I was sipping the Voss, admiring the view, remembering an old joke – How do you get laid on Capitol Hill? Step out of your office and call, “Oh, Jennifer.” – when Jabari Spurlock and the tall, elegant Stanford Quick entered the room. They didn’t seem so happy to see me. They seemed, in fact, quite peeved.

“Thank you for coming, Victor,” said Stanford Quick as the two men sat themselves across from me at the table with somber expressions and parched eyes.

“You didn’t give me much choice,” I said. “I’ve heard more temperate demands from the IRS.”

“Well, as you can imagine,” said Spurlock, his hands clasped on the table, his head leaning forward aggressively, “we are quite concerned about the events of the last few days and their effect on the reputation of the Randolph Trust. That is why I insisted on this meeting and why I insisted it not be at the trust but in this office. It was alarming enough when our supposedly secret negotiations were splashed across the newspapers and television screens, but it is totally appalling for the trust to be in any way connected to a murder.”

“I didn’t make any such connection,” I said.

“You were spotted entering the scene of the crime,” said Spurlock. “Questions were asked and broadcast over the air. The connection was made.”

“Let’s be clear about something from the start,” I said. “It wasn’t I who leaked our original discussions to the press. I told no one about it, not even my partner, and next thing I know, it’s on the television, so look to yourselves for that.”

Spurlock glanced inquiringly at Quick, who simply shrugged. “We didn’t leak it,” said Spurlock.

“Well, somebody did, and the disclosure put my client and my own health at risk. Why don’t you guys find out who spilled the beans and get back to me.”

“Nobody forced you to appear like a publicity hound on every news show for a week,” said Quick.

“I simply continued the story’s play in the media in an effort to bring the situation to a head more quickly. As for the murder, I showed up at the scene at the request of the homicide detective in charge of the case. It was the media itself that drew the connection.”

“Is there a connection?” said Stanford Quick. “Is there any link between our painting and this victim, whom the papers identified as one” – he opened a file, examined some papers for the name – “Ralph Ciulla?”

“I’m not certain yet. There is certainly a connection between the victim and my client. They are old friends. That’s as much as I can be definite about. But it also appears the victim may have been involved with my client in stealing the painting many years ago.”

“That hardly seems possible,” said Quick, rather quickly. “There was nothing to indicate that the dead man, or even your client, had the wherewithal to be involved in a crime of that sophistication. From all accounts, the robbery was pulled off by a team of experts from out of town.”

“Why do you keep saying they were from out of town?”

“No city has looser lips than Philadelphia, but there was never even a whisper about the crime from the city’s underworld. No thief ever crowed about stealing the works, no fence ever owned up to selling the metal and jewels.”

“Neither of us was with the trust at the time of the robbery,” said Spurlock, “and so we know little more than was disclosed in the papers. Mrs. LeComte would know more of the details.”

“Would you mind if I spoke to her?”

“Not at all. I’ll tell her to expect your call. But even if, as you say, this Ralph Ciulla was involved in the theft, why would he be killed now?”

“My best guess,” I said, “is that the murder was a warning to Charles to stay away.”

“Is he going to heed the warning?” said Quick.

“I’ll have to ask him that, won’t I? Much will depend, I’m sure, on you.”

“What are you talking about?” said Spurlock. “How are we involved in the decision?”

I poured myself more of the sparkling water, took a drink to keep them waiting. The meeting was about to shift from their purpose, to upbraid me for the media frenzy, to my own purposes, and I was using the pause to make the point.

“I’m afraid to say, gentlemen, that you are not the only ones interested in the painting. Because of the unwanted publicity, our Rembrandt self-portrait is suddenly in play.”

“In play?”

“An offer has been made, a very generous offer.”

“But it is legally ours,” sputtered Spurlock. “It cannot be legally sold.”

“This is all true, and I will so inform my client. But he has not been much concerned with legal niceties in the past and I don’t expect the legal situation will have a great deal of impact on him now.”

“What are you suggesting we do?” said Spurlock.

“Two things. First, increase the pressure on the government to come up with a deal that will bring Charlie home. The federal prosecutor I mentioned before, Jenna Hathaway, is for some unknown reason standing in the way of what I believe would be a fair resolution of Charlie’s criminal matters. Someone needs to strip her of the case and take responsibility, someone perhaps more amenable to negotiation. Second, you had mentioned that a cash payment might be arranged. It might be a provident time to come up with a specific figure that I can relay to my client.”

“We will not bid against a criminal element for what rightfully belongs to the trust,” said Quick in his usual languid manner.

“Don’t consider it a bid. Consider it a conciliatory gesture to a man who desperately wants a reason to come home and happens to have control over a valuable piece of your property.”

“It is out of the question,” said Quick.

Spurlock turned to Quick and said, sharply, “All avenues remain open until the board closes them off, Stanford. We will decide what to do; your job is to bend the law to make sure our decision stays within its bounds.” He focused his eyes on me, clasped his hands together. “How much is he seeking?”

“He hasn’t given me a number,” I said. “But it appears to be in your interest to wow him.”

“We understand. I will take this to the board, and we will be in touch with you when we have a more definite response.”

“Don’t wait too long. Now, Mr. Spurlock, I have a question on a not entirely unrelated matter. I believe you’re acquainted with a Bradley Hewitt?”

“I know Bradley.”

“I am involved in a domestic matter in which he is on the other side. His attorney used your name to threaten me.”

“How so?”

“He intimated that if I continued to press my client’s claim against him, you might scotch any deal with Charles.”

“That’s preposterous,” said Spurlock. “Bradley is a personal acquaintance, that is all. To think I would abridge my responsibilities to the Randolph Trust on his behalf in some sort of domestic dispute is insulting. And with the ongoing federal investigation, you can be sure I want nothing more to do with that foul-mouthed liar.”

“Federal investigation?”

“Mr. Spurlock has perhaps said too much,” said Stanford Quick.

“Federal investigation?”

“Our discussion of Mr. Hewitt is at an end,” said Quick curtly. “Now, Victor, I want you to listen closely.” Quick leaned forward, sharpened his gaze until it nearly pierced my forehead. “You say that the murder of Mr. Ciulla was possibly a warning to your client. Have you considered that the warning might not have been meant for Charlie but instead meant for you?”

His stare was so pointed, and his voice suddenly so cutting, that I jerked back as if indeed I had been stabbed in the head. Where did that come from? I wondered. And when I looked at Jabari Spurlock, it seemed as if he were wondering the very same thing.