Chapter 11
Harvard Wentworth was a quiet man with very few goals or pursuits. His greatest accomplishment, according to him, had been freeing the neighbor’s pet chickens from a small, dirty backyard coop when he was ten. Yet he had a penchant for Bob Dylan, making out during the slow parts of movies, and pepper-laced chai that had drawn Olivia’s attention for a few months back in college. And he was sexy as hell, working the man bun and the five o’clock shadow like a model. He didn’t have an office, and generally acted as a go-between for various galleries: arriving to study the items for sale, knowing who might be in the market for them, then arranging a pickup. That was the partially legal side of what he did. He’d confided that much to Olivia when she’d revealed she wanted to advance her study of art crimes and had gotten the job at the Hawhouse gallery.
He’d been eager to meet Olivia over chai at the same café where Ethan’s cup had been tampered with. Ethan decided the meeting place would either throw off the vandal or piss him off.
Harvard had not been pleased to see Ethan. He’d stiffened and given Olivia the eye when they’d sat across the table from him. Such a stern look was more sexy than admonishing, she decided. But she was on the hunt, so anything a man did could be construed as sexy.
After introductions, she asked Ethan to show Harvard the photos on his phone that he’d taken of the vandalized paintings. And she had the photo of the forgery that had been pinned over the Byam Shaw.
“Does the style seem familiar to you?” she asked.
“Anyone trying to sell such horrible hasty puddings to you of late?” Ethan added.
“Hasty puddings?” Harvard sipped his drink and shook his head. “I know a forgery when I see one, man. I only deal in the good stuff.”
“Unless the forgery is excellent. Could fool any man,” Ethan added. “I’ve never met a fence who didn’t know how to sell a fake.”
Harvard took in their surroundings. Though he often operated in public places, he was always aware and ever tense. “You obviously haven’t met many fences. Who are you? Is he safe, Olivia?”
“He’s consulting from Interpol.”
Ethan raised his eyebrows at Harvard—a silent challenge between two alphas that he wasn’t about to lose.
“I haven’t seen anything as terrible as this lately.” Harvard handed back Olivia’s phone to her. “Is this to do with the vandalism at the Wexler gallery last week?”
“Why would you suspect that?” Ethan interjected. “And how did you learn of it?”
Harvard sat back. “I guess it does. You’re so quick to jump on me over that one. There was bit about it in the Mirror this morning.”
“In the Daily Mirror?” Ethan gaped at Olivia. “I had assumed there was a media blackout.”
“Yeah, well, it was in there,” Harvard said. “Let me say, I know nothing about that one. But…”
Ethan leaned forward, waiting on the man’s next words.
Olivia knew Harvard liked to use the hanging “but” for drama. She sighed. “Out with it, Harvard. I did buy you a drink for this information.”
“You’ve always been so generous, sweet.” He winked at her. “I would suggest you look at the gallery’s employees for that one. Seemed like an inside job to me.”
“Me as well,” Ethan confirmed. “But all employees have been vetted and cleared.”
“The ones who are actually on the payroll,” Harvard said.
Ethan sat back, taking that one in. Olivia pointed to his phone. “Do you have the CCTV shot of the suspect?”
“Yes.” He scrolled through his photos and turned the phone toward Harvard. “Ever seen that man before?”
Harvard studied the photo, then shook his head. “He’s got an everyman look to him. I can’t say. But if he’d been trying to pass off those terrible forgeries to me, I would definitely remember the face.” He stood and grabbed his half-finished chai. “That’s all I’ve got. Good to see you again, Olivia. Your choice in men has declined.”
He strode off as Ethan turned to watch him walk out of the café. When he was gone, Ethan spun back to look at Olivia, gaping.
“He’s always been like that,” she said.
“Pompous? Addle-brained?”
Olivia chuckled. “You’re just jealous.”
“I’m not.” And yet. He leaned forward inquisitively. “Do you want me to be jealous?”
She looked away, not willing to answer that one. Ethan couldn’t stop himself from grinning. She liked him. “Did you meet him on that dating app?”
“No. It was at a college party. I was drunk.”
“I can imagine no other scenario that would pair the two of you. There are employees at the Wexler gallery who are not on the payroll?” Ethan’s eyebrows furrowed.
“I wouldn’t call them official employees. But galleries do work with artists, agents, and other freelancers all the time. It’s not a stretch to imagine one of them would have access to the gallery office and records, even keys. I trust Harvard’s information. And that that is all he knows right now. He’s always getting bits and pieces from here and there.”
“Then we’re off to the Wexler.”
“I can’t. I have a party to attend. I have to go home and get ready.”
“A party?”
“It’s being given by a rich collector who lives in Knightsbridge. He always invites Scotland Yard to mingle amongst the diamonds and snooty attitudes. He has a fabulous Impressionist collection. Tonight he’s showing his newest purchase, an original Renoir.”
“I’m intrigued. I should like to attend.”
She looked him up and down. “Do you have an invitation?”
Ethan almost gripped the tie that he didn’t wear to loosen it as he felt a constriction about his throat. “I see. No, but that’s never stopped me before.”
She snorted. “I’m going alone. I like to slip in and out of rooms. Take in the conversations. Curiosity. And I always keep my eye out for forgeries. Can you handle the follow-up with the Wexler gallery on your own?”
“Yes, of course.”
“See you tomorrow, Mr. Maxwell.”
So it was back to Mr. Maxwell, eh? Ethan made the loosening gesture at his throat. A fancy party that he hadn’t been invited to?
That would change.
* * * *
Olivia took a goblet of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray and thanked him. She sipped, but wouldn’t finish the drink. Even though it was after hours, she considered herself on the clock. She had been invited not as a police constable, but merely as a representative of Scotland Yard. But still, she always kept her eyes and ears open. Especially in the art world.
She’d stopped by her flat to change and fix her hair, but forgot to eat before she left. Her red dress and black heels made her feel like a million, but her grumbling stomach brought her down a few hundred thousand. She aimed for the hors d’oevres tray and snagged a piece of chilled shrimp. A dozen more of those, and she’d feel reasonably satisfied.
The mansion was in Knightsbridge, a stone’s throw from Hyde Park, and boasted two guest houses, a pool, a tennis court, and a rumored twelve bathrooms. A half-dozen crystal chandeliers lit the room. The main ballroom buzzed with hundreds of people, though she suspected more than half were not close friends of the host, but carefully selected people from the community who could enhance and donate to the patron’s art cause. There were enough diamonds glinting at women’s necks and wrists to fund an armed forces invasion. Or at the very least, a Brexit farewell.
Smirking to herself, Olivia pushed through the crowd, aiming for the small gallery room where the Renoir, the star of the party, was featured. Nodding to the guards at the entrance, she counted eight people lingering in the room; she wouldn’t have expected a larger crowd. People came for the art, but what they really wanted was the free booze and the schmoozing.
Her phone buzzed with an e-mail. Denise had forwarded the dossier on Christopher Maxwell. Too curious to set that aside for later, Olivia stepped close to a wall to gain a little privacy. She opened the attached single sheet.
Christopher Maxwell had been born in Wickford, in 1950, married in 1975, and lived in Tower Hamlets until 2005. No mention of children. No mention of art fraud. But he had been convicted of a felony a few years ago and served time. Died not long after incarceration from untreated lung cancer. The felony had been redacted.
Was it possible he’d been convicted of forgery? Surely, Ethan would have mentioned that. Or not. He’d seemed very touchy about revealing the information, and that he’d done so almost because he’d felt he had no choice.
Perhaps he and his father had been at odds? They did stand on opposite sides of the law. That would be enough to strain any relationship.
The dossier didn’t provide much else. Why Christopher Maxwell’s crime had been blacked out was beyond her. Something as common as forgery wouldn’t need to be crossed out. Would it? She could not let that mystery rest. She’d ask Ethan about it the next time she saw him.
Tucking away the phone, she approached the Renoir, featured alone on a cream-colored wall. An eight-hundred-thousand dollar bauble hung for all to admire and invoke jealousy. It was On The Shore of the Seine, a small piece that had been sold at auction decades earlier, then had disappeared in the nineteen fifties. It was rumored to have been sold on the black market, and that the holders had attempted to sell it to more than a few museums for an exorbitant sum. Of course, none had taken the bait, believing it was a fake.
This was not a forgery or a copy. It was an original. Olivia knew it the moment she laid eyes on it. It was perhaps the distinct scent of age that barely wafted from the elaborate carved wood frame and canvas. Perhaps the bold blues and spring greens in the broken brush strokes, or the craquelure that indicated age. But mostly, her soul said “Yes, you are right; it’s old.”
She wasn’t a fan of the Impressionists, preferring more moody works that made her think, wonder, and decide. Pre-Raphaelites all the way, with a couple of commercial illustrators thrown in for variety. And oh, those illuminated manuscripts.
Another sip of champagne bubbled warmly in her cheeks. She heard a couple laugh behind her. The woman cooed, and she must have slid a hand somewhere on the man’s anatomy that made him growl and whisper about taking things elsewhere.
If only Olivia was on the arm of a handsome man. Some nights, returning to her quiet, empty flat sucked all of the joy from her. A woman required sex for a healthy attitude. And she desperately needed an attitude adjustment.
“Quite impressive.”
That familiar male voice chased away her smile as if a dog was scrambling on a cat’s heels. Olivia’s shoulders stiffened as she turned to look behind her. Dressed in a black tuxedo with thin lapels and sporting a black bowtie, the man would have given James Bond a run for his money. He absolutely owned that suit and oozed an intense sensuality that wrapped around her body and gave her a seriously shocking erotic tingle.
And yet. What was Ethan Maxwell doing here? He hadn’t been invited. Someone at Scotland Yard must have given him the address. Traitors.
“Impressive? What?” she asked. “The Renoir, or the fact that you follow me around like a puppy seeking a treat?”
“Catty. As I do imagine you are more feline than dog. A sleek Siamese, perhaps?”
Now he was trying too hard. And really, Olivia preferred Persians.
“Eight hundred thousand for that?” Ethan joined Olivia’s side as he had that very first day they’d stood in the Tate Britain studying Schwabe’s The Death of the Gravedigger. “A steal.”
“My thoughts exactly. I’d place it closer to two million.”
He looked about the room, taking in the ceiling and the walls, his eyes not missing a crack or seam. “Minimal security, too. Though I suspect Tweedledee and Tweedledum back by the door are supposed to prevent someone from wandering out with the canvas tucked in their pocket. Such a diminutive work. It should be on public display, not a private home. I’m utterly shocked not a single museum bit when it was offered for sale.”
“What are you doing here, Ethan?”
He adjusted the bow tie. “I enjoy a fancy party.”
“You weren’t invited.”
“Just call me a party crasher. Or how do you know? My circle may have afforded me an invite.”
“Your circle?”
He winked. “You won’t begrudge me a little socializing, will you? All work and no play does make for a dull boy.”
“Suit yourself.”
Thinking the man anything but dull, she forced herself to turn away from his incredible allure, intending to stroll out of the room, but the Tweedles were talking, leaving about a thin woman’s portion of space between them, and she didn’t want to shove through.
“I admit I wanted to see you in this milieu,” Ethan said over her shoulder.
Such a statement sent a rush of champagne-bubble warmth all over Olivia, which zoomed to a focus in her core, and lower.
“You’ve seen me. Now leave.” She shrugged away from him, stepping toward the Degas triptych on the far wall. Worth well over one-hundred- fifty million, it put the Renoir to shame.
Why did that man disturb her so?
“Have I done something to warrant the cold shoulder from you? I thought you wanted me jealous? You’re a complex woman to read, Olivia. We’re partners working on a case together. Is there some rule that states we cannot enjoy social time together?”
Because he existed, that was why. “This is not social for me.”
He nodded to the goblet of champagne she held. “You always drink on the job?”
He was infuriating in his sudden pursuit of her. And that appealed to her on a level that surprised her. Did she enjoy going head-to-head with the man? Oh, Olivia, how desperate are you?
Just desperate enough.
And that was her cue to leave. Smiling, she turned and aimed toward the door, now open for retreat, and decided to find the bathroom. Likely on the second level.
Refusing another drink, she dropped her goblet on the waiter’s tray, took the stairs, and filed down a hallway open over the ballroom below. Around a curve and away from the bustle below, she reached what felt like the private area of the mansion. The first door she peeked in proved to be a small bedroom. Surely, there was an attached bathroom?
She slipped inside the bedroom, not quite closing the door behind her. A lamp turned on low lit the room with a soft gold haze. There were two other doors in the room. The first she opened was a rather small closet stuffed with women’s clothing, mostly black and very drab. She aimed for the other door and was rewarded with the bathroom. Inside, opposite the vanity, hung an artifact that she guessed was Egyptian. She wasn’t good with sculpture, but it looked like some kind of mourning or death mask. Carved from obsidian? So smooth, and the cut of the face and around the eyes lent it a more modern look. Hmm….
Ethan might know what it was. He seemed up on most art. The show-off.
Why was she getting so bent out of shape that he was here? So what? The man could do as he wished, go where he wanted to go, socialize with whomever he chose. Had she put herself in a worse light by acting miffed and storming away from him? Perhaps. She didn’t want him to see her that way. The way the men at Scotland Yard saw her. Difficult. And…
“Catty,” she muttered the word Ethan had used during their first meeting. He didn’t like working with women? She didn’t get that sense from him. He seemed rather amiable and genuinely willing to work with her. Almost as if he sought her approval. Unless that was merely a front.
She’d played this one wrong. She’d been stuck behind a mask of affront when it probably wasn’t necessary with Ethan. He wasn’t like the others. At least she hoped he wasn’t. And if not, she didn’t want him to be annoyed with her. She wanted to be able to work alongside him, as handsome and attractive as he was, and be friends. And partners. Partners who could enjoy a night out at a party. Perhaps together the two could get more investigation work done. She should have asked him how it went at the Wexler gallery. If they had been able to identify the man from the CCTV tape.
It was time to change her game with Ethan Maxwell. Not rush into judgment about him. He would prove her wrong anyway. He was a unique and curious man. She needed to step back and work with him rather than against him.
Nodding, she checked her makeup in the mirror. She touched up her red lipstick and fluffed her hair, then headed back out. Passing by the king-sized bed, she spied a miniature painting on the wall next to the closet. About the size of her palm, it featured a sixteenth-century woman wearing ruby damask and a gold-lace ruff with dangling pearl earrings. She couldn’t place the artist, though it held shades of Caravaggio in the dark yet twinkling eyes. Possibly a gift for a lover, as miniatures were most often created for that reason. It was rather large for a secretive gift, though. Maybe it had been commissioned for a traveling husband or even proudly displayed on a mantel.
At the sound of a door creaking, she panicked. Glancing around the room, she stepped into the closet, pulling the door almost closed. Why she’d hidden was beyond her, but it had felt like the easiest thing to do. She didn’t want to have to explain why she was creeping around in the private areas of the mansion.
Stepping back wasn’t easy, because the clothing was packed in tight and she was not reed-thin like most of the woman here tonight. Twisting, she snagged her breast on a corner of a wire hanger. Just as she reached for the doorknob to pull it shut, someone tugged the door open and slipped inside, banging into her. Olivia opened her mouth to blurt out an oath, but his hand slipped over her mouth.
“Shh…” he said. “There’s two of them who just entered. They don’t know I’m in here. Or you, for that matter.”