Art of Deception - Light and Shadow

This story is a sequel to Art of Deception. It can be read on its own without any knowledge of the original. That said, reading this first will reveal most of the major plot points from the original story. I mention this only because I hate spoilers and would want to know myself if I were the reader.

My thanks to Bebop3 for the helpful suggestions he offered as a beta reader. Thanks also to HighLuster for his thorough feedback and excellent work as a finish editor. Any mistakes that remain are mine.

I've asked for this story to be placed in Loving Wives, the same category as the original, just so those who posted or emailed about a sequel will have an easier time finding it. Fair warning: this story doesn't contain the elements of a traditional Loving Wives tale, nor does it have any explicit sex. I hope those who decide to read it enjoy it anyway.

*******

I knew immediately it was a forgery.

The painting arrived on a Tuesday afternoon in a FedEx box. I hadn't been expecting any deliveries. Now that I was the full-time head of the Kiefer Gallery's forensic research department, I was too busy to take many independent consulting cases. The cases I did accept rarely mailed paintings directly to my home address for analysis.

I opened the box, peeled away the layers of protective packaging, and gently placed the unpacked canvas on the kitchen table of my Brooklyn apartment.

It was an exquisite piece. A small Renoir landscape from the early decades of his career, probably mid-1870s. Unlike the pure landscapes of the 1900s, which eschewed human subjects entirely, this Renoir featured a lone figure amidst a field of green and yellow. Several small trees framed the scene.

The mastery of outdoor light and shadow was unquestionable. The colors were lush yet subtle. It definitely passed the eye test.

Careful forensic analysis might uncover a hidden imperfection--a synthetic fiber buried in the paint, an anachronistic pigment, a microscopic anomaly--that would show the painting to be a forgery, but all outward signs seemed to indicate that it was an honest-to-God Renoir.

Well, all except one. An identical painting, Renoir's Springtime (in Chatou), happened to be on display at the Oxbow Gallery just a few blocks from where I worked.

I tipped the FedEx box forward. A small paper note fluttered out, coming to rest on the table. It read:

"What do you think? -- C."

I smiled and shook my head.

"I think," I said, speaking aloud as though Carina were in the room with me, "that you're up to something."

*******

I thumbed halfheartedly through the stack of resumes in my lab at the Kiefer Gallery. I hated reading resumes on a screen. I preferred printing them so that I could make notes and jot down questions. Made it easier to spot typos, too. Attention to detail is a pretty important skill for applicants in my line of work.

It was going to be a pain to replace Jill. She'd been my assistant forensic analyst for less than a year before another gallery scooped her up with an offer of an assistant curator position. She deserved it, and I'd been happy to pen her a glowing letter of recommendation.

Still, things were already different without her. Not just busier, but quieter. I hadn't realized just how much I'd come to enjoy having someone else to talk to. Glancing at her empty desk, my spacious lab suddenly felt much bigger and emptier than it had just a few weeks ago.

Part of my loneliness stemmed from the fact that I'd only been on a handful of dates in the year since Carina left town. For some reason, I had trust issues that made it tough to get close to people. Maybe it had something to do with the fact my marriage to Lauren ended when I caught her cheating, and my romance with Carina blew up when I discovered she was concealing her career as a master forger. Hard to say.

I tried reading a resume for the second time, but the words wouldn't register. My mind was elsewhere. Why had Carina sent me the Renoir?

She was challenging me. That much was obvious. Our last encounter had ended in a stalemate. I'd managed to convince the Kiefer Gallery's owner Nora Turner--now my boss--that the original Modigliani canvas Carina was trying to sell at auction might not be authentic.

However, I'd never actually examined the painting because my ex-wife, who was responsible for authenticating the piece, wouldn't let me near it. Carina was convinced that, had I examined it, I would never have been able to spot a flaw. She believed herself skillful enough to fool me. Now, she wanted to prove it by testing me with the fake Renoir.

I understood her compulsive need to prove her skill, because I was just as eager to prove her wrong. Since the Renoir arrived at my door, I'd been dying to examine it. After I worked through a bit more of my Kiefer Gallery caseload, I planned to do just that. I was certain that I'd be able to find the one flaw, the one tiny oversight, that would demonstrate the painting was a forgery.

My pride was tempered by the knowledge that the last time Carina invited me to examine a painting had been a ruse. She'd posed as a collector who wanted to know if one of the works in her collection was a fake. In reality, she'd forged the work herself and had only brought it to me as an excuse to get information she needed to sell her Modigliani at auction.

As I considered Carina's possible motives for sending the forgery, my fingers drummed absently across my desk. I was surprised how loud they sounded against the bare wood. It took several moments before I realized the sound was actually someone knocking on my door frame.

I looked up to find a beautiful woman in a knee-length beige skirt and blue button-down shirt standing at my door. She looked to be about my age, maybe mid-40s, with blond hair that fell to her shoulders. I wondered how long she'd been patiently standing there, waiting for me to notice her.

"Mr. Weber? I was hoping I could talk to you about a painting."

"Sorry, but I'm not taking on new cases right now. Too busy."

"Actually, it's about a case you've already solved."

She walked forward and extended her hand as I rose to greet her. Her arms were strong and toned.

"Monica Bradley. I'm a private investigator. I wondered if we could chat about the Modigliani forgery you uncovered last year."

She spoke the words with a smile, but behind the smile her eyes scanned my face intensely for a reaction.

The Modigliani case wasn't public knowledge. Nora had never claimed the painting was a forgery and had done her best to keep it quiet, both to avoid embarrassment to her gallery and to avoid a potential lawsuit from the painting's owner if it later turned out to be authentic. Unfortunately, it's impossible to keep rumors from spreading in the art world. Still, only three other people had been in the room when I presented evidence that the painting was fake: Carina, Nora, and my ex-wife, Lauren. I had little doubt which of them hired a PI.

"I'm not sure I'll be of much help, Ms. Bradley."

"Monica, please. And why do you say that?"

"I never actually examined the painting. I'm afraid I won't have much insight to offer."

"Yes, that's actually one of the things I'm most curious about, Mr. Weber."

"Call me Adam. Feels less like an interrogation that way."

She laughed. "Well, let's get the interrogation out of the way then."

She twisted my desk lamp so the light shone directly on my face, leaned forward, and placed both hands on my desk. "Did you forge the painting, Adam?" she asked with mock intensity.

"No."

"See, there you go!" She stood up and readjusted my desk lamp. "No interrogation. We're just having a chat."

"Right. Since we're chatting, you won't mind if I ask you a question?"

"Of course not."

"Who are you working for?"

"Ah. My client has asked me to keep that particular detail confidential."

Fucking Lauren.

"I've been retained to look into some... let's call them irregularities... surrounding this particular case. Just basic fact finding at this point. My sources tell me you that it was you who raised the suspicions about the painting being a forgery. Is that true?"

"Yes."

"Yet you never examined the painting."

"That's what I said."

"So, what made you suspect it was a forgery?"

"The simple fact that it was a newly discovered Modigliani."

She held out her hands apologetically. "Sorry, but I'm a neophyte when it comes to art. Feel free to treat me like an idiot. Why would that matter?"

"Modigliani is one of the most forged artists of the last century. Any newly discovered work would instantly be suspect."

"I see. And that was enough for you? You didn't need any more evidence?"

"I asked to examine the painting. My ex-wife wouldn't let me. Surely you know all this already."

"You and I are in the same line of work. I've always believed a thorough investigation should gather as many data points as possible. Wouldn't you agree?"

I nodded reluctantly.

She made a slow circle of my lab as we talked, pausing to look at different pieces of equipment along the way.

"You use all this to catch bad guys, huh?"

"For the most part. It's not all about forensic research, though. Stylistic connoisseurship is just as important. You have to know art, not just inspect it."

She paused next to one of my larger pieces of equipment.

"What's this guy called?" she asked.

"That's a Fourier transform infrared microscope."

She raised a questioning eyebrow.

"It sounds fancier than it is," I said. "A spectrometer pushes infrared light through flecks of pigment, which helps me tell whether the painting contains any compounds that wouldn't have been available to the artist at the time he or she was working. I just ran a sample this morning. Have a look if you like."

She glanced briefly at the spectrum graph on the laptop adjacent to the microscope and laughed. "Sorry. Afraid it's all Greek to me."

She walked back to my desk and stared at me for a moment before continuing.

"You never used any of these fancy instruments on the Modigliani, yet you convinced the gallery owner to pull it from auction. How?"

"I found flaws in the painting's provenance."

"It's provenance?"

"Documentation substantiating the painting's origin."

"And the outcome of all this was that your ex-wife was fired for not spotting these flaws?"

"That was one outcome, yes."

"And you now have her job?"

"Yes."

"How serendipitous."

"That's your theory? That I drummed up a false forgery claim to take Lauren's job and get revenge on her for cheating on me?"

"That's one possibility, yes."

"What's another?"

"That you and the forger are, or were, working together to dupe galleries."

"Then why would I expose the forgery?"

She shrugged. "Maybe you had a falling out. Business relationships sometimes end badly."

The accusation that I was a criminal infuriated me, but I kept my expression neutral.

"Have you considered the possibility that I'm telling the truth?"

"Of course. I consider every possibility. I just don't know which one is reality." She smiled. "Yet."

"You can tell my ex-wife that if she'd done her job properly, I wouldn't have had to do it for her."

"I'm glad you brought that up. You didn't work for the gallery that was auctioning the painting. In fact, they rejected your application for employment and hired your ex-wife instead. Correct?"

"Yes."

"Then why were you so hell-bent on helping them avoid being scammed?"

"Because I value the truth. It's my job."

"Excellent!" she said, clasping her hands together. "We have that in common. I'm glad I can count on you to help me get to the bottom of this."

She rose from her chair and handed me her business card.

"Thanks for your time today, Adam. I enjoyed talking with you. Sorry if some of my questions were a little pointed, but I find it's easier to gauge how truthful someone is being if you set them on edge a bit.

"If you think of any other details that might be relevant, or feel a guilt-ridden confession coming on, my number's on the card."

"My conscience is pretty clear."

"Well, let's hope it stays that way. Enjoy your day."

She turned and walked out of the office. I had a feeling it wasn't the last time I would see her.

*******

I spend my days detecting forgeries, but I'd never had someone inspect me for signs of fraud. I didn't much like being on the other end of the microscope.

It didn't help my anxiety that I had a forged Renoir sitting in my apartment. That wouldn't be easy to explain to Monica. This old thing? I don't even remember where I found it.

Still, I never once considered getting rid of it. First, you can't exactly pitch a forgery in the dumpster with a PI snooping around. Second, the idea of abandoning or destroying a masterpiece--and, forgery or not, that's what it was, a masterpiece--would be abhorrent to anyone with even a shred of artistic sensibility. Plus, it was from Carina. We had too much history for me to discard a gift like that.

But the real reason I kept it was even simpler. I had to know. Was she better than I was?

I couldn't risk trying to move the painting to my lab. I suspected Monica would be keeping an eye on me from a distance, at least for a little while. Plus, there was a chance someone else could see me working on it.

In my apartment I had some instruments that I used for my independent consulting work, mostly stuff I'd salvaged from my old lab before I took the job with the Kiefer Gallery. I decided to start there.

I inspected every inch of the painting for synthetic fibers, hair, or anything else embedded in the paint that shouldn't be there. Carina must have worked in a sterile room, because the painting was spotless.

The signature, tucked among grass and flowers in the lower right-hand corner, was a perfect match. As in the original, the last "R" was slightly darker and more pronounced than the other letters, which appeared a bit faded by comparison.

The canvas was appropriate for the period, and the brush strokes also looked exactly as they should.

What I really needed was a detailed pigment analysis, but for that I needed my FTIR microscope, and I wasn't comfortable taking the painting to my lab.

Instead, I researched Renoir's work online, hoping to find some critical detail that I was missing. I pored over genuine Renoirs in person at the Met, the Guggenheim, and the Brooklyn Museum, searching for some stylistic nuance that would be the key to unlocking the case.

And, of course, I spent hours with the genuine Springtime (in Chatou) at the Oxbow Gallery, trying to spot a discrepancy.

It all proved fruitless. After two weeks of examining Carina's work in my spare time, I had nothing that would even suggest, much less prove, it was a forgery.

Frustrated and exhausted, I tucked the painting in my closet behind some coats and resolved to come back to it later with fresh eyes and, hopefully, a clear mind.

*******

I was way behind on interviews for the assistant forensic analyst position. I desperately needed another set of hands to help me wade through the backlog of paintings we had in our queue, but I'd also been too busy with actual analysis to carve out time to conduct interviews.

I had managed to squeeze an interview in over lunch. I was so immersed in a pigment analysis that I lost track of time until I heard a voice at my door.

"Knock, knock."

"I'm so sorry," I said, peering around my equipment at the woman with sunglasses and long red hair waiting patiently by the door. "Completely lost track of time. Come in, come in."

I waved to the chair opposite my desk at the far side of my lab.

"Have a seat and I'll be right with you. Just need to set this sample to avoid contamination."

Two minutes later I made my way over to the desk, frantically trying to remember the name of the person I was interviewing. Fortunately, she was seated with her back to me and couldn't see the panic on my face.

It came to me just in time: Elizabeth Cooper. She previously worked as a conservator at a small museum upstate. When budget cuts forced the museum to eliminate the position, she decided to change careers and pursue forensic analysis. Impressive work experience, great cover letter, and slightly unrealistic salary expectations if I remembered correctly.

"Elizabeth, thank you so much for waiting," I said, rounding the corner of my desk and extending my hand.

She rose to greet me, and I froze.

"Not at all, Mr. Weber." Carina took my hand and shook it. "It was worth the wait."

Her hair may have been long and red instead of short and auburn, but without the sunglasses, she was unmistakable. Those piercing blue eyes still took my breath away.

She sat down opposite me and smiled. "So, what's new?" she asked.

I knew she was savoring the shock on my face. I struggled to act unfazed. I'm pretty sure I was unsuccessful, because I was still standing with my arm partially outstretched from the handshake.

"No accent this time?" I asked, finally sitting down. The last time I'd seen Carina had been in Nora's conference room. At the time, Carina had been feigning a Welsh accent. She didn't have one today.

"How very American of you, Adam. Everyone has an accent relative to someone else's."

"So, you actually are from Wales, then?"

"Not quite, no."

I shook my head. "Of course not. Nothing is ever as it seems with you, is it?"

"Tell you what. Come to dinner with me, and I'll tell you where I'm really from."

"No."

"C'mon. I know you're curious."

"It doesn't matter. I wouldn't believe what you told me anyway."

"Oh, don't be like that. I want to make amends. Seriously. Scout's honor." She raised her right hand.

"Why are you really here, Carina?"

"Because I'd enjoy working under you," she said with a grin.

I tried not to react, but memories of our time in bed flooded my brain. My pulse quickened. Carina picked up on it instantly.

"I think you'd agree my past experience shows I'd be a good fit for the position," she continued, leaning forward to expose a bit of cleavage. "In fact, I feel I'm flexible enough to fill many positions."

"Stop it."

"You're no fun."

"Maybe because Lauren hired a PI to investigate me."

"Really?" Carina's eyes widened. "Why?"

"To prove either that I staged a false forgery claim to get revenge on her, or that I've been working with you all along to sell forgeries."

"That's actually a pretty good idea. Want to partner up?"

"Not funny."

"It's a little funny."

"Aren't you worried Nora will recognize you?" I asked.

Nora knew Carina only as Georgeanna Wilkes, representative of the anonymous seller who wanted to auction the Modigliani through the Kiefer Gallery.

"You didn't recognize me. Why would she? Come to dinner with me."

"No."

"Did you like the Renoir?"

I paused, considering how to respond. I decided on the truth. "It's exceptional."

She beamed. "Thank you. It is, isn't it? And?"

"And what?"

"Did you find any evidence it's a forgery?"

"You mean other than the fact its twin is hanging on a wall at the Oxbow?"

She gasped. "You haven't, have you? If you'd found something, you would have said so."

"This may come as a surprise, Carina, but my world doesn't revolve around you. I have an actual job, with genuine paintings to inspect. I haven't had time to look at yours."

"You're a terrible liar."

"Okay, I think we're done here," I said, standing up.

"Did I get the job?"

"Get out. Or I'll call Security. I'm not kidding."

Carina sighed. "I was hoping I wouldn't have to play this card, but here it is. Come to dinner with me, and I'll help you stop a forgery."

*******

Carina had me make reservations at one of the nicest French restaurants in Brooklyn and insisted that I dress for the occasion. She looked stunning in an emerald cowl-neck midi dress that highlighted every inch of her lithe frame. The moment she walked into the room, every man in the restaurant stole a glance at her, and most of the women caught them looking.