened a thread she’d started on the train home after their first lunch together:

From: [email protected]

Date: June 28, 2005

To: [email protected]

Subject: the spins

Thanks again for lunch. And drinks. I caught my train; slightly worried I won’t get off at the right stop. Where do I live again?

From: [email protected]

Date: June 28, 2005

To: [email protected]

Subject: re: the spins

I believe it’s called Philadelphia. Don’t worry; you’ll smell it.

From: [email protected]

Date: June 28, 2005

To: [email protected]

Subject: re: re: the spins

Hey now.

From: [email protected]

Date: June 28, 2005

To: [email protected]

Subject: re: re: re: the spins

Sorry! Kidding. Hope you make it home in one piece.

From: [email protected]

Date: June 28, 2005

To: [email protected]

Subject: re: re: re: re: the spins

Thanks Harry. I love you. That’s the martini talking. My martini loves you.

From: [email protected]

Date: June 28, 2005

To: [email protected]

Subject: re: re: re: re: re: the spins

My martini loves you too.

Sophie sighed and went back to her search. There was a folder called “Clients,” with a few hundred messages in it. She typed “tazza” into the search box, but this yielded nothing. “Snuff” brought up twelve results, all unrelated to the box she’d brought to Harry. She tried “Jamnitzer.” This brought up one exchange, with a curator at the Met. Harry had asked for a photograph of the master’s mark, which the curator had provided. Sophie opened the attachment and saw a slightly blurry photograph of a lion’s head in a shield crowned by a W.

She went into his Sent folder and scanned messages sent around the date Harry had made the Jamnitzer inquiry. There was a flurry of giddy exchanges with Jeffrey about their plans to move in together; a weekslong correspondence about a collection of spoons; a rather nasty note to a Dutch curator who had apparently asked him to bid on something at auction, then failed to come up with the funds to pay for it. There was also an apologetic email to someone named Mrs. Hathaway, thanking her for bringing her “very interesting” Coach watch to his attention, and informing her that due to extensive part replacements and regrettable problems with the condition, he would be unable to offer more than eight hundred dollars for the piece.

Sophie frowned and went back to the Clients folder. Hadn’t she just seen something with the words “Coach watch” in the subject line? She located the message, which had been sent to Harry a week after his note to Mrs. Hathaway:

From: [email protected]

Date: September 8, 2005

To: [email protected]

Subject: Louis XIV Coach Watch

Harry,

Thanks again for bringing the watch by my office. It’s a magnificent piece. Per our conversation, I’m having my secretary courier a check to you today in the amount of $14K. Please return receipt by same courier. I’d also appreciate a copy of your dossier on the piece, for my insurance agent.

Yours truly,

Howard

Harry. The scoundrel. Sophie quickly looked up Howard Bergman on the Fox Rothschild website; he was a partner specializing in mergers and acquisitions. There was nothing remotely nefarious about him; and anyway, the FBI had probably already paid him a visit.

Sophie rubbed her eyes. This exercise wasn’t giving her much she could use. But the hospital website job had been put on hold for a few weeks, so there wasn’t anything to keep her from wandering as far down this rabbit hole as she could go, other than the nagging feeling that she shouldn’t be snooping in Harry’s private messages. Then again, Harry had broken into her house. Fair was fair.

Sophie logged in to her calendar and searched for “NYC.” She wrote down the dates when she had delivered the snuffbox and the Irish setter, as well as the date Harry had driven to Philadelphia to pick up the tazza—just before her FBI interview. Then she returned to Harry’s Sent folder and started reading through all the emails he’d written after receiving the objects. The more she read, the more she began to understand about Harry’s business model.

From: [email protected]

Date: November 22, 2005

To: [email protected]

Subject: Water Pitcher

Dear Ms. Hoffman,

It was a great pleasure to meet you earlier this week. Thank you for sharing your family’s unusual water pitcher with me. While it is a fine tribute to late-nineteenth-century hammered silverwork, I’m afraid it is not an authentic Tiffany & Co. piece. My research shows several similar examples of pitchers created in the latter half of the twentieth century with fake Tiffany marks. This pitcher, unfortunately, shares many characteristics with those forgeries. My best guess is that it was made in China.

I understand what a disappointment this must be for you; I encourage you to seek a second opinion to confirm my conclusions. In the meantime, I am acquainted with a decorator who happens to be looking for this type of silver for a project she’s working on. I would be happy to buy it from you, on her behalf, for $300.

Thank you again for sharing your piece with me; I’m terribly sorry I didn’t have more felicitous news.

Warm regards,

Harry McGeorge II

McGeorge & Fils, Antique Silver

A quick search for “Water Pitcher” turned this up:

From: [email protected]

Date: November 22, 2005

To: [email protected]

Subject: call me

Screening your calls, darling? Call me back. I’ve turned up a Tiffany hammered water pitcher for you. Beautiful condition.

H.

He really was incorrigible. Sophie mulled over the paltry sums Harry had paid for her treasures, then quickly tamped those thoughts down. This was not the kind of revelation she was searching for.

She clicked through email after email, scanning the text for anything remotely related to her pieces. She skipped ahead to the date in January when Harry had come to Philadelphia to pick up the tazza. There was one brief exchange:

From: [email protected]

Date: January 9, 2006

To: [email protected]

Subject: meeting

I’ve finally got my hands on something; I think he’ll be pleased. Any chance I can talk to him tomorrow or the day after?

Harry

From: [email protected]

Date: January 9, 2006

To: [email protected]

Subject: re: meeting

Tomorrow. 2 pm.

S.

Sophie squinted at the screen, then rechecked her calendar. The emails had been sent an hour and a half after Harry picked up the tazza in Philadelphia. What else could he possibly be talking about? She did a Whois search on the email address and came up with someone named Sergei Kumarin, living on the Upper East Side. She clicked over to Amtrak.com and bought a ticket to New York.