Art of Deception

I slid my hands underneath the towel and over the warm skin of her ass.

"I always do my best work," I said. I scooped her off the floor and she yelped, wrapping her legs around me for balance. I started walking her toward the bedroom.

She grinned and loosened the front of the towel. It slipped lower with each step we took, exposing the delicious swell of her breasts, then one pink nipple, already erect and inviting.

*******

Sometimes after you've finished an initial examination of a painting, you can't escape this nagging feeling that something isn't quite right. That's how I felt after my conversation with Carina.

When I feel that way with a painting, I take a second or sometimes even a third pass to see if I can uncover something that I missed the first time around. With Carina, I wasn't quite sure what to do.

Her visits to my lab had become less frequent because she was buried in a freelance project, so I mostly saw her in the evenings. I started taking time away from the office to drive past her brownstone at random times of the day. I wasn't sure what I expected to find. Nothing ever seemed out of the ordinary.

Sometimes I would stop by unannounced with lunch. I told myself I did this to return the favor for all the times she'd brought me lunch while I was busy, but really it was just an excuse to make sure she was actually home. Carina was always happy to see me, and usually invited me to stick around and eat with her.

I knew my paranoia stemmed from trust issues over Lauren's affair, and I worried that if I continued along this path, I was going to fuck up a wonderful new relationship before it could take root. It wouldn't be the first time. I resolved to stop being so self-destructive.

Problem is, I've never been good at sticking to resolutions. One morning, after I left her place to go to work, I circled back on foot and walked a few loops along the side streets near her brownstone. After about 45 minutes, a man showed up at her door. I was too far away to make out his features. Carina answered and exchanged a quick kiss on both cheeks before letting him in.

My stomach lurched and for a moment I thought I was going to be sick. I forced down the nausea and told myself not to jump to conclusions. It could be a friend or relative. Secret lovers don't usually exchange European-style cheek kisses, I reasoned. When I got to her place, she'd probably give a perfectly reasonable explanation and introduce me.

I sent her a quick text as I walked briskly toward her door. "Hey. Forgot my charger. In the neighborhood so I'll swing by to pick it up."

Her reply came a moment later. "Sure. Where is it? I'll run it down to you."

"Not sure. Just let me in and I'll find it. Don't want to interrupt your work."

This time there was a longer delay before she responded. "Okay. Let me know when you get here."

"Already here," I typed.

"Wow. That was fast," she said, opening the door a moment later.

"Sorry. I should have texted sooner."

"It's fine. I'm happy to see you. Wish you could stay, though." She molded her face into a pout. "I'm lonely."

"Lonely?" I asked.

"Yeah. I'm stuck here by myself working when I could be..."

I didn't wait for her to finish. I was moving up the steps now, taking them two at a time. Carina almost had to jog to keep up.

"What's going on, Adam?" A note of panic had crept into her voice.

"You never did seem like the superstitious type," I said.

"What are you talking about?"

"Never using your second bedroom because the movers broke a mirror there."

"You're scaring me."

I was in the hall now, striding toward the spare bedroom.

"Is he in there?" I asked.

"Adam, listen..."

"Open it or I'll break it down."

"Just wait a second."

"Wrong answer." I kicked the door. Hard. The hinges rattled but held.

"Stop it! Please!"

I backed up and kicked it again. There was a loud crack and the sound of wood splintering.

I lifted my leg and took aim, but before I could deliver the final blow, the door swung open. In the doorway stood a tall man with long blond hair and a deep cleft in his chin. He looked to be in his early 50s.

"No need to keep knocking. I heard you. Please come in." He spoke with a French accent and gestured toward the interior of the room.

I brushed past him and took in my surroundings. A large window at the far end of the room flooded the space with light. Various pieces of antique wooden furniture stood propped against the wall on the right side of the room. Some of the furniture looked to have been dismantled or cut into smaller pieces. A plain white mattress with a single pillow rested on the floor in the corner.

On the other side of the room was a long wooden table littered with various shapes and sizes of jars. Most held paint. Some held brushes. Next to the table was a small shelving unit on wheels stocked with additional paint.

In the center of the room was a large easel that held a half-finished painting. It was still life in the unmistakable style of Henri Matisse.

Carina spoke calmly and slowly. "Adam, this is Maxime."

I glanced at the man, then at the white mattress in the corner of the room. Carina followed my eyes.

"Maxime is not my lover," she said. "He's my business partner. He specializes in procurement." She gestured to the furniture and the paint. "Pigments, canvas, wood, anything I need. He's the best in the world at what he does. I would be nothing without him."

Carina smiled warmly in Maxime's direction.

"She is too modest," Maxime said to me. "She has the gift. She could work with a child's brush and finger paints and conjure brilliance."

He turned to Carina. "I think maybe I will give you some privacy, yes?"

"Thank you, Maxime," she said. He turned and left the room. I watched him go, still too stunned to speak.

Carina and I stood together in silence, both staring at the canvas in the center of the room. She seemed to understand I needed time to absorb and process things.

"The Walker you brought to my lab," I said. "You painted it."

"Our first night together I told you my motives weren't exactly pure," she said.

"Why bring it to me?"

"Curiosity. I wanted to see if you were as good as advertised. But also, I needed information."

I could almost hear the pieces snapping into place inside my sluggish brain. She wanted to sell her forgeries through a gallery with the weakest possible forensic scientist, but she had needed me to tell her who that person was.

She first tried to coax the name from me in my lab. She told me someone had said I wasn't the best, but she wouldn't say who told her. I thought she was just protecting her source, but the truth was she didn't have a source. She'd made it up, hoping I would fill in the blank for her.

She tried again at the bar. "Tell me who you think it was and I'll tell you if you're right," she had said. She assumed my answer would be someone I held in very low regard, someone she hoped could be duped relatively easily.

And I'd stupidly given her Lauren's name. And then even more stupidly told her how Lauren cheated on me. Carina's eyes had widened when I told her, not because she felt sorry for me, but because she couldn't believe her luck. Not only did she have the name she wanted, but she also knew that Lauren would never consult me on the analysis of her paintings.

I was furious and embarrassed at how easily I'd been manipulated.

"The brochure," I said. "You're not buying a piece from the auction. You're selling one."

She smiled. I felt my anger threatening to boil over.

"I should call the police right now," I said.

"And tell them what?" she replied calmly. "That your girlfriend is painting in her room?"

"Then I'll call the Kiefer Gallery. I'm sure they'll be interested to know that one of the paintings in their auction is a forgery."

"They won't believe you."

"What makes you so sure?"

"You said it yourself: people see what they want to see. Everyone wants to believe they've found something special. It makes them feel special, too. My job is to help them believe."

"Is that what you did with me? Trick me into believing I found something special?"

"Don't say that. What we have is different. You know that."

"What we have is a mirage. A lie. We have nothing."

She looked as though I'd slapped her.

"Maxime was furious with me, you know. He told me I was being stupid. That I was risking too much. I knew he was right, but I didn't care. I wanted to be with you.

"Once I had a name, I was supposed to end it. Every day I told myself that's what I would do, and every day I kept finding excuses to see you again. Even now, a part of me wants to believe there is some way this all works out."

My ego desperately wanted me to believe her, but I knew she was just toying me with me, manipulating me again.

"Bullshit," I said. "You only stuck around so you could watch me work; to learn how I caught others, so that I wouldn't catch you."

For the first time, her eyes flashed with anger. "You think I'm a prostitute? That I fucked you for months just so I could pick your brain about forensics? You're not that good."

"Yes, I am."

She laughed. "So arrogant. I don't need your help. Do you have any idea how successful I've been? You wouldn't have a prayer of spotting one of my pieces."

"I already did."

"Only because I told you that I thought it was a fake."

"That's why you'll be caught one day," I said. "Because you believe you never will be."

I turned and started to walk away. I couldn't be near her any longer. Too many emotions were swirling inside my head.

She grabbed my arm. "Don't leave. Please." There was a slight quaver to her voice, and her eyes had welled with tears. It was a fine performance.

"That sob story you told me about your parents. Living with your aunt. Wandering the halls of the museum and losing yourself in paintings. Was any of it true?"

Her face told me all I needed to know. I wrenched my arm from her grasp.

"The day we met," she said, "I asked if you would want to know whether a painting you owned was a forgery. You told me that if you really loved the piece, you didn't think it would matter. Do you remember?"

"I remember," I said. "But I don't love you, Carina."

The tears that had gathered in her eyes spilled down her cheeks. I left the room and started down the steps.

"Where are you going?" she called.

I'd had enough lies for the day, so I told her the truth.

"Away from you," I said.

*******

I turned off my phone and spent two days in a hotel. I needed time to think, and I didn't want Carina trying to track me down.

I decided against going to the police. I may have been able to convince them to investigate, but they wouldn't be able to prove anything. Besides, I wanted to be the one to catch her. And I wanted to beat her fair and square.

I thought it unlikely she had someone from the gallery working with her on the inside. That would just complicate things and introduce unnecessary risk. Plus, I was certain Carina believed it was simpler for her to fool someone than pay them off.

My next step was determining which of the paintings she had forged. I paged through the auction brochure I'd brought with me. It featured a lot of landscapes and still lifes, pieces that looked very similar to those Carina displayed on her walls. It seemed likely she would continue working in that style.

However, something she'd told me before I left kept rattling around my brain. Everyone wants to believe they've found something special, she had said. I flipped to the front page of the catalog, which showcased the auction's centerpiece: a newly discovered portrait by Modigliani. That would certainly qualify as finding something special. But would she really be that arrogant?

Modigliani was one of the most forged artists of the last century, in part because he had a reputation early in his career for trading canvases for rent money in Paris. That made the provenance of some of his works hard to trace and easy to fake. As a result, any of his paintings up for auction, especially a newly discovered one, would be subjected to intense scrutiny.

The risk would be huge, but so would be the payoff. An authentic Modigliani could fetch millions.

If this was Carina's play, then my next stop was unavoidable. It was the place I least wanted to go, but where I most needed to be.

*******

Lauren's lab was almost twice the size of mine. She had access to the latest models of all the equipment I used, plus several instruments that I didn't have. I stared longingly at the FTIR microscope in the corner of the room.

"How've you been, Adam?" Her words dripped with false sincerity. "You seeing anyone?"

My jealousy, combined with my irritation at her condescending cheeriness, already had my blood boiling.

"Nope. Preston proposed yet?"

"Marriage is an archaic institution. Preston doesn't believe in it."

"How nice. You have that in common."

Her jaw tightened in anger, but she recovered quickly. "What do you want, Adam?"

I was glad we were through with the pretense.

"You have a new Modigliani you're planning to auction."

"Looking to bid? I'm afraid it's a bit outside your price range. Unless business has improved?"

"I don't want to buy it. I want to examine it."

She laughed. "You came all this way to ask a question you already know the answer to?"

"I mean it, Lauren. I'd like to see it."

"Why?"

"Because I have reason to believe it's a forgery."

"Bullshit."

"Why would I lie to you?"

"Oh, I don't know, Adam. Here's a theory. You're still bitter I got this job instead of you. You want to believe that you're so much better than I am, and the only reason I'm working here is because of my relationship with Preston. It would crush your fragile ego to admit that maybe, just maybe, I'm also good at what I do. Well, guess what? This may surprise you, but you're not the only one who knows how to work a microscope."

"It's not about that," I started, but she continued talking over me.

"So to get back at me—for the affair and for my getting this job—you want me to declare an authentic Modigliani to be a forgery. The minute I do, the gallery gets sued for defamation. Huge awards have been given in cases involving false forgery claims. You know this as well as I do. And later, when the painting is shown to be authentic, my reputation and career are ruined. Wouldn't that be a nice 'fuck you' to your ex-wife?"

"I'm not here to sabotage you, Lauren. I'm just asking you to let me look at it. I'll take on the risk."

"You want the gallery to take the most important piece in this auction and farm it out to someone else for authentication? Instead of trusting their own in-house forensic specialist? What do you think that does for my reputation? No way. You aren't getting within a mile of that painting."

"Then you've completed your forensic analysis?""

"Of course".

"You're convinced it's authentic?"

"Not a doubt in my mind."

"And what makes you so certain?"

"Because its provenance includes contemporary photographic documentation."

She smiled at the stunned look on my face. A contemporary photograph was pretty close to the holy grail when it came to a work's provenance. It immediately made me question whether I was on the right track with my suspicions about the Modigliani. Maybe Carina was too smart to take such a huge risk. Maybe hers was one of the less conspicuous paintings in the auction.

"You don't believe me," she said.

She pulled a folder from a drawer and rifled through its contents. She extracted a black and white photo and handed it to me triumphantly. It showed a middle-aged man sitting at a wooden table holding a partially folded newspaper. He was eating breakfast. To his right stood a handsome grandfather clock. The Modigliani was mounted on the wall to his left.

I stared at the photograph, noting the weight and size of the paper.

"Looks to have been taken with a box camera," I said. "From the size, I'd guess a Kodak Brownie 2."

She nodded, that smug smile still plastered to her face. I pulled out my phone.

"Do you mind?" I asked, nodding toward the photograph.

"Be my guest," she said.

I snapped a photo and handed the original back to her.

"Are we done here?" she said. It wasn't a question.

"I'm certainly done with you."

"Good. You can see yourself out."

I was halfway through the door when she stopped me.

"Adam?" she called.

I swiveled to face her.

"Don't ever show up unannounced at my place of work and try to pull some shit like this again. I don't need professional advice from you, and if I did, I'd fucking ask for it."

*******

It's possible I could have made more progress with Lauren had I told her about Carina, but that would have involved admitting that I'd dated a master forger for months without realizing it. I wasn't about to confess that embarrassing tidbit, especially to Lauren. Besides, Lauren was more likely to believe that I'd been working with Carina than fooled by her. I didn't need that headache.

But if I were being honest, I'd chosen to keep silent because I was protecting Carina as much as I was protecting myself. Despite what I'd told Carina in her studio, I did have feelings for her. I'd just done such a good job of closing myself off after the divorce that I wasn't ready to face them. I wanted to stop her, but I also didn't want to hurt her.

Problem was, I didn't know if I could stop her. I was no longer confident the Modigliani was Carina's work. Even if I were certain, I'd have to prove it was a forgery without examining it.

I do my best thinking under pressure, so I decided to manufacture some. I made a call to Nora Turner, the owner of the Kiefer Gallery, and asked for a meeting. Nora was a brusque septuagenarian who had devoted her career to burnishing the reputation of the Kiefer Gallery. She'd risen to become one of the most powerful figures in the New York art world.

I knew Nora didn't suffer fools gladly, but I also knew she cared about reputation. She was aware of mine, and tenacious about protecting her gallery's. I told her I had some information to share about the Modigliani, and that it was important that she, Lauren, and the seller's representative attend. I also asked for her discretion.

She agreed. Before she hung up, she thanked me for reaching out and said that if I were wasting her time, she'd castrate me and display my balls as part of a special exhibition titled "Hubris."

I had my meeting. Now all I had to do was come up with a reason for it.

*******

A week later I was sitting in the waiting area outside the Kiefer Gallery's conference room. My hands fidgeted in my lap, and my right leg bounced up and down on the ball of my foot. I couldn't decide whether this was a bad idea. That usually meant it was.

The exterior door burst open and Nora Turner strode into the waiting area. She walked briskly toward me. I managed to pop up from my chair just before she arrived.

"Mr. Weber," she said. She didn't extend her hand, but merely nodded.

"Ms. Turner," I answered. "Thank you for arranging this."

"Everyone's inside."

"Did you tell them I was coming?"

"No. They're both very curious why I've called this meeting." Her eyes narrowed and bored into mine. "I'm curious myself."

She turned on her heel and I followed her to the conference room. She flung open the door and began speaking before she'd even entered the room.

"This is Adam Weber, an independent forensics specialist. Adam, I believe you know Lauren Schrader."

Lauren shot me a glare so intense it felt as though she were trying to melt me where I stood.