White Hot (Hidden Legacy #2)(45)

Augustine had a sense of humor. Who knew? “Maybe we should invest in one of those searchlights with a Rogan symbol on it . . .”

Rogan reached into his wallet, pulled out two dollar bills, pushed one toward me and the other toward Augustine. “I hate to see comedians starve. Our only lead is Gabriel Baranovsky, who was Elena’s lover, according to her douchebag of a husband. Are you going to help me with Baranovsky, Augustine?”

“I wasn’t planning on attending,” Augustine said. “But I might now. I want in. Not because I have some altruistic motives, but because when this thing finally bursts out in the open, it will be like an earthquake. It will shake the House politics not only in Houston, but probably in the entire country, and I can’t afford not to know where the pieces land.”

“Attending what?” I asked.

“How much do you know about Baranovsky?” Augustine said.

“Nothing,” I told him. “I haven’t had a chance to do any research. I was busy trying not to die.”

“Gabriel Baranovsky is an oneiromancer,” Rogan said.

Oneiromancers predicted the future by dreaming. Since the beginning of time, people have been trying to catch a glimpse of things to come by any means they could, from casting bones to examining cheese. Dreaming about it proved to be one of the more commonly used methods.

“He’s a very accurate short-term precog,” Rogan continued. “He dreams specifically about the stock market.”

“Dreams during the night, trades during the day,” Augustine said. “He made his first billion before he turned thirty.”

“His first billion?”

“He’s worth more than the two of us combined,” Rogan said. “He stopped at three billion because he got bored.”

“Wife?” I asked.

“He never married,” Rogan said.

“But he’s a Prime.” That was extremely odd. Finding the right person to marry and producing a gifted child dominated everything Primes did. In our world, magic equaled power, and the Primes feared losing power more than anything. “If there is no wife, then there is no heir and his family will lose the House designation.”

A family had to have at least two living Primes in three generations to be considered a House and to qualify for a seat in the Assembly.

“He doesn’t care,” Rogan said. “He never attends Assembly or socializes.”

“Much like someone else we know,” Augustine said. “Rumor has it, there is a bastard child. But nobody’s ever seen him or her.”

“So what does he do with all that money?”

“Whatever the hell he wants.” Rogan shrugged.

“Baranovsky is a collector,” Augustine said. “Rare cars, rare wine, rare jewels, rare art.”

“Rare women,” Rogan said. “He was likely Elena’s only lover, but for him she was one of many. It’s a compulsion. He can’t help himself. The more unusual and unique a thing is, the more he wants it. What he wants very, very badly is the 1594 Fortune Teller by Caravaggio.”

“Caravaggio was a rebel,” Augustine explained. “In the 1590s most of the Italian art scene consisted of Mannerist works—posed, stilted arrangements of people with unnaturally long limbs painted in jarring colors. Caravaggio painted from life. His works showed ordinary people and they were hyper-realistic for the time, funny and sly. Later on he would become massively influential.”

That made sense. “Baranovsky identifies with Caravaggio,” I said. “They both rejected the established artificial status quo and did what they thought was real and important.”

“Precisely,” Rogan said.

“Fortune Teller was Caravaggio’s first work in his style,” Augustine said. “It was the genesis of everything he created. The painting exists in two versions, and Baranovsky already bought the later version from the French for an outrageous amount of money.”

“But he doesn’t have the 1594 version,” I guessed. “And it’s killing him. It’s the original. He has to have it.”

“You should come work for me,” Augustine said.

“I do work for you, by proxy.”

“Long story short,” Rogan said, “the Museum of Fine Arts here in Houston owns the original Fortune Teller. Baranovsky tried everything to buy it, but MFAH refuses to sell. When the painting was donated, the owner stipulated that it could never be sold or leased for monetary compensation. And yet, MFAH wants Baranovsky’s money.”

“So they are letting him display it,” Augustine finished. “In return—because they can’t take money—once a year he organizes a huge charity gala. Minimum ticket price is two hundred thousand per family.”

I choked on the last of my coffee.

“Baranovsky won’t talk to me,” Augustine said. “I’m not flashy enough as Primes go. I’m very much in line with the status quo. He might talk to Rogan, since he’s the most dangerous man in Houston.”

“Is that the official title?” I asked.

“No,” Rogan said. “It’s a statement of fact.”

I couldn’t resist. “It’s so refreshing to meet a Prime with such humility.”

“Anyway,” Augustine cut in. “Even if Baranovsky talked to Rogan, it wouldn’t do us any good. We all know that Rogan has the interrogative subtlety of a howitzer.”