Master of Illusion

by Nupur Tustin

“Vermeer used hog’s bristles for his paintings,” Julia said. “Should be easy enough to find out what those hairs are.”

  “I’ll have our conservators test for that.” Penny scribbled a note on a pad. “But it’ll take a while.” She looked questioningly at Blake.

  “I’m sure we can find a way to let you keep it for as long as that,” he said. “But let’s see if there’s anything more easily detectable that gives this away as an Underwood copy.” He bent low over the painting, inching the magnifying lens along the canvas.

  He’d moved the lens along the singer’s dress to the black frame around an older Dutch painter’s work that Vermeer had represented on his canvas, when he abruptly stopped, and peered closer.

  The movement made Celine catch her breath. She wondered what the special agent had seen.

  “Dirck van Baburen’s Procuress,” Penny murmured. “I don’t see anything wrong with it.”

  “There’s a signature here,” Blake said. He lifted his head and handed the magnifying glass to Celine. “Take a look.”

  Celine held the lens over the canvas. Had Underwood really signed his name? Now that would be a dead giveaway.

  But what she saw on the canvas made her heart sink as though it were weighted by an anchor.

  On the black frame of the Procuress, painted in a medium blue-gray were the letters “Meer” with an uppercase “I” nestled within the plunging valley of the “M.” It was the most characteristic of Vermeer’s signatures—he’d signed his works in a couple of different ways.

  But what Celine was seeing was the signature he’d most frequently used.

  The Music Lesson had been signed in a similar fashion. On the black frame of a painting included within the work, if memory served.

  Dear God, had she really been so wrong about this work?

  She lightly touched the canvas and closed her eyes. An image of Underwood swam into view again, confirming her initial impressions.

  No, this wasn’t a Vermeer. It was an Underwood. She couldn’t be mistaken about that.

  But what about the signature?

  A possibility—a very remote possibility—occurred to Celine.

  “I guess Underwood could’ve copied that signature.” She stretched up. “Only a handwriting analyst would be able to confirm that, though.”

  “Wait, there’s a Vermeer signature on that painting?” Penny frowned. She turned the painting around to face her and picked up the lens. “But . . .”

  “But the only problem,” Julia said quietly, looking up from her phone, “is that The Concert was one of the few paintings Vermeer left unsigned. Whoever painted this work, it was definitely not Vermeer.”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  “The question is: why now?” Celine considered the painting.

  “What do you mean?” Penny asked. The revelation that the work Blake had recovered was not a genuine Vermeer had clearly come as a shock. The realization that she’d nearly squandered two hundred and fifty million dollars on it couldn’t have helped her state of mind, either.

  Celine looked up. “Underwood’s copy has been floating around since the time of the theft. Why hasn’t anyone tried to capitalize on its presence until now? Why do it now?”

  “Because something’s changed,” Blake said softly. He fingered the frame.

  Penny crossed her arms and looked at their faces. “I still don’t understand. What’s changed? We’re no closer to finding the stolen treasures now than we were before.”

  “You’re forgetting Dirck’s tip,” Blake reminded her. “We were on the verge of recovering The Concert.”

  “Only Dirck was killed,” Julia added, “before he could give it to Grayson, Blake’s CI. The men who killed him were looking for the painting—meaning that they didn’t have the original.”

  Celine was struggling to follow their logic. “Therefore they returned Underwood’s copy?”

  Blake nodded. “Yes, because once the Gardner recovered the original—an eventuality that must look like a strong probability—it would be all over the news. And being in possession of a fake would’ve been bad for business.”

  “Art thieves and their associates don’t have recourse to art appraisers and authenticators,” Julia explained. “All they do have are newspaper accounts that detail the thefts of big-ticket items and their values. With that information, they can use stolen works as collateral or even as payment for drugs, arms, you name it.”

  “Oh, I see.” Understanding hit Celine. “But they’ve been doing it all this while with a forged work.”

  A shadow of a smile appeared on Penny’s face. “There’ll be hell to pay when their business associates discover that fact.”

  Julia nodded. “Whoever’s behind this must be very desperate to find the original. They’ve killed two people—to no avail. Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

  Penny’s face twisted. “And they almost got two hundred and fifty million out of the deal. I can’t believe I was that dumb.”

  “Not your fault,” Blake said. “But I have a feeling your tipster will be calling before long. We’ll need to figure out how to play this thing.”

  Celine’s eyes drifted toward Underwood’s copy—the woman seated at the harpsichord, the man seated near her with his theorbo-lute, and the singer who stood by them. Had Vermeer realized that this serene gathering of music-makers would be the cause of so much death?

  “We need to draw him out into the open,” she said. “And I know just how to do that.”

  Penny wrapped the tight coils of the telephone cord around her fingers. The call had come just as Special Agent Blake Markham had predicted it would.

  “The Gardner has its Vermeer, Ms. Hoskins.” The caller’s voice was deep, menacing. “But I don’t have my money.”

  “I left it where you asked me to.” Penny clutched the receiver to her ear. The phone was on speaker so that Celine, Julia Hood, and Blake could listen in on the conversation. The FBI had made arrangements to track it, although Blake had warned her the caller was probably using a burner phone.

  “The individuals acting on my behalf were arrested for theft, Ms. Hoskins. You were told not to involve law enforcement.”

  Penny licked her lips, searching her visitors’ features. Blake passed her a note; she glanced down at it, dipping her head to acknowledge that she understood.

  “That seems to have been a misunderstanding, Mr. . . .” She allowed her voice to trail off, but her caller didn’t rise to the bait.

  “My name is of no consequence to you, Ms. Hoskins. You may keep the painting. But I want my money. I also want my men out of jail.”

  Penny looked down at the note. “I actually don’t have the painting. I’ve been informed it’s a forgery.”

  “Don’t try my patience, Ms. Hoskins. You know as well as I do, there’s been no time for any comprehensive tests.”

  That got Penny’s goat. She sat up. “It didn’t require comprehensive testing for us to know it was a fake. There were key details the forger got wrong. Besides—” She paused, glancing at Celine. The girl was too young to be used as bait.

  It had been her own idea, of course. But that didn’t make Penny like it any better.

  “Just do it, Penny,” Celine said, her voice barely detectable.

  Penny looked at Julia and Blake, but their eyes slid uncomfortably away from her gaze.

  She took a deep breath and spoke into the mouthpiece. “You may not, of course, have realized you were in possession of a forgery. But even without the details we uncovered, I’d have to proceed with caution.”

  “And just why is that, Ms. Hoskins?”

  Penny hesitated. The thumbs-up sign Celine gave her did nothing to increase her confidence. She drummed her fingers on her desk, hesitating some more.

  “I’ve just received a visit from a young woman”—she took another deep breath and slowly let it out—“She says she’s discovered the whereabouts of Vermeer’s Concert. I have every reason to believe this is genui
ne. Her employer called in a tip to the FBI shortly before he died.”

  “Tips are a dime a dozen.” Her caller sounded amused. Then his tone turned menacing again. “We had a deal, Ms. Hoskins. I want my painting back.”

  “That’s something you’ll have to discuss with law enforcement,” she snapped. “As I’ve already mentioned, I don’t have your painting.”

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Celine studied the mug shots Blake had taken out of a manila folder. John—Shorty—Bruno had well-fleshed features, dark hair slicked back from a prominent widow’s peak, and finely drawn eyebrows. His eyes glittered like black pebbles from slightly upturned eyes.

  They were back at FBI quarters, returning with Blake to see if they could help identify the men arrested at Riverway earlier that morning. Bruno had been tasked with bringing Underwood’s forgery to the Shattuck Visitor Center.

  His partner Frankie—the Tub—Agnello had been the man Blake had arrested outside the Round House with Penny’s leather case. Celine turned her attention to his mug shot.

  Agnello looked older than Bruno—in his forties, Celine guessed. His gray-streaked hair receded from a wide forehead. The fleshy folds of skin under his chin and his flushed, bulging cheeks had clearly provided the genesis for his nickname.

  Julia and Blake eyed Celine in silence as she examined the mug shots. They’d wanted to know whether Shorty Bruno and Tub Agnello had been responsible for Dirck’s murder as well. It was a likely hypothesis, but they needed something to confirm it.

  “Any of them ring a bell?” Julia broke the silence eventually.

  Celine shook her head.

  “No psychic feelings or hunches?” Blake asked hopefully.

  “Afraid not.” She looked up. “I didn’t see any faces, remember? Just hands. But those I remember distinctly.”

  “So if you saw their hands . . .” Julia turned to Blake. “It’s a stretch, but it’s worth a shot, don’t you think?”

  “A hand identification?” Blake’s eyebrows rose. Then he shrugged. “I guess there’s always a first time for everything.” He reached for his phone.

  “What about their fingerprints?” Celine wanted to know. “Couldn’t you match them to the ones found at the Delft and in Simon Underwood’s home?”

  “Already on it,” Blake said as he sifted through a stack of business cards on a chrome Rolodex. “Or Mailand is, to be more precise.” He flipped another card back. “Ah, here we go. They’re being held at the District D-4 Station on Harrison Avenue,” he explained as he dialed the number.

  “Didn’t want to tip off whoever Bruno and Agnelli are working for that this is anything more than theft at this time. Or that the FBI is involved. But if we can confirm those two killed Duarte and Underwood, we’ll have some leverage to get them to talk. Give up who’s behind this whole thing.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on it,” Julia commented wryly. “Enforcers get paid to take a hit for the family. That’s what those two are doing.”

  “Doing time for theft is one thing,” Blake responded. “Going down for murder is quite another. It’s worth a try.”

  “Didn’t say it wasn’t,” Julia said. “Just don’t hold your breath expecting too much.”

  Celine had a feeling Julia was right. Neither Agnelli nor Bruno would reveal who the General was. But sitting back and doing nothing was not an option. “If we can nail them for murder, that’ll be something. And . . .”

  She paused as a thought struck her.

  “Wait! I wonder if Grayson saw their faces.”

  Boston Police District D-4 was a brick building at the corner of Harrison Avenue and Plympton Street. Blake eased his car into the only available parking spot just outside the police station.

  They hadn’t bothered with an armored vehicle this time, taking Blake’s sedan instead. Julia had decided to ride shotgun, leaving Celine with the rear seat. It was a definite improvement to being sandwiched between them, but sitting in the back only reinforced Celine’s sense of being a little girl on an outing with her parents.

  “So here’s the plan.” Blake cut the engine and looked over his shoulder at Celine. “We go inside, take our time. If you think Agnelli and Bruno are the guys we’re looking at for the murders in Paso Robles, we’ll risk bringing Grayson out of hiding to provide a confirmatory identification.”

  Celine nodded. A hand identification wouldn’t hold up in court. But Grayson’s eyewitness testimony would bolster a fingerprint analysis—assuming Detective Mailand was able to match their fingerprints to those found at the Delft and in Simon Underwood’s home.

  “And if we do need him, Grayson can go into witness protection?”

  Blake had already mentioned the possibility of witness protection. But Celine needed to be absolutely sure the arrangements would be made.

  Her nails dug into her palms. There’d already been two violent deaths she’d been unable to prevent. God forbid, that in her quest for justice, she should cause a third.

  “Of course.” Blake held her gaze, but he made no further attempt to persuade her.

  Satisfied, Celine nodded.

  “Ready?” Julia asked softly.

  “Yup.” Celine swung open the car door.

  Inside the station, a Detective Hornby strode out to meet them.

  “We have everything set up.” He ushered them through a narrow hallway into a small room equipped with a television. He motioned toward the chairs, but his visitors ignored the invitation.

  Hornby shrugged in a “suit yourself” gesture.

  “Agnelli and Bruno are in the next room.” He picked up the remote and switched on the television.

  A grainy, black-and-white image flickered to life showing two sets of masculine forearms stretched out on the wide surface of a wooden table pitted with scratches.

  “Cameras have been adjusted to focus on their hands, just like you requested.”

  Celine concentrated on the screen. Agnelli and Bruno were sitting across from each other, the camera cutting off their heads.

  “Never done one of these before,” Hornby broke the dead quiet that had filled the room. “Unusual, isn’t it?”

  “Yep,” Blake replied tersely.

  Hornby subsided into silence.

  Celine moved closer to the television. Her gaze swept the screen from left to right. The guy on the left with the muscular, well-toned arms was Shorty Bruno, she figured.

  “Could you focus on his fingers, please?”

  “Sure.” There was a phone attached to the wall. Hornby lifted the receiver and rapped out a few staccato instructions.

  The image adjusted until a set of short, stubby fingers came into view. Celine gasped as another image swam into her mind. Stubby fingers stabbing a glowing cigarette into Dirck’s worn cheeks.

  She swallowed the nausea that threatened to overwhelm her.

  “Focus on the other man’s arms, please.”

  Intent upon the screen, she was barely aware of Hornby conveying the instructions. The camera shifted up and to the right.

  Tubs Agnelli had huge arms. Not flabby, but the muscles weren’t as well defined as Shorty’s.

  “And his fists.”

  Celine’s eyes followed the moving camera. A second swell of nausea surged up as Agnelli’s large, raw, beefy fists and his misshapen knobby knuckles came into view. His were the hands that had tightened the piano wire around Dirck’s throat.

  Clutching her throat, Celine turned away.

  “Everything okay?” Julia put a comforting arm around her shoulder.

  Celine managed a nod.

  “Oh God, it’s them,” she said, speaking through tightly clenched lips. “It’s definitely them.”

  “Touring churches again?” Ann Revere’s eyebrows arched up as she took their room keys.

  Julia muttered something inaudible as she browsed through a stack of tourist leaflets propped up on the front desk. Ann turned to Celine, who responded by shrugging her shoulders and flashing Ann a quick smile be
fore discreetly scanning the hallway.

  They had returned to the Revere Garden Inn for a quick bite before tackling Grayson.

  “Where is Lillian?” Celine’s gaze shifted back toward Ann. The proprietor now had her nose buried in a ledger in which she was making entries. “We didn’t see her at lunch.”

  All the other guests had gathered together in the Victorian dining room. Lillian, oddly enough, had failed to make an appearance.

  “Oh, didn’t you hear?” Ann’s head remained bent over her ledger. “She checked out this morning.” Ann raised her eyes. “Quite a surprise, that was. We were expecting her to stay at least a couple more weeks. But apparently something came up.”

  “I’ll bet,” Celine said softly.

  Somehow the news wasn’t quite as welcome as she would have expected it to be. Not understanding why, she brushed the thought aside and lightly touched Julia’s arm. “Let’s go.”

  Julia replaced the brochures she’d been leafing through and joined Celine at the door. It was only after they were in their cab that she commented on Lillian’s departure.

  “I’d like to know what took her away, but I can’t say I’m not glad she’s gone.” Julia settled back in her seat. “Now we won’t have to worry about her getting too nosy.”

  “I’m not so sure.” Celine’s sense of unease was growing.

  “What do you mean?” Julia’s head spun sharply around.

  Celine met Julia’s narrowed gaze.

  “It occurred to me,” she said, carefully searching her way around her impressions, “that Lillian may have checked out because she has the information she needs.”

  Julia stared at her.

  “About Grayson and where he is?” Her voice was quiet, but Celine sensed the undercurrent of anxiety that lay—barely hidden—beneath her words.

  “What else?” Hadn’t that been the information Lillian was after?

  “But how?” Julia protested. “We’ve been nothing but careful.”

  “I don’t know.” Her own lack of clarity frustrated Celine. “I just know that she knows. Which means whoever she’s working for knows as well.”