“Excuse me? Did you just…?”
I stare him down. If you want to change someone’s behavior, remember this and this only: Human beings always do what is in their self-interest. Always. That’s the sole motivator. People only do the “right thing” when it suits those interests. Yes, that is cynical, but it is also true. If you want to change minds, the secret is not being thoughtful or respectful or conciliatory or presenting cogent indisputable facts to show that said mind is wrong. And for those truly in the naïve camp, the secret is not trying to appeal to our better angels or “humanity.” None of that works. The only way to change someone’s opinion is to make them believe that siding with you is in their best interest. Period. The end.
I know what you’re thinking: I’m too lovely a creature to be this cynical. But stay with me on this.
“Here is my proposal,” I say to Professor Cornwell. “You tell me the truth about what happened that night—”
“I have told—”
“Shh.” I put my index finger to my lips. “Listen and save yourself. You tell me the truth. The full truth. Just me. In return, I promise that it never leaves this room. I will tell no one. Not a soul. There will be no repercussions. I don’t care whether the Picasso is hanging above your toilet or if you burned it for kindling. I don’t care if you were the mastermind or a pawn. Do you see what I’m offering you, Professor? The beauty of it? The chance at freedom? You simply tell me the truth—and suddenly the burden is gone. Not only that, but you have an ally for life. A grateful, powerful ally. An ally who can get you promoted or fund whatever academic—and I mean that word in two ways—dream project you have set your heart upon.”
Carrot done. Now it’s stick time. I lower my voice, so he has to strain to hear. Strain he does.
“But if you choose not to accept my generous offer, I begin to dig into your life. Really dig. You probably feel confident. After all, the FBI turned up nothing twenty-four years ago. You feel secure in your lie. But that security is now an illusion. The Vermeer is back. There is at least one dead body connected to it. The FBI will revisit the theft now with vigor, yes, but more important to your world, I will do what law enforcement cannot. I will build upon what they do, and using my resources, I will raise that intensity—aimed in your direction—to the tenth power. Do you understand?”
He says nothing.
Time to toss the lifeline.
“This is your chance, Professor Cornwell—your chance to end the turmoil and deceptions that have haunted you for over twenty years. This is your chance to unburden yourself. This is your chance, Professor, and if you don’t take it, I pity you and all those Cornwells who have come before and after you.”
I don’t bow as I finish, though I feel perhaps that I should.
As I wait for his reply, as I gaze out the window and onto the green where my father, grandfather, and great-grandfather all roamed as young men, a curious thought enters my brain, distracting me, pulling me out of this moment.
I’m thinking about Uncle Aldrich bucking family tradition by not coming here.
Why am I thinking about that? I don’t know. But it’s niggling at me.
I hear a chime and turn toward the sound. There is a grandfather clock in the far corner signaling the quarter hour. The door to the office bursts open, and students flow in with backpacks and expected post-lunch cacophony. Ian Cornwell says to me, “You’re wrong about me. There is nothing.”
He shakes off the stunned look and gives the entering students a beatific smile. I can see that he is at home here. I can see that he is happy and that he is a beloved teacher. I can see that he is good at his job.
But mostly, I can see that he is lying to me.
CHAPTER 17
My father is asleep when I get back to Lockwood.
I debate waking him—I need to ask him about his visiting his brother the night before Aldrich’s murder—but Nigel Duncan warns me that he is medicated and will be unresponsive. So be it. Perhaps it is best if I learn more before I confront my father. I am also now on a tight schedule. The branch manager at the Bank of Manhattan has agreed to see me in ninety minutes.
Nigel walks me to the helicopter. “What are you trying to find?” he asks me.
“Should I dramatically pause, spin toward you, and then exclaim, ‘The truth, dammit’?”
Nigel shakes his head. “You’re a funny guy, Win.”
The helicopter gets me back to Chelsea in time. As Magda drives me toward the Upper West Side branch of the bank, I pick up the tail. It’s a black Lincoln Town Car. The same car had been following me this morning. Amateurs. I’m almost insulted that they aren’t trying harder.
“Small change of plans,” I tell Magda.
“Oh?”
“Kindly swing by the office on Park Avenue before we head up to the bank.”
“You’re the boss.”
I am indeed. My next step isn’t complicated. The crosstown traffic is mercifully light. When we arrive at the Lock-Horne Building, Magda moves the car to my usual drop-off point. She puts the car in park.
“Don’t get out,” I say.
I use the camera function on my iPhone to watch behind me. The black Lincoln Town Car is three cars back, double-parked. Such amateurs. I wait. This won’t take long. I see Kabir sneaking up behind the Lincoln. He stops behind it and bends down as though to tie his shoe. He’s not. He’s placing a magnetic GPS under the bumper.
Like I said, this isn’t complicated.
Kabir rises, nods to let me know the tracker is secure on the Lincoln’s bumper, and heads back the other way.
“Okay,” I tell Magda. “We can proceed.”
I call Kabir as we head uptown. He will keep an eye on the car. “I’ll also run the license plate,” he tells me. I thank him and hang up. As we approach the bank, I add up the pros and cons of losing the tail—it wouldn’t be difficult—and decide that I would rather not tip them off. Let them see me go into the branch of a bank on the Upper West Side.
So what?
Five minutes later, I am in a glass-enclosed office that looks out over the main floor. The bank itself is a lovely old building on Broadway and Seventy-Fourth Street. Way back when, this very structure was, well, a bank, from the days when banks were cathedral-like and awe-inspiring, as opposed to today’s storefronts that have all the warmth of a motel-chain lobby. This branch still has the marble columns, the chandeliers, the oak wood teller stations, the giant round safe door. It is one of the few of said buildings that haven’t been converted into a party space or upscale dining facility.
The bank manager’s name, which is on her desk plate, is Jill Garrity. Her hair is pulled back into a bun so tight I worry her scalp might bleed. She wears horned-rim glasses. The collar of her white blouse is stiff enough to take out an eye.
“It’s wonderful to meet you, Mr. Lockwood.”
We do a lot of business with the bank. She hopes that my visit means more. I don’t disabuse her of this notion, but time is a-wasting. I tell her I need a favor. She leans in, anxious to please. I ask her about the bank robbery.
“There isn’t much to tell,” she says.
“Was it a stickup? Was it armed?”