Lost Children

by Willa Bergman

  I’m grateful to her, but I can’t even look her in the eye. Quietly I say, “Please don’t tell anyone.”

  “Of course,” she replies. “If that’s what you want.” And she leaves it at that. She tells me she’s going to head in to the office now but to call her if I need her. She’ll let people know not to expect me in today. I don’t want to lose another day but I don’t protest.

  Slowly I rise from the bed and emerge into the living room. In the daylight I can properly see the apartment I’m staying in. It’s a one-bedroom apartment, but I live in a one-bedroom apartment and that is where the similarities between the two end. The front door opens into an enormous living room with a double height ceiling. On one side huge floor to ceiling windows run the length of the wall looking out over the roofs of the nearby buildings; on the other side the wall is dominated by an enormous, oversized fireplace. There are several pieces of art on the walls, one of which looks like a genuine Matisse, and up above the ceiling has been turned into one enormous, intricately detailed fresco. As I enter Hiroki is putting on her jacket to leave, “I told you the place was nice.” I smile quietly and tell her she’s lucky I’m only seeing it now otherwise I never would have gone out with her that first night; I just want to cocoon myself in it and never leave.

  I make myself a very strong espresso which makes me feel a little better and curl up on the massive sofa in the middle of the living room. I don’t move from there for the next hour. With the time I have to myself I can’t stop my mind from thinking about what happened on the street last night. Who was it that attacked me? Why don’t they want me to find the painting? My immediate assumption is that whoever has the painting was the one behind the attack; they don’t like the idea of me snooping around looking for it. It’s no secret I’m looking for it so it’s quite possible that word has gotten around to whoever has it. And if it was them then they’re clearly a very scary individual. But then I consider another possibility. Could Daedalus have been behind it? But how would they know that I’m in New York? Could Geoffrey Webb really be that obsessed with running me out of business that he’d stoop to this? I don’t know which possibility I prefer less.

  I sit there and ponder all these questions, all the permutations and possibilities, and then most importantly I try to work out what I’m actually going to do. On the last question I do at least know the answer, I just don’t like what the answer is. Regardless of the threat that now hangs over me from whoever it is that attacked me, I have to keep going with the commission. The alternative is that Geoffrey finds the painting instead of me and that can’t happen.

  Knowing that I need to press on, within the hour I’m starting to get itchy feet holed up in this ivory tower of an apartment. No phone, no computer, no purse. I call Yan at the office from the apartment landline and ask if she can help me get a corporate phone. By asking her though it means I have to tell her about the mugging which means it will be around the office within the hour. She’s more than happy to help with the phone and suggests she bring it to the meeting with the detective this afternoon. I’d forgotten the meeting was today (the mugging would have at least been a great excuse to cancel it) but I need a phone so I reluctantly agree.

  I spend the rest of the morning cancelling my credit cards, getting new ones sent to this address and working out how to survive without them until they arrive. I also have to file a police report on the attack for the insurance money. Thankfully I have my passport still so it isn’t too difficult to get money out from a local bank to tide me over for a couple of days. When I’m done with all that I go downstairs and introduce myself properly to the concierge and thank him for last night. His name is Eric and he has a kind, warm manner about him. He says he’s glad to see me looking much better.

  By the time I’m done getting myself back up and running it’s already past lunch and I need to start heading over for this meeting Yan’s arranged. The detective Yan has booked us in to meet is a Lieutenant Kevin O’Rourke. He’s a detective specializing in art theft and fraud who works in the Financial Crimes Task Force, which is part of the Grand Larceny Division of the NYC Detective Bureau. His offices are in the NYPD headquarters in Lower Manhattan, near Brooklyn Bridge. I’m less than happy that Yan has somehow invited herself along to the meeting. She tells me she’s so excited to see how I work, that she’s heard so much about all the things I’ve done from Kim and Sam. It’s like I’m working with a superfan, if you could have such a thing in a job like mine.

  I’m not sure what to expect from the detective. I haven’t worked with an art detective before. The only police I’ve ever met have been the heavies who come in and make the arrests when we find a painting. I’m not sure what sort of person ends up as a New York City art detective. I have images of a donut-eating, red haired Irish cop with a thick Brooklyn accent, because clearly I’ve watched too many American police shows.

  I meet Yan outside the detective’s offices. It’s a red brick cube in the Brutalist style which makes it stand out from all the other governmental buildings around it. We both arrive early and thankfully she comes bearing a new company phone for me.

  When we’re done with the inevitable security checks to get into the building we’re told to go up to the eighth floor. There’s no reception or anything but Yan asks a man sat at a desk near the lifts and he points us over to the detective’s office. We knock on his open door but he doesn’t seem to be expecting us.

  “Detective O’Rourke? It’s Yan Cheung, from the Roth Auction House. I called earlier in the week, we have an appointment with you.”

  “Excuse me? Oh right, is that now? Fine come on in, let’s get this done.”

  As we take a seat he tidies away whatever it is he was just working on. He’s tall in the way that all policemen are (I think it’s a requirement), in his early fifties and seems a little world weary. He takes a seat behind his desk and looks at us both.

  “So you’re looking for the Portrait of the Lost Child.” He says with a tired expression written over his face.

  “Yes.” I reply simply.

  “Well I wish you the best of luck in your endeavours, I’m not quite sure what it has to do with me though.”

  Frankly I’m happy to leave it at that but Yan seems intent on trying to be helpful.

  “We wanted to see if there are any active leads you have on the case that you could share with us.”

  He makes a pained smile at Yan, clearly holding back what he wants to say to her.

  “Case? What case? Okay look, even if we did have an open file on this, we don’t share information with the general public about ongoing investigations. However I am going to share a piece of information with you which I would have thought should be painfully obvious, that a painting that was stolen in France fifteen years ago is not at the top of the New York City Police Department’s list of crimes to solve.”

  Thank you Detective O’Rourke, your disinterest in this case is most helpful. Even Yan seems to be getting the hint, but she’s not done yet.

  “Ms Witcham is a specialist in retrieving lost paintings. She’s developed an innovative approach which she hopes to use here that we think you’d be very interested in.”

  I’m really getting annoyed at her now. I didn’t want to involve the police to begin with and the more information I provide the riskier it is this detective is going to have his interest pricked. But it seems I have little choice.

  “Well, the research shows that the standard investigative techniques only have a limited effectiveness when it comes to recovering stolen artworks. There’s typically no cash trail to follow, the artwork doesn’t change hands very often and the objects themselves are easy to hide even if the police can get a search warrant. Our research shows that the most effective way to find a painting that’s been sold on the black market is to present yourself as a willing buyer. Then if you are sufficiently successful in socialising your interest to the market and they believe your interest is genuine, someone may approach you with infor
mation about it.”

  “And what do you do then?” He asks, seemingly still unimpressed.

  “We keep going until we have a positive verification of the piece, then as soon as we do we make our excuses to powder our noses so we can call you guys to come in waving your guns around, collect the painting and cart the bad guys off to jail.”

  “You make it sound so simple.”

  “I didn’t mean to be flippant.”

  He takes a moment to think through everything I’ve just said.

  “And you’ve done this before.”

  “Not in the US, but we’ve been successful now a number of times in Europe using this approach.”

  He thinks again.

  “Look, we don’t like civilians trying to do these kinds of operations. You do this sort of thing, it gets dangerous. Because if you go out looking for this thing, the sort of people you’re going to come across… are not the sort of people you want to come across.”

  “Believe me detective, I have no desire of putting myself in any danger whatsoever.”

  “But you are putting yourself in danger. Whoever has this thing, if they find out what you’re doing, things can go very badly for you.”

  After last night that may have already happened. He’s clearly hoping his little speech is going to somehow dissuade us from continuing our search, but when he sees our minds are unchanged he heaves another heavy sigh and doesn’t push again.

  “Look, I can’t tell you to stop looking for it, I can only give you my very strong advice that’s what you should do. But if I can’t change your mind then please be very careful.”

  “Thank you detective, we will.”

  “And if by some miracle you should somehow discover something that the rest of the art world has been unable to do for the last fifteen years…” he says this with real pain in his voice “then give me a call and I’ll see what I can do.”

  We both thank him again, he seems to have his heart in the right place. Despite his best efforts he can’t quite shake his policeman’s moral code to help.

  As we get up to leave the detective has one more question for us.

  “So tell me, why is everybody all of a sudden interested in this painting?”

  We both turn around to look at the detective.

  “Everybody?” I say.

  “I mean this case has been sitting in a filing cabinet around here collecting dust for the last ten years, but now all of a sudden we have all you guys coming in here asking questions.”

  “Who else?” I ask.

  “I had two guys in here yesterday, both from the Daedalus agency.”

  I can’t believe it, Geoffrey. How is he already in New York? There’s no way he should have been able to beat me here.

  “So can I expect more treasure hunters knocking on my door?”

  “No, there won’t be any others.”

  “Good, because some of us have actual work to do.”

  With that we say goodbye to our new detective friend and head back to the office. After I told Yan about the mugging word predictably got around about it like wildfire, so when I arrive I’m greeted by a lot of concerned colleagues, half of whom I’ve barely said a word to but they’re all very kind. Americans are a lot better at the whole emotional outreach than us Brits. My mind has already moved on though, all I can think about is the fact that Geoffrey Webb is already in New York. My paranoia that he has someone at Roth feeding him information has returned with renewed conviction and I’m no longer prepared to let it fester in the background unchecked.

  I call Kim in to my office. I tell her a client is interested in us procuring a Kandinsky for them from a collector based here in New York. I tell her I may need to take her off the Polignac commission for a couple of days to work on it. I tell her not to mention it to anyone here, it may ruffle a few feathers if we’re needing to speak with some of their clients. She says that’s no problem, she’s happy to help out and we leave it at that. A pretty standard request except none of what I told her is true. We haven’t received any such commission, it’s a test. I’m going to do the same with every one of the team, changing the details of this fake commission for each one of them. And if nothing filters through I’ll just tell them later that the client changed their mind. It may all be for nothing but I’m sick of Geoffrey Webb’s shadow wherever I go. If there’s a leak I’m going to find it.

  4

  The following morning and I’m still annoyed at the news Daedalus are here in New York looking for the painting. I’m not moving quickly enough, it’s already Wednesday and I’ve got very little to show for my days here so far. What’s more this morning I have my meeting with Viktor, another distraction. There’s nothing in particular I have to see him about, but Jo told me to put in time with him while I’m in New York. I need to show my face, kiss the ring.

  The meeting’s at ten and I make sure I’m early for it. Viktor’s assistant is sitting outside his office at her desk with a severe look on her face and something of the guard dog about her. I tell her I have an appointment. She takes a pause almost as if to decide whether or not to let me see him before saying, “His last meeting is over-running, so you’ll have to wait.”

  I loiter outside his office for five minutes before she tells me I can go in. When I enter Viktor is staring at his computer screen typing away at something. Without looking up he says, “You’re late.”

  Good start. So I guess the warm, approachable persona is just for the punters. I sit down and wait for him to finish what he’s doing on the computer. He’s set the tone so I’m not going to try and win him over with any small talk. He looks up and matter-of-factly says, “Jo had to talk me out of shutting your whole team down last month. But she seems to think you’re worth keeping around.”

  Now I’m not someone that tries to milk the misfortune that comes my way, but I confess I was hoping to ride the sympathy wave of having very recently been physically attacked and my life threatened, for a little while at least.

  “We’re all working very hard, though admittedly I’ve been quieter the last couple of days, I guess I’m just still recovering after the attack.” A little bit of passive aggressive memory-jogging.

  He vaguely acknowledges this, something about it being good to see I’m fine now, before going back to his original line of thought. I didn’t sleep well last night and it’s dulling my ability to handle this situation well but I’m with it enough to know my role is just to sit there and take it. There’s no upside to me fighting back unless I’m wanting some cathartic scream at him telling him what an arsehole he is before quitting – and I don’t want to quit. So I just have to be deferential and ride this out.

  “Those targets aren’t nice-to-haves. They aren’t ‘hopefully-we’ll-get-there’s’. You make them or you’re not going to be here anymore.”

  I try to soften him up with the magazine cover article, a little ego massage. “Understood, we’re very focused on the targets and we’ve really seen a spike in new clients coming in after the magazine interview so I’m sure we can get there.” He doesn’t say anything but it seems to help the mood.

  “So why are you in New York?”

  “I’m working on a commission, a painting that an investment fund has commissioned us to look for.”

  “Hmph. Anyone I’ve heard of?”

  “The Orpheus fund. It’s a small fund but they’re working in partnership with Interpol on this.”

  “Interpol are good for publicity, they’re not good for paying the bills. If you’re going to do those jobs make sure you’re getting enough out of them: profile, press. If you’re not then stop doing them. You’re running the team now, that means your job is bringing in new business, meeting with clients, not wasting your time on vanity projects.” Vanity projects, if only. Scrambling for ideas I say, “There’s drinks I’m going to tonight at Yuliya Steinberg’s, it should be a good chance to meet some potential new clients.” He’s momentarily thrown by this, like he’s wondering why he didn�
��t know about the drinks, why he wasn’t invited, but it’s not for long. “I don’t want her trying to put any of her stuff through private sales. I want everything in New York coming to auction, that’s the priority here.”

  My last card to play: “People are still talking about the Summer Launch Party back in London, it really was a fantastic night.” I’m not proud of the sycophancy but at least what I’m saying is true, I did think the party was impressive and having it in the British Museum was an inspired choice, even if I’m sure it wasn’t his.

  Thoughts of the launch party get him started on how everything is going so well with the auctions team and how they should be a model for us, I’ve heard it ten times before. After a while though he loses steam (or interest) in lecturing me and I realise he’s wrapping up the meeting. He begins mumbling on autopilot vague platitudes about appreciating the work I do, that it’s great to have me out here and something about building the connection between the two offices, all completely at odds with the last ten minutes of bile he’s just spewed at me. I thank him for his time and leave, just grateful that it’s over.

  With the Viktor meeting done I can finally focus on getting some actual work done. The best lead I have is the photo that I found at my mother’s and the man she called Carlos. I need to identify him, but with only his first name and a photo I don’t have much to go on.

  I remember something one of the guys in the office talked about once called reverse image searches, apparently all the big search engines now have them. You can upload a photo of someone into your browser and it will run a search for that image against every image the search engine has access to; it uses their face recognition algorithms to match the face in your photo with all the other photos out there containing the same face, the same person. You can then look at these other photos that your photo’s been matched against and see what they’re tagged to. It lets you check that the person in your photo is who they say they are, I think people use it to check they’re not being catfished when they’re online dating. But I think it could also help me find the Carlos in my mother’s picture. The photo is fifteen years old though, that’s not pre-internet but it’s pre-most social media and the Carlos in the photo must be well into his sixties by now. It’s the best idea I have so I decide to give it a shot. I scan the photo using one of the office printers and then edit it into a cropped, zoomed in picture, cutting out my mother and leaving only Carlos. Then I upload the image into the browser and click search.