Page 157 of Portrait of an Unknown Woman

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North Haven

Alone in the vast, empty house in North Haven, Lindsay Somerset sat in a simple cross-legged pose, her hands resting lightly on her knees. The floor-to-ceiling window before her overlooked the copper waters of Peconic Bay. Ordinarily the panorama filled her with a sense of contentment, but not now. She could find no inner peace, noshanti.

Her phone lay on the floor next to her mat, silenced, aglow with an incoming call. She didn’t recognize the number, so she tappeddecline. Instantly the phone rang a second time, and once again Lindsay terminated the call. After two additional attempts to fend off the intruder, she lifted the device angrily to her ear.

“What the hell do you want?”

“I was hoping to have a word with my wife.”

“Sorry, Phillip. I didn’t recognize the number. Whose phone are you using?”

“I’ll explain when I get there.”

“I thought you were staying in the city tonight.”

“Change in plan. We’re scheduled to land at East Hampton at six forty-five.”

“Wonderful news. Shall I make a dinner reservation?”

“I don’t think I can face the mob scene tonight. Let’s pick up something on the way home.”

“Lulu?”

“Perfect.”

“Any requests?”

“Surprise me.”

“Is something wrong, Phillip? You sound down.”

“Rough day. That’s all.”

Lindsay hung up the phone and, rising, pulled on a pair of Nikes and a Lululemon half-zip hoodie. Then she headed downstairs to the great room.Rothko, Pollock, Warhol, Basquiat, Lichtenstein, Diebenkorn...Nearly a half-billion dollars’ worth of paintings, all controlled by Masterpiece Art Ventures. Phillip had carefully shielded Lindsay from the company’s affairs, and her knowledge of how it functioned was limited to the basics. Phillip purchased paintings shrewdly and sold them at an immense profit. He kept a portion of those profits for himself and passed the rest on to his investors. Banks were eager to lend him capital because he never missed a payment and used his inventory as collateral. The loans allowed him to buy still more art, which produced still greater returns for his investors. Most saw the paper valuation of their accounts double in just three years. Few ever withdrew their money. Masterpiece was too sweet a deal.

Lindsay contemplated the Basquiat. She had been at Phillip’s side the night he purchased it at Christie’s for $75 million. In fact, it was their first real date. Afterward, he had taken her to Bar SixtyFive at the Rainbow Room to celebrate the acquisition with his employees. They were a small team—three ponytailed young women with sensible shoes and Ivy League educations, and a guy named Kenny Vaughan who had worked with Phillip at Lehman Brothers. There was also a tall, beautiful Spanish woman named Magdalena Navarro. Phillip said she worked as a scout and broker for Masterpiece in Europe.

“Are you still sleeping with her?” Lindsay had asked during the drive to Phillip’s town house.

“With Magdalena? Not anymore.”

Lindsay posed the same question when Phillip proposed marriage—and when he insisted that she sign a prenuptial agreement guaranteeing her a payment of $10 million were they ever to divorce. In neither instance did she believe Phillip’s denial. More troubling was her deeply held conviction that her husband and Magdalena remained lovers to this day. The sexual bond they shared was obvious in their every gesture and expression. Lindsay wasn’t blind. And she wasn’t as dumb as they thought she was.

I’ll explain when I get there...

The sensation of disharmony returned. Whether it was their marriage or Phillip’s business, Lindsay could not say. But something was amiss, off-kilter. She was certain of it.

Outside, she climbed behind the wheel of her white Range Rover and headed up the drive. As she passed the staff cottage, a security guard gave her a perfunctory wave and opened the gate. She turned left into Actors Colony Road, then dialed Lulu Kitchen & Bar in Sag Harbor. She greeted the hostess by name and placed her order: fried calamari, grilled octopus, two Bibb lettuce salads, grilled halibut, and a skirt steak. Phillip’s credit card was on file, so there was no discussion of payment or even the size of the bill.

“Is seven fifteen all right, Mrs. Somerset? We’re a bit busy tonight.”

“Seven would be better.”

She followed Route 114 down the length of the peninsula and into downtown Sag Harbor. The airport lay about four miles south of the village, on Daniels Hole Road. Once owned and operated by the town of East Hampton, it was now a fully private airfield thatcatered to people like the Somersets of North Haven. Phillip’s Sikorsky was dropping from the clear evening sky as Lindsay turned through the entrance. The security guard allowed her to drive onto the tarmac, thus sparing Mr. Somerset the indignity of having to walk to the parking lot.

He settled into the passenger seat of the Range Rover while the ground staff loaded two large aluminum-sided Rimowa suitcases into the back. Both bags appeared to be unusually heavy.

“Dumbbells?” asked Lindsay as she kissed Phillip’s lips.

“One contains two million dollars in cash. The other is filled with five-hundred-gram gold ingots.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not the man you think I am,” said Phillip. “And I’m in trouble.”

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