Art of Deception - Renaissance

"Perhaps you've noticed, but English is not my first language," he said. "And I'm not a chemist. What does that mean?"

"It means we'll be able to tell with certainty which droppings—the ones on your painting or the one I brought with me—were actually made by a fly."

I removed the flyspeck sample I'd brought me with me and prepped it for the test. I searched through my bag. "Your friends confiscated my scalpel. Can I have it back?"

He made eye contact with one of his associates, who stepped forward and returned my scalpel. Instead of retreating toward the door, the second man remained by my side, eyes glued to the scalpel. I gestured slowly toward the painting on the table. "May I?"

The bearded man nodded. I carefully removed one of the raised dots and began prepping the second sample. He watched me intently until I finished.

"What now?" he asked.

"We wait. Pink means it's flyspeck. Orange means it's not."

"How long?"

"An hour. Maybe less."

He sat down in his chair. I did the same. My mouth felt dry. Sweat dampened my forehead and the back of my neck. I was putting more than just my own life on the line. What if the test didn't go as I expected? What if I had read too much into Carina's words?

I watched as the man removed his wedding ring, steadied it on the table with one finger, and flicked it with another. It spun in rapid circles, the band creating a transparent golden sphere as it whirled around the table. After a long time, it began to slow, wobbling drunkenly before clattering to rest on the tabletop. The sound was very loud in the otherwise silent room.

He retrieved the ring and spun it again. Both of us stared, transfixed by the movement.

"Are you Orthodox?" he asked, his eyes never leaving the ring.

"No," I said. "I'm not."

The spinning ring slowed and began to wobble.

"Too bad. This would be a good time to pray."

*******

"You're telling me you have no idea?" Ratliff railed at me. He paced his office like a caged tiger, searching for something on which to pounce.

I shrugged and shook my head.

"No FUCKING idea," he screamed, "why two days ago Dominic Fletcher and two of his top lieutenants were found floating face down in his pool?"

I'd never seen Ratliff like this, stripped of the thin veneer of civility that concealed the rage always bubbling just below the surface. It was glorious.

"Maybe they didn't wait thirty minutes after eating?" I offered.

"And you," he said, turning to face Carina, who sat beside me, hands folded in her lap. "Bodies everywhere. Your sister miraculously unharmed and back home. I suppose this is all a big fucking surprise to you, too?"

"Just the biggest," she agreed.

I'd retained a solicitor in the week since my meeting with the Greeks. Before agreeing to speak with Ratliff, I'd worked through my representative to bring Carina up to speed on everything Max and I had been up to since her arrest.

"Detective Sergeant," I said, "I know how disappointed you must be that you didn't take down Fletcher yourself, but the good news is that Carina is willing to identify and testify against every remaining member of Fletcher's organization. In exchange for immunity and protection, of course." I turned to face Carina. "Right?"

She nodded happily. "Anything for you, Detective Sergeant."

"Nice try," Ratliff said. "The deal was immunity and relocation in exchange for Fletcher. Fletcher's dead, which means so is the deal."

"You know, Benjamin," I said, suppressing a smile as I watched his face redden, "I read the papers this morning. I want you to know I think it's a shame the way they're portraying you and your unit."

"So unfair," agreed Carina, frowning.

After months of media silence, Mila had done a complete about-face. Almost immediately after she'd been freed from Fletcher's thugs, she gave teary-eyed interviewers to every major paper and news outlet in the city. She explained how her poor sister had been swept up by organized crime as a child and forced to use her talent for evil, all to protect her baby sister. The police had failed to protect Carina then, and they remained powerless to help her now. In fact, rather than bringing to justice those who'd been exploiting Carina all these years, the police had made a scapegoat of her. How was it fair, Mila pleaded, that the real criminals still walked the streets while their victim, her sister, was made to suffer for their sins?

It was a masterful performance. I'd known Mila would do a fine job, but she'd exceeded even my lofty expectations. The public outcry was intense. People were furious at the idea that Ratliff's unit could be so heartless and misguided.

"I don't care about the press," Ratliff lied. "I care about justice. You committed forgery. And you're going to pay the price for it."

"Adam," Carina asked, "do you think the papers know that the detective sergeant ordered my arrest without first taking steps to protect my sister, despite his full and complete knowledge that Mila was in danger?"

"What a fascinating question," I said. "You know, I don't believe they do."

"Are you trying to blackmail me?" Ratliff growled.

"I like your map," Carina said, pointing to the wall. "With all the pretty pushpins. What if I told you I know the location of Fletcher's stash houses where hundreds, maybe even thousands, of the stolen items on that map are being stored?"

I gave a low whistle. "That would be quite a coup for the Metropolitan Police's Art and Antiques unit. Can you imagine the photo op? Detective Sergeant Ratliff standing in front of tables piled high with mounds of recovered art? The media would eat it up. Too bad he doesn't care about the press."

"A shame, really," Carina said.

"You're bluffing," Ratliff said. He eyed Carina, trying to read her expression.

"Am I?"

She smiled, took a mint from the dish on Ratliff's desk, and opened it. The sound of the crinkling wrapper filled the silent office.

The truth was that Carina had only recently learned the location of Fletcher's stash houses. The Greeks who'd paid Fletcher a visit had reached out to Max afterward as a professional courtesy. According to Max, the men had persuaded Fletcher to share the location of the stolen artwork prior to his unfortunate accident.

After they'd freed Mila, the men dropped by those locations to retrieve two paintings—the remaining Turners from the original four that Fletcher had stolen. The buyer for whom they worked was happy to have his originals, even if they were different from the paintings for which he'd paid. In appreciation for Max's role in exposing Fletcher's deceit, the men shared the location of the stash houses with Max to do with as he pleased.

"Fine," Ratliff said. "We have a deal. UK Protected Persons Service will relocate you and your sister. Separately."

"Actually, Mila prefers not to relocate," I said. "She'll accept protection from the program, but she likes her life here in London."

"What are you talking about?" Ratliff said. He turned to Carina. "I thought her safety was your top priority."

"You should take it as a compliment, detective sergeant. Mila has unwavering faith in the officers who will be assigned to protect her."

This was true. But the real reason Carina felt assured of her sister's safety was much simpler. The remaining members of Fletcher's organization had no knowledge of my meeting with the buyer's representatives. As far as they knew, the sequence of events was straightforward: Fletcher had kidnapped Mila, then everyone ended up dead. No one still living would be insane enough to touch Mila after that. She was bulletproof.

"That opens up a spot in the relocation program, doesn't it?" I asked.

"Absolutely not," Ratliff said. "The deal applies only to immediate family."

"Fair enough," I said. I removed a piece of paper from my bag, unfolded it, and slid it across his desk. "In that case, I'd like to accompany my wife."

Two heads snapped to attention. I wasn't sure who looked more shocked: Ratliff or Carina.

Ratliff's eyes flitted down to the document, up to us, back to the document, then up to us. "Is this a joke?"

"No. It's a signed copy of the notice of marriage we filed with the local Register Office. Of course, we'll have to complete the requisite twenty-eight-day waiting period before the ceremony can take place. But don't worry, detective sergeant. You'll make the guest list."

It turned out Carina wasn't the only talented forger in the family. Mila had put her paralegal experience in family law to good use. She'd not only signed her sister's name and backdated the certificate, but also updated the database of record.

Carina was staring at me, bewildered. Ratliff noticed. "This is bullshit," he said.

"I think you'll find everything's in order," I said.

"This is dated three days after you arrived in London," Ratliff said. "You expect me to believe you filed for marriage that quickly?"

I turned to face Carina. "When you find the woman you've been looking for your whole life, you never want to lose her again."

Carina's eyes welled with tears. Her lip began to quiver.

"This is disgusting," Ratliff groaned.

"I'll tell you how it happened, detective sergeant." I took Carina's hand in mine and looked directly into her blue eyes.

"The day after I found her, we went for a walk through a meadow. I knelt and pretended to tie my shoe. When she turned around, I was holding an iris. I said, 'Carina, I spend my life searching for flaws. It's a curse. I've never been able to look at something beautiful without assuming it's too good to be true. Until I met you. I'm not saying you're perfect, and God knows I'm far from it, but when I'm with you, flaws don't matter anymore. I love you, all of you, exactly as you are. And I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Will you marry me?'"

Ratliff sighed and rubbed his temples. "Do you two think I'm some kind of idiot?"

"Yes!" Carina shouted. Tears spilled down her cheeks, but her face glowed. I'd never seen her so happy. She threw her arms around me and buried her head in my shoulder. "Absolutely yes!"

*******

Epilogue

With Carina's help, the remaining members of Fletcher's organization were arrested and successfully prosecuted. Most of them, anyway. For some reason, Max's name seemed to have completely slipped Carina's mind.

Ratliff got his photo op with the recovered artwork and antiques. As much as I hated the accolades he received, I was pleased to see so many important works returned to the public.

After she completed her service as a witness, Carina and I were given new identities and relocated to a rural area of Carmarthenshire County in Wales. Given her flair for mimicking local dialects, Carina blended in seamlessly with the locals. As her handsome American husband, I was a bit more conspicuous, but I was welcomed warmly all the same.

I took a job teaching chemistry at a local secondary school. I missed the thrill of exposing forgeries, but after the previous two years, I decided I could do with a little less excitement.

Since Carina was well known in the UK, the Protected Persons Service insisted that she wait a few years before seeking employment under her new identity. As a result, she had plenty of time to paint. As part of the deal we'd negotiated, Ratliff had been forced to return the original portraits he'd confiscated from Carina's home. Those paintings, combined with her latest works, formed an extraordinary, museum-quality collection for an audience of two.

As in the States, witness protection and relocation in the UK requires cutting off all contact with friends and family from your former life. Exceptions can be made, however, for family members who are also protected persons within the program. Thanks to that caveat, we were able to see Mila for a few weekends each year, usually under the watchful eyes of a plainclothes officer or two.

Carina always vibrated with excitement in the weeks leading up to these visits. Watching the sisters laugh and reminisce together was a joyous experience. They were no longer limited to sharing old memories. Now they could create new ones.

Despite our visits with Mila, building new lives in a new country is lonely work, so we rescued a cocker spaniel, whom we named Pablo. We loved taking him for long walks after I finished with school. One sunny Thursday afternoon, we ran across a man walking his pug, and we stopped to chat while the dogs played together. The man was older than we were by about 20 years or so, and he had shoulder-length blond hair that was transitioning to gray. In a French accent, he told us he'd recently retired and had been looking for somewhere quiet to settle down. A friend in London had told him she thought this area of Wales would be a perfect fit for him, and he was happy to report that she'd been right.

It turned out we had a lot in common with our new friend Max, so we tried to get the dogs together as often as we could. When we eventually invited Max to the house, I insisted Carina show him her original paintings. I'd never seen him smile so broadly, and it was impossible to miss the gleam of pride in his eyes. He asked timidly if he could have one or two of the canvases. Carina made him take half a dozen. She said it was the least she could do to show him how much he meant to her.

A year after we'd settled in, the coordinator of the UK's Protected Persons Program reached out, partly to see how we were acclimating to our new lives, but mostly to discuss an interesting proposition he'd received. The Carabinieri T.P.C.—the world-renowned Italian police force specializing in combating art and antiquities crimes—had requested permission to hire us as consultants. It seems they viewed a forensic art detective and a retired master forger as a formidable duo that could be leveraged to assist with some of their most challenging cases.

The coordinator explained we were free to decline the offer and go about our lives. If we accepted, he would limit our potential exposure by assigning a dedicated liaison to pass along cases as they arose. The prospect of working with my wife as allies rather than adversaries was too exhilarating to pass up. We accepted immediately.

Our lives rolled quietly along. I was dozing on the sofa one evening, Pablo snuggled in my lap and Carina nestled against my shoulder, when Carina jerked upright, startling us both. Pablo hopped down, gave an indignant bark, and trotted off.

"You okay?" I asked, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. She was staring at her phone.

"Yeah. Max just texted me."

"About what?"

"This," she said, handing me her phone.

Her browser was opened to an article in The Art Newspaper. The reporter was covering a new exhibition at a London gallery that had been generating a lot of buzz. Someone had recently donated six stunning portraits of unknown origin. The works were all unsigned and didn't seem to match the style of any contemporary painters. The paintings' mysterious provenance added to their allure, and attendance had spiked significantly as word spread. The gallery's owner described the works as modern masterpieces. She said she had no idea who the artist might be, but she hoped they would come forward, or at least share more of their work.

"Were you in on this with Max?" Carina asked.

I raised both hands. "I'm innocent. I swear."

"Good. Then I'll only have to kill one of you."

"C'mon. The world deserves to see your work. And they adore it. That's got to feel good, right? At least a little bit?"

A smile crept across her face. "Yeah. It kind of does."

"I'm just disappointed they're unsigned. We need to come up with a catchy pseudonym for you. Like Banksy."

She laughed. "No, we really don't."

"We do! Someday the world will know who painted these, but I want them to know right now that it was my amazing wife."

"That's sweet. But I'm content in my anonymity."

"Be honest. Don't you want everyone to know?"

Carina smiled. "I thought I did. But I was wrong." She leaned against me, and I wrapped an arm around her as she relaxed into my side. "I only needed you to know."

*******

Author's Note

I want to start with a huge thank you to all the readers of this website. I had a blast writing this series. But it would never have become a series if it hadn't been for the folks who took the time to read, vote, post a comment, or send an email about the previous chapters. Your feedback motivated me to continue and helped me to grow as a writer. This series took me in directions I didn't anticipate when writing the original a few years ago. It was a fun process that never would have happened without your encouragement. Thank you.

I also want to thank those who gave the story a look prior to it being posted: Wvrjjr, a retired PhD chemist who helped to keep the forensics sounding real-ish and was patient with my questions; chasten, an accomplished writer across several Lit categories who made some helpful suggestions; and another anonymous reader across the pond.

I left the door open a crack for future Adam and Carina chapters, but I don't have any immediate plans to continue the series. This feels like a natural conclusion to their story arc. I hope it's a satisfying one for those who've been interested enough to follow it.

Thanks again for reading.