Art of Deception - Light and Shadow

"I have an idea."

"No. You don't." She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. "My sister is the only family I have left. She hates me, you know. Doesn't understand why I just disappeared one day. Now we barely see each other. It's sad, but I can live with it.

"If something ever happened to her, though, it would be because of me. Because of the choices I made. I could never forgive myself for that."

I shook my head. "But you made those choices when you were just a kid. You could..."

She cut me off. "Just stop. Please? This isn't a case. Don't try to solve it for me."

"Sorry," I said. "Force of habit."

She smiled. "Let's just spend this time together. It will come to an end. Everything does. But enjoy it with me while we can. Okay?"

I nodded. She slid her body atop mine and pulled me into a deep kiss.

I had promised to enjoy our time together. I had no trouble keeping my word.

*******

For the next few weeks, we did remarkably well at setting aside our professions and relishing each other's company.

Despite her atrocious singing voice, Carina loved musicals, so I got two tickets to Wicked. Afterward, we grabbed a bite to eat at Junior's in the Theater District. Carina hummed an off-key version of "I'm Not That Girl" as she picked at her cheesecake.

"What's your favorite show?" she asked.

"Never really thought about it. I've only seen a few. Maybe Les Miserables?"

"I love Les Mis!" she said.

"I know. I heard you singing it in the shower last year."

She cringed. "Was I awful? I was awful, wasn't I?"

"Let's just say you're better at reproducing paintings than songs."

She stuck out her tongue. "You're mean."

"You asked."

"Bet you can't guess what I like best about Les Mis."

"Hmm... it wouldn't have anything to do with the fact that its hero is a misunderstood criminal who escapes his past and makes the world a better place, would it?"

"Nope." She pointed her fork at me. "The best part is that the man relentlessly pursuing the criminal for those past misdeeds kills himself."

I smiled. "Sorry to disappoint you, but I don't have any plans to throw myself into a river."

She sighed wistfully. "A girl can dream."

Carina had always been too busy when she was in town to hit any of the big tourist spots, so another evening we visited the original observation deck on the 86th floor of the Empire State Building and took in the Manhattan skyline. The weekend after that she took me to an Orthodox church in Brooklyn and showed me the icons, pointing out some of the common ones she'd been asked to copy as a child.

Two weeks later we were walking hand-in-hand through Brooklyn Botanic Garden, one of our old stomping grounds, when I heard a familiar voice directly behind us.

"Lovely day for a walk, isn't it?"

Carina and I turned. Monica Bradley greeted us with a smile.

"Sorry to interrupt," she said. "Adam, can I have a quick word?"

I was unnerved by the ease with which Monica had tracked me down, and irritated that I hadn't noticed her following me. How closely had she been watching? How many days had she been tailing me?

"I'm a little busy."

"It'll just take a minute," Monica pressed. "It's about the forgery at the Oxbow gallery."

I was about to tell her that I had her number and would call her later when Carina chimed in.

"Ooh, a forgery? That sounds exciting!"

Monica glanced at her. "I don't know that exciting is the word I'd use."

Carina pointed at Monica, then at me. "Well, maybe for you two it's old hat. But I'm not a forensic scientist, so my day-to-day is a little more ho-hum."

"I'm not a scientist," Monica corrected. "I'm a private investigator."

"See?" Carina said, turning to me. "Exciting!"

"I don't know why you're coming to me," I said. "I didn't uncover it."

"But you know who did," Monica answered.

"I heard Roland Prescott found it while authenticating works for an auction."

"And that's all you know?"

I briefly considered whether Roland had accidentally let something slip, but decided she was just fishing.

"That's all I know."

Monica nodded. "Do you think it was by the same person who did the Modigliani?"

"I have no idea. I never examined either painting. Yet you seem determined to ask me about them anyway."

"Just trying to connect the dots," she said.

"I think you're trying to make up dots where they don't exist. Go talk to Roland if you want to know about the painting. He's the one who actually looked at it."

"Oh, I plan on doing that," Monica said.

"Do you think you'll catch him?" Carina asked. "The forger?"

Monica looked slightly annoyed. "I wasn't hired to catch a forger," she said. "That's a job for the police."

"Oh," Carina said, sounding disappointed.

Monica extended her arm toward me. "Here's my card again, in case you think of anything else."

I raised my open palm. "I have it, thanks."

"Great." She nodded at both of us. "Sorry to have interrupted. Enjoy your walk."

Carina and I strolled on in silence, still holding hands. I was furious with her cavalier attitude, but I couldn't show it in case Monica or someone else might still be watching. I focused instead on the purple coneflowers and black-eyed Susans lining our path.

"You didn't tell me she was pretty," Carina said playfully.

"I'm less focused on her looks than I am the fact she's investigating me."

"Oh, so you do find her attractive?"

I didn't answer. I wasn't in the mood for banter. Carina called me on my sullenness as soon as we got back to my apartment.

"What's the matter?" she asked. She took my hand and squeezed. "C'mon. What did I do?"

"You know," I answered.

She stared at me blankly.

"That little performance with Monica," I continued. "It was reckless. This isn't a game. Maybe you get off on it, but I don't."

"I wasn't being reckless. I was acting not guilty. You should try it."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You were so defensive back there. No wonder she's suspicious of you."

"Sorry if lying doesn't come as easily to me as it does to you."

Carina removed her hand from mine.

I knew I was being an ass. I also knew that I should drop the discussion until I had cooled off a bit. I pressed forward.

"You couldn't resist, could you? You just love flaunting how good you are at pulling the wool over people's eyes. She's sharper than you realize, you know. What if she starts asking questions about you?"

"I didn't even give her a name," Carina said. "You're being paranoid."

"I have to be paranoid. Unlike you, I can't up and leave town if things get messy. I have a life here."

"How awful that must be for you."

We fell back into silence.

"Are you done examining the Renoir?" she asked.

She was intentionally needling me now. I should have just ignored her. Instead, I grabbed the painting from my closet and slammed it on the table between us.

"Why did you send this to me?"

"I told you. It's a gift."

"No lies. Why did you send it?"

"Because they don't sell Hallmark cards that say, 'Sorry I concealed my life as a forger and ruined our relationship.'"

"Bullshit."

Carina laughed, but there were tears in her eyes. "I've been so foolish. Thinking maybe we could start over. That maybe one day you could learn to trust me again."

"This isn't about that."

"Well, for me it is!" she yelled. "For me, it's totally about that, Adam. I've been deluding myself into thinking we were making progress. That we were healing. But this whole time the only real feeling you've had for me is suspicion."

"That's not true," I said.

"Oh, it isn't? Then tell me. What are your theories? Why did I give you the painting? I want to hear them. What have you really been thinking about me while we've been going on walks and fucking each other?"

Fine, I thought. If she wanted to play this game, then I'd play.

"Maybe the painting you sent me is the real Renoir," I said.

She scoffed. "That suits you so well. The perfect explanation to soothe your ego. The reason you haven't found a flaw isn't because I'm better than you, it's because you've been examining the genuine painting all along, right?"

I nodded.

"Tell me, how did I get the real painting? And why would I send it to you?"

"I don't know," I admitted.

"Well, we're off to a great start. Keep going. What else?"

My second theory was a lot more plausible. "You're planning to swap the forged Renoir with the real one."

She placed a hand on her chin and stared at the floor. Her head bobbed as she worked through the details. "Okay. I see where you're going. And once again, you're central to my evil plot. Because before I make the swap, I need you to admit that you haven't been able to find a flaw. That's the only way I can be sure it will go undetected, right?"

"Something like that," I said.

"First problem: I don't need your stamp of approval. Second problem: you have the painting I'm planning to swap. How do I get it back? Ask politely?"

I didn't answer.

"What else?" she pressed. "Tell me."

I knew it would sting, but I didn't care. I wanted the words to hurt. "You hired the PI so she'd catch me with your forgery."

"Of course. Because I want to take the heat off myself and put it on you. You're nothing more to me than a pawn. That's what you think?"

"That's right," I said.

"That would make sense, if there were any heat. Maybe you haven't noticed, but nobody has the slightest clue who the fuck I am. Except you.

"Well, I thought you did. I thought you saw more deeply than others. That's your job, isn't it? To look past the superficial until you uncover the essence? That's what I thought you saw when you looked at me. But I was wrong. All you see is a fucking criminal. That's all you'll ever see."

She'd been pacing back and forth as she spoke. She paused at the table and stared down at the Renoir.

"I should never have sent this to you. You don't deserve it."

She pushed past me into the kitchen. She reached for the counter, and I caught a flash of silver. She advanced on me with the knife held by her side.

"Carina, wait," I said. I tried to keep my voice calm and even. "This isn't you." I back peddled and raised my arms in defense.

"Get out of my way, you idiot."

She shoved me aside and raised the knife over her head. Before she could bring it down on the painting, I grabbed her wrist with one hand and wrapped the other around her waist.

"Let go!" she yelled.

She twisted and pulled, but I pressed her back tightly against my chest and held her until she stopped struggling.

Her arm dropped to her side. The knife clattered to the floor. She turned, buried her head into my shoulder, and dissolved into heaving sobs.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm so fucking sorry."

It was the first time she'd spoken those words. The first time she had expressed true remorse for deceiving me more than a year ago.

As I held her, listening to her sobs gradually slow to more measured breaths, I knew what my next step had to be.

*******

Roland sat beside me in the Oxbow Gallery's conservation room, repeatedly running his fingers through his hair as he watched me prep the Renoir for examination. Roland had removed it from the gallery wall about an hour ago.

"You're not going to tell me it's a forgery, right Adam?" he said. "Promise me that. I mean, holy shit. Can you imagine? Antoine would go ballistic."

"Relax, Roland. Antoine's painting is not a forgery."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure." I adjusted the stereo microscope. "Mostly."

"What do you mean 'mostly'?"

"I'm kidding."

It had taken a couple of weeks to get everything set up to inspect the Renoir. It really wasn't fair of me to call in a favor this big with Roland. Sure, he owed me for tipping him off about the Schofield, but I was making a huge ask, especially since I was vague about my reasons for wanting to examine it. In the end, it had taken a direct intervention from my boss, Nora, to get Antoine to agree. He liked the idea of having a gallery owner as powerful as Nora owe him a favor.

I agreed to wait until after 11 p.m. so we wouldn't have to take the painting off display during business hours and disappoint any potential visitors. With the gallery empty, the conservation lab was eerily quiet. I could hear the nervous tapping of Roland's shoe and the hum of the overhead fluorescents.

I pulled from my pocket a list of the tests I wanted to run and set it beside the microscope.

Then the room went dark.

"Shit," said Roland. "You've got to be kidding me."

By design, the conservation room was windowless to protect paintings from sunlight. Without power, the room was about as pitch black as you could get.

"It's fine," I said. "The backup UPS will probably kick on in a second."

It didn't.

As I fished in my pocket for my phone, I heard the door slam open. The sound of footsteps, multiple people moving quickly, made their way toward us.

"Adam?" I heard Roland's disembodied voice ask.

Something hard and blunt dug into my right side. I felt cold metal through the fabric of my shirt.

"Get up," a voice said. "Walk."

I stood. Multiple pairs of hands guided me quickly through the room. I couldn't see, but the owners of the hands obviously could.

I slammed my thigh into the corner of something sharp and winced in pain. The hands pushed me through the door, and I limped down the hallway. My eyes had started to adjust, but I could still only make out shapes.

Moments later we were in an SUV speeding away from the gallery. Three men in black ski masks occupied the seats. The one beside me held a gun to my side. On the floor lay three pairs of night-vision devices. Shoved unceremoniously into the rear cargo area was the Renoir.

*******

The men never spoke a word. We drove to a parking garage. Two of the men moved with me to a gray Jeep. The third drove off in the SUV with the Renoir.

The man next to me pulled a hood over my head. We drove for half an hour, maybe more, then came to stop.

"Out," said the driver. The man beside me pulled the hood off and pushed me through the door.

The SUV pulled away and vanished around a bend. I squinted. My eyes were struggling to adjust to the ambient light after 30 minutes of darkness.

I pivoted in a slow circle, trying to get my bearings. It seemed to be the edge of Prospect Park, not far from the Brooklyn Botanic Garden and my apartment. All that driving, just to end up here.

A woman's voice spoke from behind me. "Hello, Adam."

I turned to face Monica. She was holding a gun.

"Did you really think you could fuck up a multimillion-dollar auction, something that took us months to plan, without any consequences?"

I stared at her, expressionless.

"Oh, those dull cow eyes," she said, shaking her head. "I honestly don't understand what Carina sees in you."

"You two have been working together this whole time," I said.

"She sends her regrets. I invited her along, but she said it was just too hard. You know, I think she really does love you. But I guess if I had to choose between betraying my lover and protecting my sister, I'd do the same."

"I don't understand," I said.

Monica sighed. "This is so disappointing. Do I really have to spell it out for you?

"Here are the pieces the police will have to work with. There are rumors, spread mostly by me, that you were involved in the Modigliani forgery. Carina made sure Antoine spotted you in his gallery admiring his Renoir. You mysteriously identified a forgery in the Oxbow's collection without even examining it, tipped off their conservator, and made him promise to keep your involvement secret. Next, you used that favor as leverage to secure an opportunity to examine the Renoir in the conservation room, where it's more vulnerable to theft. You and your accomplices then disappeared with the painting in a daring robbery. Soon the police will search your apartment, find the forgery, and report they've recovered the stolen painting."

"All of this was just to frame me?"

"Well, not just to frame you. Several Eastern European oligarchs are anxious to bid on a genuine Renoir for their private collections. That sale should more than make up for the money you cost us by exposing the Modigliani. Two birds, one stone as it were. Plus, while you're tucked away in prison, we won't have to worry about you interfering with any of our future plans. So, three birds I guess."

"The Schofield forgery that Carina tipped me off about..."

"She painted it herself. We knew you would eventually ask to examine the real Renoir, and the answer was more likely to be 'yes' if their gallery's conservator owed you a favor."

My thoughts turned immediately to Roland. "Did you hurt him?"

"Of course not. Who needs the extra attention?"

"How could you be sure I'd examine the real painting?"

"Because you're too stubborn and arrogant to admit defeat, especially with Carina constantly taunting you about whether you could prove the Renoir was a forgery. She played her role well, though I did have to drop by and nudge her along at the Garden when I thought she might be getting cold feet."

"I don't get it. Why pose as a PI? Didn't trust Carina to handle your dirty work?"

"Oh, I'm not posing. I'm licensed by the State of New York. I help people catch cheating spouses, all that boring stuff. But I also have a close working relationship with some more organized, and much better paying, individuals. They find it handy to have people like me on staff. As far as my role, I'm sure you can guess that."

"Spook me. Make me too nervous to move the Renoir from my apartment. Then keep a close eye on me to make sure it stays put."

She nodded. "See, you're catching on. I also bugged Roland's office when I interviewed him about the Schofield forgery. We had to know when you planned to examine the Renoir so that we could coordinate things on our end."

I heard the approach of sirens. I shot a quick glance toward the trees.

"Have some dignity, Adam," Monica said. "Innocent men don't run."

"You called the police? How are you going to explain what you're doing here with a gun?"

"Simple. I've been staking out your apartment as part of an ongoing investigation. I saw you leave with three men and followed you to the Oxbow, where I watched you run out with a painting. I tailed you to your apartment, where I assume you stashed it, and called the police. Then I followed you here and detained you."

A police cruiser pulled alongside the curb. Two male officers jumped out, sidearms drawn.

"Drop the weapon!" one yelled. Monica calmly dropped her gun.

"On the ground, both of you!"

We both lay down facing each other. Monica smiled.

The officer closest to me grabbed my arm and spoke into his shoulder-mounted radio. "Suspect is in custody."

Then he helped me to my feet while his partner handcuffed Monica.

"Are you okay, Mr. Weber?" the officer asked me. "Should we call medical?"

"I'm fine. Thank you, officer."

Monica had been yanked to her feet. The officer closest to her was reciting her Miranda warning in a bored monotone.

"Officer," she said, looking from him to me and then back again. "I think there's been some confusion."

"I think you might be right, ma'am," he said after finishing the Miranda warning. He turned toward me. "You want to clear it up for her, Mr. Weber?"

"I'll try." I stepped forward until Monica and I were face to face.

"The first thing I noticed with my, how did you put it, 'dull cow eyes,' was what you did in my lab when I invited you to check out the pigment sample I'd just run. Do you remember?"

Monica said nothing.

"You instinctively glanced at the spectrum graph on the laptop," I continued. "Anyone else, especially someone as ignorant of art and forensic science as you claimed to be, would have looked through the stereo eyepiece on the microscope itself. That's how we're taught to use microscopes in school. Only someone familiar with art forgery would know that FTIR results are displayed as a spectrum graph on a computer screen."