Veiled Magic

by Deborah Blake

  Donata rolled her eyes. “Fine. I’d like to hire you to restore a painting. A very special painting.”

  His other eyebrow shot up to join the first. “I doubt you can afford me on a cop’s salary,” he said. “And where would a fine policewoman such as yourself get a painting worth paying me to restore in the first place?”

  “Actually,” Donata said, “I got it from Clive Farmingham, who told me I needed to get you, and only you, to work on it.”

  Peter’s face lit up. “Good old Clive! I haven’t talked to him in ages. We worked on a big project together at the governor’s mansion a while ago. He was something of a mentor to me, back in the beginning of my career.”

  It was Donata’s turn to lift an eyebrow. “Oh? What kind of project?”

  He shook his head, causing a lock of too-long hair to flip into his eyes, and brushed it out of the way impatiently. “A restoring project, Officer. Clive was strictly legit, I assure you.” He tucked the errant strands of hair behind one ear. “So how is the old guy, anyway?”

  She looked down, hating to be the bearer of bad news. It was one of the reasons she preferred to stay in the calm, ordered world of the basement, instead of being a beat cop.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Casaventi, but Mr. Farmingham was murdered yesterday during the commission of a robbery at the museum where he worked.”

  Peter looked like someone had hit him with a two-by-four. Donata would have gotten up and fetched him another drink, if she hadn’t known it wouldn’t have any effect. She gave him a minute to collect himself.

  “If it is any consolation, we don’t believe he suffered.” She paused. “And he spoke very highly of you.”

  Grief etched itself briefly on Peter’s face, only to be replaced by confusion. “Wait, I’m not sure I understand. You got called in on the murder investigation?”

  Oh, boy. “Uh, yes, that’s right.” Donata tried not to squirm in her seat. She hated trying to explain her job to civilians. Especially Human civilians.

  He frowned. “But if you were investigating his death, then how could he have talked to . . . ?” His voice trailed off as he figured it out. “Oh. Uh. Oh.”

  Indeed. Donata stifled a sigh. “I’m a Witness Retrieval Specialist, Mr. Casaventi. Do you know what that is?” She waited for him to move away from her at the table, the way most people did when they found out what she did for a living.

  Instead, he gave her a look that was colored more by curiosity than by apprehension or rejection. “I’ve heard of Witness Retrieval cops, but I’ve never met one before.” He peered at her more closely. “So you actually talked to Clive after he was dead?” He thought for a minute, and added, “And he mentioned me?”

  Donata nodded. “Yes, to both. Mr. Farmingham was working on a painting at the time he was murdered, and that painting was the object of the thief’s mission. Mr. Farmingham came to me afterwards, and he was quite . . . insistent . . . that the painting was of major importance and that you were the only man he trusted to try to restore it.” She paused. “And he seemed to think you had the special, um, talents needed to deal with this particular painting’s issues.”

  She stuttered to a stop, aware of how vague she sounded. How on earth was she going to explain the unusual background and difficulties involving this particular painting when Peter didn’t seem to have any knowledge of Paranormals beyond that of any normal Human?

  Peter made a face at her. “What the heck are you talking about—what kind of issues?” He held up one hand. “No, wait; just start at the beginning. Who is the artist?”

  That, at least, she had the answer to. She pulled out her notebook and looked over what she’d taken from Clive Farmingham’s file on the painting. “The painter was a guy named Caspar David Friedrich. Born 1774, died 1840. German. Do you know of him?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Of course I know of him. This is my profession, after all. He was quite well-known during the early 1800s, but suffered from recurring bouts of depression, and eventually he was rejected by the artistic community. He died poor and obscure, although his work became popular again in later years and he is now considered one of Germany’s greatest Romantic artists. He was known for paintings that expressed religious mysticism and a certain air of melancholy.”

  Hmph, Donata thought. She guessed those descriptions fit the painting from the museum. It was definitely depressing her.

  Peter perked up. “So the painting that Clive wanted me to look at was a Friedrich? I thought all his work was already identified and in other museums. Was this a newly discovered piece, or just one purchased from another museum?”

  Donata reached into her coat pocket and pulled out the photograph she’d swiped from the file. “Here, you can take a look for yourself.” He bent over the table to get a closer view. “Mr. Farmingham insisted it was something called a Pentacle Pentimento.”

  Peter’s mouth dropped open. “What?” he said, stunned.

  “A Pentacle Pentimento,” Donata repeated, then found herself moving without even knowing how it had happened. Peter pulled her out of her chair, shoved her helmet into her arms, the photo back into her pocket, grabbed his own helmet, and was walking her across the room and out the door before she had a chance to complete her sentence. What the heck?

  “Are you insane?” he hissed at her as he dragged her through the main room. “Mentioning that name in a room full of felons and lowlifes?” He faked a cheery wave at the bartender as they crossed the floor and headed out the door. “Do you want to get us both killed?” He muttered darkly under his breath as they double-timed it out into the night.

  Donata let him push her along, but once they got out into the dim parking lot, she yanked her arm out of his grasp and swung around to confront him.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she demanded. “I didn’t say it that loud, and none of those drunken, degenerate yahoos are going to know the name of some obscure mythological painting that most people don’t believe exists anyway.” She paused for breath, glaring up at him in the neon light from the beer signs in the window.

  He shook his head at her. “When big money is involved, never underestimate the keen instincts of a drunken, degenerate yahoo, honey.” He slammed his helmet down over his head. “I want a look at that photo—but not here. Which one is your bike?”

  She pointed at her BMW and a brief smile of appreciation flitted across his face, almost making her forgive his high-handed behavior. Almost. “Do you live near here? We could go to your place.” She gave him a look that dared him to make an innuendo out of that.

  Peter hesitated, obviously not wanting to reveal where he lived, then gave in. “Shit. If you could find me here, I suppose you could find me there—although I’ll be damned if I know how you tracked me down in the first place.”

  “I’ve got my sources,” she said mysteriously, wishing that she could go home and take a shower to get the stink of those particular sources out of her nostrils. “And yes, I could. So let’s stop wasting time and get going, shall we?”

  “Fine.” He stalked off toward a flashy black Harley emblazoned with red flames. “Try and keep up.”

  Donata fumed as she walked rapidly toward her own ride. For a guy who liked to keep a low profile, he had a pretty fancy motorcycle. Men.

  She followed him as he pulled out of the parking lot and turned left, not right as she’d expected. Instead of heading deeper into the cheaper part of town, he kept taking streets that brought them closer to the pricey high-rises of Ridgemont. Where the heck did this guy live, anyway?

  By the time she trailed his red taillights into a basement garage on Claridge Street, she was completely baffled. She knew this building, or ones like it. Not for the obviously rich, who liked their condos complete with doormen and fancy lobbies, it was nonetheless a place that housed the monied elite. Was he taking her to someone else’s place to try and throw her
off his track? If so, it wasn’t going to work.

  From the garage, they rode an elevator up into the heights of the building. They didn’t say a word to each other all the way up, until the door pinged open on the top floor and they walked out into a small entryway that required a code punched into a keypad to enter.

  “You live in the penthouse?” she asked. She shook her head in disbelief. “I guess being a restorer pays better than I thought.”

  He shrugged. “It’s got the best light.” As if that explained it. Well, maybe it did, if you were a painter.

  The door to the entryway opened into a large open loft space, airy and decorated with exquisite good taste. The walls were hung with striking (and no doubt expensive) artwork. Large potted palms set the living room area off from the dining area, and two long white leather couches dominated the room. It was beautiful, breathtaking, and like Casaventi himself, surprisingly charming. At least at first glance.

  “Wow,” she said.

  Peter smiled at her hesitantly, as if he cared about her opinion, but was afraid to ask. “You like it?”

  Donata took a deep breath. It was hard to reconcile the beauty of the apartment with the prickly man who lived here—but the place was somehow quite recognizably his.

  “It’s lovely,” she said honestly. “Absolutely spectacular.” She felt like she should take her boots off before she walked across the glossy hardwood floors. “But I’m guessing everyone who comes here tells you that.”

  Peter shook his head. “I rarely have guests.”

  She found that hard to believe, looking the way he did. “Not even women guests?” she teased.

  “I much prefer to pursue my occasional liaisons elsewhere. I am very private about my home.” He smiled ruefully. “When I’m not being accosted by beautiful police officers.”

  “Right.” Ignoring the compliment, she looked around again. “You must be very good at what you do, Mr. Casaventi. And something tells me that being a restorer wouldn’t even pay for the furniture in this apartment. Your side job must be very lucrative.”

  “I am, and it is,” he said shortly. “But I thought you weren’t here in your official capacity.” He held out one hand imperiously. “Don’t you have a picture to show me?”

  Donata was reaching into her pocket to grab the photo when she was attacked by a small black-and-white monster with large batlike ears.

  She jumped back involuntarily. “What the hell is that?”

  Peter laughed, leaning down to fondle the dog’s ears. “‘That’ is a French bulldog, and his name is Elmyr.” The dog whiffled, sniffing her boots, and danced around in apparent joy at having someone new to explore.

  “Elmer? Like Elmer Fudd?” What kind of name was that for a dog?

  He laughed again, shooing the dog away from her gently and walking over to the kitchen area to get out a can of fancy dog food.

  “No, Elmyr.” He pronounced it El-Meer. “For Elmyr de Hory, one of the most legendary forgers in history.” He put the food down on the floor and the small animal attacked it with enthusiasm. Peter guided Donata over to the granite-topped counter and pulled out a wrought-iron stool for her.

  “You named your dog after a famous forger?” Donata said in amused disbelief, trying not to laugh. You had to admire the guy’s audacity. He spent his time in public trying to pretend he was just a restorer, then in private called his dog after a notorious forger. “Nice.”

  He grinned at her, suddenly looking much younger than his thirty-eight years. “I know. Pretty cute, isn’t it?”

  She looked up into his dark eyes, suddenly distracted. Cute, yeah. You could say that. With an effort, she pulled herself back to the matter at hand and tossed the photo of the painting onto the countertop between them.

  Suddenly, he was all business. He picked the photo up and peered at it closely, shifting it back and forth under the lights that hung down over the counter.

  “Interesting,” he muttered under his breath, Donata’s presence all but forgotten. “Definitely a Friedrich. From his later years, I’d guess. Before he had his stroke, but after he’d lost most of his influence. Hmmm.”

  “Well?” Donata said impatiently. “You are clearly familiar with Pentacle Pentimentos, although I’m not sure how, since your friend Farmingham seemed to think that most people have never heard of them. So is it a Pentacle Pentimento or not?”

  Peter rolled his eyes at her. “I can’t tell that from a photo, Officer Santori.” He waved the offending item at her. “Hell, I can barely tell it’s a Friedrich from this. I’d have to examine the painting in person. And it’s true that the Pentacle Pentimentos are thought by many to be a myth, but like I said, I am very good at what I do. Part of that means knowing obscure facts about art. All art, no matter how rare. As it happens, I have something of a specialty in Witch art, now that we know there is such a thing.” He flapped the picture back and forth. “The odds of this actually being a Pentacle Pentimento . . . well, they’re astronomical.”

  Donata shook her head stubbornly. “Your pal was pretty convinced it was, though. Enough so to come back from the dead to talk me into coming to find you.”

  That thought clearly gave him pause. “Well, you’ve got a point there, I’ll give you that. Clive wasn’t the type to go off half-cocked. If he thought it was something out of the ordinary, it probably was.” He paused. “Tell me again why exactly he thought I should get involved in this? Why not one of his more, um, legitimate restorer connections?”

  Damn, they were back to the part she was going to have a hard time explaining. “Mr. Farmingham told me he thought there was something dangerous in the painting underneath. Something that shouldn’t fall into the wrong hands.”

  “Like the hands of the people who tried to steal it, you mean?”

  She nodded. “Among others. Mr. Farmingham thought you might be able to remove the top level, somehow neutralize the underneath so it was no longer dangerous, and then use your . . . other skills . . . to repaint the top so that no one could tell the painting had been altered. That way if the people who were after it actually got their hands on it, they would think they’d gotten what they wanted.” She gave him a hard look. “Could you do that? So that the painting ended up looking exactly the same as when it started?”

  “Of course I could,” he said scornfully. “Piece of cake. The question is, why should I?”

  “Because a lot of people might die if you don’t?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t care much for most people. Try again.”

  “How about because doing it would frustrate the people who killed your friend,” she asked.

  His eyes turned a steely black again and seemed to gleam with a reddish tint for a moment under the harsh lights overhead. “Okay. I’ll take a look at it.” He tapped his fingers on the countertop. “I’m not promising anything, mind you, but I’d like to get a look at this painting. If it really is a Pentacle Pentimento, now that would be worth seeing.”

  He shoved the photo back toward her. “When can you bring it here?”

  “Bring it here?” she asked.

  He looked at her like she was stupid. “Of course, here. Here is where all my tools and painting supplies are. Where did you think I was going to work on it?”

  Damn. She really hadn’t thought this through well enough, had she?

  “That could be kind of a problem,” she said.

  “Oh?” he asked. “Where is it now? At the museum?”

  She shook her head. “Not exactly.” She paused before giving him the bad news. “It’s at the precinct. In the evidence locker.”

  He surprised her by bursting into gales of laughter. She scowled, not seeing the joke, and waited for him to stop, wiping the tears of mirth away from his eyes.

  “Well, then, Officer Santori,” he said, and winked at her, “I guess you’ll just have to get it out
, won’t you?” and laughed even harder at the expression on her face as she realized what he meant.

  Chapter Nine

  Donata walked into her apartment and dropped her helmet and jacket by the front door with a sigh of relief. Her place might not be as classy and comfortable as Peter’s, but it was home. And after the day she’d had, home was the only place she wanted to be.

  “Hey,” she called, looking around for the Ricky. It felt weird having a roommate, even a temporary (and invisible) one. She didn’t see him anywhere, but when she got to the bathroom, the tub was filled with scented water, and the tee shirt and shorts she slept in were hung over the towel rack. Grimalkin sat on the back of the toilet tank, licking one paw contentedly, so apparently the Kobold had taken care of feeding him.

  The bath looked like heaven on earth, and smelled even better. Donata could make out the scent of lavender and roses, and something spicy—maybe rosemary to relax her tired muscles. She said a brief spell to bring the water back up to piping hot, stripped off her malodorous clothing, and slid beneath the surface of the warm water with a sigh of relief.

  A sudden thought gave her pause, and she said loudly, “You had better not be in here, Ricky.” There was no answer, but the cat gave her a sleepy look and settled down to nap, so she took that as a sign that they were alone.

  Lying back again, she felt her tired body finally letting go of the tensions of the day. And what a day it had been. Getting actual praise from the Chief, talking to a goddess, and chasing down an elusive forger. A really cute elusive forger, at that. And it was just Monday. Who knew what the rest of the week would bring?

  The very thought made her muscles tighten up, and she forced herself to relax again. After all, things weren’t so bad. She’d impressed her boss enough that he’d promised to give her more challenging work, and maybe even eventually let her out of the damned basement. Of course, that was before she’d realized she was going to have to steal a piece of evidence from the station lockup. That might put a crimp in her new career path, by golly. The irony of it all made her want to sink under the water and stay there indefinitely.