Chapter 2
Ethan Maxwell slowly rolled off the woman he’d tackled to the floor. He felt awful for shoving her onto the hardwood floor, but if she’d been standing upright, the charge that had been hidden behind the painting would have blown up in her face. The explosion had sounded like a gunshot. And the room smelled of smoke and some chemical he couldn’t name. His expertise was not munitions.
Ethan knelt and looked around, gathering his equilibrium and taking stock of the room. He noticed a man to his right wearing white forensics scrubs and holding out his hands as if in shock.
“Yes, that was a bomb,” he said sarcastically. Sometimes cutting remarks escaped Ethan’s mouth before his brain caught up with him.
“He’s deaf,” the woman said as she rolled over. She caught the man in white’s attention and signed something to him.
The man nodded and stepped back.
Ethan stood up, tugged down the sleeves of his navy wool blazer, and offered his hand to the woman. She slapped her hand into his and he helped her up. Upright, she smoothed the skirt of her dress and fluffed her red hair. Ethan noticed that her black dress, patterned with wide, bright red roses, clung to ample curves.
The redhead signed to the forensics man, and he stepped back over to the bench, where Ethan noted a camera, dusting brushes, and plastic evidence bags—standard tools of the forensic trade.
“A bomb?” she said wonderingly as she studied the destroyed painting. “I don’t understand.”
The frame was still intact. The charge had only been strong enough to blow away the center of the canvas—both canvases, Ethan presumed—leaving about eight inches of the outer edges frayed and hanging.
“Yes, a bomb,” Ethan reiterated. “So sorry to have mussed your pretty dress, ma’am. It’s a lovely bit of flowers on you, though.” He winked as he unbuttoned his coat and pointed to the gallery entrance. “Could you please direct me to the investigating officer? I’d like to clear the room of all unnecessary personnel. And a call must be put in to the bomb squad, Miss, uh…”
She offered her hand. “I’m Constable Olivia Lawson, with Scotland Yard’s Arts and Antiquities Unit. And you are?”
“Oh!” Quite taken aback by her introduction, Ethan slid his hand from her grip. His eyes fell to her cleavage, which wasn’t blatant, but there was so much bosom pushed up amidst the red roses, it proved impossible not to notice. Over and over. Then he realized he was staring and blurted out, “You don’t look very much like a constable.”
“And exactly what do you expect a constable to look like?” She sounded annoyed, sliding a hand to her hip.
Ethan had never been a man to bite his tongue. “Perhaps a bit less… lush.”
He ignored her raised eyebrows, stepping forward to inspect the ruined painting. “I saw the overpainting as I was rushing in. Absolutely ghastly.” He turned to see her mouth drop open. “Constable Lawson?”
“It is ghastly. Or rather, was. And who are you, again? I’m the lead investigation officer here, and I don’t appreciate anyone rushing in and shoving me to the floor—”
“You mustn’t get yourself worked up. It seems I’ve arrived just in time. This painting was rigged to blow. When you lifted the corner of the frame, you tripped the detonation wire.”
He leaned forward and inspected the edge of the frame. It was blackened and burned, smelling of chemicals, but the gild was still evident. The scent of solvents in the oil paint rose above the burn. He’d seen this same catastrophe before. Not a week ago.
Scenting a gorgeous spill of candy sweetness that dallied with the turpentine, oils, and lingering smoke that coiled in wisps within the gallery, he turned abruptly and offered his hand to her once again. “Right then. Ethan Maxwell. Interpol. I came as soon as I got the call.”
“Interpol?” she asked sharply.
“A special agent to them, actually. I am an expert on art crimes and forgeries and consult frequently in the London area. At your service.”
This time her handshake was weaker as she seemed more intent on trying to figure him out. Could a woman be more stunning? And…those eyes. Blue. No. Tints of gold within the blue irises fashioned them two stars bursting in the center of a deep blue sky.
“A special Interpol agent?” She pulled her hand from his as if he’d shocked her.
“Special ops, yes. The Elite Crimes Unit. We work with all local and international police agencies.” Ethan wasn’t willing to detail his exact title and position in the hierarchy of criminal investigations. And it was completely unnecessary, according to the ECU’s rules. “I’m situated in London at the moment, so it was fortuitous for Scotland Yard that I could get here so quickly.”
“Fortuitous? I don’t believe Scotland Yard called you. And I had things under control, Mr. Maxwell. I’m not sure what assistance you can offer—”
“Under control? The fact that I was unable to stop you from destroying a valuable work of art should be considered extremely lacking on your part.”
“I had no idea the thing was booby-trapped.”
“Exactly. You should have been more careful with the investigation. Did you at least take some photographs of the painting before it blew?”
He waited for her to work through a moment of anger that tightened her jaw, then she conceded with a nod. “I did.” She tugged her cellphone from her skirt pocket, scrolled to an image, and turned it toward him.
Ethan leaned in, taking in her sweet scent. “As I suspected. Another hasty pudding.”
“Hasty pudding? Another?”
“I’ll get to that soon enough.” He pointed at her phone. “Appears it’s been hastily done with an ugly mashup of pudding-like paint. All a bit of a muck, as is the food stuff.” He looked at her, their faces inches apart. She didn’t meet his gaze. “It’s a hideous thing, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” She moved away from him, taking her gorgeous atmosphere along with her. “It appeared to have been placed over—”
“Pinned?” Ethan noted the painting’s frayed canvas edges. But there were no pins that he could see.
“Yes, there were pins in the corners holding the copy tightly over what I can only presume was the original. The blast must have forced all the pins out.”
“Did you verify that what hung behind the fake was indeed the original before destroying the evidence, Miss Lawson?”
“I don’t appreciate your condescending manner, Mr. Maxwell. I have gone through investigative procedure, as is protocol. Perhaps if you would have yelled to me sooner, I wouldn’t have touched the frame and the painting would still be intact.”
“Forgive me.” He took a step back and hooked a thumb in the front pocket of his trousers. She was right. “I have a tendency to slip into take-charge mode when on a job. But as you’ve pointed out, you are the lead officer here. So we’re going to pin the blame on both of us, is that it?”
“I don’t see blame a necessity.”
“Just so. May I?” He pointed to her phone, and she handed it to him.
The photo clearly showed the pins at each of the four corners of the canvas, which featured a haphazard madness of cheap oils attempting to imitate John Liston Byam Shaw’s exquisite work, Now Is Pilgrim Year Fair Autumn’s Charge. Bold autumn oranges, golds, and reds drew the eye to the scene of an exquisitely clothed woman leading an old harvester pilgrim toward the boat of Time. A cherub representing Love cast a disgruntled gaze over its shoulder at two women lazing on the shore. One of the women wearing vivid orange skirts represented Autumn, and was the focal point.
A rather deceptive scene, Ethan thought. While it was supposed to symbolize the autumn harvest and abundance, he had always thought there was something malicious, even dreadful about the depiction. It was that ghostly figure rising out of the water in the foreground. Come to collect the old harvester’s soul?
He scrolled through the images, pleased she’d taken some close-ups of the brushstrokes and paint. Cheap paints, he suspected. But without examining the evidence pre-explosion, he couldn’t be positive without further forensic testing.
“You think the vandal pinned his forgery over the original?” he asked.
“Most likely. I could see there was a canvas beneath, but I wasn’t able to see the painting.”
“Unlikely the vandal would have switched paintings, eh? It’s one possibility. Though there are a few things to go on.” He stepped forward, gesturing for her to join him. The frayed canvas was burned and would surely crumble when touched. Yet a hint of crackled oil paint showed on the minutest strip of canvas. “The original that you see here is still firmly embedded behind the framework. There’s not a space between canvas and wood, as I would expect with a quick replacement. It is most definitely the original beneath. Or was, as matters are.”
“Your constant need to point out my mistake is not appreciated, Mr. Maxwell.”
He eyed her carefully. Scotland Yard was putting on their soft side with this one. Could that be the reason he’d been called to the vandalism last week at the Wexler gallery? Had the Arts and Antiquities Unit lost its credibility with a woman on the team?
Ethan’s father had always insisted he never work with a woman. They were catty. And emotional. And yet, he tended to ignore such advice. Often it was to his detriment. Though his profession had changed since receiving such biased advice—and his father had been quite the womanizer—Ethan found there were occasions when he hadn’t a choice to whom he was assigned to work alongside. This could prove a challenge. Mostly because he enjoyed women. In any position but that of holding authority over him.
He twisted a look to Miss Lawson, landing his gaze briefly on her cleavage. All that abundance was…right there. Embedded in a burst of red roses. Difficult not to notice. But he quickly adjusted and met her eyes. “Where did you study art forensics, Constable Lawson?”
“Really? You’re more concerned about my education than with solving this crime? Where did you study, Mr. Maxwell?”
He smirked. In all the museums of the world, actually. But according to the conditions of his work for the Elite Crimes Unit, he was not required to reveal his background.
But he wasn’t here to pull rank. He simply wanted to solve this case, and if it connected to another, then put the two together.
A corner of the original canvas had been blown off the stretching boards, revealing the back. Ethan pointed to the burned bit of paper stamp that clung to the frayed edge. “That’s the provenance stamp. It’s terribly smudged with soot, but…” He attempted to read the pertinent details, but most were blown away, and he didn’t want to tamper with the evidence at this stage. “With some careful dusting, forensics should be able to read what lies beneath. I’m going to call it, though. This is—or rather was—the original Byam Shaw.”
Her gasp wasn’t surprising. The painting was valued at millions.
Of course, the constable didn’t know what Ethan knew about the painting. And he wasn’t yet prepared to reveal that information. Not until he could be one-hundred-percent positive. And he’d need a clear view of the provenance stamp, as well as the backside of the original canvas, to confirm his suspicions.
“It’s lost,” she said, gasping again.
“Are you quite all right, Constable Lawson? Do you need to sit down?” He felt her waver against his arm and gripped her by the elbow, but she pulled away from him.
“I’m perfectly fine. It’s just very sad such a masterpiece has been destroyed. But why? Who would vandalize a great work, and then rig it to blow? That’s a strange crime to commit.”
“Vandalizing a famous art work? Indeed, it is. But that was not this vandal’s ultimate goal.”
“Ensuring the piece was destroyed?”
“Yes. And not by his hand, apparently. This case is similar to a vandalized artwork in the Wexler gallery a week ago.”
“The one in SoHo. I only learned about that incident this morning. It was kept from all media and police databases. Tell me about it.”
“Another hasty pudding pinned over an original. The gallery employee who discovered it was not so careful with that one either, and the vandal got what he desired.”
“Destruction?”
“Exactly.”
“I have a request in for details and files from that incident,” she said. “Had I received them immediately, I might have known the other painting had been blown up, and would have been more careful with this one.”
“Unfortunate, truly. But don’t blame me for the roadblocks between Interpol and Scotland Yard. Reports and databases are not my expertise.”
She cleared her throat. Her glowering look spoke volumes. She didn’t like his curt manner? He was being too hard on her. Hadn’t had his morning tea yet.
Ethan glanced around the room and along the right angles where the walls met the ceiling. “The security in this room is minimal, but there are a few cameras. Yet for last week’s vandalism, the cameras were taken out for a period of time. I suspected an inside job. We’ll have to check with security here at the Tate. In the meantime, we’ll being getting to know one another better, yes?”
Her mouth dropped open in a soft sexy sigh. Briefly, her lashes fluttered; then she must have realized what she’d done and drew her lips together tightly. But too late.
Ethan had gotten the reaction he’d been looking for. Oh, yes, this case would prove most stimulating.