Art of Deception - Renaissance

She started to walk toward the house and tried to pull me along, but I resisted.

"Talk to me," I said.

She twisted away from me and pulled harder. "Breakfast first. I'm hungry."

"Carina."

She stopped and her grip slackened. She turned toward me. "I'm sorry." Her eyes had welled with tears. "I just wanted to pretend things were normal for as long as I could."

"Why am I here?" I asked.

"The men I work for are debating whether to kill you."

"I figured as much. Kind of flattering, really. I must be doing something right."

She pushed a hand against my chest. "This isn't a joke. Look, some of them think it's still too soon after the Renoir job to try anything. That it would bring too much attention. But others think enough time has passed that it's worth the risk."

"And which side is your boss on?"

"I don't know. That's why I have to get to him first. Convince him that you'll go away."

"Go away? What are you talking about?"

"They aren't sure how to read you. You either hate me and want to see me arrested, or you love me and want to save me from them. Either way, you're a threat to their business.

"But if I can convince them that you've agreed to walk away—from me, from your job, from ever interfering again—maybe they'll let you live."

My head was spinning. This wasn't what I'd expected at all. I was here to rescue Carina, not the other way around.

"That's crazy. You expect me to just ... leave you? With them? No way."

She raised her voice. "You have to! I'm the reason your life is in danger, so I have to save it. And you have to let me." She placed a hand on my chest. Her voice softened. "Please. I can't lose you."

Max had emerged from the house and was striding toward us. No doubt he'd heard our conversation change tone and wanted to make sure everything was okay.

"So this whole thing," I said, gesturing to Max and the house behind him. "Bringing me here? It was all so we could have one last hurrah before I agreed to give up my career and we said goodbye forever?"

Before she could respond, Max put one hand on my shoulder and drove the other into my stomach, forcing the air from my lungs.

I fell to my knees, clutching at the grass and gasping for breath. I was dimly aware of Carina and Max yelling at each other, but I could only make out a few words.

"... the fuck was that ..."

"... know about this?"

When I recovered enough to move, I steadied myself on one knee and looked up at Max. He was holding something in front of my face and yelling at me. I forced my eyes to focus. It was Ratliff's business card.

"Mouchard," he spat.

"You went through my things?"

"Évidemment. It is a good thing I did."

I glanced at Carina and winced at the look of stunned disbelief on her face. "I'm not a snitch," I said, rising to my feet.

I explained everything. My visit to Mila. My interrogation by Ratliff. His offer of protection.

Carina listened quietly. Max paced incessantly. As soon as I finished, Max jumped all over me.

"You met with the police? And you did not think that maybe this is something you should tell me on our way to a safehouse?"

I glared at him and ran a hand over my sore ribs. "You weren't exactly in a talkative mood."

He threw his hands in the air. "You are reckless. Or stupid. No. You are both."

"How's Mila?" Carina asked. Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper.

"Good," I said. "She misses you. She keeps the iris you painted for her in the living room."

Carina blinked back fresh tears. I sensed an opening.

"Carina, Ratliff's offer is real. He wants to bring down Fletcher's organization. If we can help him do it, you'd be free. And your sister would be safe."

"If Fletcher believes Carina is cooperating with the police, Mila dies," Max said.

"Is that really what you're afraid of?" I asked. "Or are you worried that Mila will be fine, but you'll end up in prison?"

"Stop," Max said. "This is insanity." He moved his face inches from mine. "Do you know how often the Art and Antiques Unit has been forced to disband because of budget cuts?"

He waited for my response, then continued when I didn't answer.

"Three times. Last in 2005 and 2017. Always they are on the brink of extinction. Ratliff cares nothing for you, or Carina, or her sister. He cares only that he can justify his unit's existence. He will trample anyone he must to do that. He is not to be trusted."

"So we should just place our faith in the goodwill of a crime boss?"

"We have no choice," he said, planting a finger in my chest, "because you keep putting your nose where it does not belong."

I pushed his hand away. "If you didn't want to risk my involvement, why did you send me to the museum where those paintings were stolen? Why not just send me here?"

"Yes, why did we not think of that?" Max said. "We should have written down the address of a wanted forger and mailed it to you."

"Adam," Carina said gently, "we sent you to the Tate because that's where Fletcher has stationed Max. He's to monitor the forensic analysis of the recovered paintings and report back if they're exposed as forgeries. The Tate was the simplest and safest way to connect you two."

"We did not expect you would go to the police and offer to examine the paintings yourself," Max added. "Fletcher is certain to kill you now. Maybe I should save him the trouble and kill you myself."

"Stop it," Carina snapped. "Both of you. We might be able to use this." She buried her chin in her palm, lost in thought. When she raised her head again, it was clear she'd made up her mind.

"Here's what we're going to do. We tell Fletcher that Ratliff invited Adam to the UK to examine the recovered paintings. Then we convince Fletcher that I can get Adam to authenticate the forgeries. Once Adam confirms they're genuine, that should prove he can be trusted not to interfere again."

"You want me to lie?" I asked.

"They're some of my best work. I doubt you'll be able to prove they're fake. But if it comes to it, then yes," Carina said. "I want you to lie. What do you think?"

I thought it was a horrible plan. On the other hand, it could buy me the time I needed to prove the paintings were forgeries. Once I did, I would have a piece of evidence that Ratliff desperately wanted, and I could use it as leverage to convince Carina to accept the deal.

"Fine," I said.

"Good. Max?" she asked.

He nodded.

"Okay." Carina raised her hands and pointed a finger at each of us. "Now you two bury the hatchet." She waited until Max and I made eye contact. "I mean it."

Carina pressed herself against me and pulled me into kiss. Max fidgeted with his hands and stared at the side of the house.

"Grab some croissants for the road," she said. "Max will get you back to your hotel. You've got a phone call to make."

*******

Ratliff was happy to hear from me.

"Pleased to have you on the case," he said. "You have quite the reputation among my forensics colleagues. I'm anxious to find out whether it's deserved."

"When do I start?" I asked, ignoring his attempt to rile me.

"Today. I've already made preliminary arrangements."

"You must have been pretty confident I'd say yes."

"Oh, I knew I'd be hearing from you the moment you left my office. Some detectives are skilled at reading paintings. Others are skilled at reading men."

"Yeah? Can you read what I'm thinking right now?" I asked.

"Something not fit for polite company, I'm sure. Any luck tracking down the woman whose foot fits your glass slipper?"

"Not yet, no."

"Shame. The Tate's expecting you at one p.m. I hope you have better luck there."

What annoyed me more than Ratliff's barbs was that I'd let him see he'd gotten to me. I should have feigned indifference, but I was tired and worried that I was in over my head. What had made me think I could jet off to England and save the day without any plan or idea what I was up against? Was I that arrogant?

I texted Mila an update on my way to the museum. She'd sent several messages while Max had my phone.

"Find what you were looking for?" read the latest.

"Yes. Safe and sound. Will update you later."

My reception at the Tate was polite but chilly. Their in-house forensic specialist wasn't thrilled that an outside consultant had been called in to second-guess her. Still, she was gracious enough to show me around the lab and answer all my questions.

The two recovered paintings lay on a large table in the center of the room. The Decline of the Carthaginian Empire was a gorgeous work in the style of Claude Lorrain, one of Turner's idols. The setting sun imbued the columns of Carthage's buildings and the faces of its citizens with an ethereal glow. The second, Van Tromp Returning after the Battle off the Dogger Bank, was a stunning seascape in which the silvery tone of the sky and sea contrasted with the billowing white sails of the pitching ships.

I spent most of the day conducting a preliminary physical examination. Searching for anachronist fibers, analyzing individual pigments, and reviewing infrared spectra would come later.

Nothing seemed out of place, which didn't surprise me, given the quality of Carina's past work. The frames were spot on, which probably meant they'd been removed from the originals and reattached to the forgeries. The brush strokes looked good. The signatures matched. Even the varnish passed muster. So much for an easy win.

When I finished for the day at the museum, I texted Mila to ask if she could talk. She accepted immediately, and we agreed to meet at a quiet spot in Hyde Park. She wore a gray tailored skirt suit that made me feel like a slob by comparison.

"You're a solicitor?" I asked, as we walked one of the tree-lined paths. "I noticed the legal references on your bookshelves."

"Paralegal. Family law." She glanced behind her and lowered her voice. "So? What happened at the Tate?"

"I ran into an old friend."

I told Mila about Max and our trip to the English countryside. I told her the reason Carina had sent me the icon wasn't because she was in danger, but because I was. And I told her that Carina had asked about her.

"Really?" Mila said.

I nodded. "The minute she'd heard I'd visited you, the first words out of her mouth were 'How's Mila?'" I paused. "She wants to see you."

It wasn't a complete lie. Carina may not have said it aloud, but that didn't mean it wasn't true.

"She does? After all this time?" Mila asked.

"Yes. If you're willing."

"Of course I am!"

"Great. Give me some time to arrange things."

While I wanted to see Carina and her sister reconcile, my other reason for wanting to get them together was less altruistic. I needed an ally in convincing Carina to accept Ratliff's deal. Carina had spent most of her life believing the only way to protect her sister was to shun her and follow Fletcher's orders. If I could free her from that mindset, maybe she'd accept there was a better path.

"Mila, there's one more thing," I said. "I need a favor."

When I finished telling her about my run-in with Ratliff and his offer of protection, Mila eyed me skeptically.

"What?" I said. "You don't think it's a good deal?"

"No, I do think it's a good deal. For her. Not so much for you."

I shrugged. "I can take care of myself."

She gave me a sad smile. "You really do love her."

"I do."

"Good. Then I'll see if I can help."

*******

I devoted the next two days at the Tate to a forensic analysis of The Decline of the Carthaginian Empire. I started by scanning the painting for traces of embedded clothing fibers, synthetic bristles, or other materials that didn't exist in the 1800s. I did spot a few brush hairs, but they matched those that had been found in Turner's other works. He often used a hard-bristled brush that would sometimes leave hairs behind in the paint.

Next, I took paint scrapings from the canvas and used the Tate's Fourier transform infrared microscope to analyze their composition. The spectra showed that the pigments were comprised only of compounds that would have been available to Turner at the time he was working. Strike two.

I still had work to do, but the results so far didn't look promising. With the Tate's forensic lab closed for the weekend, I reasoned my time would be better spent pitching Carina on the idea of meeting with her sister.

I used my burner phone to text Max. When he called back, I told him I had information about the paintings that I needed to discuss with Carina. He said he would pass along whatever news I had, but I insisted I needed to speak to her in person. He wasn't happy about it, but after talking it over with Carina, he finally agreed to chauffeur me again.

Max arranged a secure pickup on Saturday morning and gave me the silent treatment for most of the ride. From underneath my blindfold, I heard the crinkling of a wrapper being opened. I waited to see if he would offer me some. He didn't.

"Got anything to eat?" I prompted.

"No."

"I can hear you chewing."

More crinkling, followed by a dull snap. I felt something being pressed roughly into my palm.

"What's this?" I asked.

"Cadbury bar."

"One square?"

"Bon appétit."

We ate in silence. I decided now was as good a time as any to test the waters with Max.

"Mila wants to visit Carina," I said.

"A stupid idea. Even for you."

"I didn't say it was my idea."

"It is stupid. So it is probably your idea."

"They're sisters, Max. They love each other. It's torturing Carina to be apart from her."

"When you love someone, sometimes you have to let them go," he said. "Even if it is hard."

"I don't believe that."

"I don't care what you believe. If you are smart, you will keep this meeting nonsense to yourself."

When we arrived, Carina was beyond giddy at the prospect of spending the weekend together. It was unseasonably warm for early November, so I ditched my fleece-lined coat at the house. We packed a lunch, grabbed a blanket, and set off on one of the trails that sliced through the meadow. We found a perfect spot under a large ash tree.

After lunch, we stretched out on the blanket. Carina draped an arm over my chest and nestled her head on my shoulder. I traced my fingertips along her back while I watched the clouds.

"What were you working on earlier this week?" I asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Your overalls. Some of the paint was still fresh. I meant to ask you, but we got distracted."

"Mmm ... we did get distracted, didn't we?" she said, kissing my neck.

I laughed. "I feel like you're trying to distract me right now. C'mon. You can tell me. Was it your next assignment from Fletcher?"

"I don't have any new assignments," she said. "I was just practicing some techniques. And if I wanted to distract you, I could do a better job than that."

"Is that so?"

She slid her body atop mine and moved her hips against me. Her soft lips, which hovered inches from my own, parted slowly. When I raised my head to meet them, she pulled away.

"Yes. That's so," she said with a smile. She pressed my chest and pushed me back onto the blanket.

"You're cruel," I said.

She shrugged. "I am a wanted criminal."

"That reminds me. Not to put a damper on the mood, but any update on my impending murder?"

Carina slid back onto the blanket. "Max didn't tell you?"

I shook my head. "Max doesn't tell me much."

"It's all good news. Fletcher believes I can persuade you."

"I guess that's why Max was grumpy on the ride up. He was hoping for murder."

She threw a stray grape at me. "Stop it. He's just worried you won't follow through on your end. I told him I'd make you promise. So, promise."

"Promise what?"

"That whatever you find in those paintings, you'll tell the museum and the police that they're genuine. That after you finish at the Tate, you'll leave me and your detective work behind for good."

"That's really what you want?"

"Don't do that. You know it's not what I want. But I could never live with myself if anything happened to you."

"Okay. I promise," I said. "On one condition."

Carina frowned. "What?"

"Mila wants to see you."

She shook her head. "Absolutely not."

"Why?"

"It's not safe."

"It's no more dangerous than my being here. Max can arrange it."

"Max would say it's a dumb idea. And he'd be right."

"But he'd do it if you asked."

"That's why I won't ask."

"Mila doesn't hate you," I pressed. "She understands that you didn't choose to be a criminal. You were forced into it."

"It's not that."

"Then what is it?"

"I'm ashamed, Adam! Is that what you want to hear?"

I took her hand, but she pulled it away.

"I abandoned her. I was her big sister, and she needed me, and I left. The look in her eyes that day? The betrayal she felt? It gutted me. I never want to feel that way again."

"I can't imagine how difficult that must have been," I said, my voice quiet. "And I'm in no position to judge. But I have to ask. Have you been avoiding Mila all these years to protect her? Or to protect yourself?"

"Fuck you." A tear spilled down her cheek. "Her life is in danger. And it's because of me. How can I possibly face her now that she knows that?"

I took her hand again, and when she tried to yank it away, I pulled her close and wrapped my arms around her. "Because she's your sister. And she needs you. And this time, you're going to be there for her."

She pressed her face into my shirt and dissolved into sobs. I stroked her hair and held her until they slowed.

We didn't discuss Mila for the rest of the day, but I could sense the shift in Carina's attitude. She was at least considering it. I hoped that if I backed off and gave her enough space, she'd come to the decision on her own.

We returned to the house for dinner, then made love long into the evening. Carina drifted off in my arms, her back pressed to my chest. I waited until I was certain she was in a deep sleep, then slipped from the bed as quietly as I could.

I didn't believe Carina's story that the fresh paint speckling her overalls had been the result of practicing her technique. I knew she was working on something for Fletcher. I didn't particularly care what her next forgery assignment was. What I did care about was the chance to examine a work in progress.

If I could observe Carina's painting at this stage, it might provide some clue that would help me unravel the mystery of the two Turners at the Tate. The key might lie in the materials with which she was working, the way she stretched the canvas, even the type of brushes she used. I didn't know what I was looking for, but I was confident I would know it when I saw it.

I crept down the hallway toward the only room in the house I thought might be large enough to serve as a studio. I expected the door to be locked, so I was surprised when I turned the handle and it swung open. I flipped on the light.

Inside stood several easels, a large wooden table lined on one side with jars of brushes and paint, and portable storage racks holding even more brushes and paint. Blank canvases of varying sizes were propped against the far wall.

In the corner of the room sat a huge, custom-built wooden crate with a heavy silver padlock. Bingo.

I slid my hands along the length of the table, searching for a key taped to the underside. I quietly sifted through drawers and storage units, felt along the tops of windowsills and doorframes, and dropped to my knees so that I could get a better look under the table.

I was debating how I might get high enough to search the blades of the ceiling fan when I heard a voice behind me.

"Looking for this?"

I turned to face Carina. She was holding a key.

There was no point in lying. "Yes, actually."

"You once told me if I wanted to earn back your trust, I'd have to start by trusting you. Tell me: why should I trust a man who works with the police and snoops through my house at night?"