Chapter 8
Ethan took a phone call while Olivia walked ahead into the Tate Britain. It was from Hunter Dixon, his boss at the Elite Crimes Unit. The man could be calling from anywhere—the office locations for the ECU were on a need-to-know basis—so Ethan always wondered if they were in the same time zone when hearing from Dixon. Such calls from the boss were rare.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Dixon?” Ethan asked. He closed the car door and leaned on the vehicle as he took in the cloudy sky.
“The Commander suggested I check in with you,” Dixon said in his very American drawl.
The Commander and founder of the Elite Crimes Unit was Lucinda Marx. Ethan had never met her, but had developed a great respect for her after learning she had created the elite unit out of a conviction that felons deserved a chance at rehabilitation.
“Chester Clarke informs me you’ve had an interesting development with the Tate Britain vandalism,” Dixon said.
Chester was one of a handful of technicians who worked from the various ECU bases, handling all the cyber stuff. The man was cocky and too smart for his own good, and Ethan was pretty sure he had some robotic parts in his brain. It was Clarke’s job to track Ethan’s movement and progress on cases and provide back-up when needed. He could call in a clean-up crew or other assets to assist if Ethan asked. It was all done via technology; no need for face-to-face interactions.
An interesting development? Indeed. No sense in beating around a bush that the ECU would gladly light on fire just to get Ethan to talk.
“Yes, sir, the second painting appears to have also been forged by the same artist who did the Rossetti in the Wexler.”
“And your thoughts on that?”
“I haven’t any yet.” Ethan thumbed his chin, casting his gaze across the top of the vehicle. The gray sky promised rain. Or not. London’s weather was like a fickle schoolgirl. “But I won’t be so foolish as to brush it aside as coincidence.” Despite what he had told Constable Lawson.
“Need I remind you that your history is redacted on all intelligence reports, Maxwell? And that a little digging will result in a mess that even the ECU can’t untangle?”
“You need not.”
“More important, the ECU doesn’t need anyone, especially Scotland Yard, learning they’ve been working with convicted felons.”
“You know I always use utmost discretion, Mr. Dixon. I promise I will not falter.” He winced. Had he just lied to his boss? No. He knew where to draw the line. Although it was a long, serrated, forged line.
“Good then.” And the phone clicked off.
Ethan tucked his phone in a blazer pocket and made for the museum. He had no idea what was going on with the vandalisms, but he suddenly felt as if a big red target had been painted on his back.
* * * *
The Byam Shaw had been replaced with Maxfield Parrish’s Daybreak, which, to Ethan, seemed a poor replacement, even though he was a fan of the artist. Parrish had painted the work in the early twentieth century. He wasn’t exactly a Pre-Raphaelite, but he’d been influenced by them. Ethan wouldn’t question the museum’s judgment.
Olivia approached the Parrish to study it. Today she wore a fitted blue dress that teased at his sense of decorum as his eyes kept homing in on the wiggle of her derriere. “If the vandal destroyed a forgery, I wonder where the real Byam Shaw is?” she asked.
“Probably sold to a wealthy old fogey who likes to keep it on his bedroom wall.” Ethan joined her side and gave one last look over her backside before focusing on the painting. “Looks at it every morning and knows he’s got the real thing.”
“I don’t understand that. I do understand the thrill of owning a masterpiece. But he’d never be able to tell anyone.”
“Art can be intensely personal. He doesn’t need to tell anyone. He knows what he owns. That is enough.”
“What made you suspect it was a forgery? You were sure it was the original when first viewing the painting…or at least, you called it the original.”
“As I’ve said, I am an expert on forgeries. It was a hunch, a feeling. Sometimes you simply know.”
“Sure.” She was unconvinced. “Which doesn’t explain why you thought it was the original at first.”
No, it did not. But had he come out immediately and declared the destroyed painting a forgery, there would have been even more questions as to how he knew. Sometimes a small lie was necessary.
“The museum hasn’t released information about the vandalism to the press,” Olivia said. “Keeping with the norm. They don’t want the public to know. I’m used to such politics.”
“You shouldn’t be. But the art world is rife with covering things up. Especially within the structure of the museums and galleries. It’s the reason some artists become forgers, did you know that?”
“I did. They are rejected by the class system in the galleries and art shops, so they decide to teach them a lesson by creating masterpieces that will sell for millions and be recognized as the great masters. Sneaky arseholes.” She stepped forward to study the wall around the painting. If there had been any residue from the explosion, museum staff had cleaned it up nicely.
Ethan tried not to take her comment personally. He was duly aware of how rejection could force a man to a life of crime. His father had once confided to him that he’d dreamed of becoming the next William Holman Hunt when he was just eleven years old.
The time had come to be completely honest. He wanted to be straight up with his partner…as much as the rules of the ECU would allow him to be. His conversation with Hunter Dixon nagged at him. The Commander had asked him to call. Odd. She generally didn’t get involved in the cases. And the ECU knew as much as he knew. Why were they being so cautious with this case? He’d never revealed his past before. Had no need.
This time—he didn’t have to reveal it. But he did need to open the door to allow in a thin stream of light. Olivia could not work the case without the information he possessed. He could work it just fine without her help, but he didn’t want to jeopardize her job. Despite being named the lead investigator, he had been following her as much as she had been following him.
Yet he knew by revealing the truth she would only become more suspicious of him.
It was a necessary evil.
He leaned closer into her flowery scent, and didn’t move aside as his shirt sleeve brushed her arm. Visceral shivers ran over his skin, a delicious thrill gleaned from such a simple pose and in such a public place. “There is some information about this case you need to have. It occurred to me when I realized the Byam Shaw was a forgery. It may be coincidence. I hope it is. But it may not be.”
She turned to him, eyes as bold and blue as gemstones. Damn, she was gorgeous. Did he intend to reveal this sensitive information to gain her favor? Her interest?
Perhaps, but more so, he required her trust.
“I happen to know who created both the Rossetti and the Byam Shaw,” he said. “I also know they’ve both been in circulation for over a decade. As have dozens more by the same artist.”
“You mean forger?”
“Yes. Forger.” Though truly, Ethan knew that the forger had considered himself an artist. “But the man is—was, an artist. There is no denying that.”
Olivia tilted her head, giving him her full attention. Which made this much more difficult for Ethan. Her lashes were so thick, and her lips parted. An utterly sensual move. He didn’t want to disappoint her. To give her any reason to mistrust him. All his life he’d lived under the radar, always being cautious. And he’d learned not to trust a woman…yet always, he sought their attention. And he knew why. He and the ECU shrink discussed it often. It was difficult to rise above the shadows that the past splashed after one’s footsteps.
“Who is it?” she prompted.
Could he trust her? Did he require her approval to work this case?
“Ethan?”
Yes, damn it, he did. “His name was Christopher Maxwell,” he said.
“Maxwell?” She gave it a few seconds thought. “That’s the same… Is he a relative of yours?”
Ethan shoved his hands into his front pockets and rocked on his toes. “Yes. He was my father.”