“Let’s take a closer look,” said Simon.
“At Blatt?”
Simon smiled easily. “Forget Blatt. I mean the Ferrari. Might be the only chance we get to see one in person.” It was a lie, but he needed Lucy relaxed. She had little experience in this line of work. It was essential she appear calm and at ease.
“Must we?” she asked, resisting the pull of his hand.
“We must,” said Simon.
Blatt’s arrival had drawn a crowd to the Ferrari, with more people arriving every moment. Simon maneuvered through the cluster of guests until he was standing behind Blatt’s bodyguards. He formed a space for Lucy to join him, then tapped one on the shoulder. “Do you mind? The lady would like to take a closer look.”
The bodyguard glared at Simon before catching a glance of Lucy. Simon squeezed her hand. As instructed, she smiled at him. The bodyguard’s eyes widened and he rushed to clear a space for her. Simon followed close behind. Like that, he was standing next to Boris Blatt.
“But, Mr. Quince, we must fix your commission,” Blatt was complaining heatedly to the auctioneer. “The seller is already paying you too much.”
“Not if I do my job well,” said Alastair Quince, shining and dapper and much too polished.
“Exactly my point,” said Blatt. “To charge me another five percent on top…it is an insult.”
Unconsciously, Simon tightened his fist into a ball and ran his thumb across the knuckles. In all manner of robbery, speed was essential. In pickpocketing, it was more than that. He had come to attempt something far more difficult than lifting a wallet.
“Alastair. Good to see you.”
“Oh, Simon, hello. You here about this beauty?” Quince leaned forward to shake Simon’s hand. The two knew each other in passing. A car restored by Simon’s shop had sold for a handsome price. Still, it was apparent Quince wasn’t pleased to be interrupted. “For a client, perhaps?”
“’Fraid not. Just wanted to take a closer look. I’ll leave it for Mr. Blatt. Won’t you introduce us?”
Quince forced a smile. “Boris Blatt. This is Simon Riske. He owns a small operation restoring Ferraris and Lamborghinis. Top quality workmanship.”
Simon had his business card ready. “Not that this one needs any work,” he said, then leaned closer to the car. “Though the paint on the hood appears a little spotty.”
Ferraris in their original factory condition had a nasty reputation for shoddy paintwork. The men who’d designed and manufactured the cars in the 1960s had been concerned with speed and handling. Things like chassis fitting and paint had been of secondary importance.
“Really?” said Blatt, with more than a hint of outrage.
“Absolutely not,” retorted Quince, his cheeks alarmingly flushed. “Mr. Blatt, I promise you…”
Blatt pushed past Simon to study the bodywork. For a second—less, even—shoulder brushed shoulder, arm brushed arm.
“No, no,” said Simon, joining Blatt to look closely at the Ferrari. “I was mistaken. I apologize.”
“You’re certain?” asked Blatt. “Mr.—”
“Riske. And yes. I’m positive. A trick of the light.” Simon threw the auctioneer a look. “Mr. Quince would never let a car get by with a run in the paint.”
“I most certainly would not.”
The public address announced that the auction would start in five minutes. The crowd around the Ferrari began to thin.
“Good luck, then,” said Simon, leaning closer, putting his hand on Blatt’s arm. “She’s a beauty,” he whispered, and Blatt leaned even closer. “But not a penny over twenty million.”
Blatt stepped back and studied the business card. “American? Where from?”
“New York.”
“I have friends there.”
“Is that so?” Simon was quite sure he was acquainted with one or two.
