by Joseph Flynn
Benedict grinned and said, “Really? Which one?”
Fortier said, “A very obvious one. Just to the right of the path through the field. At the bottom of the diagonal column of birds.”
“Oh, that one. Well, if it’s as obvious as all that, I’d better put it in.”
He did so with a brief, precise turn of his wrist. “Better?”
“Perfect.”
Rays of sunshine from a skylight fell equally on both paintings. Now, the only difference to be seen was the sheen of fresh paint on the forgery. That would be overcome by time sitting in a kiln turned to low heat. A more sophisticated analysis of paints and canvas would quickly unmask the forgery but that was never going to happen because Benedict’s creation would have a lifespan measured in days.
A door to the loft opened and woman’s voice asked, “Is it done? May I see, Father?”
The two men looked behind them. Both smiled.
“Of course, my dear. Your opinion is always invaluable.”
“Bon jour, madam,” Fortier added with a nod.
“Bon jour, m’sieur. C’est toujours un plaisir.” A pleasure as always.
Benedict and Fortier made room and Duvessa stepped forward.
She studied both paintings in detail. A smiled formed on her face. She kissed her father’s cheek and said, “Bravo, Papa.”
Benedict grinned. “I’m only as good as the geniuses I copy. But not bad, all in all, for an old businessman.”
“Gauguin was a stockbroker,” Duvessa reminded him.
“Among other things,” Fortier added.
Benedict concluded the capsule bio. “Yeah, he had a thing for little girls, booze and drugs, contracted syphilis and died at fifty-four.”
“No one’s perfect, Papa,” Duvessa told him. “You stole billions of dollars in your hedge fund days. Managed to hang on to a hundred million.”
Benedict shook his head and laughed. “Less than I could have made honestly, if I hadn’t gotten so bored. My blessing and my curse was the day I thought I needed a hobby and first picked up a paint brush. Found out I was a great copycat but wasn’t creative at anything but juggling numbers on a balance sheet.”
“You’ve managed to lead an interesting life nonetheless,” Duvessa said.
“There is that.”
Fortier thought it was time to get back to business. “Has M’sieur Pruet found you yet?”
“Oui, la nuit dernière.” Yes, last night. She told Fortier and her father of the meeting with Pruet and Odo and how the magistrate had put a deposit of one thousand euros down on the Renoir. “I explained that this would merely allow him to enter the bidding on the painting should I decide to auction it.”
“He didn’t make any claim to the canvas?” Fortier asked. “Didn’t threaten to call the police?”
Duvessa shook her head.
“Maybe he has a better eye than either of us,” Benedict said. “Spotted it for a fake.”
Fortier wasn’t happy with that idea. “Why would he offer any money to bid on a forgery?”
“Maybe he doesn’t want us to know he’s not a rube.” Benedict said.
Both men turned to Duvessa for her evaluation of Pruet.
“It was hard to get a good reading other than to say he’s careful. He was tired from the flight to New York. He didn’t take even a sip of his drink. He had trouble climbing the stairs. He didn’t show any sign of outrage when he saw the painting.” She thought for a moment and added, “He could be biding his time. Setting up a play of his own.”
Fortier said, “I’m halfway tempted to ship the painting, the real one, back to France. Have his family call him home. Tell him all’s well.”
Benedict said, “He still might want revenge.”
Fortier nodded glumly. He asked Duvessa, “What is your opinion of the Corsican who travels with the magistrate?”
“Dangerous.”
Merde, Fortier thought.
Duvessa turned to her father. “You’re playing one of your little jokes.”
“What?” Benedict asked, playing the innocent.
“You left out a crow,” she said.
The forger gave her a wink. Didn’t bother to ask her which one. In the upper right hand corner of the knockoff, where the blue sky shaded darker, nearly black, he added the last crow. The tonal difference was so slight the bird was all but invisible.
That didn’t comfort Fortier at all.
He never should have missed the omission.
Wasn’t happy at all that Benedict had pranked him.
Had left two crows out of the painting.
FBI Headquarters — Washington, DC
Deputy Director Byron DeWitt welcomed McGill into his office.
The first thing McGill noticed was DeWitt’s new haircut. Shorter and tapered. Less free-flowing SoCal surfer dude. The next thing he saw was a photo of Patti on the wall. It had replaced the Warhol serigraph of Chairman Mao. DeWitt, it looked like, had even gotten himself a manicure.
Two explanations came to McGill’s mind. The powers that be had cracked down on the free spirit that had infiltrated their ranks. Or the deputy director had fallen under the influence of an ambitious woman who was grooming him for greater things. Neither possibility pleased McGill.
He’d always gotten along well with DeWitt.
Hoped that wouldn’t change.
“Care for coffee, tea or a soft drink?” the deputy director asked.
“Black coffee, one sugar, thanks.”
DeWitt passed along the request through his intercom.
“Ms. Sweeney won’t be joining us?” the deputy director asked.
McGill said, “We keep missing each other today. I’ll bring her up to speed later.”
DeWitt nodded. McGill’s coffee was delivered by a serious looking young woman whose college coursework probably hadn’t included waiting on tables for private eyes. She didn’t even seem impressed that he was married to the president. Oh, well. The newly buttoned-down DeWitt understood the pecking order.
“Is there something I might do for you?” he asked McGill.
“It’s more a matter of us not stepping on each other’s toes,” McGill said. “I’ve been hired by a friend to look for a painting that was stolen from his family.” He gave DeWitt a summary of his relationship with Yves Pruet and the particulars of the case that had brought the investigating magistrate to the United States. “M’sieur Pruet also informed me that one of your people, Special Agent Osgood Riddick of the art crime team, visited his hotel room in Manhattan for a chat.”
DeWitt made a note of that.
McGill continued, “Riddick strongly suggested that my client not return to a gallery in New York where he saw a forgery of the stolen painting and gave the gallery owner a check for one thousand euros for the right to bid on the forgery.”
The deputy director took a beat to think about that.
“M’sieur Pruet’s job title suggests that he’s used to conducting his own investigations.”
McGill nodded.
“But when the FBI came calling he decided to call you.”
“Wisely, I’d say.”
DeWitt asked, “Can you tell me whether your client might have any interests beyond recovering a painting?”
Now, McGill needed a moment to consider the question. As a cop, he’d been protective of his snitches. When he’d started working in the private sector, though, his attitude about confidentiality had become more flexible. He wouldn’t reveal anything that might harm a client, but he wouldn’t let a rigid adherence to principle screw up a case either.
“I think there is,” McGill said. “I don’t know what it is, but I have a feeling there’s more at stake than just a painting.”
“Your client is an honest man, as far as you know?”
McGill smiled. “His reputation is that he’s too honest, and I’ve seen nothing to contradict that.”
“How can someone be too honest?”
“When it costs you your m
arriage. Puts a brick on your career, too.”
Chicago jargon for putting an end to professional advancement.
Used mainly by cops. McGill saw that DeWitt understood.
He said, “Okay. Point taken. So what is it you’d like from me?”
McGill said, “Guidelines, I guess. So I can do my job without messing up anything your people are working on.”
DeWitt said, “Would it be too much to ask you to put your case on hold?”
“What, indefinitely?” McGill asked. He got the uneasy feeling DeWitt was trying to get him to fall into line instead of working with him, as if the deputy director really had been co-opted by the bureaucracy. He repressed a sigh. “I could do that, but then M’sieur Pruet would likely proceed without me. I think it would be better for everyone if I were involved.”
McGill couldn’t put it more politely.
He wasn’t going to be muscled off the case.
“I suppose you’re right,” DeWitt said. Then he thought to ask, “Has M’sieur Pruet met the president?”
“He has. They became fast friends in Paris.”
McGill saw DeWitt relax.
He knew why. If DeWitt caught any grief from the director of the FBI for not trying harder to shove McGill aside, all he had to do was invoke the president’s name. Nobody pushed her.
“Will you give me just a moment, Mr. McGill?” DeWitt asked.
McGill took his coffee into DeWitt’s outer office.
He finished his java, set the cup and saucer down and was about to ask the serious young assistant if the Bureau had the current issue of Sports Illustrated for visitors to read when the intercom buzzed and he was sent back into DeWitt’s office. The deputy director’s peace of mind had vanished. He looked like a man in a corner awaiting bad news.
To his credit, DeWitt spoke bluntly. “Mr. McGill, if you were anyone else, the FBI would tell you at this point to advise your client to return home immediately and for you to steer well clear of this case.”
McGill nodded and gave it a beat. Then he said, “Okay, but I’m not anyone else. So what can the FBI tell me?”
“Nothing at all. Except my generic advice is well worth considering.”
The White House Putting Green
Neither Patti nor McGill played golf. That put them outside the mainstream of First Couples. Most presidents from Woodrow Wilson onward played the game. Ike had a green built outside the Oval Office. That was scrapped by Kennedy, even though he played, bad back and all. Patti’s predecessor, a fifteen handicap, had a new green installed among the trees just north of the tennis court. Word was he put it there so his favorite foursome wouldn’t know how hard he was working on his game and would give him extra strokes on their wagers. Sometimes even the world’s most powerful man wasn’t above hustling his friends.
Many a First Lady played golf, too.
But neither McGill nor Patti found it in the least interesting.
Hadn’t set foot on the putting green in their four years at the White House.
They’d kept it in deference to their successors.
But that late afternoon in January with darkness closing in and the air taking on a cold edge, McGill was out there putting, trying to remember the form he’d used the few times he’d played miniature golf as a kid. He’d left a message with Edwina Byington asking to have the president join him there at her earliest convenience.
“Just her with a putter, Edwina,” McGill said. “Tell Elspeth and the uniformed people we don’t want anyone too close to disturb our concentration.”
Total pro that she was, the president’s secretary said, “Of course, sir. The gallery will be most respectful.”
McGill tried to figure out the way the green broke as he tapped the ball toward the hole. Seemed right to left no matter where he started. He sank more than a few putts. Wondered if the guy who sat in the Oval Office right before Patti might have grooved the damn thing. Be just like him. For McGill, it only made the exercise even less interesting.
His cell phone chirped and he hoped it wasn’t Edwina saying Patti couldn’t make it.
It wasn’t the White House at all. His daughter Caitie was calling.
“Everything all right, honey?” he asked.
“Everything’s great, Dad. I just called to say goodbye.”
“Why? Where are you going?”
“Los Angeles, to make a movie, remember?”
Now, he did. The film in which his daughter had been cast originally had been scheduled to begin shooting in late May, but the director had a conflict come up. If the producers wanted to keep him on the project, they’d have to start —
“Next week, Dad. That’s when principal photography begins. Everyone has to be in L.A. tomorrow to get ready. Did you forget?”
“Guess I did. We have this little inauguration thing coming up. Tends to crowd out other thoughts. But I should have remembered your movie, too.”
“It’s not my movie, but I do have a good part.”
McGill saw Patti approaching. He laughed. She’d found a pair of knickerbockers and tam o’shanter to wear. Carried a putter under her right arm. Gave him a wink as she drew near.
“What’s so funny?” Caitie asked.
“Patti’s coming. She’s kidding around with me.”
“Can I talk to her?”
“Sure, but remind me, you’re not going to fall behind on your schoolwork, right?”
“No way, Dad. I’ll have tutors.”
Just what his youngest needed, McGill thought, an enhanced sense of entitlement.
What he said was, “You’ll send me an autographed glossy?”
Caitie laughed and promised she would.
McGill told his daughter he loved her and handed the phone to Patti, saying, “Caitie. She’s about to leave for L.A.”
Patti said hello and embarked on a spirited conversation of best wishes and step-maternal advice. It warmed McGill’s heart just to watch Patti’s face. Every president needed a ray of sunshine on a daily basis, and nothing beat seeing your child do well.
McGill had told Patti from the start to consider his children hers.
Just as Lars Enquist, the second husband of McGill’s ex, considered them his.
Patti had been hesitant to accept that role at first. She didn’t want to step on any of Carolyn’s prerogatives. McGill’s ex had been leery, too. It would be tough, if not impossible, for her to compete with the president of the United States, and Carolyn knew kids, like anyone else, could be overwhelmed by glamour and power.
After Patti’s bone marrow donation had saved Kenny McGill’s life, though, Carolyn’s misgivings about her perceived rival evaporated. Her gratitude to the president was too profound to allow for petty jealousies. She could acknowledge that her children had a stepmother, too.
She even found comfort that their futures were more secure because of that.
Patti wrapped up her conversation with Caitie, expressing herself in classic show biz form. “Break a leg, kiddo.”
She handed the phone back to McGill.
He told her, “I’ve always wondered if that expression didn’t originate with loan sharks talking to their pet thugs.”
“Funny, but not very,” Patti said.
“I might be a bit off form,” McGill admitted.
“I know. I heard from the director of the FBI. That’s why I dressed up. Thought it might amuse you.”
“It did, until just now. I suppose the director didn’t hold out on you the way the deputy director did with me.”
“Do you really want to putt golf balls?” Patti asked.
McGill shook his head. “Just wanted a little privacy.”
“I have my moving bubble with me. Let’s go for a stroll.”
She gave McGill her putter. He tucked it and his club under his left arm. The White House grounds covered eighteen acres. Trees provided a privacy barrier for most of the South Lawn. McGill and Patti stuck close to the woodland on the western side of the lawn. Rea
dy to duck into the trees should a drone appear overhead.
The darkening sky remained peaceful. The moving security cordon kept even the squirrels at bay. For a moment, McGill wondered if Galia Mindel would have been allowed to barge through. He scanned the nearby surroundings looking for a more immediate concern.
People with pointy ears. Eavesdroppers.
He didn’t see any uniformed Secret Service officers close enough to overhear anything he and Patti might say, if they kept their voices down.
As if she knew just what he’d been thinking, Patti said quietly, “The FBI couldn’t talk to you because national security is involved.”
“So you shouldn’t say anything either?”
Dropping her voice further, Patti said, “I shouldn’t, but I’m going to. If I can’t trust you, I’m really sunk.”
McGill linked his free arm to Patti’s near arm and drew her close.
“What do you know about the connection between stolen art and terrorism?” she asked.
McGill had never given the question a moment’s thought, but he saw the connection easily. “Terrorists need money. Stealing art and selling it seems like a way to make a bundle.”
“Not as much as you might think,” Patti told McGill. “But stealing art, cranking out forgeries and selling them in bulk is the real profit multiplier.”
He informed her about Pruet spotting a forgery of the painting his family had lost.
Patti sighed. “That’s another thing. Residential thefts make up more than half the losses to art thieves. Usually, the thieves net only a small fraction of the value of what they’ve taken. But they can get better deals from terrorists than private collectors.”
“Why’s that?” McGill asked.
“The terrorists have better access to the knockoff artists and to the people who fund their atrocities. Delivering stolen art as a token of appreciation to their bankrollers can bump their so-called charitable donations.”
That puzzled McGill. “Guys who fund jihad like infidel art?”
“Irony knows no borders. Of course, sometimes the recipient of the stolen art makes a gleeful show of destroying it.”