CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Thursday, June 22
Chicago
Stazi walked through the back door of the Art Institute and filled her lungs with the familiar scent of the museum. Waiting to go through the security line, she checked the wall clock and prayed jet lag wouldn’t take her under by the afternoon. They’d been home for three days and she hoped the worst of it had passed.
Today was the first day they were going to begin the process of examining the museum’s Modiglianis. The first painting to be examined was “Madam Pompadour,” which was created in 1915. It was considered an important piece of the collection, but it wasn’t her favorite. It lacked the pathos that was often associated with his work and instead seemed to be dominated by a weird ironic detachment that didn’t make any sense.
She’d often wondered if the personal relationship the artist and subject shared had something to do with the expression of amusement worn by the sitter. Beatrice Hasting was an English poetess and Modigliani’s mistress when she sat for the painting, and perhaps they were having a laugh over something.
Stepping up to the security person on duty, she held up her hands and was scanned from head to toe. Once she got the all clear, she grabbed her bag and made her way down the hall toward the workrooms. Her phone buzzed, so she slipped it out of her purse and read the text from Hank. What a romantic he’d turned out to be. He’d told her to have a good day and added a heart emoji.
Not ten minutes had passed since he dropped her off at the museum and he was already sending her sweet texts. And emojis.
Several weeks ago, he had no idea what emojis were and now he was a regular user. The fact that she had to install them on his phone and show him how to use them was pretty darn funny and something she liked to give him a hard time about. Sending a quick text in response, she added a couple of kissing emojis and hoped it gave him a chuckle.
She had done a quick sketch this morning of a fallen angel with Hank’s face and slipped it into his bag. When he discovered it later on, she hoped it made him think of their last night in Rome. Feeling her cheeks heat, she decided that recalling those memories might not be the best idea when she was about to walk into a room filled with her colleagues.
Clearing her throat, she filled her mind with the face of Amedeo Modigliani and got her professional face together. As she walked into the workroom, she was operational. It was a word that Hank had used often, and she had adopted it, using it whenever she could. Which, according to him, was too often. Apparently, someone couldn’t be operational when smooching, and she wasn’t exactly sure why.
Whatever.
She was operational right now and ready to begin examining the Modigliani.
***
Stazi stood with several colleagues waiting for the tech to set up the infrared camera. The Modigliani was on a stand several feet away and they were about to use an imaging technique called infrared reflectography. It was going to allow them to examine the painting using light in the near infrared region of the electromagnetic spectrum, which was just beyond visible.
Basically, they were going to see what existed underneath the layers of paint and reveal the hidden details, and get a glimpse of the history concealed below. Conservators often used this technique to discern compositional changes made by the artist in the course of painting and also be able to recognize when a canvas had been reused. Observing and documenting these steps in the evolution of a painting enabled scholars to understand the artist’s working methods and objectives.
The state-of-the-art technique employed a hyperspectral camera capable of breaking near-infrared light into hundreds of narrow spectral bands. The senior imaging scientist at the National Gallery of Art in DC had customized the camera for the high sensitivity requirement of conservation work, and the results were amazing. Hopefully, the improved visualization results that were a mathematical manipulation of the data would allow them to accentuate features from earlier paintings while suppressing those from later on.
What they were doing today was the first step of hundreds that they would put the painting through before finally cleaning and stabilizing it for its trip to the Tate next year.
The next step in the process would involve a computerized method that identified the artist by analyzing individual characteristic brush or pen strokes. Adding this step to the process of authenticating a painting was applauded by some and derided by others. A computer couldn’t replace humans, who employed a certain amount of subjectivity in their art assessments, but it was valuable.
The reason the Art Institute had decided to add the use of computers was that recently a painting long thought to be an imitation of the Dutch painter Jan Vermeer was found, after close scientific analysis of the pigments and technique, to be most probably genuine.
In the best-case scenario, the field of conservation was a hybrid of old-world techniques and the latest advancements in science and technology. Sometimes it took a computer to tell them about the brush strokes, and sometimes the best way to determine if a painting was authentic was to do a chemical analysis of the pigments in the painting. It wasn’t the preferred method because it required tiny samples to be removed from the painting, but the method did show if the pigments would have been available at the time the work was allegedly painted.
Right now, they were firmly on the side of technology as everyone watched the images from the camera come up on the large monitor. Stepping forward, everyone held their breath as they waited to discover if anything lay beneath the woman in the silly hat.
***
Stazi sat at one of the large work tables and read the description of the painting in the original catalogue raisonné that Ambrogio Ceroni wrote. For years, auction houses believed that if the painting wasn’t included in Ceroni’s catalog then it wasn’t authentic. Which was problematic because it was originally produced in 1958 and then updated in 1970. It was considered the bible of Modigliani and had almost messianic status in the art world.
But scholars now accepted that it was incomplete because it didn’t include works Ceroni never saw, including those from the United States. Looking at the stack of books to her left, she realized she had a lot of reading to do and needed to consider the voices of scholars like Christian Parisot, Marc Restellini, and John Tancock. As the newest member of the team, she was expected to do the heavy lifting when it came staying current on research.
Hearing voices in the hall, she wondered if donors were being given a tour of the underbelly of the museum. It wasn’t unusual for the director to bring patrons who had given large donations for a view of what happened behind the scenes.
She stacked her papers and was about to find someplace else to work when a group of a half-dozen people entered the room. Giving the people her best professional smile, she stood.
Then felt it immediately slip away when she noticed Dmitry Firtash toward the back of the group. What in the hell was he doing here and why was he giving her that smile? She slipped her phone into her pocket and tried to act normal as the director explained the Modigliani project.
Did Firtash know she would be here? Was that why he decided today was the day to see the museum?
Too many questions skittered through her brain, so she did the only thing she could and pretended that everything was fine. The director introduced her to the gathered group and when she had to shake Firtash’s hand, she felt sick to her stomach.
Whatever the man wanted from her was not going to happen and she wondered what he would do when he accepted that fact. The way his eyes absorbed every detail of her face and the firm way he held her hand let her know that he wanted a piece of her. “Mr. Firtash, what brings you to the Art Institute today?”
“My darling Stazi, I thought it was time to see how my donations were being spent.” He firmed his grip and took a step closer. “I’ve missed speaking with you. When I tried to contact you at work, they told me you were out of the country. I hope you enjoyed your trip.”
“It was lovely. Thank you for asking.”
“Did that brute of a fiancé take you somewhere nice?”
To say she was startled by his comment would be an understatement. Hank Coleman was the very opposite of a brute. He was smart, educated, courageous, and one of the finest men she’d ever met. Dmitry Firtash with all his billions was just a polished turd with possible sociopathic tendencies. Stepping away, she yanked her hand free and crossed her arms. “Hank and I enjoyed a lovely trip. He’s such a perfect man and hardly ever leaves my side.”
Which was true, because the crazy man in front of her was up to something. Studying his cold gray eyes, she wondered why he was so interested. It wasn’t sexual. It was something else, and the sooner she could figure it out the better.
The director clapped his hands and motioned for people to follow him as he walked out of the room. “Looks like your tour is moving on.”
“I hope to see you soon, my dear girl. We have much to discuss.” He gave her a wink and then followed the group out of the room.
Collapsing onto a chair, she let out a breath. What the hell was that? A rack of shivers rolled through her body and she decided she was done for the day. She took her phone out and speed-dialed Hank so he could come pick her up. He answered on the first ring, and when she heard his voice, she almost started crying. Swallowing deeply, she pulled herself together. “Honey, I’m done for the day.”
“What’s wrong, Staz?”
“Nothing.” Squeezing her shaking hands, she tried to regulate her breathing. “When are you going to be done for the day?”
“Right now,” he replied. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes and I expect a full explanation of what’s bothering you.”
“Okay. I’ll be waiting next to Security. Just text me when you’re here.”
“Hold tight. I’ll be there before you know it.”
“Thank you, honey.” She ended the call and rolled her shoulders. Slowly, she stacked her papers and placed them inside her portfolio. There was nothing to be scared of. The museum was covered in cameras and she had no reason to believe that Firtash would return.
As she put the books inside her bag, she gave herself a pep talk. Maybe it wasn’t Firtash who had sicced Ivan the Terrible on her, and, in fact, it was Sergey Belikov. For all she knew, Firtash was innocent and his weird fascination with her meant nothing.
Feeling a tension headache crawl across her forehead, she decided to wait and see what Hank had to say. She knew Lucky and Hank had been working vigorously from their end since this thing started. Maybe they had enough to determine who was up to what.
Lifting her bag over her shoulder, she walked out of the room and prayed she didn’t run into Firtash. One encounter a day was more than enough.
***
“Do we have Ivan the Terrible following us?” Stazi asked as they drove away from the museum.
“Three cars back.”
“Wonder what he did while we were in Italy? Maybe broke some bones or buried some bodies.”
“Possible,” Hank responded. “Are you going to tell me what has you spooked or do I have to wait until we get home?”
“Dmitry Firtash showed up today at the museum. He was part of a tour that the director gives for high-dollar donors.” Seeing Hank’s knuckles go white on the steering wheel was Stazi’s only indication that he’d heard her. His breathing remained the same and so did his facial expression. “I was a little surprised, to say the least.”
“What. The. Fuck?” Hank said quietly. “I assumed that you were completely untouchable when you went to work because of the safety protocol of both the museum and the Conservation Center.” Slamming his hand against the wheel, he let out a growl. “You’re going under lock and key until this gets solved.”
“I already am.” Running her hand over her skirt, she shook her head. “You are by my side twenty-four hours a day. I’m lucky that you let me go to the bathroom by myself.”
“Apparently, I’m not close enough because Firtash waltzed into your workplace without a problem.”
“Let’s go home so we can argue in private because I don’t feel like yelling at you in a restaurant.”
His head whipped around and he frowned. “Why in the hell would you yell at me?”
“Because I’m so frustrated and scared and you’re the only person I can express it to.”
Sliding his hand over, he lifted hers and brought it to his mouth. “I may just take you up against the wall when we get home, so I can express my feelings with your body.”
Looking over, she watched him kiss her hand. “Do whatever you feel is necessary. If I’m going to yell, I may as well do it while you make me explode.”
He let go of her hand and then slid it along her leg, lifting her skirt inch by inch as he moved higher. “We have a ton of red lights to go through before we get home. Bet I can make you come before we get there.”
Pressing her hand against his, she shook her head. “You’d better not. I have no desire for Ivan to catch my O face. That would just be wrong.”
Throwing his head back, he let out a big laugh. “No one gets to see your O face except me.” Pressing his fingers into her skin, he gave her a gentle squeeze and then moved his hand away from her leg. “I have a meeting with Sam and Lucky tomorrow and we are going to move this thing forward one way or another. The fact that Dmitry showed up today tells me that someone is ready to make a move.”
“I wouldn’t mind it if they did, because I’m tired of waiting for something to happen.”
“Me too, honey. I’d like to see that relaxed smile you had in Italy and not the one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.”
She looked out the window at the snarled traffic and the fading sun and wanted the same thing. It was time to take control of her life back, and if it meant confronting Dmitry or Sergey or someone else, then she was ready to do it.
He said, “Hey, I forgot to tell you…my folks want to meet you and they want us to come over on Sunday for dinner. I told them we didn’t have any plans and we would love to come.”
“Your parents want to meet me?” she asked incredulously.
“Of course. They want to get to know the woman who has stolen my heart.”
Letting out a long breath, she let her shoulders sink. “What if they don’t like me?”
“Honey, that’s impossible.”
Not that impossible, she thought. “Have you told them much about me?”
“Everything.” He gave her a funny look. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason.”
“What are you afraid of, Staz?”
“It’s just that I’m not a blonde preppy girl from Lake Forest and they might find that disconcerting.”
Turning into the garage of his building, he parked the car. Once he turned it off and unlatched their seat belts, he took her hand. “My parents don’t have some Aryan view of love. They never taught my siblings or me that love had to look a certain way, so whatever prejudice you have should be put away.”
“Okay. I was just worried they may not like that I’m Jewish.”
“They wouldn’t care if you were Protestant, Buddhist, or Catholic. All they care about is how you feel about me.” He leaned back and shook his head. “Your family wasn’t easy on me when they found out I wasn’t Jewish. In fact, your aunts asked me if I was willing to convert.”
“Sorry about that,” she replied. “I don’t care what religion you are and I guess I assumed your family would be as crazy as mine and that was wrong.”
“Oh, they’re crazy—just in a different way. My mom is going to quiz you about your career because she loves art and has never had time to study it, and my dad is going to love on you and try to get you to agree to at least four grandchildren.”
“Four. That’s a lot.”
“He’s a pediatrician and loves kids and thinks it’s up to his children to give him a bunch to spoil. My youngest brother and his wife had a baby last year, and my dad put in a state-of-the-art play set in the backyard last month so the kid would want to come over all the time.”
Laughing, she felt herself relax. “Let’s not introduce your father to my mother, because I’d hate to think of the schemes they’d come up with.”
“We can wait until we get the Russian mafia off our backs to get the families together.”
Opening the car door, she ignored the comment and grabbed her bag from the car. “Why did we drive to your place and not mine?”
He came around the car and took the bag out of her hand. “My place is a lot more secure and I don’t want to park on the street unless we have to. This is next-level security and it’s not going to change until I know that threat has been taken care of.”
“Got it.”
“Come on, honey. We have a wall calling our name.”
“Can it be a wall in the shower? I feel like I need to get cleaned up after spending time with Firtash.”
“Did he touch you?”
Stazi punched the button for the elevator and shook her head. “No, he just took my hand and held it. It was creepy, though. He looks at me with such longing and intensity.”
“I saw the same thing when we were at his house a couple of weeks ago. It didn’t seem like the usual sexual hunger, though. It was different somehow.”
“I agree.” They got on the elevator and Hank checked his phone. “No one has been inside the building all day. I have an alarm that pings my phone if the perimeter is breached.”
“You can breach my perimeter as soon as we have a shower, and then I’ll make us some pasta and we can watch a movie.”
“I’ve never heard a better idea in my life.” Taking her hand, he kissed her head. “As pissed off as I am about the situation, there is a small part of me that is grateful because it’s brought us together.”
“I like the us that we’ve made, but the whole threat thing is something I can definitely live without.”
“Soon, Staz. Very soon.”
“From your mouth to God’s ears.”