Uncertain what to do with this I stilled. Chavez, in a soft baritone voice, calmed her concerns.
“Ma’am, we have your statement. If your niece’s friend fails to come back, we will follow up with a BOLO. If need be, and you are concerned when he returns, we can interview him ourselves.”
And there you have it. Jude will flip his shit. He dislikes Aunt Mary to begin with, spends as much time away from her as possible and soon will have the police asking him questions.
“Good! Now. Emma, this Chinese food is not going to eat itself. Let’s sit down and eat. Did you offer the detectives dinner?”
God. Where is her pill? And what if they believe her and come back to demand further interviews?
“Gentlemen, I can vouch that Jude is not a Russian spy, and Aunt Mary is a little excited. My responsibility. I have her medicine right here, and in an hour, she will be just fine.”
Both turned their toes the direction of the doorway not wishing to be trapped any longer and gave their thanks for the offer, refused it, and left. Something in Detective Marino’s expression was unreadable, but still spoke volumes. Something told me I hadn’t seen the last of him.
Finally, the pill had kicked in, and she was back to normal.
“Emmie, Detective Chavez is not married. At least he’s on the right side of the law,” she informed me as she crammed sesame chicken in her mouth.
“Thanks, but I am off men once I get untangled from Jude. When you wrap up dinner, there is medicine for bedtime with your name on it,” I warned.
“Suit yourself. But if you are throwing Chavez back in the pond, I’m going fishing.”
All I could do was drop my head into my palms.
Cillian
SOMETIMES SHARING A HOUSE WITH someone has its benefits. But Jackson, for all his compulsive behavior as an agent, is a slob at the home we shared for this assignment. Point in fact, because of his pile of papers strewn about it took three rings for me to find my phone. I couldn’t miss the call from our agent in Miami who of late had a hard time communicating. Engaging it before it went to voicemail I captured the information needed.
“Marco said the El Greco is still at a standstill in Miami. That is worrisome. Why are they having trouble getting the money in play to move it? Do you know Roberts?” I asked and Jackson shook his head.
“He works the antiquity part of our group and he said they have a shipment of looted antiquities coming out of Syria that will arrive in Turkey later this week. It seems like the transporters set it up so once it crossed the border into Turkey, they would move it north to Izmir. From there, the point of departure was to Athens, Greece. But it appears the Turks will intercept the load coming in at the Syrian border. With all the unrest going on in Turkey, they don’t want to chance it that it will enter and then they will lose it. That’s good news for us, because the movement from Athens to New York is just too easy. Last month alone they confiscated three million in looted Iraqi antiquities in a lower Manhattan warehouse. These thieves are not the brightest bulbs. Next up, the bulletin update says Vermeer’s The Concert and a Picasso that was stolen off a yacht in Nice might be in Lyon, France, but not our worry yet. New York reports they have an inquiry on three Van Goghs and a Pollock. That’s all the new stuff. You know what happened to the Roman bust they were authenticating?” I turned to Jackson as he prepared for his run.
“Yes, they ran it through an ultra-sensitive X-ray machine again. This time they found a thingamajig in the image which couldn’t have been around during Roman times. Why are you asking me? You’re the Art Crimes guy,” Jackson asked me as he laced up his shoes.
I smiled knowing he was still involved in the art world and crimes associated with art because he had a thing for antiquities.
As he prepared to plug his earbuds into his cell and head out the door, I saw him thumb through his emails and suddenly stop.
“Whoa, get this email. I have a buddy in Maine’s detective unit, and he wanted to alert me he thinks he found something fishy in a house in Maine. He thinks, get this, a guy named Jude White has high-dollar paintings displayed on his walls. If they are the real deal, they’ve been untraceable in the art market for years. He wanted a closer look but felt they didn’t have probable cause to take it any further because they were not on any stolen art registry. Says our Emma wouldn’t let him take the canvas off the wall to search for stamps and tags on the back to give some clue toward the history of the canvas. She seems to think that White brings the paintings home before he ships them off for sale. His partner, Marino, thinks she might be part of some network.” As he read the email aloud I crossed the room to see if he was joking around.
“Give me that thing.” I grabbed his phone and read the email again. “Holy Shit. He is claiming a Van Gogh, a Gauguin, and possibly a Pollock that no one has claimed to have seen in years are in her house. What the hell? Why wouldn’t she let them check the back? That doesn’t sound like Emma. What do you think? Should I let Thad know? Legally she was right to not let them search the back of the paintings for the provenance if the paintings in question aren’t on any stolen art list. Certainly, they are on the ‘where the hell did they go’ list which raises suspicion. They are in plain view. Why didn’t he assert the plain view doctrine?” I asked.
“Beats the hell out of me. Chavez noticed the one painting while he was walking around and asked about it. She said it had been in their home for about a week. Is there any way you can get an invitation to her house to confirm the paintings in question and somehow find a way to have her remove them from the wall?” Jackson suggested.
“I think so. Aunt Mary is visiting Emma. Emma also said White hadn’t returned home so I might have a small window,” I said.
“Do it. Could this idiot be so arrogant to display these masterpieces in his home under Emma’s nose?” he asked. He stood and looked ready for his six-mile run.
“Sure. If no one ever visited their home, who would know? And how would Emma know if something was an original or fake? She teaches art history. She doesn’t authenticate art. Forgers are so good in today’s day and age no one wants to even offer their name as an authentication expert and open themselves up to get sued later when it’s discovered as a fake.
“Remember in 1997 when they investigated forty-five Van Goghs at the MOMA and Van Gogh museum in Amsterdam and found out they were fakes? Every one of those paintings had to pass the intense scrutiny of the museum staff yet passed with flying colors. There are many excellent fakes out there. Who can tell any more without fifteen types of scientific data? The La Bella Principessa was finally accepted as an original Leonardo a few years ago, and just to mess with the people authenticating it that jack-wad Shaun Greenhalgh tried to get it attributed to him as one of his forgeries. Let’s not forget Beltracchi who sold hundreds of forgeries to museums and auction houses with the crème of the crop staff authenticating the works and he made millions on his forgeries. With all his paintings still unaccounted for and hanging in museums worldwide that whole mess of a case will never close during our lifetime. If paintings have fooled experts at auction houses, how would Emma know? He sells art so it would seem natural he would keep it in the house for his enjoyment while waiting to sell it.” Handing him his cell, I thought hard about how I would get an invitation to Emma’s house. I had to find a way inside before Jude came back. How long would he leave the artwork on his walls before they had to be moved?
“I’ll find a way in, and I hate to do it, but I might need to use Mary as an excuse. I’ll email Thad and let him know,” I said.
“Okay, I’ll answer Paul’s email to let him know you’ll follow up,” he said. He finished his email response to Chavez and then left for his run.
I texted Emma, hoping for an invitation to her house, and waited for a response.
Emma
ANOTHER RESTLESS NIGHT CAUSED BY endless tossing and turning.
I checked my phone for messages from Jude which proved to be fruitless again. Should I l
eave Jude a message about the police questioning the paintings, hoping it might pique his curiosity? Or will that incite his anger, leaving me in a place emotionally unable to deal with his temper that had become explosive whenever I questioned his whereabouts.
As I watched the digits on the clock hit five thirty, my mind gave my body permission to start the day. As I slowly crawled from under the covers, it struck me Jude and I had not shared a bed for eight months. Why had I stayed so long? Why had he let me stay? Was he having sex with another woman or women? Probably so, but the sad part was I no longer cared.
I pulled aside the curtain and peeked out over the manicured lawn to where it met the lake.
As I stepped closer to look out the window, I saw a canoe with what appeared to be two men on the lake rowing for all they were worth. I watched with curiosity as they tried in an uncoordinated comical manner to move the canoe across the lake. I also wondered what the hell they were doing out there this early. Thank God Aunt Mary was asleep. She would’ve been up spying on the men in the canoe with her opera binoculars, sure they were communist spies surveying the coast. I hoped her new medication would put an end to the spy nonsense.
Later that morning, Aunt Mary came down for breakfast.
“Are you ready to take those paintings down and see what’s on the back?” Mary placed her coffee on the table next to the pills I had left for her and waited for my answer.
“Ready when you are, but take those pills first,” I said as I went over to pour myself a second cup of coffee.
“Good. I thought you were about to argue about some private property drivel like you gave Paul last night,” she said with a crooked smile.
“Don’t be crazy. I just didn’t want them to confiscate the paintings. I would have to explain that to Jude when he gets home. I’m as curious as you, so drink up,” I said as I motioned at the pills on the table.
Aunt Mary took her pills and we walked to the first painting. We moved the couch away from the wall to move closer to the canvas.
“Let me get the step ladder. Wait here,” I said as I turned to grab the ladder from the hallway closet.
When I returned, Mary was studying the painting.
“Okay, it’s only two feet by two feet, but the frame is heavy. I’ll lift, and you help me guide it down.”
The frame took maneuvering, but we removed it from the wall without a ding to the wall paint.
“Here, help me turn it,” I said. As we turned it, I recognized the H frame used by European artists. The canvas was beige from time. What I had not expected were the stamps. “Grab my phone. I’ll take photos of these stamps and see if I can trace the authenticity back to a specific gallery or exhibitions. I don’t see the name Schuffenecker which would raise a red flag, but I also don’t know what these are specifically. The original painting had passed through so many hands, Nazi’s included. It might take a while to track these stamps down. I googled the painting itself last night. Christie’s sold it in 1990, and they might have documentation which will cut my research time in half,” I said as I studied the brushstrokes. The strokes were quite similar to other Van Gogh works from the 1890s, and his signature looked authentic.
“What about the other one?” Mary asked.
“Let’s see what I can find out for this one before I disturb another. If you can lift that side up at the edge, I think I can loop this wire through the catch.”
With some effort, we rehung the canvas. I looked through the photos on my phone to ensure the images of the stamps and tags were clear. After we finished our meeting at the bank later, I could research.
French toast was Aunt Mary’s favorite. I prepared it for her while I discussed our trip into Boston. I had promised her a scenic drive and visit to the outlet mall. When I explained the safe deposit box and that the FBI was involved, she jumped up, showered and dressed in half the time it usually took.
A trip to Boston involved her carrying a concealed weapon in her bag. One time it was a butter knife, another time a spork. But after hearing a federal agency was involved, she agreed to ride along unarmed.
Traffic wasn’t bad. We listened to country music and arrived in what I considered record time.
Mary remained on her best behavior, eager to meet a Fed.
As we walked into the bank, a young lady approached us and took my information. She appeared to just be a meet-and-greet person to direct the flow in the bank. She pointed out a small cabinet where we could get refreshments while we waited in the large open reception area.
Aunt Mary, God love her, had the young lady help her to the seat most convenient for her to pay attention to the front door and watch the manager’s office at the same time. I sat in the nearest chair hoping to be finished with this business quickly. The tellers greeted their customers who were not very pleasant after standing in a line a half mile long littered with fidgeting toddlers and impatient seniors. I noted that there were two security guards that weren’t wearing firearms, but were armed with Tasers. If anyone saw me on one of the fifteen camera feeds, they probably thought I was there to case the place.
I looked around scrutinizing everything carefully and concluded I had never been in this bank before, nor rented a box here. Case closed. Aunt Mary and I should be in and out. Aunt Mary stood up ready to sneak to the coffee bar when a well-dressed older man with salt-and-pepper hair approached us. He extended his soft hand and introduced himself as Mr. Buren, the bank manager, and invited us back to his office. Mary, ever the flirt and believer that hope springs eternal, glanced at his left hand then took the arm he extended to her.
We followed Mr. Buren to his office where a younger gentleman was already sitting. The young gentleman was busy texting on his phone. He stopped, pocketed his phone, and stood to introduce himself as Special Agent Samuel Thomas from the FBI’s Organized Crime Unit. This caused Mary’s eyes to grow wide. Not one to miss an opportunity of a lifetime, she insisted on seeing his identification, and with a friendly expression, he indulged her request. After Mr. Buren closed the door, and we were all seated, Agent Thomas explained the procedure he wanted me to follow when he gave me the box to identify. Because it was in question who owned the box, he instructed Aunt Mary and me to use the gloves he provided so fingerprints wouldn’t be left if the box was investigated further.
I could tell Aunt Mary thought she’d died and gone to heaven.
Agent Thomas had communicated with Detective Marino, who had conveyed someone had stolen my wallet. Agent Thomas explained he’d called the main office of the DMV earlier, and the DMV produced a copy of my license photo and document from their file for me to identify. They had compared the DMV copy with the one in their file, and the documents were different but had some similarities. I verified the document from the DMV file was correct, and then I signed the document which represented a replica of my license. A bank clerk took my photo in the office and then she digitally fingerprinted me.
After answering several more questions, we went to the vault where we passed steel boxes of various dimensions, finally stopping at a row of the largest safety boxes. Mr. Buren reviewed his reference card and found the box numbered 1253. He inserted one key and turned it, so it stayed engaged in the lock. He asked me to sign a document to affirm I did not have the other key, and I signed it with Agent Thomas as a witness. I then signed another sheet giving my permission for him to use a master key in place of whatever key fit the matching opposite side. Both keys were then inserted, turned, and the door sprung open.
Mr. Buren removed a large gray metal box and placed it on a table. I signed a document indicating he delivered the box and contents to me. Before moving to the viewing room, Agent Thomas provided protective gloves, and our next stop was the viewing room that contained a small table and three chairs. Aunt Mary and I were left alone to open the box. Mr. Buren pointed at the buzzer to use when we completed our inventory.
Eager to be done with this weird turn of events, I flipped the small lock clip and quickly opened t
he safe deposit box. I threw the lid back expecting to find it empty. If anyone had been a fly on the wall, they surely would have laughed as I threw my hands up and jumped back when I looked inside the box.
Aunt Mary’s hand shot to her mouth to stifle a scream, and I felt the blood rush to my head as my heart hammered against my chest. Dizzy and sure I would fall over, I plunked into one of the chairs. Reflexively, I slammed the top shut as if the contents could strike us like a snake. We sat there gawking at each other. Aunt Mary was the first to make another move for the box. She touched the edge gently as if it was electrified and then pushed up the lid and flipped it back quickly.
“Go ahead. Take them out and line them up,” she ordered as she pointed at the contents of the box.
The smell of money escaped from the box and filled the small area. My hands trembled as I gingerly removed the bundles of currency from the box. I stacked each banded pile of US currency neatly on the left, euros in the center and what looked like pesos on the right. There were all varieties of denominations, and by the time they were stacked they were four inches high. Mary and I exchanged nervous looks. She was as overwhelmed as I was. Next, I removed three gold bars that were difficult to pick up and laid them below the piles of currency.
Unable to restrain herself, Aunt Mary picked up a bar and inspected it as if she knew what examination of a gold bar entailed. Obviously, she didn’t, but I let her have her moment. When she was satisfied, she placed the bar down gingerly.
Next, I removed a small black velvet bag.
I pulled the strings of the bag apart and peeked inside. I could only see a black abyss. Something was in there. I could feel something round and small, like pebbles, through the material. I turned the bag onto its side and coaxed the contents out onto the copy of the document I had signed. Six small, translucent stones resembling bits of broken glass tumbled out. Unable to grip one with the glove, I rolled it forward into my palm with my finger. I held it up to the fluorescent light as if I were a practiced jeweler who had misplaced my jeweler’s loop.
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