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lips. “Our man down there said you were screwed.”
    “We’ll never pay a dime,” Carl said gamely.
    “You’ll pay in the morning, ole boy. We’re betting Krane’s stock drops 20 percent.” And with that he turned and walked away, leaving Carl to finish off his drink and lunge for another. Twenty percent? Carl’s laser-quick mind did the math. He owned 45 percent of the outstanding common shares of Krane Chemical, a company with a market value of $3.2 billion, based on the day’s closing price. A 20 percent decline would cost him $280 million, on paper. No real cash losses, of course, but still a rough day around the office.
    Ten percent was more like it, he thought. The boys in finance agreed with him.
    Could Flint’s hedge fund short a significant chunk of Krane’s stock without Carl knowing about it? He stared at a confused bartender and pondered the question. Yes, it was possible, but not likely. Flint was simply rubbing a little salt.
    The museum’s director appeared from nowhere,and Carl was delighted to see him. He would never mention the verdict, if he in fact knew about it. He would say only nice things to Carl, and of course he would comment on how fabulous Brianna looked. He would ask about Sadler and inquire into the renovation of their home in the Hamptons.
    They chatted about such things as they carried their drinks through the crowded lobby, dodging little pockets of dangerous conversations, and settled themselves before
Abused Imelda
. “Magnificent, isn’t it?” the director mused.
    “Beautiful,” Carl said, glancing to his left as number 141 happened by. “What will it go for?”
    “We’ve been debating that all day around here. Who knows with this crowd. I say at least five million.”
    “And what’s it worth?”
    The director smiled as a photographer snapped their picture. “Now, that’s an entirely different issue, isn’t it? The sculptor’s last major work was sold to a Japanese gentleman for around two million. Of course, the Japanese gentleman was not donating large sums of money to our little museum.”
    Carl took another sip and acknowledged the game. MuAb’s campaign goal was $100 million over five years. According to Brianna, they were about halfway there and needed a big boost from the evening’s auction.
    An art critic with the
Times
introduced himself and joined their conversation. Wonder if he knows about the verdict, Carl thought. The critic and the directordiscussed the Argentine sculptor and his mental problems as Carl studied
Imelda
and asked himself if he really wanted it permanently situated in the foyer of his luxurious penthouse. His wife certainly did.

C H A P T E R 3
    T he Paytons’ temporary home was a three-bedroom apartment on the second level of an old complex near the university. Wes had lived nearby in his college days and still found it hard to believe he was back in the neighborhood. But there had been so many drastic changes it was difficult to dwell on just one.
    How temporary? That was the great question between husband and wife, though the issue hadn’t been discussed in weeks, nor would it be discussed now. Maybe in a day or two, when the fatigue and the shock wore off and they could steal a quiet moment and talk about the future. Wes eased the car through the parking lot, passing an overfilled Dumpster with debris littered around it. Mainly beer cans and broken bottles. The college boys humored themselves by hurling their empties from the upper floors, across the lot, above the cars, in the general direction of the Dumpster. When thebottles crashed, the noise boomed through the complex and the students were amused. Others were not. For the two sleep-deprived Paytons, the racket was at times unbearable.
    The owner, an old client, was widely considered the worst slumlord in town, by the students anyway. He offered the place to the Paytons, and their handshake deal called for a thousand bucks a month in rent. They had lived there for seven