Chapter 20
After locating the catalog in the archives and confirming the dates Ethan had given her for when the museum had received the painting, Olivia took photos of the catalog and its pages. It had looked authentic. But she’d need to request the catalog be taken in by forensics to determine if it had been altered.
She found Ethan in the security room where the footage for last night had already been queued. Ethan paced as she watched the vandal cross the gallery floor and hastily pin the forgery over the Millais.
“Was there only one security guard on duty last night? You do have security working twenty-four hours, yes?” she asked the guard who operated the replay for them.
“Uh, ma’am, Layton Trixle was on shift last night and his wife went into labor...”
“Yes, I was told. But was there no one to take his place on shift?”
“He left immediately, and it took about forty-five minutes for Rupert to come in. Rupert was already sleeping, ma’am. Woke him up, we did. He’s usually a morning shift guy.”
“Might we speak with Rupert?” Ethan asked, still pacing.
“Yes, please call him back in to the museum,” Olivia said.
“I believe the director has already done so, ma’am. He should be here soon.”
“Stop the footage right there.” Olivia leaned over the cameraman’s chair and eyed the grainy video. The vandal had been careful not to turn his face toward the camera, but she noted the Rolex watch and the diamond earring. “It’s the same person, Mr. Maxwell.”
Ethan nodded and stopped pacing. “I’ve taken note of the watch and earring. Were any of the entrances tampered with? Locks? Windows? Both basement easements and rooftop access? From where does the vandal enter on the other footage?”
“I’ve watched all the footage from last night, and he only shows up in the gallery where the Millais is featured. No signs of forced entry, and we’ve got cameras on all points of entry. Only thing I can guess is he came through the ceiling.”
“Yes, I noted the ceiling panels in the gallery,” Ethan said. “Air ducts and ventilation shafts hidden by those panels?”
“Yes. But it would be a tight squeeze.”
“Our vandal may be a small man,” Ethan said. “It looks like he is less than five-foot-nine from those tapes, and he’s slim.” Ethan stepped beside Olivia to peer at the video screen. “I don’t think it matters how he got in, or when.”
She looked at him, surprised. Everything mattered in an investigation. One small thread from a torn piece of clothing left in an air duct could lead them to a tailor and, thus, the vandal.
“It’s just that we already have a clue,” he said. “I think our smartest action will be to learn what’s going on inside here.” He tapped his skull. “His motives for desecrating works of art. We’ve established he prefers one specific art period. A very small selection of painters. And forgers, as the case may be.”
“Then let’s get to it. The bomb squad should have removed the painting by now. It’ll be taken to Scotland Yard.”
Ethan thanked the security guard and confirmed that a copy of the footage would be sent to Scotland Yard.
He liked the freedom of not working for Scotland Yard, yet having the access to their facilities. He couldn’t imagine working under someone and having to go to the office every day.
Outside the security office, he took Olivia’s arm to keep her from rushing ahead. “I feel involved in this case on a level you cannot comprehend,” he said quietly “My father has been implicated in the oddest manner. And I am constantly racking my brain as to why. I do apologize if I seem distracted. I am. But I promise my utmost attention always.”
“Thank you.”
“I feel as though I am crossing some ethical family line. Which bothers me, because my family has always lacked ethics.”
She smiled. “Welcome to the club. I know you and your father were close. I can’t begin to imagine how difficult this must be for you.”
“You needn’t.”
“I might have to. You are an official part of this investigation, Ethan. I should have you taken off the case. But I won’t. I need what’s up here.” She tapped his temple. “But don’t test me, because I promise you, my roar will surprise you.”
With a serious tilt of her head, she strolled toward the gallery to check on the activity.
* * * *
“What did you find in the archives?” Ethan asked Livi as they exited the museum. He’d taken some time to wander through the museum, checking for points of entry, and coming up with nothing. He’d leave the complete forensics investigation to the recovery team.
“The provenance on Lorenzo and Isabella was flawless,” she said.
“Of course it is. The painting was likely switched before it even arrived at the National Gallery.” He directed her to his parked car. “Can I drive you to Scotland Yard?”
“I did drive here, but…” She exhaled, then nodded. “Yes. We need to talk.”
Over the car’s hood, she gave him a look that poked daggers into his heart. Well deserved, he supposed. The fact that she’d accepted his offer to drive her back to Scotland Yard was utterly amazing. She did want to associate with him. But how much, he’d yet to decide.
“Tell me this, did you create the provenance stamp?” she asked.
In for a penny; in for a pound. Not much left to hide. “Yes. And I take a certain pride in my work. It’s why I’m not famous or even known. I am much a phantom, you see.”
She lifted an eyebrow in disbelief. Or maybe it was utter disgust.
Ethan sighed and gestured her into the car. Once inside, he didn’t immediately start the engine but instead turned to face her. She was undone. She obviously hadn’t taken the time to run home and fix herself up after their afternoon romp. Yet, she still looked put together, but paler, more natural. He liked that. So much so, he had to place a hand over his other hand to keep from brushing the curl of red hair that coiled over her ear.
“I’ve never done what I do for fame,” he insisted, because it was necessary he explain. “Most forgers tease at the fame, the coy play between the authorities and themselves. I do it because I can, and because I’m good at it. Because it is all I have ever known. I grew up knowing only the art of painting and honoring the great masters through copying their works. Or rather, I did do it. I haven’t touched a brush in years. Unfortunately.”
She remained quiet, but her eyes and silence told him she wanted more. All of it.
“I’m not allowed near paints and canvas,” he offered. “Part of the agreement I made when the Elite Crimes Unit pulled me out of my prison cell and made the offer I couldn’t refuse. Work for them for the remainder of my twelve-year sentence or…occupy the plot next to my father’s tombstone.”
“Twelve years,” she said. “That’s an awful long time for forgery. Most forgers get a slap on the wrist and a few years.”
“Yes, well, I wasn’t convicted for an art crime, but rather, murder.”