Chapter 14
Dale Bruxford, the owner of the Wexler Gallery, was not in a good mood when Ethan stopped in to follow up regarding close business contacts. In fact, at the sight of Ethan, the burly man with a port wine stain turned entirely red, immediately dismissed himself from talking with two clients before an Egyptian marble sculpture, and nodded brusquely for Ethan to follow him back to the office.
Once inside the office, with the door closed, Ethan felt Bruxford’s heated anger before he even spoke. Bruxford slapped a news tabloid against Ethan’s chest, then stepped back and crossed his arms to wait for his reaction.
Pulling away the paper, Ethan studied the London Gossip section. A headline blared: “Bomb in Wexler blows up Rossetti.”
“Bloody hell.” Ethan tossed the rag onto the desk. So the fence had been correct.
“You promised no media,” Bruxford said. “I’ve already called your handler to complain.”
“Now, Mr. Bruxford, I didn’t have anything to do with that leak to the press. It’s just a small tabloid. Nobody ever reads that trash. And I wouldn’t exactly call my supervisor my handler.”
“My daughter was the one to bring it to me!” Bruxford boomed.
Ethan put up placating hands. “Please, Mr. Bruxford, the ECU wasn’t responsible for this leak. And I do apologize anyway, but perhaps one of your employees talked to someone?”
“Not a one. I trust them all.”
Ethan raised his eyebrows. “That’s why I’ve returned. I’ve reason to believe the incident may have been an inside job.” As Harvard Wentworth had intimated. And it did make sense. The security cameras taken out for just the right amount of time to commit the crime? And now the leak to the press? Was the vandal trying to embarrass the Wexler gallery?
“I went through all my employees with you on the day you investigated,” Bruxford said huffily.
“Yes, but we didn’t discuss all those who are not in direct employ with you, such as other dealers, confidantes, and even fences you may deal with?”
“Fences? Are you insinuating…”
“I would never, Mr. Bruxford. But still, we must look at everyone you deal with. Anyone who might have access to the gallery who is not an employee?”
“Well, sure, but…” Bruxford dragged his hand over his face in resignation and nodded. “Very well. But it’s a long and peculiar list.”
Ethan unbuttoned his blazer and sat on the chair beside the man’s desk. “I’ve time.”
* * * *
Three hours later, Ethan closed the door to his flat and strolled down the hallway, passing the bedroom and tiny bathroom along the way. At the end of the hall lay the combined living area and kitchen. The Elite Crimes Unit had relocated him directly from prison and, as part their agreement, covered the rent. It was the tiniest place he’d ever lived in, yet he didn’t mind lacking space. He didn’t spend a lot of time here. And it wasn’t prison.
Along with his early release came his promise to work off the remaining eleven-and-a-half years prison time for the ECU. He was paid a small stipend that covered food and some clothing and utilities expenses. Of course, all his weaponry and technical needs were met. And the Volkswagen Polo he drove wasn’t so much a clunker as some that the other ECU assets were given. Of course, he preferred a good run to driving, and tried to hit the pavement at least three times a week. But he could hardly run from crime scene to crime scene, so he appreciated the vehicle.
The implicit message was that Ethan Maxwell belonged to the ECU. And further proof of that was the tiny electronic chip embedded at the base of his skull. A tracker. Big Brother always knew where he was.
He didn’t mind being chipped like a dog. He had no reason to go rogue and escape his bonds. And he believed it was a good deterrent from returning to the sweet, seductive call of paints and canvas. He’d love to take up painting again—it was the only talent he had—but he knew exactly where it would lead. And prison had not been as welcoming as this little flat off of Leadenhall Market.
Before leaving the Wexler, he’d compiled a list of six names that Bruxford felt the most iffy about. Ethan suspected a few were fences, but the gallery owner had refused to use the term. Fine by him. He’d sent the names to Chester Clarke to have them checked out. And to Olivia as well, so she could search the Scotland Yard databases. He hadn’t added the little smiley face emoticon to the end of that e-mail to her, even as his finger had lingered over it.
Too fast, he told himself. She’d asked him to go slowly. And he could do that. Because now he knew that she was interested in him. And that was what mattered.
He opened the laptop sitting on the kitchen counter and sat in a beam of afternoon sunlight as he pulled up the Skype app. His appointment with Michael Walters, the ECU shrink, was in two minutes.
Tugging off his blazer, he tossed it aside and noted how stark and unlived-in his flat looked. Difficult not to compare it to Olivia’s wild and yet cozy mess. She was a woman who strove to accomplish so much in a man’s world, and yet it seemed she could only let loose and be herself when at home. He wasn’t sure if that was a bad thing or maybe simply the way she preferred it. Business on the outside, relaxed confidence on the inside. She was definitely capable and possessed the knowledge to do her job. Pity, how some men loved to treat women like second-class citizens.
Ethan revered women. And yet, he’d not had many women in his life. His mother had left him and his dad when he was five. He’d had no sisters or aunts or grandmas in his life. Girlfriends had come and gone. A long, trusting relationship had never been his. Perhaps that was why he was so curious about women and tended to put them on a pedestal?
As the thought troubled him, the psychiatrist’s face popped up on the screen. Probably in his fifties, Michael Walters was a soft-spoken Welshman with a leftward tilt to his nose and keen brown eyes. “Afternoon, Ethan. You’ve moved our appointment up a few weeks. Is there an issue?”
“Good to see you as always, Doctor Walters. In fact, there may be an issue. You’ve updated yourself on my current assignment?”
“Yes, in your home base of London and involving some sort of museum vandalism.”
“I’m working with Scotland Yard’s Arts and Antiquities Unit. Partnering with a Constable Lawson. Miss Olivia Lawson, to be exact.”
“A woman. You’ve always worked well alongside women, Ethan. Your tendency to seek reassurance from them makes you open and amiable to the softer sex. Is this case proving a challenge?”
“At the ECU’s instruction, I don’t reveal my background when on a case. Even though we’ve discussed how little impact it should have, and perhaps prove a boon to some missions.”
“Yes, it’s only the fact you are an art forger we wish you to keep secret. Law enforcement tends to look down on working with criminals. In most cases, at least. But you are a special case because of your incarceration. Too many inquiries could prove messy.”
Right. For the crime that wasn’t really about him at all.
“Yes, and Miss Lawson has made it very clear how much she despises art forgers. Sees no redeeming qualities in such a talent.” Ethan winced. “There is an issue. The vandal has reached out to me, in particular.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He’s targeting Christopher Maxwell’s forgeries. The ECU is aware of that fact. I was told by Hunter Dixon I would not be taken off the case because of it. The vandal has made indirect contact with me. I know it was a play to make me aware that his knowledge of my family is something he will use. And while I’ve told Miss Lawson about my father’s profession, I am vacillating on whether or not it is wise to reveal my own talents.”
“I see.” Michael look aside and Ethan heard him flipping through papers. “Yes, the Wexler incident. A forged Rossetti. Your father’s work?”
“It was.”
“And now the Tate Britain.”
“Christopher Maxwell’s work as well. I informed Constable Lawson of that. Thought it necessary.”
“Of course. It is evidence. Albeit of a circumstantial nature. You like this woman.”
“She is not difficult to work with.”
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”
Ethan rubbed his head and rapped his thumb against the side of the computer. “She’s attractive. Fascinating, actually.”
“And you don’t want to lose any chance you might have of getting to know her better by telling her you are the one thing she abhors.”
The man had a manner of stating the obvious in a calm and stinging way. What Ethan really needed was a friend. A bloke he could hang out with at the corner pub. Shoot the shit. Talk about women. He’d never had a friend like that. Was it even possible to forge friendships at his age and with his inability to trust?
“Sounds like she may need to know the facts in this situation,” Walters offered. “Perhaps I should talk with Dixon. Convince him you should step down from the case?”
“Absolutely not.”
“You don’t have a choice, you know. If the ECU determines—”
“I am involved. The vandal has targeted my family. I am the best person to be on the case.”
“Who is this person?”
“Not sure. He’s not in Scotland Yard’s database. I’ve Chester Clarke executing a search on him, but haven’t heard back yet. So I’m to tell Constable Lawson? Really?”
“It would be wisest. She needs to know exactly what she is dealing with. You cannot hold back details that could be pertinent to the case.”
“Very well. But should she wish to make an issue about it?”
“The ECU will not protect you.”
“Yes, I’ll be thrown under the bus. Lovely bunch of fellows tracking my every move and making my life—”
“I thought you were getting along well with the situation?”
“I am.” As far as prisoner-release programs went, this one was peachy. “Thank you, Doctor Walters.”
“Now let’s talk about your mother.” Walters settled back into his cozy leather chair.
Ethan rolled his eyes. So be it.
* * * *
After the session, which never quelled his anxiety about having been abandoned by his mother at a young age, Ethan dialed Chester.
“I’m unable to match him in the database.”
“That’s unusual,” Ethan said. “The photo I sent was quite clear.”
“It was, but nothing. I’ll keep looking. And I still have the names from the Wexler list to check. That might bring up something.”
“So if you can’t find him, does that mean he’s some sort of ghost? Everyone is in the system.”
“Yes, but not everyone has reason to be noted by the system. He might not use a cell phone or have computer access.”
“Sounds impossible.”
“You said Constable Lawson sent a cup in to forensics for DNA analysis? I’ll tap into Scotland Yard’s database and see how that’s coming along.”
“Yes, and notify me immediately what you learn on that.”
“What was up with the shooting last night?”
“An unrelated incident. Domestic abuse. Miss Lawson was skimmed by a bullet. An officer questioned the person we overheard discussing art theft, but it was just a silly revenge fantasy, apparently. None of the ECU’s concern.”
“Of course not.”
“Thanks, Chester. Over and out.”
Ethan set his phone aside and caught his chin in hand. How could a man be completely off the grid? He had to be a criminal mastermind. Or else, a complete technology noob.
Judging from the quality of work on the two forgeries thus far, Ethan was not tilting toward the side of criminal mastermind. This was most frustrating.
He grabbed his coat and walked down the hallway. Across the hall from the bedroom hung a huge modern painting. It was slightly crooked on the wall. It tended to tilt every time he walked by. He adjusted it and left the flat, headed for Scotland Yard.