“I guess you’re right, though I wish Leonardo had had more patience.”

That was it. “Are you kidding? He worked on the Mona Lisa for like twelve years! Took it with him when he moved to France and kept working on it until he died. Come on. The guy had patience.”

“I suppose you’re right.” He lit another cigarette. “But I wish he’d done more art or at least finished everything he’d started.”

“Everything Leonardo made—whether he finished it or not—was great!” I pictured his Adoration of the Magi in the Uffizi, Alexandra beside me, and wished she were here now instead of this guy. “You’re an art dealer, so what do you think about this new Leonardo, the Salvator Mundi?”

“You mean, if it’s a Leonardo.”

“You doubt its authenticity?”

“Doesn’t everyone?” he said.

“I don’t know, but it sold for like what—three hundred million?”

“Four hundred and fifty million to be exact,” he said.

“Do they know who bought it?”

“Supposedly Saudi’s crown prince, Mohammed bin Salman. Now it’s missing or in hiding. Not in the Louvre’s big Leonardo exhibition, and the Abu Dhabi Museum has gotten cold feet about showing it—excuse me, the Louvre Abu Dhabi Museum. The power of a name. Stick the word ‘Louvre’ in front of a pile of steel and bricks, and you’re suddenly a great museum with great art.” He made a noise of disgust in the back of his nose. “Word is the Saudis might be holding the painting hostage as a bargaining chip in dealings with the French.”

“How do you know that?”

“Heard it…somewhere,” he said with a shrug. “You know that Napoleon took the Mona Lisa to hang in his bedroom, right?”

“Wouldn’t you, if you could?”

“No way. I don’t think great art should be removed from the world and hidden away!” His voice rose, cigarette smoke streaming from his nose like a dragon.

I told him to relax, that I was kidding.

“Sorry. Just a pet peeve of mine, the way some private collectors steal art from the rest of us.” He paused. “You wouldn’t do anything like that, would you?”

“Me? No. And I couldn’t afford it, even if I wanted to.”

“What if you could?”

“Again, I was kidding.”

“Of course,” he said, elbowing me, a big smile on his lips, the only part of his face I could see clearly in the dim light, the dark glasses totally hiding his eyes. “So how long are you staying in Florence?”

It was starting to feel like an interview, my old Kill Van Kull radar picking up a vibe I didn’t like it, and I turned it around. “How long are you staying?”

“Depends on how well my business goes. What are you working on?”

I didn’t remember saying I was working on anything, but either way, I’d had enough. “Time for me to turn in,” I said.

“So early? The night is young.”

I told him I was tired and wished him good night.