Art of Deception - Light and Shadow

I frowned as I skimmed the entrée selections.

"You said if I wanted information that I'd have to pay for it, but looking at these prices, I'm not sure it's worth it."

"Are you kidding?" she replied. "You screwed me out of $3.4 million. I'm ordering the most expensive thing on the menu."

She kept her promise, then ordered one of the priciest bottles of wine to boot.

"Tell me about this forgery," I said.

"Business later. Let's have a nice conversation first. Like we used to."

"What do you want to talk about? How you lied to me and used me?"

She ignored the barb entirely. "Are you seeing anyone?" she asked.

"No." I took a long sip of wine and set down my glass. "Are you?"

"No one since you."

I tried to remain angry, but her answer softened me a bit, which was no doubt her reason for posing the question.

"So, what brings you to town? Auctioning another piece?"

"No, but then I wouldn't tell you if I were. I'm actually between assignments."

"Assignments?"

"I get commissioned to do certain paintings. Others I choose to do myself. Right now, I'm not working on either. My time is my own."

"And you chose to spend it visiting me?"

"Is that really so surprising?"

"It's certainly risky. What if I expose you?"

She shook her head and smiled. "I know you, Adam."

Her arrogance irritated me. "Maybe so. But here's the thing Carina: I don't know you. In fact, I don't know the first real thing about you."

"So ask. What do you want to know?"

"You'll just make up answers to serve whatever your real purpose is for being here."

For a moment she looked genuinely hurt, but she concealed it quickly. "All I can do is promise to tell you the truth. I can't make you believe me."

"Fine. Where you are from? Really."

"I was born in London," she said. "I grew up there, but I've spent most of my adult life moving around the States."

"You don't have a London accent."

"You mean like this?" she said, dropping into Estuary English. "This is how I sounded growing up. I have an ear for dialects. I picked up most of the regional accents from Britain."

"This one," she said, slipping back into her America accent, "comes naturally from the time I spent in the Midwest."

"Siblings?"

"One younger sister. Still in London."

"Parents?"

"No longer living. They were lovely. My mother was a maid and my father worked in the shipping industry. Both devout Orthodox Christians. That's how I got into forgery, actually."

She laughed at the look of surprise on my face. "Have you ever been to an Orthodox service?" she asked.

I nodded.

"It's gorgeous, isn't it? Icons everywhere: the iconostasis, the walls, the interior of the dome. It's like being in an art museum.

"My mother always scolded me for paying more attention to the icons than the singing. I couldn't help it. I'd sketch them after services, then paint them on wood as I got older. I was pretty good."

"I'm sure you were," I said.

"One of the parishioners, Pasha, noticed I had a knack for painting. He gave me paint, brushes, and wood to use for practice, and even arranged for lessons with an iconographer. My parents said it was all too generous, but he insisted.

"He started bringing photos of icons each Sunday and asking if I could reproduce them. I'd bring him my work the following Sunday, and he'd give me a new photo. I loved it. It was like a challenge. Then he started bringing money, too. He said I'd gotten so good that he was able to sell my work, and that my family should benefit from it."

"When did you find out what was really going on?" I asked.

"When I was about fourteen. They had a guy who would age my stuff before it hit the antique market. He was excellent. I probably could have gotten out then. I was still young enough, and they were a small-time operation."

"But you liked it too much," I said.

"I really did. People wanted to pay for my work. That was amazing to me. And I was helping my family financially.

"Then a guy who said he was a friend of Pasha's came to talk to me. He was so kind, and he wouldn't stop gushing about how talented I was. I ate it up. He said that if I wanted, I could make a lot more money than I was making now. Said it would be a chance to grow as an artist. But it would have to be our secret. That's when I started painting canvases.

"I knew what was going on. But because I never saw the business side of it, it was easy to pretend I didn't. Before I realized it, I'd become too lucrative an asset for them to part with."

She finished her story just before our food had arrived. We ate mostly in silence. I was busy trying to digest everything she had said and figure out whether I believed it. By the time we'd finished eating, I'd decided that I did.

"Why did you send me the Renoir?" I asked, placing my napkin on the table.

"It's a gift, dummy."

"Sure it is."

"It is! What, you think I'm going to try to auction a painting that already exists?"

I stared at her for a long time, watching her eyes. She held my gaze.

"Finish examining it yet?" she asked.

I'd taken a few more cracks at the painting during the week leading up to our dinner reservation. I still hadn't found anything amiss, but I wasn't about to give her that satisfaction.

"Not yet."

Her smug smile irritated me.

"Look," I said, "are you going to tell me where to find this supposed forgery or not?"

"I'll do you one better." She drained the remaining wine from her glass. "I'll show you."

*******

We arrived at the Oxbow Gallery after a short Uber ride. The gallery had an auction coming up in a few months, and they were exhibiting some of the paintings that would be on the auction block. I felt a bit overdressed for the occasion, but I relaxed when I realized the other patrons were too focused on the art to pay any attention to us.

We strolled the halls, with Carina occasionally pausing to appreciate a piece that caught her eye. I had a feeling she was enjoying drawing things out, waiting for my impatience to boil over. It was working, but I pretended to be in no hurry. I even made a point of stopping to take in a few paintings myself.

She paused again near a series of landscapes by Walter Schofield, an American Impressionist. They were fine pieces. Good representations of his work, but nothing special. I guessed they'd sell in the low five figures.

Carina pressed against me, raising up on her toes to bring her lips close to my ear. It was the first we'd touched in more than a year, and I had to resist the urge to pull her closer.

"Voila," she whispered, her breath warm against my skin.

"One of these?" I asked.

She turned again to the paintings and shook her head. "These are genuine. But there's another Schofield from this lot that isn't on display."

"What do you know about it?"

"Well, I've heard it was only partially complete at the time of his death. Schofield was a skilled artist, but I doubt so skilled that he could finish a painting from beyond the grave."

I nodded.

"So, Mr. Detective, if you were on the case, what would you do?"

"You know the answer to that question," I said.

"Humor me."

"Ultraviolet light. If a contemporary artist completed the unfinished original, the newer paint would fluoresce differently under UV than the original paint."

"You're hot when you talk shop."

I ignored her. I was already thinking about the painting. Was it not on display because the Oxbow had already exposed it as a forgery? I had my doubts. Roland Prescott, the Oxbow Gallery's forensic analyst, was a nice guy, but he wasn't terribly interested in forensic science.

Roland had been hired years ago as a conservator and was only recently asked to pull double duty as a forensic analyst by Antoine Bonnet, the Oxbow's owner. Antoine was too cheap to hire a dedicated forensic scientist. He didn't even pay Roland for the extra duties he'd taken on. All he wanted was the cachet that he felt came with having a forensic scientist on staff.

It was too much to ask of one person both to serve as a conservator and to authenticate all the paintings in time for auction. It wouldn't have surprised me if Roland had given less attention to the minor pieces so that he could focus on those that would fetch a bigger price.

"Why tell me this?" I asked.

"Out of the goodness of my heart."

"Right. And not because another forger is intruding on your territory and your employer wants to make an example of them?"

Carina shrugged. "Can't it be both?"

"Not really."

"Just trying to be neighborly. Look into it. Don't look into it. No skin off my nose." She grabbed my arm. "Come with me."

"Why?"

"There's one more painting I want to see."

I didn't protest. I knew we'd end up there from the moment we'd set foot in the gallery. In fact, it was probably her real motivation for coming. I sighed and let her drag me through the hallways until we reached the Renoir.

Unlike the other paintings, which were up for auction, the Renoir was on permanent display at the Oxbow. It had been passed to Antoine from a private collector and close personal friend after he died, and ever since Antoine had proudly displayed it as a symbol of his gallery's prestige.

We stared at the painting in silence. I knew Carina was gloating, but I was content to let her have her moment. At least for now.

I set aside my analytical eye and allowed myself to sink into the painting, admiring the color and composition. I grew so lost in my thoughts that I jumped when a heavy hand clapped me on the back.

"Adam! I didn't realize we would have a celebrity in our midst tonight. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Antoine was tall and broad-chested with a mane of perfectly coiffed silver hair and rimless glasses that looked a bit too small on his rectangular face.

"Just checking out the exhibition," I said. "Should be a great auction."

"I certainly hope so." He extended his hand to Carina before I had the chance to introduce her. "Antoine Bonnet. I own this humble gallery."

"Elizabeth Cooper," Carina said. "It's lovely. You have some truly beautiful pieces on display here."

"And you have a truly discerning eye, Elizabeth."

Carina punched me playfully in the arm. "What's all this celebrity talk? Is there something I don't know?"

"Adam hasn't told you?" He cast me a disapproving look. "No, I suppose he's too modest. Well, your escort tonight happens to be the world's foremost forensic art investigator. He's somewhat of a name in the art world."

Carina titled her head and mimed an exaggerated jaw drop. "You told me you just worked at a local gallery!"

"I do. Antoine makes my job sound a lot more glamorous than it really is," I said.

"Nonsense. I'd kill to have him on my staff," he replied.

The whole exchange was making me increasingly uncomfortable.

"I see you've found my Renoir," Antoine said, nodding toward the wall.

"How could we miss it?" Carina said.

Antoine beamed. "Springtime in Chatou. It was given to me by a dear friend. Just an exceptional piece."

"Definitely one of a kind," Carina agreed.

I shot her a stern look.

"In fact, I don't think I've ever seen anything like it," she continued, turning toward me and smiling. "Have you, Adam?"

I grimaced. "Not exactly. No."

Antoine misinterpreted my irritation. "I'm afraid not everyone shares our assessment, Elizabeth." He glanced at me. "Perhaps when one spends his life looking for defects, one loses the ability to appreciate beauty."

"I couldn't agree more," Carina said, meeting my eyes. "Some people don't see something special, even when it's right in front of them."

I said nothing. Carina may have been enjoying herself, but I just wanted the conversation to end.

"It may not be the finest work in his oeuvre, or even among his best landscapes, but only Renoir could produce a work of such incomparable beauty," Antoine said, pointing a finger at the wall.

"Oh, I don't know," Carina said thoughtfully. "I bet I could paint it."

I stifled a cough. Antoine stared at her for a long moment, then burst into laughter. Carina joined in.

"Adam, I don't know where you found this one," Antoine said, still laughing, "but don't you dare let her go."

*******

After we left the Oxbow, Carina thanked me for dinner, and we went our separate ways.

I sat on her tip for more than a week. I wasn't convinced it was legitimate, but I also didn't understand what she'd have to gain by lying to me. If the painting were genuine, I'd look like an idiot. On the other hand, if the painting were a forgery...

I decided to take a gamble. I called Roland.

I told him I had a hunch about the Schofield and asked if he would check it out. I also told him I had a PI on my back and that it was important he not mention anything about my involvement, regardless of whether the painting turned out to be genuine or fake. The last thing I needed was Monica breathing down my neck about how I miraculously uncovered a second forgery without examining the painting itself.

He called back the next day.

"Adam! You were right. I popped it under the black light and BAM! There it was, plain as day."

Roland was a high-strung guy who liked to run his fingers through his thinning hair whenever he got excited. I could picture him pacing his office while we talked, one hand holding the phone, the other atop his head.

"Holy shit!" he continued. "This is only, like, the second forgery I've come across since I started doing this."

"Was Antoine upset?"

"Kind of. But he was also glad I caught it. He's really been on my case. 'What's the point in having a forgery specialist that doesn't find any forgeries? What am I paying you for?' That kind of shit. I wanted to be like, 'You don't pay me, you cheap fuck.'"

I laughed. "Well, I'm glad it worked out, Roland."

"Me too. You might have saved my job, Adam. I mean it."

"No way. Antoine can be an ass, but he knows what a good conservator you are. He'd be a fool to let you go."

"Never stopped him before."

"Look," I said, "I know I don't have to say this again, but..."

"No problem. Mum's the word. It doesn't feel right taking all the credit for this, but if you're gonna twist my arm, who am I to argue?"

I hung up and smiled. You always felt a rush after uncovering a forgery, and I could hear the exhilaration in Roland's voice over the phone. His euphoria had rubbed off on me like a contact high. I wanted to chase that feeling. I decided to take another crack at the Renoir.

It was still too risky to bring the painting to my lab, especially with Monica keeping an eye on me. But maybe I didn't need to bring the whole painting.

I scraped flecks of paint from the canvas into individual Ziploc bags and sealed them. It was far from a foolproof way to avoid contamination, but it was the best I had. Then I brought the bags to my lab and popped the individual pigments under the Fourier transform infrared microscope.

I held my breath. Sample after sample showed no irregularities. The most powerful forensic weapon in my arsenal had come up empty.

I sighed. As the air left my body, so too did my earlier excitement. I wasn't ready to give up, but, for the first time, I felt like I might just be outmatched.

*******

Carina's tip had been legitimate, but I wasn't sure what to make of it. Maybe it was part of some angle she was playing that I hadn't quite worked out yet. Or maybe she really was trying to make amends and rebuild trust. Regardless, I owed her my thanks. At least, that's how I rationalized wanting to see her again.

She agreed to meet me in Prospect Park a few days later. I brought a blanket for a picnic dinner, and we found a quiet spot on the peninsula where we could enjoy the view of the lake.

It was a beautiful July day, and we talked about what our summers were like growing up. I told Carina how my family spent a week every August in a small house on Tybee Island, where I'd spend hours bobbing in the warm water on a red canvas raft. I still had some of the sand dollars that my brother and I had unearthed with our toes at low tide.

She told me about her first ever trip to an amusement park. Her parents had scrimped to take her and her sister to the grand opening of Chessington World of Adventures. They all rode a small roller coaster called Runaway Train. It happened to break down while they were halfway through one of the dark mining tunnels. Carina had loved it, but her sister had been terrified because she was convinced that that they really were on a runaway train. She'd had nightmares for days.

The sun began to set, and as the wind grew cooler, Carina drew closer. I wrapped an arm around her shoulder.

"That must have been nice, listening to what Antoine said about you."

"What did he say about me?" I asked. I'd honestly forgotten.

"World's foremost forensic detective or whatever."

"I guess so, yeah. I hadn't really thought about it."

It occurred to me that Carina never got to experience the adulation of her peers. In fact, her entire career depended on anonymity. No one ever noticed her skill. Her employer valued her, but only as a source of income. I was probably the only person in her life who understood her talent and saw her the same way that she saw herself: as an artist.

For the first time, I considered the possibility that the Renoir might truly be just a gift. She wanted to be appreciated, as we all do, for our accomplishments. To the world, she would forever toil in secrecy, but I'd seen behind the curtain. With me, she could proudly claim her work as her own.

We ended up back at my apartment, where I started to pour two glasses of wine. I stopped when I noticed her face. She was blinking back tears.

"What is it?" I asked.

I was genuinely perplexed. She'd just been commenting on my chess board and telling me about the first time her dad had taught her to play.

"Nothing," she said. "It's just, today has been really nice."

"Yes, I can see why that would be upsetting."

She laughed and swiped at a tear that had spilled down her cheek.

"What I mean is, this has all been so wonderfully normal. And I know I can never have that. Normal. For a little while, maybe. But in the end, I'm just fooling myself. Eventually another assignment will come up. I'll go back to what I do, and you'll go back to what you do, and all of this?" She made a sweeping motion with her arms. "It'll be like it never happened."

There were no words of comfort I could give that wouldn't sound hollow, so I just pulled her to my chest and held her.

Her hair smelled just as I'd remembered. Her body was warm against mine, and I felt the soft pressure of her breasts with each breath. My body responded instantly. It had been so long.

When she raised her head from my shoulder, her tears had stopped, and she had a new look in her eyes. It was a look I knew well, and I was certain she saw it mirrored in my face.

We barely made it to the bedroom.

When we'd finally worn each other out, she curled into me and draped her arm across my chest. She kissed my left shoulder.

"What's the hardest part?" I asked.

She gave me a sly grin.

"Of your work," I clarified.

"The signature."

Her answer surprised me. Those in my profession considered a signature to be one of the easiest elements to forge convincingly.

"Not technically," she said, reading my thoughts. "It's the actual act of signing someone else's name to my work." She traced a finger across my chest as though she were signing it. "The name on that canvas will never be forgotten. Mine will never be known."

"Then give it up," I said. "You're beyond talented enough. You could be signing your own name to your own paintings."

She smiled. "Just like that, huh?"

"Why not?"

"You don't know the people I work for."