by Joseph Flynn
The problem was not a lack of technical skill. For the most part, the craft of applying paint to canvas was adequate. Composition was proficient. Color balance was clearly understood. An eye for anatomical detail and proportion was demonstrated. Yet when all the elements were put together the sum of their parts was barely worthy of a shrug.
Where was the vision? An understanding of real people and the ways they truly lived. Where was the passion, the toil, the frivolity, the competition, the kindness and even the cruelty? In short, where was the life in any of the figures and settings he saw?
Fortier wondered if the fault lay with the shallow daubers whose efforts hung on the walls or in a world grown so horrible that superficial reflections were the most anyone could bear to make of it. In both France and the United States, soulless lunatics had recently chosen small school children as the victims of their murderous madness. Would it have been possible for even the greatest artists of the past to attempt a painting that would capture such profound heartbreak?
His well-educated mind quickly produced an answer.
Picasso could have done it.
In another vile time filled with a wholesale contempt for life, he’d created “Guernica.”
Thinking of that masterpiece raised another question in Fortier’s mind.
Was there a painting anywhere in the world of such significance that he would not steal it? Would not deprive either the public or its private owner of the right to have access to it? The way he’d always rationalized the thefts he’d committed, he told himself the former owners should have donated the paintings to museums, preferably ones that had sufficient security to retain possession of them.
By continuing to keep great paintings to themselves, private owners were saying two things. I was lucky enough to make this mine. I will continue to be lucky enough to keep it. Fortier saw it as his task to prove those smug bastards wrong.
Someday, his true name would be revealed.
Perhaps, he would be thought of not as a thief but a hero.
“See anything you like?” a man asked him.
Fortier turned and saw Tyler Busby. The client for whom he’d waited.
“No, nothing. Why did you bring me here?”
“I own the place,” Busby said, grinning.
Fortier’s English was perfect, but he still failed to understand.
“What?” he asked.
“I come here at least once a week. Then I go home and appreciate my collection so much more,” Busby said. “I also turn a tidy profit here. It’s amazing, the stuff people will buy.”
Fortier shook his head.
Busby laughed. “It’s good to see you again, Laurent.” Switching to French and dropping his voice, he continued, “Benedict’s work has been masterful, and his output prodigious.”
Fortier was still disgruntled that Benedict had twitted him, leaving out two crows in the Van Gogh. He said, “The man is a technician, adequate to his task and nothing more.”
“Having troubles, are you? I hope not. Your partnership with Benedict is too valuable to discard casually.”
The thief was not of a mind to tell Busby of his plans to retire.
He was sorry he’d uttered the thought to Benedict.
On the other hand, Duvessa might try to persuade him to keep going, once she learned what he’d said to her father. Her means of getting him to reconsider were predictable. Welcome, too.
Busby interrupted the moment of reverie.
“I understand a Magistrate Yves Pruet is visiting Washington at the moment.”
Fortier looked at the wealthy American. It was only natural that such a man would do his best to stay informed of anything that might inconvenience him. That being the extent to which people of his class were ever bothered by anything.
“You heard that from Benedict?” the thief asked.
“From Duvessa.”
For a moment, Fortier felt a pang of jealousy, thinking Busby must be bedding her, too. Then he dismissed his emotions as misplaced, bourgeois. Duvessa was a businesswoman in every aspect of her life, including her sexual affairs. She always made him feel like a Spartan, if not a god, and she had never passed so much as a sniffle along to him.
Why should he care if she’d slept with Busby?
Having a mistress in common with a billionaire only made him more colorful.
Busby continued, “It occurred to me that having a Pruet nearby at this particular moment has to be more than just coincidence.”
“So you bought the answer from Duvessa.”
“No, from Benedict. You stole a Renoir from the Pruets. I didn’t know they even had one.”
“Would you like to buy it?”
“No, thank you,” Busby said. “As delightful as his work is, I have my fill of the man.”
Fortier grew tired of playing Busby’s games. The only thing the man liked more than money and art was scheming. Having others play the fool to his Machiavelli. With the number of forgeries he’d had Benedict do for him, he had to be about to perpetrate his greatest swindle yet.
Honoré de Balzac had said, “Behind every great fortune is a great crime.”
As vast as Busby’s fortune was, there had to be a history of great crime.
Fortier was sure that there were many other villains involved in Busby’s machinations and … looking at the man in that moment, he thought Busby meant to kill him.
The billionaire deepened the thief’s chill with a knowing laugh.
“Benedict tells me you’re thinking of retiring.”
“That is a possibility, not a firm decision.”
“Laurent, you will soon understand what I’m working on these days. It will make news around the world. I have to rely on your discretion not to, as we Americans say, rat me out.”
The idea had never occurred to Fortier, though maybe it should have.
“I would never do such a thing,” he said, using his initial impulse to convey sincerity.
“Good, but just to be sure I’ve wired a little money to your Swiss account. Ten million euros. Think of it as a retirement gift, should that be your choice.”
A fine gift indeed. “Merci, m’sieur. That was not necessary, but is deeply appreciated.”
“The money will also tie you to me and what I’m about to do. If I go to trial, so will you. If I’m found guilty, so will you. If I get the death penalty, so will you.”
That last caveat made Fortier’s eyes grow wide. Not just the thought of his own death. The idea that a multibillionaire could be executed anywhere in the civilized world.
Busby could see what he was thinking and said, “It’s going to happen to one of the super rich before long. If things keep going the way they have. The mob will demand it. After all, the king got the chop in your country.”
Louis the Sixteenth had indeed lost his head.
After supporting the American revolution and reform in his own country.
“But there’s one thing I want you to keep in mind above all else, Laurent.”
“What?”
“If you betray me, if you take my little parting gift and don’t keep silent about our dealings, you won’t have to worry about the government doing you in. My people will take care of that, and they specialize in cruel and unusual punishment.”
The White House Mess
McGill bought lunch for Gabbi Casale before she left for France. She ordered the Harvest Fresh Vegetable Platter and a glass of sauvignon blanc. McGill went with the West Wing Burger and a White House Honey Ale.
He would sign for the tab.
The Navy culinary specialist who would serve them didn’t expect a tip.
McGill had made it a point to remember the entire Mess staff every Christmas.
After clearing the gesture with the Chief of Naval Operations.
Gabbi asked, “Are you writing this lunch off as a business expense?”
“No. For me, this would fall into a gray area. I mean, we will discuss some business, and if we were di
ning in a commercial location, I would. But as contentious as the politics in this town are these days, I’ll pick it up on my own dime.”
“We didn’t get around to the question of paying for my time and expenses.”
“You’re right. You can’t be expected to go without compensation.”
“I might do a freebie. You just gave me the biggest art commission I’ve ever had. Once the public gets to see the painting, I expect I’ll have more offers to do portraits than I’ll really want to accept.”
“You didn’t have fun?” McGill asked.
“Oh, I did. Painting your likeness, I feel I’ve gotten to know you better.”
“More than when we were whacking Etienne Burel with sticks?”
“This was a different side of you. I enjoyed seeing that. It added to a more complete understanding of the man in my painting. But I don’t know if I’d find portraiture nearly as engaging if I were painting someone I didn’t know or who didn’t interest me.”
McGill could understand that.
“So what else do you want to paint? Landscapes, still lifes, city scenes?”
“All of that.”
“And you’ve said you’re starting to make it pay?”
“In a modest way, but things are looking up.”
“So do a portrait every now and then. Cover your overhead. Pay for winters in the Caribbean. Do your other stuff to please your soul.”
“That’s pretty much my plan,” Gabbi said.
“You could throw a little investigative work into your schedule every now and then.”
“So you are going to pay me?”
“Of course. Money’s not the first thing I think of. Sweetie keeps our books. But we’ll pay you fairly.”
“Good, because I’ve been doing a little thinking.”
“And you’ve come up with an idea you like,” McGill said.
Their meals came and they paused while they were being served.
Gabbi sampled her veggies and sipped her wine. “Very nice.”
McGill took an enthusiastic bite of his burger. “Mmm.”
Gabbi told McGill, “Besides looking for the particulars of the Pruet theft, I thought it might be interesting to do some parallel research. See if I can find out who some of the more generous patrons of the French arts were at the time Antoine and Jocelyn Pruet were married.”
McGill informed her that he’d also thought other families or individuals must have unpublicized paintings by famous names in the arts.
“That’s one path,” Gabbi said. “See who else might have been robbed and look for any connections.”
“What’s the other path?” McGill asked.
“Look for the person who’s already done what I’ll be doing, the historical research.”
McGill smiled. “That’s a great idea. If there is someone who’s been down the same path, and he didn’t write a book on the subject—”
“Then he was casing potential victims,” Gabbi said. “What I’m thinking, ‘Laurent Fortier’ could be more than one person, one of them an academic and the other an actual thief.”
McGill thought about that. He liked the possibility. He also appreciated the fact that Gabbi had come up with such a good idea so quickly. Painting wasn’t her only gift. She had a good investigative mind. But McGill did have one caveat.
“Might be two people,” he said, “but I don’t think we’ll find more than that. You have three people, the ability to keep a secret falls off a cliff.”
“And the potential for treachery goes up, two people pairing off against the third.”
McGill and Gabbi looked at each other and smiled.
Pleased that they were on the same wavelength.
They clinked their glasses together in a silent here’s-to-us toast.
That was when Pruet was shown to their table. Surprise filled his eyes. He’d yet to be told Gabbi was in town. Being a man of sophistication, he underplayed McGill’s ruse. “Am I late?”
McGill and Gabbi stood. He said, “Not at all. We were just hungry. I hope you don’t mind.”
Before the magistrate could answer, Gabbi hugged him and said, “Bon jour, m’sieur. C’est si bon de vous revoir.” It’s so good to see you again.
Pruet cheeks turned a bright pink but he responded in kind.
Then he told McGill. “I’m quite hungry myself. Is the kitchen still open?”
“It’s always open for certain people,” McGill said.
For a moment, Pruet thought McGill was stepping out of character and boasting until he saw who else had joined them at the table.
With a bow, he said, “Madam la Présidente, je suis honoré.”
I am honored.
“She gets that a lot,” McGill said.
“But it never gets old,” Patti replied.
McGill Investigations, Inc. — Georgetown
McGill got SAC Elspeth Kendry to give Pruet and him a lift to his office. Leo Levy and Deke Ky had taken Odo Sacripant to the Secret Service’s shooting range while their boss was lunching at the White House. Pruet was delighted to speak French with Elspeth, who spoke that language along with English, Arabic and Farsi.
Not wanting to interrupt the flow of the conversation, McGill contented himself to sit back and listen, see how many words he could recognize as cognates or vocabulary he’d learned on his visit to Paris. Wasn’t a lot but more than he had suspected. He was beginning to think he should take a Rosetta Stone course. Keep his mind sharp.
As engaged as she was in the conversation, McGill saw that Elspeth hadn’t lost professional focus. He’d have bet she could have executed an evasive driving maneuver and fired a controlled burst from her Uzi without dropping the thread of the conversation. Having people that able look after your safety was comforting.
They arrived at McGill’s P Street address without any dramatics.
Standing in the doorway to the building were Dikki Missirian and a man in a black trench coat who looked like he’d stepped out of GQ fashion shoot: three-day beard, matte pomade to keep his hair spiky and a custom-made suit and shoes. Both he and Dikki were smoking and smiling.
“Who’s the guy with Dikki?” Elspeth asked.
McGill said, “A cop.”
“That guy’s a cop?” Elspeth found McGill’s assessment dubious.
“From the NYPD.”
“Oh.”
“Major Case Squad.”
“Okay.”
“Works on art thefts.”
“That explains everything.”
Or the guy could be Dikki’s cousin, McGill thought, just in from the old country.
But he didn’t think so. Once McGill had learned the FBI would be of no help, he had called his old friend Clare Tracy, one of the most prodigious political fundraisers in New York and asked if she had any friends on the NYPD who knew something about stolen art. She’d told McGill of course she did.
She gave him a name, Louis Marra. Promised she would have the copper call.
The call hadn’t come but now this guy showed up at his office.
What else was a private eye to think?
“I didn’t know Dikki smoked,” Elspeth said.
“Neither did I,” McGill said. He turned to Pruet, who’d been observing everything with care. “Let’s see if we can find your painting.”
McGill got out of the car and called out, “Louis Marra?”
“People call me Lou,” he said.
Ever the cordial host, Dikki provided freshly made coffee to Pruet and Marra and a bottle of Poland Spring sparkling water to McGill. Then the landlord left the others to their business.
Neither Pruet nor Marra was disappointed by his coffee.
“That guy’s a prince,” the New York detective said.
“More impressive with each meeting,” Pruet agreed.
McGill thought about that. Decided he’d come to take Dikki too much for granted.
He’d have to mend his ways. Maybe invite Dikki to the White House for dinner.
>
He told Marra. “It was very good of you to come to Washington, Detective. You had some time you could spare?”
Marra smiled, and McGill thought the guy could have been a model.
Maybe even did some in his off hours.
“Are you kidding, Mr. McGill? Every cop in this country knows about you. Catching Erna Godfrey for Andrew Grant’s murder, overnight. Taking down Speaker Geiger. Bagging Damon Todd and those other two loons after they escaped from the CIA. You do damn well for a retired copper. Couldn’t pass up a chance to meet you.”
“I have a lot of help,” McGill said. “Don’t mind reaching out to people.”
“That’s smart, and I’ll be happy to help if I can.”
McGill said, “My friend here, Magistrate Pruet, had a Renoir stolen from his family’s summer home in France. It was a gift from the artist. M’sieur Pruet had reason to think it might have been taken to the United States. While visiting New York two days ago, he saw a forgery of the painting hanging in the Duvessa Gallery in Manhattan.”
Marra’s eyes narrowed. He put down his coffee cup and turned to Pruet.
“Bet you got a visit from the FBI,” the detective said.
Pruet nodded. “Special Agent Osgood Riddick.”
Marra said, “Ozzie can be a pain in the ass, but he’s good. Recovers a lot of stolen art. Wouldn’t be surprised if he turned up your Renoir.”
Pruet looked less than sure of that.
McGill told Marra, “I usually have a fairly good working relationship with the Bureau.”
The New York detective smiled. “They know they can’t muscle you.”
“True,” McGill said, “but they can try to shut me out.”
Marra asked, “You can’t make them talk?”
“Wouldn’t be smart to try. All sorts of people are waiting to pounce on the president for the least little political mistake.”
Every big city cop knew about politics. They dealt with it on a departmental level every day. Marra said, “So what is it you’d like from me? A little insight into what’s going on with the FBI?”
McGill said, “Yes, if it won’t put you in a bad spot.”
Marra picked up his cup, drained the last sip of coffee.