Chapter 15
Olivia leaned over the damaged Rossetti painting, which had been placed on the stainless steel lab table in forensics. She’d managed to secure the evidence collected from the Wexler incident, but only after her superintendent had spoken with the irate gallery owner and promised they would not release this information to the press. Ethan had confirmed the tabloid slip, but he had no clue how it had occurred. His unit did not deal with the press, ever.
Weird. It had to be an employee of the gallery, but she wouldn’t fret about it now. The evidence demanded she look it over. She wore latex gloves and had pulled her hair back in a twist as she looked over the original Beata Beatrix.
Or what was, allegedly, an original. If the vandal had been targeting forgeries, she shouldn’t immediately jump to the conclusion that this one was. And Ethan seemed quite positive it was a work done by his father. If it was a forgery, it must be proven without doubt. She had the gallery catalog and copies of the provenance, which were attached to the investigation files, for comparison.
Howard had made a sweep of both paintings, taking samples of paint, the canvas, the frame varnish, and dusting for fingerprints. Due to Scotland Yard’s work with art crimes, forensics had a few instruments able to detect fluorescing resins, which would signal retouches, but often they had to send items out for further testing.
Olivia was more interested in the details of the original painting. The craquelure was intact, and there was dust in those cracks, both signs of an original. She pressed her fingernail into a corner where the paint had not been damaged from the blast. It was hard. And while an expert forger could harden the paint, not many took the time to do so.
Why did Ethan believe it was a forgery? There were many more details that would give that proof. Dating the paint would be key. Tests would determine if the paint samples contained minerals or chemicals that had been in use around the time the original had been painted. If newer chemical compounds showed, that proved forgery. All those tests required advanced lab work, some that could be done here. She had her work cut out for her.
Her phone buzzed, and she glanced to the screen: Denise. “Yes?”
“I have minimal info on Christopher Maxwell, ma’am. Suspected forger. Age fifty-two. Lived in East London most of his life. Wife left him.”
She knew all that.
“I was able to uncover what the prison sentence was for. He was convicted for murdering a police officer two years ago.”
“What?”
“That’s what I have, ma’am.”
Ethan hadn’t mentioned murder. Only that his father had died a few years ago. “Does it say he died in prison?”
“No details, ma’am. Sorry.”
“Thanks, Denise. Forward me a copy of the report.”
“Already sent to your e-mail.”
Olivia hung up and opened the report. Murder? She should have asked Ethan to tell her more about his father. She’d pressed him on giving her information about the Elite Crimes Unit. A question he had avoided by kissing her instead of answering. Wow. That man had a talent for veering her away from the truth. His father had killed a police officer? That was horrible. Yet, if her father had committed such a crime, she would probably not bring that up in conversation either. But it was important to the case. Ethan should have told her.
Could the vandal be retaliating for the murder? Had he known the victim?
She called Denise back. “The officer killed by Christopher Maxwell—get me all you can on him, please. I’m looking for connections to the vandal.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She hung up and blew out a breath. This new information was startling, to say the least.
When Ethan entered the room and said hello to Howard, Olivia couldn’t help a smile. She’d have to teach him “hello” and “thank you” in sign language. Of course, Howard read lips too. He was used to communicating with people who didn’t know how to sign.
Ethan set a cup of spicy chai on the table beside the damaged canvas and joined her. “I had the interview at the Wexler. Would have gotten here sooner if I could have.”
“That’s fine. I appreciate your forwarding the list the owner gave you. I’ve already assigned Denise to check it out. And my superintendent got a call from Mr. Bruxford right after you left.”
“I don’t know how the vandalism story found its way into a trashy news rag. The ECU does not deal with the media. At all.”
“An employee?”
“That’s what I suspect. By the time I left the Wexler, Bruxford was feeling a bit less murderous toward me. But he doesn’t like me much anymore. Believes I was the one who spilled the beans.” Ethan sighed and glanced over the evidence table.
Olivia inhaled the spicy scent rising from the extra cup. “Is the chai for me?”
“Of course it is. So you got the Rossetti. What do you think?”
Olivia sipped, careful to step back so her chai wouldn’t dribble on the evidence. Ethan’s shoulder brushed hers, and while normally she would be annoyed by a man standing unnecessarily close, she rather liked having him right there. And the memory of his kiss warmed her faster than the chai.
Until she thought about Christopher Maxwell and the murdered police officer. Why not tell her that very important detail?
Ethan leaned over the remains of the forgery, which had been fused to the original along the top and the left side. “He uses cheap oil paints. Tacky. He doesn’t even attempt to copy the master’s use of brush strokes. I may disagree with your assessment that forgers are not artists, but in this case, I am appalled at what this vandal has attempted to pass off as art.”
“Maybe he’s not trying to show us his best? Or maybe this is his best? It could be a disgruntled art student, for all we know.”
“Too risky, breaking into a museum, taking out security cameras, and risking discovery while the guards go on rounds. It’s more idiocy than anything. Hmm…”
He straightened and looked at her neck.
Olivia remembered she’d pinned her hair up. She took out the pin to shake out her hair. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing. I like you with your hair up. Your neck is long and pale, like Rossetti’s muse, Lizzie Siddel. She was a redhead too.”
“Are you trying to flatter me?”
“Isn’t it working?”
“It is, but…” She glanced across the lab to where Howard stood inside the glass-walled office, on the phone. He used a text service for making phone calls.
“Sorry. I forget myself. Easy to do when around you. You smell like flowers and vanilla. Delicious. So look at this.” He pointed to the frayed edge of the canvas, where small words had been written in black ink. “I think it’s either the name of the manufacturer or the store. Can you read that?”
She leaned over, but he didn’t step aside. He was pressing his luck. Both of their luck. He should be more discreet in public. But her worries were forgotten when she realized the words were the name of a local franchise store that sold art and decorating supplies to artists and housewives who like to use glue guns and glitter.
“Hobbycraft,” she said. “They’re all over the city. A big box craft store.”
“Huh. He’s getting his supplies from the old lady store?”
“Young women craft too. You have something against glitter?”
“No, I like a little glitter now and then.” He met her eyes. “But again, I’m appalled at the low-class forgery.”
“It’s almost as if you’re offended for all the forgers out there.”
“I am,” he said.
“I find that strange, since you are the one trying to catch said forgers. Then again, you do have a weird appreciation for them. I can’t figure you out, Ethan.”
His eyes glinted as he smiled up at her. “Do you need to?”
“I’m not sure. Do you also fall in favor of thugs and murderers?”
He raised his eyebrows at her.
She checked her cell phone for the time. “It’s four. And it’s raining.”
“What a surprise.”
She shrugged. “Rainy days are like Wednesdays.”
“Really? Macaroni cheese?”
“Yes, and I like to cook while I’m muddling over the details on a case.”
“Could I muddle along with you?”
“Did we ever get a match for the security camera footage on the vandal?”
“My agency is still searching. It’s almost as if he’s off the grid, which I find nearly impossible in this day and age. And, knowing what we know about his art skills, I wouldn’t put misdirection on his list of talents.”
“Curiouser and curiouser. I admit, I’m stumped. But I’ll have someone check out the craft stores across the city. See how many canvases have been purchased lately.”
“You might want to add oil paint to the list. I’m sure he picked up all his supplies at the same time. I’m going to follow up with my man at home base.” He tapped the Rossetti. “She was his muse, you know?”
“He painted that after his wife died. But yes, he was madly in love with her. Theirs was a tragic love story.”
“Isn’t all love tragic?”
She arched a brow. “Much as I don’t want to ask about your love life here at work, I am worried about you now. All tragedies in your past?”
Ethan shrugged and offered a half-smile. “Never dated anyone long enough to find out. Can I meet you later?”
“My place in a couple hours.”
His smile brightened and he left, high-fiving Howard as he walked out.
Olivia stared at the cup of chai she’d been careful to touch close to the rim, not on the paper holder, where Ethan’s fingerprint might still remain. Should she ask Howard to dust for prints? Was she really so curious about the man that she would stoop so low? Why couldn’t she trust that he was a valuable Interpol agent?
Did Interpol know about his father’s conviction? She did not like it when a man hid things from her.
“Howard.” She approached the office and got his attention with a wave. She signed to him that she had something that needed dusting for fingerprints.