Chapter 6
“Constable Lawson.”
On the way toward the lift that would deliver her to the bowels of Scotland Yard, Olivia turned around. A tall man with keen eyes, long fingers, and a penchant for blue pinstriped suits approached.
“Superintendent Wellbrute.” He did not look happy. Either that, or his heartburn was acting up. He liked to inform anyone who would listen about that particular malady.
“I just got a call from Camila Wright over at the Tate Britain. Sounds like things did not go so well with the investigation.”
“Things went very well. We’ve secured the evidence and it’s already here in forensics—”
“I understand the painting was intact when you arrived at the museum, but then a bomb went off?”
Of course the director would not allow that to go unmentioned. But that she’d called Scotland Yard to complain so quickly was—oh, hell, she’d had every right. Now to save face.
“The painting was rigged, Superintendent. I had no way of knowing it would blow if touched. If I hadn’t set it off, someone else would have. They could have been badly burned. I could have been burned, had the Interpol agent not arrived and pushed me out of the way.”
“Yes, Mr. Maxwell. Seems he knew something you did not?”
“He worked the Wexler incident last week and suspected this one could be similar.”
“Pity the gallery didn’t call Scotland Yard.”
“Galleries tend to be discreet about things like this.”
“You’re saying Scotland Yard is not discreet?”
“Of course we are. I can only assume they didn’t want the vandalism to hit the media, and you know we are required to release statements….” She didn’t want to get into this. It would not make her case any better.
The superintendent lifted his chin curtly and looked down his nose at her. “Director Wright has suggested she’d like the Interpol agent to head the investigation. I have no issues with that. You may partner with him, but do allow him to communicate with the director from now on. Yes?”
It took all her effort to keep her jaw from falling open. While normally she would protest, she knew the superintendent was doing as he felt best. She had been the cause for the damaged painting. But it tore at her gut to silently nod and agree.
“Of course. But I might request some more information on the Elite Crimes Unit that Mr. Maxwell has said he works for. I’m not clear on his jurisdiction and rights. Can he make an arrest?”
“The Elite Crimes Unit generally consults, which is why you’ll remain attached to this case in official police duty. But do keep your hands off the artwork, yes, Constable Lawson?”
At that, he turned and strolled off, leaving her huffing like an admonished child. It was all Olivia could do to punch the lift button and dash onto it, praying the door would close quickly. When it did, she did not break down in tears, but instead hissed, “Bollocks.”
This was the last thing she needed if she were going to prove she was worthy of a promotion. And that it had been presented in such an irresistibly sexy package such as Ethan Maxwell, she had to wonder if the greater powers were screwing with her right now and having a good laugh.
When the doors opened she marched toward her office, slowing past Denise’s desk as the woman thrust out a cup of comfort. “I forwarded you an e-mail dossier about Mr. Maxwell.”
“Thank you, Denise.” Olivia accept the cardamom-spiced chai gratefully and veered into her office. That woman must have ESP; she always anticipated when Olivia would be back in the office. Chai was usually waiting.
Flopping onto her chair, Olivia took a moment to hang her head and wonder how she’d get through this investigation without tearing out her hair, or, at the very least, telling the good ole boys exactly where they could stick their police batons.
Before passing the Metropolitan Police exam and being officially hired by Scotland Yard, she’d been consulting with them for four years while working at the now-defunct Hawhouse gallery in Southwark. Historically, the Arts and Antiquities Unit was generally understaffed, so it regularly made special deputies of art sellers and experts, and professors of art and anthropologists across Europe. After getting sacked from Hawhouse—which still hung over her head heavily; in proof, Camila Wright’s reaction to her working the case—Olivia had been so intrigued by the investigation work that she’d taken the police exams and passed last year. Now her position at Scotland Yard balanced on her boss’s budget and her ability to prove that she was worth keeping on staff.
“Way to go, Olivia,” she muttered.
But too quickly, the spices from the hot drink rose and tickled her nose, not allowing her to mope.
With a resolute sigh, she sipped and clicked on her e-mail. She opened the dossier on Ethan Maxwell. The entire document had been redacted. All it showed was his age: thirty-four. His address: He lived near Leadenhall Market. And that he had clearance at some of the highest levels in Scotland Yard thanks to an agreement with Interpol. But he wasn’t listed as an Interpol agent. Nor was there any information about the Elite Crimes Unit. Not a single scholarly accolade or college noted. The man could have literally been plunked down into the world with no history whatsoever. Under family, a name had been blacked out. Curious. The last time she’d seen an employee record redacted like this he had been black ops, a suspected spy.
Olivia didn’t like secret organizations. How could she trust that their interests would align with hers? Of course, now that the director of the Tate Britain had made her wishes known, she had no choice but to work with Maxwell. And he did seem to know his stuff.
Almost all his stuff.
The Death of the Grave Digger still bothered her. That he’d not recognized it as a forgery was incredible. By rights, she should have mentioned it to the museum director, but had forgotten about it in the busyness this morning. She’d also been put off to discover Camila had known about her past. The art world was a tight group, rife with gossip, backstabbers, and downright felonious intimations. She shouldn’t have been surprised a major museum director had known she’d been fired from a local gallery for shoddy work that had cost the gallery millions. It was no surprise the woman had called her boss. With Olivia’s tarnished reputation in full view, would the director have even listened if she’d mentioned the Schwabe was a forgery?
Of course, it wasn’t as though she didn’t pass a forgery every time she walked into a museum. They were widespread. It was estimated over fifty percent of the masters’ works had been forged or faked at any point in history, and some were so good it would be a long and arduous task to weed them all out. Museums and galleries were aware of this, and yet tended to turn their heads from the truth in favor of attracting the public to displays the average eye might never realize were fakes, and keeping the bottom line black as opposed to red.
Olivia was sick the Byam Shaw had been destroyed. If only Ethan Maxwell had arrived a minute earlier. Bloody hell. How to redeem herself?
The chai enticed, but she set it aside and closed the dossier on Mr. Maxwell, then picked up another file that Denise must have dropped off earlier. Inside was information about the vandalism in the Wexler gallery. Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s Beata Beatrix had been found with a canvas pinned over it, a forgery of the same painting. There was no way for her to determine the skill or quality of the forgery. There were no “before” photos to reveal the forgery before it had been destroyed. A photo of the crime scene revealed it couldn’t have been a very powerful bomb. The explosion had taken out the Beata Beatrix’s face, yet had left the body and surrounding scene—even the cardinal sitting near the subject’s hands—intact. Yet the gallery employee had received second-degree burns to his face and hands. He was doing well, according to a notation about the hospital report.
“How awful,” she murmured, shaking her head. She thought about how close she had been to being injured in the same dreadful way.
She was thankful Mr. Maxwell had pushed her to the floor, even if her elbow did hurt, and she was sure that later this evening, she’d find bruises on her hip and thigh where she’d directly landed.
She sipped the cooling spicy drink. When a knock sounded at her door, she set the black folder aside and called for him to enter.
Ethan Maxwell had a precise way of entering a room. Stepping in. Closing the door in a swift move. And standing alert as he offered a head nod. “Constable Lawson.” Almost militant. Had he served in the armed forces?
“You can call me Olivia now. Did you find tea?”
“Yes, and I’ve imbibed, thank you very much. I see you are taking a moment to relax as well.”
“Not at all. Just looking through the file on the Wexler gallery job and…” She wouldn’t tell him she’d had him checked out. She clicked the mouse and retrieved a new file from her e-mail. “Marcus has sent the photos from forensics. Have a seat.”
Ethan glanced around her tiny box of an office. It had only one high window, which let in barely enough light to allow mushrooms to grow. Olivia hadn’t bothered to add any personal touches because, really, she never spent much time in this dismal room. To pretty it up might inspire her to do so. Her best work was done on her feet and out on the beat.
She pointed to the short step stool, which Ethan winced at.
“Perhaps we could gather the information and sit out in the lounge, where there’s some daylight?” he suggested. “I feel a bit claustrophobic in here. Though it’s to be expected. Arts and Antiquities never gets a fair shake. How many are even left in the department?”
“Two. Nigel is out with shingles. And we’ve been warned further budget cuts are coming.”
“I understand. Your superintendent spoke to me moments ago as I arrived.”
“Director Wright wishes you to lead the investigation,” she said before he could be forced to announce the dreaded information. “I get that. I have no problem with it.”
“Really?”
“Mr. Maxwell.” She stood, deciding her best move was to be upfront. “I love my job. And I would be crushed if Arts and Antiquities was shut down completely. This case is very important to me.”
“You need to prove yourself.”
“In essence. Though I’ve consulted with the unit for four years as a special deputy, I’ve only recently taken my constable training and been officially hired on by Scotland Yard. I’m the newest to the roster. And after today’s cock-up with the Byam Shaw being destroyed, I’m not completely confident of my standing here. I’ve a bit of a rough time with the men in the department.”
“Say no more. I can only imagine. You’ve the greatest respect from me for putting up with the patriarchy and this…box they’ve put you in.”
“I call it the box, too.” She laughed softly. “It’s easier to laugh than to get down about it. It’s getting close to supper. Instead of heading to the lounge, would you like to stop by my place? I have a big table where we can lay out the files. It is Wednesday.”
“I, er… yes? Is there significance to it being Wednesday?”
“Wednesday is macaroni cheese night.”
“Ah. I have been known to enjoy a home-cooked meal. And I never did indulge in the Chinese. Lost my appetite, for reasons we’re both aware. If you’ll give me your address, I’ll follow you home.”
“Great. Uh…this is not a date.”
His shock registered for about a second before he smoothed his expression to a genial nod. “Didn’t think it was. But I’m guessing you’ve had issues with others in the department taking such an invitation the wrong way?”
“I have. Good to know we’re on the same page, Mr. Maxwell.”
“We are. Olivia. And you must call me Ethan when we are out of the office. Agreed?”
“Of course.”
* * * *
Ethan had stopped before the flower vendors, stared at the bouquets of assorted blooms for longer than most would take to make up their minds, then shook his head and got back in his car. Bringing flowers to supper at Olivia’s place would be pushing their work relationship. Or so he suspected. He’d never held a normal job in his life. Office politics were out of his realm of understanding.
Besides, the woman was a bright flower on her own. She didn’t need those paltry facsimiles.
Right. But he wouldn’t tell her that. He sensed her immense need for respect at work. He would attempt to give her that. But he also could not ignore his interest in her beyond her job. And if they would be working together, he’d have to be honest with his attraction to her. Never had he been attracted to a female he had been paired with on a case; this was a first. And while he had no compunctions about slotting pleasure in after business, he would play things carefully.
After he knocked on her apartment door, it took a minute for her to answer. When she did, Olivia wore a frilly blue apron and titian hair spilled over one eye. She held a spoon laden with dripping cheese. “Come in! Find a place to sit. The work files are over by the window. I’m just putting the macaroni cheese in the oven.”
She swung across the living room and into the kitchen, deftly avoiding the stacks of books, DVDs, and assorted ephemera that seemed to pop up everywhere: on the floor, coffee table, couch arms, under tables, and even on the chair cushions.
Feeling like an explorer embarking on an adventure, Ethan carefully stepped inside. He spied the table because it sat before the only wall with windows. Stretching his step to avoid a stack of books, he noted that most of the stacked and scattered items seemed to be art-related. The air smelled like cheese and…bacon?
He was suddenly starving.
Dropping his wool blazer on a chair piled with rolled posters or maps, he made his way to the table and observed how neatly the case files were laid out. And the woman had appeared quite put together earlier.
Now? It was as though she’d released her confining bounds by the corset strings and had allowed her soul to spill free. He rather liked it.
Touching the photo of the Byam Shaw featured in the Tate Britain’s catalog, he saw that she’d circled a section of the sky in the upper right corner. Hmm… So she’d done some research since arriving home. Not just another pretty face.
Olivia appeared at his side, and a fluff of her hair brushed his cheek as she leaned over the table and tapped the same photo. “That’s what has been bothering me since looking over the painting in the forensics lab. I found the museum catalog.” She pulled the catalog before her. “But I know I have an art history book around here somewhere. I need to find that. It should be about twenty minutes in the oven. Are you hungry?”
“Most especially. It smells delicious.”
“Bacon and peas in tonight’s concoction. Every Wednesday is macaroni cheese night. I’m on a quest.”
“A quest?”
“To find the ultimate macaroni cheese recipe. It’s my favorite. Do you have a favorite comfort food?”
“Uh…” He hadn’t ever given it a thought. As a single man, he either ate straight from the microwave or picked up take-out.
“You’re the classic bachelor,” she said. “Didn’t your mother cook something for you that you could have eaten every day?”
“My mother left when I was five. It was just my father and me. The man was…” No need to explain his father’s wild and erratic mien. Ethan could look back over it now and diagnose his father as bipolar, with a healthy dose of womanizing.
“I’m sorry about your mother,” she offered. “Same with me. I mean, it’s always been just me and my dad. I actually never knew my mom because she was out of the picture when I was one. I think it’s over here.” She wandered off, leaving him to contemplate her easy offering of such a personal fact.
It had been extremely hard for Ethan to adjust to living without a mother to comb his hair and make him marmite crumpets and to kiss him on the cheek and ruffle his hair when he’d stubbed a toe. Dads didn’t know how to do those sorts of things. Dads tended to teach their sons to explore the Pre-Raphaelite artists and master the art of forgery. At least, in Ethan’s case, that was how it had gone over.
But at least he’d known his mother. To have never known one? A bit sad.
He turned to find Olivia bent over a double stack of books piled against the white clapboard wall near the front door. She still wore the flowered dress, and it hugged her ample curves like a dream. He marveled as she stretched up on her bare tiptoes, and how her derriere wiggled as she sorted book by book. His thoughts suddenly segued into a surprisingly sexy librarian fantasy.
“This is the one,” she said, standing and paging through a fat volume.
What would she look like holding that book while naked?
“Ethan?”
He shook away the fantasy. “Yes?”
“As an expert on forgeries, didn’t you find anything that stood out on the Byam Shaw?”
Indeed, he had. But he’d thought it would go unremarked. Ethan swiped a hand along his jaw, chasing off the fantasy and chiding himself for the random thoughts. They were working. And he’d best not forget that. Hell, he had best be forthright with the woman regarding his conclusion to avoid unnecessary suspicions and questions during the case.
“There are always things that make me question. No matter the painting. No matter the artist.” But he never played all his cards on the first deal. “Tell me what has got you so curious.”
“I’ll show you if I can find the picture….” Book in hand, she wandered behind the comfortable blue jacquard sofa, which paralleled the kitchen counter. Though the sun was setting, the room was still bright thanks to the west-facing window. “Here it is. And…yes. Just as I’d suspected.”
She placed the book on the table beside the catalog photo and stepped back. She was obviously waiting for him to notice what she had noticed. Which he had known already. Or, at least, had suspected.
Ethan made sure he did not look at the image in the book too long, because he did have his pride, and he didn’t want to appear lacking in knowledge. “The sky,” he offered. “It’s not the correct shade of blue. Perhaps even completely different paints were used to achieve the color, but not quite.”
“Yes. You were suspicious about the painting in the lab. Why didn’t you say something?”
He smoothed his hair and summoned an excuse. “I wasn’t sure. Of course, we only had the canvas edges to go on, and the residual burns and smoke could have altered the canvas. I intended to do some research on it before bringing it up to you.”
“Uh huh.” Not convinced. “Well.” She tapped the picture in the book. “This book was published in nineteen eighty-two. Well before the museum catalog that features the Byam Shaw. The picture in the museum is a fake.”
“Forgery,” Ethan corrected. “A fake would indicate a new work emerged by an artist that’s never before been seen. Forgeries pay homage to a master’s past and known works.”
“Pay homage?”
“Yes. Forgers serve the masters a tip of the hat when they recreate their originals.”
Olivia snorted. “Forgers are criminals, nothing but.” She tapped the photo of the bomb-damaged Byam Shaw. “It’s a forgery. Which, if forensics proves my suspicion, will give me great relief.”
“Why so?”
“Then I will know that the original was not destroyed.”
“Right.”
“Of course, where the original is, is another question. I wonder if the vandal switched out a forgery for the original before pinning yet another forgery over it. No. Too complicated.”
“I agree. And too much to have to carry into the museum. The pinned canvas might have been rolled up and easily hidden. But to replace a displayed painting with another canvas stretched on a frame? Absolutely not.”
Olivia sighed but nodded. “So many forgeries. Which, again, we both know is not uncommon to find in museums. After all, The Death of the Gravedigger was hanging in the Tate, too. Surprising, though, that the vandal selected this particular painting. Another Pre-Raphaelite artist. You’d said something about a group trafficking in forged Pre-Raphaelites?”
“Actually, a variety of works created around the Pre-Raphaelite time period, but not necessarily by the Brotherhood. I’ve been following them for the past year. Not a lot of activity. Some sales to wealthy dupes. A particular nab from the Lobkowitz-Palais in Prague that replaced a William Morris with a forgery. But no vandalisms until now. Are they related? I don’t know. But it’s something to keep in mind as we navigate through the evidence.”
“Have you notes and files on the group of traffickers?”
Ethan tapped his skull. “Right here.”
“Seriously? So you’ve not taken anything down. It’s just a wild suspicion of yours?”
“I wouldn’t exactly go with the descriptor wild. And yes, I do have official files documented with my unit.”
“I see. And now you’ll tell me that is Interpol’s investigation and not Scotland Yard’s, yes?”
“Exactly.”
Olivia sighed heavily, then snapped her fingers. “Let me see that file on the Wexler incident again.”
She sorted through the information, taking particular note of the photo of the Beata Beatrix. A good portion of the canvas had been preserved. It appeared as if the bomb had merely punched a hole in the subject’s face, leaving the rest of the canvas burned but still identifiable. It was easy for an expert to spot the duplicate.
“Seriously?” She turned the photo toward him. She tapped the thin gold halo above the cardinal’s head. It was more oval than the rectangular round of the original painting. “Did you note this as well, and intend to do further research?”
“I knew that one was a forgery before arriving on the scene of the crime.”
“You did? How? It’s not mentioned in the report I was sent.”
Ethan shrugged. “Insider information? There are just some paintings a person knows are forged. As you’ve said about the Gravedigger. At least, that is what you believe. I happened to have seen the Rossetti months before its destruction, and at the time had guessed it was a forgery.”
“You should have told me that immediately. Would have saved me some angst.”
He shrugged, unsure how to salvage this one. Putting out the truth was not going to be easy for him. Nor must he tell all the truth. The ECU wouldn’t allow it.
She set down the photo and leaned her palms on the table. “Two forgeries targeted for vandalism. I don’t think that’s a coincidence. Do you? I really need those notes from your head, Mr. Maxwell.”
“We are back to formalities so quickly? Have I offended you, Olivia?”
“No, I’m just…this has been a long day filled with unwelcome surprises. I’m sorry. I’m still feeling a bit off to know I was the reason for the destruction of the Byam Shaw.”
Olivia would never allow him to hug her, so Ethan mined his most staunch efforts and instead merely pushed a strand of hair away from her eyelash and over her ear. “It’s done. And we’ve decided it is a forgery.”
“But it’s not been confirmed.”
“Let’s go with my hunch that it is indeed a forgery. Will that lessen the guilt you’re feeling?”
She managed a weak smile. “For the moment.”
He hadn’t given it a thought until his suspicions arose in the forensics lab earlier today. Olivia had just confirmed that. And the fact he knew exactly who had forged both paintings?
He pointed to the kitchen. “Do you have tea?”
“Help yourself. There’s a kettle in the cupboard beside the fridge.”
She remained before the table, studying the evidence.
Ethan peeked into the oven at the bubbling supper and wondered how to balance what he could tell her and what was confidential. What he knew about the forger would expose too much of his own history, which wasn’t necessary to solving the case. Or was it? What was going on? How could the vandal have selected two paintings fashioned by the same forger? A rather unknown forger who had prided himself on the fact he hadn’t gained any amount of fame for his work. Works that, while the forger was dead, still hung in dozens of museums across Europe.
What was the vandal up to? Was he aware he’d chosen two paintings by the same culprit? And when would the man send out a message to explain his bizarre behavior?
Unless he already had.
“Deep thoughts?”
He startled as Olivia spoke from right beside him. She smelled sweet.
“Yes. I tend to fall away from the world when I’m thinking about a case. Sorry.”
“Let’s sit down and eat and talk some more about what the bloody hell is happening in London’s museums with the attack of the hasty puddings.”