IKEA chairs. It’s the same with his glass-and-metal coffee table, which match his glass-and-metal end tables, which match his glass-and-metal entertainment center. Everything’s from a set—and not the expensive set either, which makes me wonder if he’s on a government salary like me.
But as I scan the room, what really stands out is just how little this so-called living room looks lived in. The chairs are untouched. The sofa doesn’t have a crease in it. On the tables, there’re no books, or framed pictures, or any of the other knickknacks that are proof of life. I feel like I’m in a play, and this is the furniture for the “living room scene.” Or even worse. I look around.
Please tell me this isn’t a safehouse.
I think about the safehouse I was in a few months ago—used by the government to hide diplomats, witnesses… or even for a private conversation with the President of the United States.
I look around again. Except for a neat stack of mail on a nearby desk, and a bowl of blueberries on the kitchen island, the only personal touch in this whole place is on the long wall behind the sofa. A simple white frame holds an elegant… at first I thought it was a photo… but it’s a canvas. A painted canvas slightly bigger than an iPad. I walk closer to see it.
It’s a painting of a woman, though her features are blurred. Her eyes aren’t really there. Her mouth either. And as she enters thissoothing, turquoise body of water, her legs… her arms… her whole body seems to dissipate, spreading outward from her waist as if she’s becoming part of the water.
“Nice painting,” I tell Marshall to break the silence.
“Flea market,” he says, blowing past me and beelining toward his bedroom. “I need to use the restroom,” he adds, thinking I don’t notice that as he cuts through his bedroom, he’s still wearing gloves.
He zigzags quickly around his bed, crossing into the bathroom. I pretend to keep staring at the painting, but I can see him back there. He takes his gloves off. And throws them… did he just throw them in the trash?
As he closes the door to the bathroom, I look back at the painting. I work with enough priceless documents to know archive-quality matting when I see it.
Reading the signature at the bottom—
Nuelo Blanca
—I type it quickly into my phone, adding the words
painting for sale
. The first hit that comes up is a gallery in Los Angeles. For a painting called
WaterFall 5
. Price tag? $22,000.
Okay, Marshall—an artist that sells for 22K? This item clearly isn’t from a flea market.
“You got a call?” his throaty voice asks.
I jump, spinning at the sound. Marshall’s standing right behind me.
He motions down at my phone, which is still in my hand. “You got a call?” he repeats with a verbal shove.
“Just checking messages,” I say, staying where I am.
His eyes narrow. “Most people can’t get cell phone reception here,” he says.
I look down at the phone Tot gave me two weeks ago. Souped up by Immaculate Deception. Built just for the Culper Ring.
“It’s a good phone,” I say, verbal shoving him right back.
Marshall licks his lips and I notice that the left side of his tongue is a lighter shade of pink than the right half. It almost looks like it’s plastic. His tongue was burned too.
“Do me a favor,” Marshall says. “Tell me why you’re here.”
I continue to look right at him. “I’m here to see what
you
wanted to talk to
me
about.”
“Pardon?”
“When you got arrested yesterday, you had my name in your pocket.”
He cocks his head, watching me. “I get it. The police called you.”
“Of course the police called me. They found my name and number in your pocket.”
His shoulders stay square. His grin’s back in place. I look down, noticing his perfectly shined shoes. “Why else would I have your number on me, Beecher? I wanted to talk to you.”
“Really.”
“Isn’t that what old friends do? I ran into Craig Rogers
But as I scan the room, what really stands out is just how little this so-called living room looks lived in. The chairs are untouched. The sofa doesn’t have a crease in it. On the tables, there’re no books, or framed pictures, or any of the other knickknacks that are proof of life. I feel like I’m in a play, and this is the furniture for the “living room scene.” Or even worse. I look around.
Please tell me this isn’t a safehouse.
I think about the safehouse I was in a few months ago—used by the government to hide diplomats, witnesses… or even for a private conversation with the President of the United States.
I look around again. Except for a neat stack of mail on a nearby desk, and a bowl of blueberries on the kitchen island, the only personal touch in this whole place is on the long wall behind the sofa. A simple white frame holds an elegant… at first I thought it was a photo… but it’s a canvas. A painted canvas slightly bigger than an iPad. I walk closer to see it.
It’s a painting of a woman, though her features are blurred. Her eyes aren’t really there. Her mouth either. And as she enters thissoothing, turquoise body of water, her legs… her arms… her whole body seems to dissipate, spreading outward from her waist as if she’s becoming part of the water.
“Nice painting,” I tell Marshall to break the silence.
“Flea market,” he says, blowing past me and beelining toward his bedroom. “I need to use the restroom,” he adds, thinking I don’t notice that as he cuts through his bedroom, he’s still wearing gloves.
He zigzags quickly around his bed, crossing into the bathroom. I pretend to keep staring at the painting, but I can see him back there. He takes his gloves off. And throws them… did he just throw them in the trash?
As he closes the door to the bathroom, I look back at the painting. I work with enough priceless documents to know archive-quality matting when I see it.
Reading the signature at the bottom—
Nuelo Blanca
—I type it quickly into my phone, adding the words
painting for sale
. The first hit that comes up is a gallery in Los Angeles. For a painting called
WaterFall 5
. Price tag? $22,000.
Okay, Marshall—an artist that sells for 22K? This item clearly isn’t from a flea market.
“You got a call?” his throaty voice asks.
I jump, spinning at the sound. Marshall’s standing right behind me.
He motions down at my phone, which is still in my hand. “You got a call?” he repeats with a verbal shove.
“Just checking messages,” I say, staying where I am.
His eyes narrow. “Most people can’t get cell phone reception here,” he says.
I look down at the phone Tot gave me two weeks ago. Souped up by Immaculate Deception. Built just for the Culper Ring.
“It’s a good phone,” I say, verbal shoving him right back.
Marshall licks his lips and I notice that the left side of his tongue is a lighter shade of pink than the right half. It almost looks like it’s plastic. His tongue was burned too.
“Do me a favor,” Marshall says. “Tell me why you’re here.”
I continue to look right at him. “I’m here to see what
you
wanted to talk to
me
about.”
“Pardon?”
“When you got arrested yesterday, you had my name in your pocket.”
He cocks his head, watching me. “I get it. The police called you.”
“Of course the police called me. They found my name and number in your pocket.”
His shoulders stay square. His grin’s back in place. I look down, noticing his perfectly shined shoes. “Why else would I have your number on me, Beecher? I wanted to talk to you.”
“Really.”
“Isn’t that what old friends do? I ran into Craig Rogers
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