The big question was, Where was he going to stand? On the veranda? Next to the screen that hid the painting from view? No. There were two security guards, one on each side of the screen. He knew that he would stand out between the stark guards, but not enough to suit him. He picked the veranda. This way, everyone would spot him immediately. Some of the men in the dark suits spoke into small microphones clipped to their lapels; some spoke into the band on their wrists.
The guests started to arrive, and Corbett was elated. He had not had so much attention from the local society people since the party he had given to celebrate his admission to the yacht club about a month ago. There had to be over a hundred of the most socially influential people at this gala to unveil the Chagall he had purchased. It was going to be a very big night for him.
Within the hour, the room was alive with chatter, and the time had arrived for Corbett to mingle with his elite guests. He searched the room for the representative from MoMA, a curator at the museum, and spotted her standing next to the screen that shielded the painting. Corbett strolled over to her with his chest puffed out like a rooster’s.
“Good evening, Mrs. Spencer. So glad you could join us this evening.”
“I thought it would be a good opportunity for publicity for you, the painting, and the museum. May I look before you unveil it?” Mrs. Spencer asked in a quiet, gentle voice.
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? What are you charging me with?” He tried resisting as one of the agents spun him around and slapped handcuffs on his wrists.
“Grand theft larceny,” one of the FBI agents replied.
“Manufacturing and distributing a controlled substance, schedule two, three, and four,” added another.
“Grand theft? This must be a mistake. What are you talking about? What am I supposed to have stolen? And drugs?” Steinwood was almost shrieking. He could not believe they had been exposed. It was not possible. They had been painfully careful. That was when he noticed television cameras, reporters, and microphones all around them. To one side, he recognized several reporters from Fox News, CNN, MSNBC, CBS, NBC, ABC. It was a media circus.
“We are at the Oscar Davis museum in New Jersey. Harold Steinwood, one of the founders of Live-Life-Long, has been arrested by the FBI for grand theft larceny and manufacturing and distributing schedule two, three, and four substances.” The reporter paused for a moment. “We also have footage of his office in Aspen being raided by the FBI.”
Aspen
The national networks switched to the local channels in Aspen to report the breaking news as cameras tracked men in SWAT uniforms storming the office of Live-Life-Long while the receptionist and nurse shrieked in terror. Then the television station showed what was happening at Steinwood’s garage.