Corbett was smiling like the Cheshire cat. “Of course,” he replied and escorted her to the area behind the screen, where the Chagall awaited its unveiling.
She looked closely at the piece of art and frowned. “Dr. Corbett, I think there may be a problem.” Corbett could not imagine what sort of problem she could be having until she spoke her next words. “The signature seems to be slightly off.”
“What do you mean, slightly off?” Corbett retorted a tiny bit belligerently.
“The signature, Dr. Corbett. It looks slightly askew. I am going to have to take a closer look.”
“Can’t that wait?” Corbett was becoming irritated. This woman was not going to ruin his evening, because she thought something was “slightly off.”
While this conversation was taking place, there was a commotion on the other side of the screen, a commotion that kept getting louder and louder. Corbett peeked around and saw a dozen men walking toward him.
“Dr. Raymond Corbett?” A man pulled out a badge. FBI. “You are under arrest for manufacturing and distributing a controlled substance.”
A second man pulled out his badge. Interpol. He slid the screen to one side to reveal the painting. “You are also under arrest for possession of stolen property. This painting is owned by France, and the country is claiming all rights to it.”
At that point, Mrs. Spencer intervened, saying, “But this painting is a forgery. I very much doubt that France or any other country owns it or even wants to own it.” That comment stopped everyone in their tracks.
Corbett whirled around and stared at her. “Don’t be ridiculous.” Then he turned to the men who were placing him under arrest. “And you . . . What do you mean, I’m under arrest?”
“You need to come with us, Dr. Corbett,” the FBI agent said.
The men he thought were part of his security detail were actually federal agents! When they tried to pull his arms behind his back, he went ballistic.
“You have no right to come here! Unhand me!”
The resulting scuffle got everyone’s attention, including members of the press, who had been given a tip that something big was going to happen. At first, the reporters had thought it was the usual celebrity sighting, until the FBI agents had leaped from the vans. Add art forgery to the mix, and it was a melee of shocked guests and reporters.
Yes, reporters were everywhere, just as Corbett had wanted. But his being arrested was not what he had intended or had expected them to write about. He was squirming and thrashing as the FBI agents led him out the door. Camera flashes were going off from different directions.
Someone from one of the city’s news networks shoved a microphone in his face. “Dr. Corbett, did you know you bought a fake?”
He was screaming, “This is bullshit,” when the agent from Interpol approached him again.
“Where is the original painting, Dr. Corbett? You can save yourself a lot of trouble if you tell us where it is immediately.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about!” Corbett was still squealing as the FBI agents escorted him toward one of the dark vans.
Reporters were shoving microphones in his face.
“What about the drugs?” shouted one.
“Is that how you paid for the artwork?” shouted another.
He could still hear the reporters yammering as the agents placed him in the rear seat of the van.
“What about the raid on your property in Michigan?”
“Is it true you were supplying Adderall to a prep school?”
The radio in the van was broadcasting, too. Live-Life-Long offices had been raided, as had the Michigan property. A student at a very prestigious prep school who had ties to Corbett had also been arrested in New York City for distribution of drugs. Owing to his age, his identity was being withheld.
Newark, New Jersey
Harold Steinwood almost had an erection when he saw the collection of cars in Oscar Davis’s museum. From a 1937 BMW 328 Roadster to the 1964 Ferrari Davis had bought for $14.3 million, and everything in between. It was an auto-orgasmic experience. He could barely breathe from the beauty of the sleek lines, the highly polished chrome, the leather interiors. They were truly works of art.
After the tour, they were about to leave for dinner when several black vehicles swarmed into the parking lot. At least a dozen FBI agents sprang from the vans. The one who looked to be the agent in charge announced, “Harold Steinwood. You are under arrest!”
Steinwood was stunned. “I’m what? What is going on here?