“I don’t know what to say,” said Maggie. “I cannot imagine such horror.”
“No one can. When Johann told me that we could not return the art to the rightful owners, we talked all night and finally decided to keep the secret and go on with our lives.” She waved her hands in the air. “Oh, I know that is the coward’s way out. Being young is no excuse, it is simply what we did. I went on with my piano studies, and Johann went to school in Vienna to study art.”
“And the chest of art …”
“Stayed right where it was. His parents died not knowing that a king’s fortune was hidden in their attic, just above their heads.” Gigi stood slowly, moved to stand in front of the Matisse. “When I had a chance to study music in America, Johann sold some of the chest’s contents on the black market to finance my expenses. And he gave me this Matisse, my favorite, to bring with me to New York.” She shook her head. “As if I would ever sell it!”
“Thank God you didn’t. But how did it end up with my parents?”
“A musician friend introduced me to Finn and Lily. I was a decade older than your parents, of course, but we had such a love of music in common. I told you that I taught your mother after she graduated from Yale. That is true. Both of your parents became very dear to me. It was your father who introduced my first concert at Lincoln Center. I played Liszt’s Piano Sonata in B minor. Your father insisted it needed four hands to play, but I managed it.”
She smiled faintly. “Then I married my husband, Emmanuel. He was Jewish. I could not bear to have the Rhapsody in his home. It seemed like a betrayal. And so, one night I told your father the truth about the Matisse, and gave Dark Rhapsody to him for safekeeping.”
“My God. Finn knew?”
“I did not tell him everything. But, yes, I think he knew.”
Maggie drew a deep breath. “How can I help you?”
Gigi stood straight, her chin high, and gazed at Maggie. “Look at me, Maggie. I am an old woman. I am running out of time. I need to make things right. I should have done it long ago. I want to return Dark Rhapsody to the family of Felix Hoffman, if there are any descendants still alive. If not, it should be in a museum. I am only sorry I waited so long.”
“I know someone who may be able to help you,” said Maggie. “Do you know where the other two paintings are hidden?”
Gigi shook her silver head. “I imagine they are still with Johann.”
“He is still alive?”
“He was just a few months ago. I called him, asked his help to track down any of Felix Hoffman’s descendants. He sent me an envelope after my husband died. I’m sure Johann’s been feeling his mortality, just as I am. And, just as I do, he wants to right an old wrong before he no longer can.”
“What was in the envelope?”
“Information that I hope will lead to the location of the other pieces—and perhaps to an heir. I’ve kept it in my safe deposit box. No note, he just sent two theater programs and a photograph of a woman.”
“Will you get them for me?”
“Tomorrow.” Gigi hesitated. Then, “There is just one more thing you should know.”
Maggie looked into the amethyst eyes, now darkened by … concern? Guilt? Fear?
Gigi Donati took a deep breath. “I don’t know for sure, but I’ve always believed that your father’s disappearance from the stage so long ago had something to do with the Dark Rhapsody.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
NEW YORK CITY
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 21
JUSTICE AGENT SIMON Sugarman stood in Giulietta Donati’s living room admiring an oil painting of several pastel ballerinas, glowing in the late morning light.
Damned if those dancers didn’t look like they’d been painted by Degas. He shook his head wearily. You need to get out more, he told himself. Get a life.
Somewhere down the hall, a clock chimed the eleven a.m. hour. Light heels sounded across the marble floor behind him, and he turned.
Maggie O’Shea walked toward him, graceful, confident, hair still wild and black as a Cairo night.
He smiled down at her. “Doctor O’Shea, I presume?”
“Simon! It’s been too long. I’ve missed you.”
She moved in, allowed herself to be swallowed by his linebacker arms.
Sugarman kissed the top of her head, then held her away from him. Slender and glowing as the dancers in that painting behind her. Wicked smart, sure, a given. And those eyes … She would see right through him if he wasn’t careful.
He gave a low laugh as he read the words on her narrow black t-shirt—The Bach Stops Here. “Oh, yeah. I’ve missed you, too, Maggie O’Shea. You’re a sight for sore eyes, Doc.”
He’d given her the nickname on a blistering day last July when they’d first met in her music shop in Boston, after he’d noticed the two framed PhDs in musicology on the wall. Now Maggie smiled into his eyes and shook her head. “Come and sit down, Simon. So much has been happening. I’m glad you’re here. I need your help.”
“I was just asking Beckett how you’re doing.”
Her eyes widened with surprise. “You were with Michael? Where?”
Uh-oh. “Just taking care of some old business. Nothing to worry about.”
“Now that worries me.”
He grinned at her. “Okay, so maybe sometimes Mike does the wrong thing … but it’s always for the right reasons, Maggie. I’m the street fighter, remember? He’s the knight.”
Ignoring the disbelief in her expression, Sugarman wandered around the room, stopping by the grand piano. “Heard you’ll be playing at Carnegie Hall. Good for you. I’ll expect a comp ticket. Now maybe you can help me with this morning’s Times crossword. It’s about music, and I need an eight-letter word for the site where Carnegie Hall was built in 1891.”
“Easy one. Goat Hill. Andrew Carnegie built the hall on the northern frontier of Manhattan—it was still a grazing area, not another building nearby.”
He laughed, coming toward her. “Sheesh! Talk about a visionary. And now 57th Street is the most expensive real estate in Manhattan. Okay, so here’s a piano clue, big shot. “Who was the Pole who provided his piano magic that same year, 1891? Ten letters.”
“Does Paderewski have ten letters?”
“You’re good.” He sank back into the peacock velvet sofa with a sigh of approval. “This place is gorgeous. What’d you do? Vegas jackpot? Rob a bank? Long-lost uncle?”
“I’ve had more than enough drama in my life, Simon.” Maggie waved an arm around the light-filled room. “Yes, it’s beautiful, but not mine. Belongs to an old friend of my family, the international concert pianist Giulietta Donati. She had an appointment, but asked that I fill you in until she gets here. She’s the reason that I called you.”
Sugarman waved a finger at her. “You said on the phone that this had to do with missing art. You have got my attention, Doc. Tell me.”
* * *
Maggie leaned forward, her eyes on Simon Sugarman.
In his midfifties, Sugarman was tall and lean as a granite spire, with close-cropped hair the color of coal, skin as black as asphalt, and a sheen of silvery whiskers around a hard jaw. Today, in his dark, well-cut business suit, white shirt, and quiet tie, he almost fit her image of a government agent. Almost. Until you noticed the bright spark of the diamond in his left ear and the dark blue Adidas running shoes beneath the cuffs of the fine wool slacks.
He caught her look, grinned as he touched the diamond in his ear. “A little bling never hurts, right?”
She smiled. “You haven’t changed. I called you because I hope you are still doing your ‘Monuments Men’ thing.”
“Yeah. Still alone, still doing crosswords, still at Justice searching for all that lost ‘Cultural Property.’ You’d be surprised how much illegal trafficking there is—every black market wants stolen antiquities, sculptures, art. Best lucrative investment there is. And now, because of you, I’ve added rare instruments and missing musical scores to my list. Who knew m
usic was worth so much?”
“An autographed copy of Rachmaninoff’s Symphony No. 2, lost for decades after the premiere, was found not long ago and sold for two million dollars.”
He gazed at her with a choirboy expression. “Would you believe that last week I found a Rembrandt and a Stradivarius in an attic? But I had to leave them behind. Stradivarius was a terrible artist and Rembrandt made lousy violins. Ba da boom!”
She laughed. “Don’t give up your day job.”
“So, Doc, what’s all this about? Looking for any more long-lost concertos?”
“I wish. But I didn’t ask you here because of music. Are you still looking for Victor Orsini’s missing art collection, Simon?”
The last time she had been with Sugarman, in the South of France, the agent was searching for a very wealthy art collector last seen in Paris. A man named Victor Orsini, who was suspected of selling priceless stolen art to private collectors so he could finance acts of terror against the US.
Sugarman leaned toward her. “Bingo. Turns out Orsini’s father was a collaborator during the war. Helped the Nazis loot art from all over Germany, France, and Italy—and kept several pieces for himself as payment. Old Masters, Impressionists, the Moderns. Rubens, Rembrandt, da Vinci. Degas, Monet, Van Gogh. Matisse, Picasso, Klee. A king’s fortune.” He snapped his fingers. “Vanished into thin air the day Orsini died.”
Pop! Pop! Pop! The terrifying sounds crashed into her head and she winced, because she’d been there that day. Heard the gunshots. Watched in horror as Orsini fell to the earth. But she only said, “That collection has to be worth millions of dollars.”
“Could be billions. Tracking stolen art is a real challenge, Doc, because there’s one hell of a black market for private collectors. And they know they’ve bought illegal items, so they ain’t talkin’.”
He grinned, waving a hand toward the art on Gigi’s walls. “Great works of stolen art are rarely on view like this. They are hidden away, inside a cottage, a mansion, a palace, a basement, an attic, a secret room. Tiffany windows were found in a garage. The German collector Cornelius Gurlitt hid a collection worth millions in a nondescript walk-up in a Munich suburb.” He shook his head. “As much as one-fifth of the world’s art treasures was looted by the Nazis, Doc, valued at thirty billion dollars! Most of that art is gone forever. The recovery rate is only ten percent.”
He turned to gaze at a fluid landscape. “My gut says Orsini’s looted art is probably hanging somewhere in a private collection just like …” His voice trailed off and he turned to her, his dark eyes flashing with realization.
“Why are you looking at me that way, Simon?”
“Just months ago, in France, Orsini disappeared the night you found your godson. Two days later, Orsini was dead. He only had forty-eight hours to hide that damned art. Where did he stash dozens of canvases, how did he do it so quickly? It’s been driving me crazy. But now, standing here looking at you—you were the last person to see him alive, Maggie.”
“He didn’t mention the art, Simon.”
“Okay. But what did he talk about? It’s important, Doc.”
She closed her eyes, wanting to resist the memories. But they swirled into her head, insistent. “My husband,” she said finally. “I accused Orsini of Johnny’s death. He denied it. And—” Her eyes flew to his. “Oh, God. He wanted to know where his son, Tommy, was. The only person in the world he still loved. My godson.”
Sugarman nodded slowly. “I’m putting myself in Orsini’s head now, bear with me. You have this priceless collection of stolen art, you live a dangerous life. You have to plan ahead, find a hiding place. Just in case. You’ve got to leave the art to someone. Someone you trust, someone you love. What do you do? You go to that person you trust, ask him to help you find a safe place to store the collection. You keep it secret. Only two people, besides yourself, know the location. The one you’ve called on to help you over the years. And the one you love most in the world.”
“TJ?” she whispered. “But Tommy is so young.”
“Your godson knows where the art is, Maggie. Trust me.”
“But that means …”
“That TJ is in danger. Yeah.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
TUSCANY
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 21
DANE PACED BACK and forth in the small attic room, his gaze on the setting sun beyond the window, his thoughts on a little boy with too many secrets.
He’d fallen asleep an hour earlier, and dreamed of a skinny, frightened young boy with too-long hair hiding his eyes, forced to watch a cruel father abuse his mother night after endless night. A boy who felt helpless, trapped, who would run off by himself to hide.
And now the kid had the key to finding his father’s hidden treasure.
How would his life have been different if his father had been kind, gentle? Loving?
“Our wills and fates do so contrary run,” he murmured. Hamlet understood.
Enough. Time to go to the vineyard, question the boy.
Dane needed that art. It was time to take action.
Beyond the window, the sky was turning purple with twilight.
Dane closed his eyes, inexplicably uneasy. Was I really dreaming about Tommy Orsini? he wondered.
Or was the little boy in the dream … me.
* * *
“Yes, of course I love Harry Potter. And Hermione, too. London is one of my very favorite cities.” Maggie smiled, listening to her godson’s flutelike voice. His face on her iPhone was happy and excited, so different from the way he had been just months earlier. The tousled curls and huge dark eyes brought back so many memories. “Yes, I remember my promise. We’re going to celebrate your seventh birthday together, I wouldn’t miss it. Have fun at your football game, we’ll talk soon. Oh, sweetheart, I love you more!”
Maggie blew a kiss and disconnected with a sigh of relief and turned to Simon Sugarman. “You heard. He’s in London on a school trip until the weekend. Thank God. He should be safe there.”
“For now. We’ve bought a few days, maybe, that’s all. I’ll call Zach,” said Simon, referring to TJ’s guardian, “and make sure he knows the score.”
“Do you really think TJ could be in danger?”
“If Dane hasn’t made the connection to TJ yet, he will. Let’s just say I think that the best way to keep your godson safe is to find that art—the sooner the better.”
“Then I’ll fly to France as soon as TJ gets home. If I ask him—”
“No! Absolutely not, Doc. He’ll be safer if you’re not there with him, trust me. Leave his protection to me. Can you do that?”
She locked eyes with his, her shoulders rigid with resistance. “I will think about it,” she said finally. “Isn’t there anything else we can do? Did Orsini leave a will? A letter, anything at all?”
“I suspect he had an inventory, but we’ve found zero. So let’s talk about why I’m here.”
“I remembered that you found a painting left behind when Orsini disappeared.”
Sugarman nodded. “A small Cezanne—a landscape titled, Auvers on the River Oise, excuse my French. Last seen before that in the Stassfurt salt mills art repository near Magdeburg, Germany. Believed to have been stolen from a Jewish banker in Florence, Italy, in 1942.”
“Florence. Yes. That’s the story that stayed with me.”
He leaned closer, intrigued. “Thousands of pieces are still missing from World War II, in spite of the success of the Monuments Men. But I’ve been narrowing my search down over the last months. Florence is key. Turns out that Orsini’s mother lived there during the war. I’ve been trying to walk back the cat, so to speak, find out what pieces her husband looted, try to track them down.”
“But Florence was occupied,” said Maggie. “Those records had to be lost or destroyed.”
“That’s what most people think. But the Nazis kept excellent records. So did the gallery owners and wealthy families, if they survived. The inventories are a place to star
t. One more path to follow.”
Sugarman fell silent, gazing at a framed charcoal of a voluptuous nude, as if wondering how much to tell her. Finally he said, “As I said earlier, a guy like Orsini had to have help. In the early eighties, when Orsini finally found the art his father had stolen, he called on two people he trusted. Knew them both from Yale—they all were members of one of those secret societies. Skull and Bones, ever heard of it? One of them was older than Orsini, but ‘once a Bonesman, always a Bonesman,’ I’m told. That guy is in a tight security prison now, not talking until his appeal.”
“And the other?”
“Another fellow Yalie, that’s all I know.”
She shook her head. “You always have more than one agenda, Simon. I’m guessing you know my parents met at Yale. Did Beckett tell you?”
“He might have mentioned it. Thing is, I went to Yale, too, small world. Your father was a legend, although I never connected him with you. But Yale is where I met Orsini, in the late seventies—before we went our separate ways. On Tapping Day, when Skull and Bones recruited the Juniors, he joined. I didn’t.”
“Light and dark?” she asked with a smile.
“Dark and darker.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, Simon, but I only know three things about Yale. My parents studied music there. Yale has one of the best music schools in the US. And, they have a wonderful orchestra, the YSO—Yale Symphony Orchestra. It’s celebrating its fiftieth anniversary this year.”
The dark eyes on her flashed with interest. “Your folks were there, when, in the midsixties?”
“Yes. My godfather was there as well. They were all best friends.”
“Holy smokes. Any way I could talk with them?”
“My mother died when I was young, my father just before I met you. But I’m sure my godfather, Alexander Karas, would talk with you.”
Sugarman’s eyes widened. “The Alexander Karas? Judge Karas, on the Supremes short list? He’s your godfather?”
She smiled. “God help us if there’s more than one of them.” She stopped, said, “That second call Orsini made to someone at Yale … That’s your Yale connection, why you want to talk with Zander. You’ve always insisted that there’s a bad guy still out there.”
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