Suddenly, her eyes flickered slightly. Towards a poster plastered onto the diner’s wall, near the front. It was only one among many that were there, advertising coming events in the city. But something about this one was causing alarm bells to start clanging in her head.
“Shay,” she said abruptly, taking her hand away. “Look at that poster.” She pointed towards it.
He looked confused, staring at her. Then he slowly turned around and studied it.
He turned back to her, frowning. “What about it? I don’t understand.”
She took a deep breath. “The Covenester Art Gallery are showing The Kiss by Gustav Klimt,” she whispered furiously. “A major work of art, on loan from its permanent gallery in Vienna. And the opening of it is tonight.”
His frown deepened. “I don’t know much about art, Tess. Why is that significant for us?”
She took another deep breath. “Take a look at who is sponsoring the event.”
He looked back at it. He had to squint his eyes to make it out. Then he saw it, just above the title of the event. In small black letters.
“Atsere Incorporated,” he whispered, swivelling back towards her. “The name of the corporation that owns the building where you were painting in that studio.”
“Exactly,” she hissed, leaning towards him excitedly. “The same corporation! That can’t be a coincidence, Shay.” Her eyes were glittering. “Don’t you see?”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah, I think I’m following your train of thought. You think that this famous painting is about to be stolen and a forgery put in its place, or maybe already has been?”
She nodded. “Absolutely. There can’t be any other reason! We must go to this opening tonight. It’s the only lead we have on finding out who is behind this corporation. The sponsor of the event must be there, doesn’t it? Or at least have a representative there?”
Shay nodded quickly, catching her enthusiasm. “There’s a strong possibility.”
Tess drummed her fingers on the table, thinking. “This is wonderful. We can slip in and figure out who is in the crowd, and hopefully find the sponsor. We could even follow him home if we figure it out in time. And I can also study the painting and see whether it has been switched yet. I think I would be able to spot it if it was a fake.”
Shay stared at her. “Are you sure you want to do this? Because once you’ve made up your mind, Tess, to investigate behind the back of the FBI, you can’t go back.”
Tess shrugged, picking up her coffee and draining the cup. Then she placed it carefully back on the table, gazing at him.
“We are just going to an event,” she said evenly. “They can’t be mad at me for being an art lover, can they? If we find anything there that is beyond our control, well...” Her eyes hardened. “If Paul Hopkins hadn’t been so adamant that I not contact him again regarding this case I could have told them. It’s their own damn fault that they aren’t following this lead. And someone has to.”
***
Tess gazed around, at the people milling in the gallery. A waiter hovered near her, flourishing a tray of drinks which he held aloft expertly. “Madam?”
Tess smiled, taking a glass of red wine. “Don’t mind if I do.”
She sipped the drink, then turned her gaze back to the crowd. The crème de la crème of society, she imagined. The women were all in smart cocktail dresses, wearing their best diamonds, and the men looked dapper in suits. There were pockets of artists, as well. She could discern them by the eccentricity of their outfits and the way they were clustered around The Kiss in excited clumps. The society folk, in contrast, were more interested in talking amongst themselves, barely even glancing at the painting.
They’re just here to network, thought Tess, taking another sip of wine. See and be seen. The gallery could have been displaying a handkerchief secured by pin tacks to the wall and they would still have turned up, she thought darkly. So much for artistic masterpieces.
Her eyes flickered over Shay, standing in the distance. She almost spat out the wine in her mouth just looking at him. They were both in disguise; they had agreed that it would be safer to not go as themselves. For all they knew, Mr. Gee might be among the crowd, or even someone from the FBI. Anyone. It was a public event, after all, and they couldn’t afford to be recognised.
Shay was wearing a dark wig and false beard that they had secured from a costume shop just before it shut its doors for the evening. They had also found him a suit and some horn-rimmed glasses. The disguise worked, she admitted to herself. If she didn’t know it was him, she wouldn’t have recognised him. She stared down at her own outfit, hoping that it was weaving the same magic.
She had found a dress in the costume shop that was part of a Marilyn Monroe costume: a white halter neck with a tight waist and wide, fifties-style skirt. She had ditched the Marilyn wig, however, and chosen a long black curly one with a sharp fringe. And glasses, as well. They were too big, and slipped slightly when she bent forward, causing her to push them back up her nose constantly. But no one had glanced at her as if she looked completely ridiculous, so she had hoped it was working.
She hadn’t seen anyone she recognised yet, anyway. They had decided to separate to start with and work the room from different angles. Searching for anyone who might represent the sponsor of this event. They were both surreptitiously eavesdropping on conversations as they flitted around the room. Tess hadn’t had any luck, so far, and she could see that Shay hadn’t either.
She walked towards the painting, elbowing her way through the crowd of people in front of it. Time to check out this masterpiece up close and see if it was the real deal. She managed to get right in front of it, squinting as she examined it.
The Kiss had always been one of her favourites. An early modern period masterpiece and the artist Klimt’s most popular work, it depicted a couple embracing, swathed in elaborate gowns. It had been executed in oils, with added silver and gold leaf, which glittered like jewels beneath the bright gallery lights. It was stunning. Tess drew in her breath quickly, slightly overwhelmed.
If it was a fake it was a good one, she thought, tilting her head slightly as she studied it. Was it real? She had never seen the original before, but she knew the work well.
And then, she spotted it. It was so subtle as to be almost indiscernible, but then, she was looking for it. The detail on the lover’s feet. In the original work, the toes and outlines had been emphasised in blue. The detail was still blue on this work, but was it a shade darker? It was almost impossible to prove.
She advanced as close as she could to the work without drawing the ire of the security guards. She was just an art lover wanting to study this painting up close, wasn’t she? She had seen other people do the same.
She looked around, quickly. She had to pick her moment when she could photograph this detail; it had been stated when they had entered that photography was strictly forbidden, and she didn’t want to be thrown out. Yes. The security guard was looking the other way. She placed her phone beneath her jacket over her arm and took a quick snap of the feet in the painting, whipping it away just as the guard turned around.
Tess exhaled slowly. It appeared that no one had seen her do it; and she knew that most of the artists and art lovers clamouring around the painting wouldn’t blame her for taking the chance, anyway. It was only the gallery that would object. She melted back into the crowd, finding a spot to sit down so she could study it.
She narrowed her eyes, staring down at the picture on the phone. She was almost one hundred percent sure. But not quite. Quickly, she accessed the internet on her phone, and found the detail of the feet from the painting that she was searching for. Then she compared the two, flicking back and forth between them.
The feet in the original most definitely seemed to be outlined in a slightly lighter shade of blue. Tess felt a sharp stab of excitement, quickly suppressed. It wasn’t enough proof by a long shot to take to Paul Hopkins, and he wasn’t willing to listen to her, anyway. B
ut it was enough that she knew. Atsere Incorporated had switched the paintings and taken the original. Now, they had to find out who was behind Atsere once and for all.
She craned her neck, searching for Shay. He was surrounded by people, in the middle of a group, and seemed to be chatting freely. They had both worked out aliases, of course. If she had to talk to anyone she was an art student from a college on the east coast. And he was simply a guy who worked in insurance from out of town, who liked the painting. He hadn’t felt confident posing as anything else in this crowd, and she didn’t blame him. Shay didn’t have any in-depth knowledge of art and it would be obvious to anyone who did that he didn’t know much about it. He could hardly claim to be an art curator, or professor of art, or anything along those lines.
She smiled slightly, watching him. He was a good undercover operative; he knew how to make people feel at ease and trust him. And that was the only way to gain information in a place like this. She was just about to stand up and start working the room herself when her gaze was arrested, and her heart suddenly stopped beating for a moment.
She could see Frank Walker in the distance, talking intently with a man, a glass of wine in hand. The man he was talking to had his back to her, but she could clearly see a gold bracelet around his wrist.
The same distinctive gold bracelet that she had noticed on the man who had worn the black beanie at the pier, jumping into the speedboat alongside Mr. Gee. A man who was obviously part of the whole art forgery organisation.
She stood up, suddenly, feeling all the blood drain from her face. Why was Frank Walker talking to him? How did he know him?
They were walking together slowly, inching towards the exit. She watched Frank Walker place his empty wine glass on a table, and then they both left the room.
She glanced around. Shay was embroiled in conversation in the middle of the room. She simply didn’t have time to interrupt him and explain what she had seen. She needed to follow them both, now. Before they got away.
She walked quickly to the exit, running down the gallery steps to the outside of the building. Then she abruptly halted, stepping swiftly behind a pillar towards the entrance. The two men were on the pavement at the front of the gallery, still talking. She didn’t think that either of them would recognise her in her disguise, but she still had to play it safe.
They seemed to be winding it up. She watched Frank Walker step away, taking out a set of car keys. He waved to the other man, then disappeared up the street.
Tess took a deep breath. Could she afford to walk up to him and try to see his face? She was just about to do it when a long black limousine glided into a park in front of him, and he stepped into the back of it. He was leaving. She felt a surge of panic that the only chance to identify him was slipping away. Then she saw a vacant cab out front. She ran to it, jumping into the passenger seat.
“Where to?” asked the cabbie, staring at her.
“Follow that limousine,” she said quickly, taking out her phone and reaching over to snap a photo of the car’s number plate through the front window.
The cabbie raised his eyebrows but didn’t question her. The black limousine pulled out into the traffic and the taxi followed suit, gliding down the street.
Tess exhaled. He hadn’t gotten away. She was going to find out who this man was. And she had an instinct that he was a major player in the organisation. Why else was he being chauffer driven? Yes, he was most definitely wealthy. And an art connoisseur. If you could call someone who stole masterpieces and made a motza from forged art an art lover, she thought angrily.
Suddenly, she remembered Shay, still working the room back at the gallery. She quickly fired off a text to him explaining what she was doing then put her phone away. He would probably be angry with her that she had disappeared following this lead without him, but she hadn’t really had a choice.
He would understand eventually. Once she had identified the son of a bitch in the limousine once and for all.
***
Shay heard his phone beep in his jacket pocket. He smiled apologetically at Mary, the wealthy art collector he was chatting to, and took it out, reading the message quickly.
He frowned, then looked up at the woman. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Could you excuse me?”
The woman nodded, batting her eyelashes flirtatiously, and Shay quickly walked out of the room. His heart was thudding uncomfortably. Where the hell was she?
He read the message again, shaking his head in disbelief. I think I have found one of our players, it read. I’m following him in a cab. Don’t worry I will be fine. I’ll message you again when I have all the details about him.
Shay cursed. How could she have been so stupid to follow this person without him? She had no idea where he might be going, and she was assuming that he was unaware that he was being followed. He might be leading her out of town and then suddenly pull over on a back road and confront her. A myriad of possibilities spun through Shay’s head. None of them were good.
He took a deep breath, then called her. He heard the phone ring out then go to message. She was either too distracted or too busy to answer. Or too sheepish. She would know that he would be angry that she had gone solo on this.
Damnit, they were supposed to be working as a team. Shay dropped the phone into his jacket pocket, breathing unevenly.
“Are you alright, Jack?”
He swung his head around. That’s right. He was Mr. Jack Finch, insurance broker from the boondocks. It was Mary, the art collector he had been chatting to, staring at him.
Shay took a deep breath. “Perfectly fine,” he smiled. “Are you heading off so soon?”
The woman smiled. “Yes,” she replied. “Atsere, the sponsors of this event, are holding an after-party at one of their mansions in the hills. It should be good.” She stared at him. “Would you like to come? My plus one had to bail at the last minute, and you seem like a man who would be up for something spontaneous.” She batted her eyelashes again, smiling at him.
Shay stared at her then slowly smiled back.
“I would be honoured,” he said.
He followed her to her car, and climbed in, thinking furiously. If Atsere were hosting this party it would be an ideal opportunity to find out who they really were. With any luck, the person who Tess was following would be going to the very same party. And he would be able to find her there.
He grimaced. And strangle her with his bare hands. If she was still alive, of course.
Chapter Seventeen
Shay stared up at the mansion, his eyes widening in wonder. In all his years of working in this city he had never even known that places like these even existed, let alone been to one before.
Mary, the art collector, had headed out of the city before taking a right turn, climbing into the hills high above Covenester. They had travelled for another twenty minutes before she had swung the car down a narrow dirt track, and they had approached ornate fifteen foot iron gates. She had slowed down and wound down the window as a security guard walked up, crouching low so that he could speak to her.
“Name?” he said, his eyes sweeping over her and Shay.
“Mary Randall,” she said, smiling at the man.
He had checked her name off the list he held, then opened the gates. They had slowly climbed the track towards the house, which was lit up like a Christmas tree. Shay could see several cars parked along the lawn.
They had gotten out. And now here he was, craning his neck as he studied the mansion.
Mansion was really an understatement, he thought. It was more like a palace. At least three storeys high, it was a twisting mass of metal and wood. Probably constructed by the best architecture firm in the city. Floor-to-ceiling windows ran the length of the ground floor, and he could see a large observatory deck at the very top. There were many people on it, clutching drinks, their laughter snatched on the wind that suddenly whipped around the house. He could see a row of palm trees swaying in the distance.
“What do you think?” asked Mary, standing beside him. “Pretty impressive, huh?”
Shay nodded his head. “Yeah, its mind blowing.” He turned to the woman. “Do you know the owner personally?”
She smiled archly. “Not well I’m afraid. His name is Ivan Davies. Surely you’ve heard of him?”
Shay shook his head. “I’m from out of town, remember?” he said. “And I don’t think that I run in the same circles that you do, anyway.”
Mary trilled then placed a hand on his arm. “You’ll be fine,” she said, in a patronising voice. “Everyone is so friendly, and you love art, don’t you? That’s why you came to the Klimt opening night, after all.”
Shay stared at her. “Sure I do. But I only know what I like. I’m not an art expert, by any means.”
“Who is?” said Mary, walking towards the door. She looked at him. “Come on. I promise you no one bites.”
He followed her into a large foyer, his eyes widening further. He could see a grand circular staircase leading off from it. They climbed it until they got to a large room. He could hear music thumping through the doors, which suddenly swung open.
It was a huge ballroom, with chandeliers swinging dramatically from the ceiling. They cast droplets of light onto the marble floor below, which was clogged with people dancing and mingling. He arched his neck. There had to be a thousand silver balloons on the ceiling, all bobbing as if to the beat of the music.
“Drink?” asked Mary, grabbing two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter. She handed him one without waiting for a reply.
He sipped it slowly. He wasn’t usually a champagne drinker, and he grimaced slightly at the thready, bitter taste.
“Dom Perignon,” said Mary, smiling at him. “Only the best, of course.”
“Of course,” said Shay, turning away from her so that she couldn’t see him roll his eyes. This Mary Randall was just like all the filthy rich people he had ever encountered in his life, and he knew without a doubt that probably everyone in this room would be exactly the same. Why she had extended this invitation to accompany her here was beyond him; his insurance broker cover hardly gained him a golden pass to this place.
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