The Solution

It was late afternoon, the lobby bar of the Hotel Chelsea on West 23rd Street was starting to fill. The much-celebrated space that had seen so many of the famous and not so famous come and go in its illustrious life had altered little over the decades. The marble edged fireplace, the individual lamps sitting on the bar and the Ceiling Bosses looking down on their world were the features of the space. The middle-aged man, in an immaculately tailored grey suite sitting at the end of the bar sipping the ’58 Bollinger, had a wry smile on his face.

He no longer lived in that part of the city. He was there to remind himself of how life could change so dramatically in such a short period of time.

Michael Pavlov was 53 years old. In the early 2000’s he had one of the largest galleries in the city. One block from the famous Chelsea Hotel.

He hosted numerous exhibitions for local and international artists in his huge space that included a ground floor exhibition area and a lavish studio apartment above. The elite of New York and the art world attended his openings.

He became wealthy dealing in art; he had an eye for burgeoning artists. With many of the country’s leading artists refusing to exhibit anywhere else other than at Pavlovs Studio.

Then all of that changed, The Global Financial Crisis hit.

The collapse of the US subprime mortgage market and excessive risk-taking by global banks, leading to the failure of major institutions like Lehman Brothers.

Pavlov Studios, along with tens of thousands of businesses across the country faltered.

The demand for artwork dried up. People stopped spending money. Michael Pavlov lost everything. The lease on his Chelsea building, which was his home and workspace was called in and the lack of cash meant he had to forfeit the space. Along with $250,000 worth of fixtures and specialist lighting. Overnight these became worthless.

He left the city and returned to his home town of Boston, taking a job in a book shop that specialised in art. He lived alone with his memories of Chelsea and better times.

Two years on as the world began to regain its financial momentum Michael Pavlov seized an opportunity. A friend of a friend was looking for someone to act as a private buyer at an auction in San Francisco. Someone who both new the artworld and could also be trusted. He was offered $5000 to attend the auction and bid for a painting on behalf of an anonymous buyer.

He was successful. The item was knocked down to him within the buyer’s price range. He received his $5,000, plus an additional $1,000 for securing it at below his client’s expectation.

A month later another referral from his first client secured him a new client, which also proved successful. In the following 12 months he acted for a number of additional individuals earning him $60,000.

He had found a new way to be involved in his passion for art, without being a gallery owner. Soon, he would be an invitee, a welcome guest at the city’s gala events, as he had in the past.

Michael Pavlov had become a professional procurer. Someone who could be trusted and knew the art world. Who, for a fee would represent people who valued their anonymity above all else. People who, were willing to pay handsomely for some item but didn’t want the world to know who they were.

He was amazed just how many people there were like that. And he knew where most of them were.

In the following Fall, he left Boston and returned to New York.

Two years on Michael Pavlov was living in an apartment on the Upper West Side.

His new found business venture was thriving. By word of mouth alone he was representing a group of clients, whose identity he jealously guarded in their quest for items from works of art to highly valuable collectables ranging from coins to antique weaponry and jewellery. In short, anything they wanted, and above all else, to remain anonymous. Something he could guarantee.

As his reputation grew so did his fees. Whatever the item was didn’t concern him, the eventual purchase price did. His payment was a flat 7.5% of the sale price.

He travelled the globe living the life of a semi- secret individual who turned up at public and private auctions to bid on items for people who would remain anonymous.

Suddenly, his newfound career path took an unexpected divergence. He was summoned to a meeting by one of his anonymous clients.

Leonard and Ismay Siritzky lived in a small apartment on East 42nd Street in Midtown, two blocks from the UN Building. Despite their wealth they lived frugally. Michael had been to their home on several occasions, always thinking why they didn’t find a better place to live, given their money. Still, it was none of his business. All he knew was they had paid twice in the past for him to secure two religious Russian Icons that had personnel meaning for them, that added to their existing collection of memorabilia connecting them to their Russian past.

Ismay answered the bell, as usual a smile on her face. The loungeroom was crowded, full of books and display cases. Leonard was in his usual seat by the window gazing down on 42nd Street. They offered tea, he accepted. There was no small talk, there never was. just an offer. An offer that would once again change his direction in life.

He sat, cup in hand and listened as Leonard explained his proposal …

‘Michael,’ he lent closer, putting a bony hand on Michael’s forearm, ‘you have helped us in the past to two secure items that are very precious to Ismay and myself.’ He smiled, looking across at Ismay, ‘now we are going to ask for something we have never asked for before.’ He produced a photograph of a small statue of Madonna and child; ‘this is the last piece in the collection of three, two of which we have, this will complete the trinity. The problem is, it’s not for sale, and will never be, not at any price, as long as the owner is alive. You see Michael.’ He raised his hands in a mock defeat, ‘we are all old. We want one last thing for us, for our family and their memories. This.’ He tapped the picture with a manicured finger, before continuing … ‘we know where it is, we even know the owner,’ he smiled glancing across at Ismay, he became animated, ‘We also know they will never sell. So, this is our offer, one million dollars, we do not want to know how you may acquire such an item, but should it come into your possession it will be our everlasting secret.’ The old man had tears in his eyes, he turned to Ismay, she was also crying.

Michael was stunned. He knew exactly what they where offering. Theft for a million bucks. ‘Have you tried asking the owner if they want to sell,’ he asked. ‘You never know Leonard, a million dollars is a hell of a lot of money. Maybe they’d reconsider?

Leonard shook his head, telling Michael, there was no way any offer, didn’t matter how much, would ever be considered.

He left the apartment, after promising to consider the offer. And agreeing to see them on their return from Israel in three weeks’ time.

The cab ride back uptown to his apartment passed without notice. The late afternoon thunderstorm that dumped torrential rains across the city causing traffic chaos with drivers leaning on their horns yelling abuse at each other went unheard or seen.

All he could think about was the one million dollars. His mind raced at the thought.

There had to be a way … but how?

Chapter two

Taking her coffee into the outdoor area of the coffee shop, which had once been the driveway of a now-defunct gas station, she looked around and eventually found a seat in the shade. Starting up the tablet, began the thankless task of trawling through want ads in the hope she might find some meaningful work.

Peta Monroe was 32 years old, tall with long dark hair and sad brown eyes.

She had grown up in Seattle Washington the youngest of five children, all brothers. There was a considerable age difference between her and her closest sibling, something she got teased about, an afterthought, or a mistake, her brothers thought it amusing. But not Peta

By the time she was five her mother was a single parent, her father, someone she barely remembered had gone to work one day and never returned.

At twelve, her mother died, leaving Peta to be taken in by her eldest brother and his wife and their two children. For Peta, it was all downhill. The house was small; she had to share a bedroom with her two nieces. There was no privacy, no freedom.

At fifteen she’d quit high school and taken a job in a fast-food restaurant in the city. She found accommodation sharing with one of the girls from work. Not ideal, but a step up from sharing a house with people she knew didn’t care for her.

Her brother was glad to be rid of her; there was always a bitterness between them. She knew he’d only taken her in deference to their mother.

Peta Monroe began her affair with electronics in her mid-20’s. She was living with a man who had a gift for fixing all sorts of electronic devices, cell phones, computers and the like. His work, as an installer of personal security systems fascinated her. She began accompanying him on jobs and soon learnt the skills needed to understand how specialist systems operated and, more importantly, how to override them.

To further her knowledge, she took a job with an electric goods chain in Seattle installing simple security devices such as doorbell cameras, security lighting and updating household locks. Being in peoples home gave her access to other security levels, safes, alarm systems and internal CCTV. The world of personal security fascinated her.

Along with her photographic memory, allowing her to bring to mind all the installations she’d done, and what she had read meant her accumulated knowledge of the industry was exstensive.

Then her world crashed. Her boyfriend, who, unbeknown to her, had been fixing stolen cell phones, accessing the data and being paid by criminals for the content. He was also being monitored by the Seattle Police Department.

One freezing cold morning at 4.30am the door of their apartment was kicked in and several heavily armed police stormed the space.

Despite Peta’s protests as to her innocence she was bundled up with her boyfriend, their cell phones, along with computers and several devices he’d been working on and taken to a local Precinct, and charged with a string of offences.

As phone tampering is a Federal Offence, he was denied bail. Peta was, with strict conditions.

The trial was high profile, the case attracted interest across the country.

The evidence was overwhelming, after eight months of detention he pleaded guilty to a raft of charges and was sentenced to 10 years in the Federal Detention Center, SeaTac in Washington State.

The charges against Peta were eventually withdrawn as there was no actual proof, she knew what her boyfriend was doing. She would never know.

The damage had been done. The store thought it best, given what had transpired for her to move on. Whatever that meant.

What she did know was that there was no future for her in Seattle.

A year later she moved to LA

Chapter three

She took a small two-bedroom apartment in Venice Beach. After the cold and wet of Seattle the location was a welcome change. Her plan was to find work and settle in the area. The reality was something quite different. Employment was not easy. She knew she couldn’t apply for a job in personal security, as that would entail past experiences. Something she wasn’t prepared to share. Not given the outcome.

She took part time positions working in offices, even temp work filling in for retail positions. It was boring and thankless. No challenges and lousy wages.

Fact was, there was an oversupply of willing labour, coupled with the U.S. wage system meant little work and poor money.

As her savings began to runout she decided to move to a less expensive area in the city. Venice Beach was suddenly out of reach.

She found a small bedsit in an area called Huntington Park; it could have been a million miles from Venice Beach as far as she was concerned. It was not a nice area. But the rent was cheap. She was paying less than half of her Venice rent for her new home. If she was going to survive in LA she needed to reduce her overheads.

At night her sleep was interrupted by the sounds of emergency vehicles, at times the ceiling and wall of her tiny space reflected the flashing lights of passing vehicles rushing to one disaster after another.

She lulled herself to sleep with thoughts of good times in Seattle, moving in and out of people’s homes installing and fixing numerous electronic devices. She despaired at ever experiencing that again.

The shiny black town car with the heavily tinted windows looked out of place in Huntington Park. The graffiti strewn walls, abandoned vehicles and general rubbish that littered the sidewalks ensured it didn’t go unnoticed. The idling engine, maintaining the air-conditioning as it pumped more pollution into the city’s skies adding to its presence.

The passenger in the rear seat watched the table with the young women with the long dark hair as she looked intently at her tablet.

Michael Pavlov had done his homework well. The fact she now lived in Huntington Park after Venice Beach gave him even more confidence his choice had been the right one.

Finishing his cigar, he tapped on the glass divider. The uniformed driver exited and held the door open. The immaculately dressed passenger exited into the hot humid LA morning, straightening his jacket, crossed the road.

He had a proposition for the girl with long dark hair. One that would benefit them both.

Suddenly, the million dollars looked a lot closer.