a sure thing? The watch you stole from Boris Blatt a while back could have been a counterfeit. We had no way of knowing beforehand. I know you’re worried about Lucy, and I’d move heaven and earth to change things. But I can’t. Neither can I change the nature of our work.”
Simon stared out the window, down the Thames, to Tower Bridge, the HMS Belfast, the river coursing with maritime traffic. The world went on.
Earlier in the day he’d paid a deposit of two hundred thousand pounds for Lucy’s care and rehabilitation, enough to cover a thirty-day stay. He wasn’t a greedy man, far from it, but he didn’t care to go bankrupt while Lloyd’s took their own sweet time authenticating the painting. His fee was six percent of the paid claim, nearly a million dollars. As far as he was concerned, the money was Lucy’s.
“Twenty-four years old,” he said wearily. “What am I going to tell her family?”
“They don’t know?”
“Lucy doesn’t speak with them. I only found out where they live this morning.”
“Tell them the truth, or a modified version thereof. She was injured while working.” D’Art stretched a long arm for a dossier on his desk and deposited it on the table in front of Simon. “What do you Yanks say? If you get kicked off, it’s best to get right back on.”
Simon looked at the dossier. “I wasn’t kicked off. I brought back the painting. There were just…complications.”
“Ready to tell me what happened?”
“The thing was we had it. We were done.” Simon ran a hand across his mouth, seeing the events of the evening play out in his mind. He’d given Moore the briefest of explanations from the hospital in Nice. Now he related in detail all that had happened, from the moment they’d boarded the Yasmina to the seconds before the car crash.
“Who is Samson Sun anyway?” he demanded when he’d finished. “Run-of-the-mill billionaires don’t employ the Waffen-SS as security.”
“No idea beyond what he says he is. Investor. Film producer. Does it matter?”
“He’s no investor. I don’t know what he is. All I can say is that he didn’t earn the money himself to buy that yacht.”
Moore pointed to the dossier. “Which brings us to your next assignment.”
Simon lifted the cover, then, thinking better of it, let it fall. “Pass.”
“It’s right up your alley. Executive defrauding his employer. You can work from your home on this one. I don’t foresee any automobiles or boats on the horizon.”
“Pass,” said Simon.
Moore raised a finger, a magician with one last trick. “The fee is—”
“I said, I’m done.”
“Of course,” said D’Art, all apologies and deference. “Forgive me for being callous. Take some time. A week. A month, even. A holiday will do you good.”
“I’m done done,” said Simon. “Tendering my resignation.”
“You’re not serious. You suffered a mishap. It was an accident. It can happen to anyone. Come now, Simon. I won’t hear of it.”
“Do you ever wonder if it’s worth it? I mean all this running around to return items to their rightful owners. Watches, cars, paintings. Tracking down a million pounds pilfered here, two million there. Who really cares if a Monet stays on the wall of a boat for another twenty years? How does that measure against Lucy’s life?”
Moore’s expression indicated he thought this was as selfish an argument as one could make. He was a man defined by his profession. Insurance was as essential to civilized society as the rule of law. “It’s not a question of the painting or of a watch or of a few million pounds pilfered here or there. It’s a question of maintaining order. Of doing the right thing and punishing those who don’t believe they have to. I can’t think of many things more important.”
“I don’t do abstract. I’ll leave that to you.”
“You’re upset.”
Simon stood and went to the drinks trolley, pouring himself another. “There’s a young woman I happen to care for very much lying in a hospital bed with her brain so swollen they had to cut out a piece of her skull to relieve the pressure. There’s a good chance she won’t live, and if she does, it’s a lock she’ll never be the same person she was before. If she can talk again, it will be a miracle.” He finished the drink and set the glass down. “D’Art, if I don’t restore one of my cars as well as I’m able, it might not win a gold medal at a Concours. Maybe it won’t drive as fast