The brown building of the Randolph Trust, with its great red door, stood once again before me.

I couldn’t look at it now without thinking of its sordid history. The philandering Wilfred Randolph, his long-suffering wife, the catfights between the two mistresses in Randolph’s life. And then the robbery of jewels and golden figurines and two priceless paintings that was carried off by a quintet of neighborhood mooks, aided by someone inside. The investigation, the accusations, the missing girl, the lovely young curator who shared Randolph’s bed and was framed for the crime. All of that past was as much a part of the building as the stones and mortar.

But now Randolph was dead and his wife was dead, Serena Chicos was raising a family in Rochester, and Agnes LeComte was shriveling by the day as she searched for a young man to sexually mentor. Chantal Adair was still missing, and Charlie Kalakos was in exile, and Ralph Ciulla was murdered, and Joey Pride was on the run. To top it all off, the forces of power and money were trying their mightiest to wrest the fabulous art collection from this very site, and it looked very much like they were about to succeed.

It was sad in its way that the collection was bound for another location, it was part and parcel of this very building and its history – sad, but not tragic. The Randolph Trust was a monument to a man and his money, but what does a great Cézanne canvas or a Matisse portrait care about such a monument? Put the works in a museum, put them in a brothel, it wouldn’t make a difference, they still would shine. In the end the paintings Randolph collected were too luminous, too perfect to be controlled; mediocrity could be contained, but the greatness of the art Randolph bought had now transcended the cage he built around it.

I was tempted to bang on the door and go inside, to see them all once again, but this wasn’t the second Monday of the month or the alternate Wednesday or Good Friday, and I wasn’t there for the art.

I found her around the back. I had called first, been told that she was working today in the gardens. Did I want to leave a message? “No,” I said, “no message.” What I needed to ask, I needed to ask in person.

“So you’ve come to me at last, my darling,” said Mrs. LeComte. “Are you here to take me up on my offer?”

She was sitting on a small green cart, leaning over and weeding a bed of bright flowers as red as her lipstick. She glanced up at me as my footsteps approached and then turned her attention back to her work. She was wearing a smock, gloves, a wide-brimmed hat, and she looked every inch the suburban dowager tending her garden, except that she was still wearing her improbable high heels and this garden was spectacular, with brilliant beds and marble statues and lovely stone paths. Each tree and bush and patch of flowers was carefully labeled with a neat green sign inscribed in Latin. Around her a crew of gardeners in their blue overalls pruned and raked while she tended her own small plot.

“No, thank you,” I said. “I’m afraid I have to pass.”

“That is rather a shame. In these sorts of mentor-protégé relationships, I’ve found that even with very little sexual desire at the start, through time and intimacy the sexual attraction can grow positively voracious.”

“They say the world will be destroyed in five billion years.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Victor, I’m sure whatever repulsion I feel for you now can eventually be turned around, if you are ardent enough.”

“Is that what happened between you and Mr. Randolph, your repulsion for him was turned around?”

“To whom have you been talking?”

“I just came back from Rochester.”

“How is the little tramp?”

“Older, with children.”

“Serves her right. Whatever she told you was a lie. Wilfred and I were violently attracted to one another from the start. Our passion was a force of nature.”

“As long as it lasted.”

“But while it lasted, it was glorious. I wouldn’t trade our time together, I wouldn’t trade all he gave me, for anything in the world. It was the most precious period in my life.”

“Until the end.”

“Endings are always a problem. Have you seen a film lately? Wilfred, especially in his later years, was attracted to youth. Mine was going, hers was in full bloom. And she wore that tacky turquoise jewelry around her neck like an invitation to rut. But we reconciled after everything, Wilfred and I, so at the end we were simply the best of friends with a delicate shared past. We would sit here in this garden, Wilfred and Mrs. Randolph and myself, sit and drink wine and talk. We talked about everything.”

“About your love life?”

“The Randolphs were quite liberated about those things, and Mrs. Randolph especially liked to hear the details. She much preferred to listen than to participate.”

“But my guess is you never talked about the lover you took between your ending with Randolph and your reconciliation. Was that another mentor-protégé relationship?”

“He was so young, he had so much to learn. And I had all this experience, this wealth of knowledge passed on to me by Wilfred. I was bursting with it all, it needed an outlet.”

“And so you found your Sammy Glick. Ambitious, ruthless, a willing pupil.”

“A mutual friend from Philadelphia made the introduction. Talk about an ardent lover. Wilfred was passionate but somewhat soft where it counted, if you catch my drift. A bit like you, I’m certain. But Teddy was something else entirely. Violent and stirring, filled with a need to devour. Whoosh. I can still feel the tingle in my loins.”

“Yuck,” I said.

“Squeamish, Victor?”

“Absolutely. So who came up with the idea of robbing the trust and taking your revenge on the lover who had jilted you?”

“It just came up. We were on the beach, at night, in each other’s arms, and it just came up.”

“Oh, I bet it did.”

She laughed. “That, too. And then, on the beach, with a fire blazing and our naked bodies up against each other, covered with sweat and between two blankets, with the soft sand beneath us and the velvet sky above, we worked it out.”

“Love is a many-splendored art heist. How did you pull it off?”

“Oh, Victor, some secrets must remain, don’t you think?”

“I’m surprised you’ve told me as much as you have.”

“I don’t respond well to rudeness.”

“I’ve tried to be polite.”

“Not you. I care as much about your manner as I care about the manner of the worm that burrows in my soil.”

“So you’ve heard from him in the past few days.”

“Not directly, but yes. You must be worrying him. For some reason he thought it opportune to send me a message.”

“Let me guess. It was hide the Monet and keep your mouth shut.”

“Don’t get too clever, Victor, you’ll end up in therapy.”

“And you’re disobeying. Aren’t you afraid of what he’ll do to you?”

“I’m tougher than I look, dear. I love him still, but if ever we came face-to-face again I’d pluck his eyes out quick as a raven.” She took hold of one of the flowers she had been tending and, with a quick tug, yanked it from the ground. “Such brilliant crimson. Aren’t they a vision?”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“You must have an idea.”

“No. None. Not anymore.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“The day after. He said he’d send for me.”

“And you’re still waiting.”

“I think of him in the late hours when the wind blows gently outside my window. There is always one that comes to you in the middle of the night, like a ghost, and for me it is he.”

“Do you know anything about the girl?”

“What girl? Oh, the one in the picture. Why do you keep asking about her?”

“Let me ask one other thing. Who passed along his message? Was it a little man with a sweet scent and a Southern accent?”