Art of Deception - Renaissance

She was right. The question stung, and I reacted defensively. "Well, why should I trust you? You lied to me. Again. You weren't just practicing your technique that night, were you?"

"No."

"Then what were you doing?"

She crossed her arms but said nothing.

I shook my head. "Secrets. There'll always be secrets with you, won't there? You'll never open up enough to let me in."

"You're wrong." She walked to the crate and inserted the key. The lock clicked open. "You were the only one I ever planned to show. I just wasn't sure I was ready."

She threw back the lid, reached inside, and handed me a large canvas. Then another. And another.

I carried them to the center of the room and placed them face up on the table. It took me a moment to understand what I was seeing.

Portraits. But not like anything I'd seen Carina paint before. Not like anything I'd seen anyone paint before. These were originals. These were her work.

The style was impossible to describe. They seemed to fuse aspects of traditional Orthodox iconography with elements of Post-Impressionism, but that didn't come close to doing them justice. I simply lacked the vocabulary. Even if I had the words, they wouldn't be enough.

They were stunning.

I turned to face Carina. She looked terrified. I'd never seen such vulnerability behind her eyes.

"Have you shown these to anyone?" I asked. "Max?"

She shook her head. "No one. Except you."

"Carina, these are incredible. You're incredible."

The tension in her face eased.

"You mean it?"

"Every word."

She wrapped her arms around me and pulled me into a tight embrace. "I love you," she whispered. "So much."

I squeezed her back. "I love you, too."

*******

A week later I stood beside Carina on her porch, staring at the gravel road, watching as Max's car approached. Inside was Mila.

Max had arranged the visit at Carina's request. Carina also wanted me there for moral support, so Max had dropped me off the previous night. It wasn't a fun ride. Neither of us spoke a word. I was grateful for the blindfold, because it meant I didn't have to endure the look of disgust on his face.

I'd spent the previous five days at the Tate, poring over the Turners and giving frequent progress updates to Ratliff, who was growing more and more impatient. I placated him by explaining that I'd tracked down Carina and was making progress convincing her to accept the plea deal. I also told him that while my analysis of the Turners hadn't yet uncovered any definitive evidence of forgery, I had some promising leads.

This was a lie. I had nothing.

I'd set aside The Decline of the Carthaginian Empire for the time being in the hope that I might have better luck with Van Tromp Returning after the Battle off the Dogger Bank. I hadn't. So far, both the physical inspection and early pigmentation analysis had come up empty. It was humbling, and by the time the weekend arrived, I was glad for a break.

Carina shifted her weight from one foot to the other and fidgeted with her hands as the car crunched over the gravel toward us. She'd been a nervous wreck all morning.

"Relax," I said.

"I can't. This was a mistake."

The car slowed to a stop. Carina froze. The door opened and Mila emerged, beaming. She threw open her arms, and Carina ran to her, nearly knocking her flat.

"I missed you, Rini," Mila said.

"I thought about you every day," Carina said.

Both sisters were crying. I made eye contact with Max and inclined my head toward the house. He nodded and joined me on the porch.

"I'm sorry," Carina mumbled. "I'm so sorry."

"Shhh ... it's okay. Let's go for a walk."

The sisters headed off down a dirt path while Max and I walked inside the house.

"Rini?" I said to Max. "Her nickname is Rini? Did you know that?"

He shook his head and, for a fraction of a second, he smiled.

"What is all this?" he asked, gesturing to the sirloin steak, mushrooms, onions, and garlic sitting on the island.

"Carina wants to make her mother's beef stroganoff for dinner. It was their favorite meal as kids."

"That is the recipe?" Max asked, pointing at a handwritten notecard on the countertop.

I nodded. "It'd be nice if dinner were waiting for them when they got back, wouldn't it?"

"It would," Max agreed.

I started prepping the ingredients while Max set the table.

"Wine?" he asked.

"No. I didn't think to ..."

"We need wine."

He disappeared out the door and returned almost an hour later with several bottles of Pinot Noir.

Carina's recipe called for potatoes rather than egg noodles, so Max prepared the potatoes while I sautéed the sirloin and mushrooms. Our timing was perfect. Carina and Mila burst through the door in a fit of laughter just as we were about ready to begin plating the food.

Mila's eyes widened when she spotted the counter. "Stroganoff!"

"Mom's recipe," Carina replied. "They better not have butchered it."

"What she means to say is thank you for making dinner, boys," Mila said to us. "I apologize. She certainly didn't learn those manners from me."

Max poured the wine and we sat down to eat. Mila raved about the meal and Carina grudgingly admitted that it was passable.

Max and I spent most of the dinner in silence, just listening to Carina and her sister laugh and share stories from their childhood.

"She tried to kill me once, you know," Mila said, finishing her wine.

"That was an accident!"

"You made a beeline right for me!"

"I couldn't steer!"

Mila turned to me. "Our parents took us sledding at Primrose Hill. We fought over who would get the newer sled and I won."

"Because you cried to Dad."

"So she's mad she got the shitty sled—"

"It was impossible to steer," Carina added.

"—and while I'm walking innocently back up the hill, BAM!" Mila slammed her arms together and toppled one hand onto the table. "Took my legs right out from under me. Knocked out a tooth."

"A baby tooth."

"It was no accident."

Carina grinned. "It was mostly an accident."

By the time the conversation died down, it was past midnight. Max and I cleared the table, while Mila followed Carina to her room.

"I'm going to crash on the sofa," I said to Max. "You want the spare bedroom?"

"I am not staying. I will be back tomorrow." He grabbed his jacket, then paused at the door. "It was a nice thing you did. Bringing them together. Carina was happy."

I was so stunned that by the time I managed to mumble thank you, he was already gone.

*******

I made pancakes the next morning. I wasn't surprised that Carina and Mila slept in. They'd still been talking in the bedroom while I was drifting off.

We had a quiet breakfast. The knowledge that Mila would be leaving and the uncertainty surrounding when we might see her again put everyone in a somber mood.

Max arrived promptly at 11 a.m. Carina and her sister shared a long hug outside.

"Let's try to do this more than once a decade, yeah?" Mila said.

Carina nodded. "Yeah."

Mila joined Max in the car. Carina leaned against my shoulder and watched until they disappeared over the crest of a hill.

"You okay?" I asked.

She sighed. "Drained. But I also feel like I'm floating."

I wrapped my arm around her. "Guilt's a heavy burden. What did you two talk about last night?"

"Well, she talked a lot about the offer Ratliff made to you. Just as I'm sure you asked her to do."

"And?"

"And I haven't changed my mind."

"Carina, Your sister's right. This is a chance to ..."

"Stop. Please? Max will be back in a few hours. I don't want to spend those hours arguing."

I was running out of time to convince her, but I could tell that pushing the issue now would only set me back.

"Then how should we spend them?"

She turned to face me and wrapped her arms around my shoulders. "Well, I never thanked you properly for dinner."

"Or breakfast," I added, pulling her against me.

"Or breakfast," she agreed. "Should we remedy that?"

I trailed kisses along her neck while she ran her fingers through my hair. My tongue grazed her earlobe. "I think we should."

We made good use of the time.

When Max arrived, Carina was still sound asleep. I didn't have the heart to wake her, so I kissed her lightly on the head, gathered my things, and hopped into the car.

I strapped on my blindfold without being asked and prepared myself for the long trip back to my hotel. That's when I smelled it.

"Is that coffee?" I asked Max as he pulled away from the house.

"Yes."

Ever the sparkling conversationalist.

"Don't suppose you brought any for me?"

"Yes," he said, catching me off guard. "Hold out your hand."

I opened my hand, and he placed a warm cup into my palm.

I took a long sip and sighed. "That's good stuff. Thanks, Max."

"De rien."

We sat in silence and drank our coffee. My mind turned to the coming week. I dreaded the prospect of having to stall Ratliff while I continued to examine the Turners. The mere thought of dealing with that pompous windbag was giving me a headache. I rubbed my temples through the sleep mask.

"You love Carina, yes?" Max asked.

His question startled me. He'd never asked about our relationship.

"I do."

"And you want what is best for her?"

His voice sounded muffled. Like he was speaking through cotton.

"Of course," I said. My tongue felt heavy.

"Good. Only, you do not understand what is best. I will help you."

De rien. I should have realized. I'd only ever heard Max slip into French when he was angry or upset.

"Max, what did you do to my drink?"

"Mila said you asked her to convince Carina to cooperate with the police. You should not have done that."

"Max, listen. I ..." The words floated just out of reach.

"I know you think you can save her. But you are putting her in danger. I cannot allow it."

The cup slipped from my hand. I swiped at my face to dislodge the blindfold. For a moment, I saw the blurry outlines of trees and grass. Then everything went dark.

*******

I awoke to the smell of chlorine.

Steam wafted by my face and bubbles enveloped my bare chest and shoulders. I was slumped in the corner of an in-ground hot tub wearing only my underwear.

Across from me sat a large, barrel-chested man. Thick black hair seemed to cover every inch of his chest and shoulders, but his face and head were clean shaven. He smiled when I met his eyes.

"Alright, mate? You with us now? You keep waking up and nodding off, waking up and nodding off." As he said this, he sat bolt upright, then slumped forward, then sat upright again with a confused look on his face, then closed his eyes, drooped his head, and slumped forward again.

I heard laughter behind him. I looked up and spotted a second man in jeans and a red T-shirt. He was sitting on a white lounge chair at the edge of an indoor pool. In his lap was a black handgun.

"Nice to finally meet you, Adam. Can I call you Adam?"

I nodded and tried to straighten in my seat.

"Good. You can call me Dominic. Friends like us, we should be on a first name basis, you know?"

"We're not friends."

Fletcher looked over his shoulder. "Oi! Paul! Says we're not friends."

The man in the lounge chair shook his head and made a tsk tsk noise. Fletcher turned back to face me.

"Sure we are! You, me, Max, Carina, we're all friends now." He grinned. "Though Carina, maybe she's a little more than a friend?"

I didn't answer.

He shrugged. "I don't blame you. She's a good fuck."

I stood in the water and took an unsteady step forward. Paul rose from his lounge chair and patted his gun. I sat back down.

Fletcher laughed. "Just winding you up, mate. Wanted to see how you'd react. It's sweet you'd take a bullet for her. But it's also a problem."

"Why am I here?" I asked.

"Because Carina made me a promise on your behalf. Said you'd vouch for those paintings at the Tate for us. And that you'd leave her alone afterward. I hold people to their promises, Adam. Now, I trust Carina. Problem is, I don't know that I trust you."

He stared at me for a long time. I held his gaze.

"That's why we stripped you down to your pants. Had to make sure you weren't wearing a wire. Already got burned with that once." He smiled.

"I remember. How is Monica these days?"

His smile faltered for an instant, then returned.

"I hope we can stay friends, Adam. I do. But I need to hear it from you. Directly. Are you a man of your word?"

"Always."

He extended his hand. I shook it.

"Brilliant! We're good then!" He glanced over his shoulder. "Paul, get our new friend his clothes. And a towel. One of the fluffy ones."

Paul rose from his chair and disappeared from the room.

"One more thing, Adam." Fletcher leaned forward and motioned with his hand for me to do the same. I tipped toward him, and he brought his mouth to my ear. Then his hand grasped my hair and shoved my head under the water.

Hot water filled my mouth. I forced it out and tried to twist my head away, but the pain in my scalp was blinding and Fletcher's grip was too strong.

I attempted to stand up, but my body was folded at an awkward angle. I had no leverage. I flailed my arms, searching for a ledge I could use to pull myself up, but I couldn't raise my arms high enough to breach the water's surface.

The chlorine stung my eyes. I could see nothing through the roiling water. I swung my fists wildly and grazed Fletcher's legs. He pushed my head deeper.

The effort I was exerting quickly depleted my oxygen. My lungs burned. I exhaled to relieve the buildup of carbon dioxide and watched as the bubbles from my mouth rose effortlessly to the surface, while I remained trapped below.

My movements slowed. More bubbles trickled from my mouth and nose. A sense of calm washed over me. I was going to die.

I felt a sharp pain as Fletcher tugged on my scalp. My head burst through the surface of the water. I leaned back, sucking in great gulps of air along with the water that streamed down my face. Fletcher's fingers remained entwined in my hair. When my coughing slowed, he pulled my head forward and put his lips to my ear.

"Utter. Helplessness." He tightened his grip and shook my head. "Remember this feeling. Because if you fuck with me again, this is exactly what you will feel."

He released my hair and shoved me backward into the seat.

"You think Carina is safe because she's the goose that lays the golden eggs? I will make her hurt in ways you can't imagine. She will wish she were dead, and there will be nothing you can do about it. I promise you that.

"And Adam? Like you, I'm a man of my word."

*******

Max and I drove in silence. My hair was still wet. A drop of water trickled down the back of my neck.

He stopped at the outskirts of the city and handed back my phone. I threw open the door and leapt out.

"Adam," he called. I kept walking for a few steps, then stopped and turned to face him. "Understand something. The next time I take you to see Carina, it will be to say goodbye."

I watched him pull away, then caught an Uber back to my hotel.

If Max's goal had been to scare me into abandoning my plan to help Carina, he'd failed. Now that I'd seen for myself how unhinged Fletcher was, I was more determined than ever to free her.

I arrived at the Tate early the next morning, convinced I could expose the forged paintings with sheer anger and determination. Unfortunately, that's not how forensic science works. By late afternoon, my rage-fueled optimism had given way to frustration. I was in no mood for company, so I was ready to punch through a wall when Detective Sergeant Ratliff showed up at the lab.

"Mr. Weber!"

"Afternoon, Detective Sergeant."

"Still hard at work, I see."

"It's a painstaking process."

"Yes, so you say. Still, I was hoping a detective of your pedigree would have made more progress by now. Or any progress at all, to be blunt."

I took a breath and counted to ten while I finished prepping another pigment sample for the Fourier transform infrared microscope. I rose from my chair.

"I'm sorry if your expectations were unrealistic," I said. "I find that's often the case with people whose understanding of forensic science is limited to what they've seen on TV."

Ratliff chuckled. "I'm certainly no scientist, I'll admit. Tell me, have you made any progress on our second front? Is Ms. Savchenko willing to testify?"

"No. Not yet."

"I see."

Ratliff walked to the table in the center of the room that held both Turners. He stared at the paintings and spoke with his back to me.

"Extraordinary works. Truly. The woman who painted these has a gift. That gift is convincing others to believe that a lie is the truth."

He turned and walked toward me until we were face to face.

"I'd wager that her gift extends beyond the realm of painting," he continued. "In fact, I expect she has the skill to convince men of all manner of things.

"Why, I suppose it's even possible that while you have been trying to persuade her to see the light, she may instead have been guiding you toward the shadows.

"Should I be worried about that possibility, Mr. Weber?"

I glared at him. I had to unclench my jaw before answering.

"No," I said. "You shouldn't."

"Good."

"I just need more time."

"I'm afraid time is a finite resource. In fact, I've found nothing nurtures an epiphany quite like a firm deadline. You have forty-eight hours. Find proof of forgery and deliver Ms. Savchenko's testimony, or the deal is off the table. And you and I will have a fresh conversation about just how innocent a victim you've really been in this whole affair."

I spent the rest of the afternoon and much of the evening poring over the paintings with no success. I had at least two more weeks' worth of tests I wanted to run. There was no way I could cram them into two days. I was sure there was something in those paintings that I'd overlooked. Only one person could help me find it.

I had no direct way to contact Carina, and I wasn't about to call Max. Fortunately, I'd made contingency plans.

After my first visit to see Carina, I'd ordered a miniature GPS tracking unit. It was small enough to be concealed in the fleece lining of the coat I'd worn during my second visit. Max felt he needed to keep Carina's location a secret because he didn't trust me. But I didn't trust him either. I wasn't going to let him be Carina's gatekeeper if I could help it.

Using a tracker felt deceitful, but I promised myself I wouldn't look up her location unless I really needed it. And right now, I really needed it.

I logged into my account, pulled up the tracking history, and in a matter of minutes I had the exact coordinates of Carina's home. It was in a rural area of South Shropshire, about two and a half hours north of the city.

I rented a car the next morning and arrived at Carina's shortly before noon. Her face lit up when she answered the door.

"Adam!" She stepped onto the porch and threw her arms around me. With her head next to my shoulder, she had a clear view of the rental car. I felt her body stiffen.

"Where's Max?" she said, pulling away. Her smile had vanished. "He didn't tell me you two were coming today."

"It's just me this time."

"What's going on? Is Max okay?"

It was a logical question, but her concern annoyed me. "He's fine. I just didn't feel like asking for a ride. The last time we shared a car, he drugged me and took me to see your boss, who almost drowned me."

"What?" she said, alarmed. "You're scaring me."

"Sorry. Let's go inside and I'll explain."

Carina made tea. We sat at the kitchen table, and I told her about my run-in with Fletcher, my frustration with my lack of progress on the Turners, and the ultimatum from Ratliff.

"So here we are," I said. "I've tried to be patient. Tried not to press the issue. Tried to give you space. But now we're out of time. You have to take Ratliff's offer. And you have to help me prove these paintings are forgeries."