by Lind, Hailey
“What are you doing?” I shouted over the roar of the engines.
“Working.”
“On what?”
“You wouldn’t be interested.”
He kept typing. I looked at the strawberries. According to the crates, they were FARM FRESH FROM MILPITAS! I hadn’t realized food still grew in the South Bay. I thought it was all semiconductors and Starbucks.
There wasn’t anything else to see. I was bored and worried about what I would find in Los Angeles—or what would find me. The combination made me chatty.
“You enjoy your work, don’t you?” I yelled over the roar of the engines.
“Love it.”
“Tell me something exciting.”
Frank’s thumbs ceased their frenetic hopscotch over the BlackBerry’s tiny keypad. “You mean this thrill ride isn’t exciting enough?”
“It’s pretty exhilarating,” I shouted. “But tell me something juicy about the art security business.”
“I’m actually pretty excited about a new global tracking system developed in the Netherlands. It meets international air regulations, and has total GPS and satellite line-of-sight signal penetration. The best part is we can get global coverage with a remote-monitored base station. All we need to do is adapt it for mobility and we’re good to go.”
The engine roared and I waited.
“That’s it? That’s the juiciest thing you could come up with?” I asked finally. Give me the rank odors of turpentine and horsehide glue any day. So long as the phrase “satellite line-of-sight signal penetration” never came up in my work, I would die happy.
“I’m pretty excited about it,” he said, and I could have sworn I heard a petulant note in his voice.
“Frank, you transport art and valuables. What about intrigue, adventure, the good stuff?”
“It’s not exactly The Thomas Crown Affair, Annie. Other than the rare instances I’m around you, I rely more on technology and intelligence than guns and bravado.”
“Sounds boring.”
“Sounds safe.”
“Why are you so concerned with safety?”
“Most people are.” Frank gave up on the BlackBerry and slipped it into his pocket. I smiled in triumph.
“Have you always been so focused on safety?”
He chuckled.
“What?”
“Want to know a secret?”
“Yes!” I loved secrets. I would have been a fabulous gossip if I could ever remember any of them.
“I was hell on wheels as a kid,” Frank said, crossing his arms over his chest. “I never knew my father, and Mom died when I was young. Her parents did their best but I didn’t make it easy. By the time I was a teenager I’d been sent to juvie so many times it felt more like home than my grand-parents’.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Afraid not. At seventeen I was busted for grand theft auto. The judge gave me one last chance to stay out of prison if I agreed to go into the military. Turns out I thrived under the discipline. I did some Special Forces work, infiltration, that sort of thing. After the military I went back to college on the G.I. Bill, majored in finance, and opened a business in the field I knew best—security.”
“Damn. I never would have thought it.”
“Why not?”
“Well, you seem so . . . so . . .”
“So what?”
“Straight.”
“What’s wrong with that? I’ve worked my entire adult life to be legitimate. I would think you’d understand, Ms. Art Forger Felon.”
“Hey! Unlike some people, I was never convicted of anything, remember?”
“Let’s keep it that way.” He smiled and his leg pressed into mine, on purpose this time. Our eyes held for a moment, and then the copilot announced we were starting our descent into Los Angeles. I craned my neck to see out the cockpit window, but glimpsed only a thick blanket of beige smog.
For the next hour we waited on the tarmac as the strawberries and tomatoes were unloaded before the crated painting was finally transferred to an unmarked truck. We inched along the 405, and up into the winding hills to the museum. I had been to the Getty before, but in general I didn’t “do” L.A. Though I was born in Paris I had thrown my lot in with the Bay Area crowd a long time ago. Except for the obligatory childhood pilgrimage to Disneyland, Northern Californians didn’t mix with the folks in SoCal. We thought differently, ate differently, and were not nearly as blond or fit.
The Getty Center was the nation’s wealthiest museum but its design reminded me of an upscale shopping mall. Separate buildings housed its phenomenal art collections, and boasted cafés and strolling musicians. I preferred the “old” Getty Villa in Malibu, which housed the Etruscan, Greek, and Roman antiquities. The Getty Foundation was in the midst of a protracted dispute with the Italian government over the origins of some of its art and artifacts. This was a sticky issue because long ago many premiere museums had acquired artwork from a combination of government-sanctioned plundering, smuggling, and outright theft.
The Getty Center was run like a business, selecting as its director an MBA with experience turning profits rather than an MFA with an appreciation for art. The center had cost a cool one billion dollars to build, but extended its largess to the public: it did not charge an admission fee, and was open to all. The Friday afternoon crowd enjoyed the view of downtown L.A. from the terraced gardens as our truck pulled around to the back of the museum. We passed through two sets of locked gates and were met at the loading dock by armed security guards.
A stylish woman in a severe charcoal suit greeted Frank with a kiss on both cheeks, in the French style. They started talking business, and Frank seemed to have forgotten me. I cleared my throat.
“Sorry, Annie,” he said. “I need to attend to a few things with Pauline. Miranda will show you around.”
An elegant young woman led the way to a windowless private gallery, asked me to wait, and closed the door. In the center of the large room was a table with a light board, a microscope, bottles of chemicals, glass bowls, and a stack of reference books and journal articles. Clear plastic bins held tweezers, cotton balls, steel wool, and other paraphernalia used by art conservators—and art forgers. The gallery’s white walls were studded with beautiful paintings, each a stunning forgery. I recognized my grandfather’s work as well as several by Georges’ protégé, Anton Woznikowicz, and a handful of fakes by Marie Bertolini, whom I’d met at Grandfather’s atelier in Paris. There were also several fine works by forgers whose signatures I did not recognize.
Three canvases were of markedly lesser quality and I presumed these were by Jazz Hart. I examined them dismissively. The forgeries lacked the depth of a decent oil painting, and would not pass even a cursory inspection by yours truly. As Georges often said, forgers who couldn’t paint should stick to the abstract expressionists.
My grandfather’s work dominated the collection, and my breath caught in my throat as I studied each one. Not for the first time, I was struck by Georges’ singular ability to replicate so many different artists. There was an Albrecht Dürer watercolor in the style of the meticulous German Renaissance, rendered so perfectly that each hair on the rabbit was distinguishable; a Bronzino oil portrait of a child, her face shining with the smooth, luminescent paleness sought after by sixteenth-century Italians; a Mary Cassatt painting of two women taking tea, the frothy lace of their gowns and the gleaming silver dishes exquisitely slapdash, as befit the Impressionist obsession with the interplay of light and color. Never had I seen so many of my grandfather’s works hanging side by side on the walls of a museum, and my heart surged as I thought of how proud Georges would be. Of course, they were in a private workroom, not on public display, but still.
My eyes lingered on Grandfather’s version of La Fornarina. Relieved to see the painting here—rather than, say, in the Barberini Palace Museum—I studied her provocative smile, her laughing eyes. She gazed at me, sultry and sexy, tempting sane men—and, no doubt,
quite a few women—to stray. It was easy to see why this painting had launched my grandfather’s career as a forger.
“Another time, another place, he might have been a great artist,” said a voice behind me.
I spun around and saw a balding man leaning on a silver cane. He looked to be in his late seventies, hands gnarled and face wrinkled, and intelligence glowed in his deep hawk eyes.
His accent sounded Italian.
“You are Annie Kincaid?”
“Yes.”
“So, you admire your grandfather’s work.”
I pasted a blank look on my face and said nothing.
“It was Georges LeFleur’s great misfortune to come of age at a time when technical talent was less important than revolutionary philosophy,” the stooped man said as he peered up at La Fornarina. He sighed. “Had your grandfather painted a red triangle on a field of black, he might be hanging in this very museum—in the permanent collection.”
As I suspected the man knew, my grandfather was hangingin the Getty’s permanent collection, as well as many of the world’s other great institutions of art and culture. Just not under his own name.
“Most artists become bitter when they are spurned by the art world. But not Georges LeFleur. He and I worked side by side in Firenze during the floods. He was a gifted art conservator before he began using his talents to create, rather than to restore, rare masterpieces. But to this day he embraces art with a joie de vivre that one cannot fault. He is a genius.” The man chuckled and turned his intense gaze on me. “But, Ms. Kincaid, he must be stopped.”
“Who are you?”
“Donato Sandino, at your service, Signorina.”
“Signor Sandino.” I held out my hand, though I really wanted to mow the little fellow down and run for the airport. “It’s an honor. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”
“And I, you,” he said, shaking my hand. “Please tell me that I am correct, and that this is indeed your grandfather’s marvelous copy of La Fornarina.”
I remained mute. No way in hell was I going to drop a dime on Georges, not even if Donato Sandino tied me down and stuck a muralist’s pounce stick up my nose.
“It doesn’t matter.” He waved his hand, as though to swat a mosquito. “Tell me, Signorina, are you familiar with the saying about the French realist Jean-Baptiste Corot?”
Indeed I was. It was one of Georges’ favorites. “They say that Corot painted two thousand canvases, five thousand of which are in America.”
Sandino chuckled again.
“But Corot was an altruist,” I pointed out. “He allowed poor artists to sign his name in order to sell their paintings.”
“There are many reasons for fraud, Signorina,” Sandino said as he hobbled toward the worktable. “But it is a crime nonetheless. Have you seen the list I have compiled of the most-forged artists?” He picked up a laminated sheet and handed it to me.
The list was in alphabetical order and included Corot, Dalí, van Gogh, Modigliani, Remington, and Utrillo. I was surprised that neither Reubens nor Rembrandt was on it, for both had worked with numerous apprentices and had been generous with their signatures. Sandino’s list apparently distinguished between the Old Masters who lent their fame to lesser artists, and the modern forgers who were out-and-out copyists.
“Your grandfather seldom forges the obvious works,” Sandino continued. “I admire him for that. He is a man of unusual aesthetic sensibility.”
I remained mute.
“As in so many things, the United States has become the biggest consumer of stolen and forged art. It may interest you to know that I am planning to move my laboratory here. Sending items to and from Europe has become . . . how do I say? Not workable. Not feasible.”
Made sense. Europe was the bastion of Western art, but the American market was red-hot these days, as dealers and auction houses cashed in on the virtually unregulated industry.
“So, here I am, in the City of Angels, teaching your FBI how to spot the obvious signs of forgery so that they may call upon my services in the future. You may imagine how pleased I was to hear that the granddaughter of Georges LeFleur was inquiring after La Fornarina.”
“I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed.”
“You may speak freely, Signorina. I have no interest in your career, and I have more than enough evidence to convict your grandfather many times over. It does not follow, however, that I wish to send him to prison. Who better to understand the plight of an old man than another old man, eh?”
I was fond of Italians in general, but this man’s steely determination repelled and frightened me. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
“The FBI, even Interpol, does not have the expertise to track your grandfather. They must rely upon me. But my memory is not as it used to be. At times I am forgetful. If I were, say, to have a reason to forget, well . . .”
“What are you saying?”
Sandino smiled. “I believe that you understand me, Ms. Kincaid. Raphael’s little baker girl is quite special. I became intrigued with her when I discovered your grandfather’s forgery in 1966. Although his forgery was in my possession, my interest was piqued, and I began to doubt the authenticity of La Fornarina in the Galleria Nazionale. I brought my concerns to the museum administration, but I was laughed at. At the time, I was not sure of my own skills. I began to fear my opinion had been swayed by a romantic attachment to a charming American woman. I am Italian, after all,” he said, and placed his hand over his heart. “Romantico.”
“Mrs. Henderson.”
He looked surprised. “You know more than you admit, Signorina.”
“Lucky guess.”
“L’amore e cieco, eh? Love is blind.” He smiled and ducked his head. “I was engaged to another woman at the time, so it was very complicated. Still, I wanted to see the painting that Margaret—Mrs. Henderson—believed to be genuine, but I had difficulty gaining a visa to the United States. As the months wore on my colleagues convinced me that I was being foolish. I was offered a position in Germany, and I made my reputation there.
“But when I learned the granddaughter of the incomparable Georges LeFleur was asking about La Fornarina, my old suspicions were rekindled. I spent a great deal of time at the Barberini, studying their painting. I am now convinced I was right all along. Bring the masterpiece to me, Ms. Kincaid, and I will make your grandfather’s troubles go away. He will spend his days painting in peace, no longer sought by Donato Sandino. There are many noble families in England alone who would wish to employ him.”
“And if I can’t bring you La Fornarina?”
He gave a very Italian shrug. “As you can see, Georges LeFleur’s work dominates this room. I flatter myself that I can recognize his forger’s signature as easily as his talented granddaughter can. He is too well known, Signorina, especially since he published his memoirs.”
I swore under my breath. I had begged Georges not to publish his memoirs, but he’d ignored me, delighted with the project and convinced of his invincibility. For once I hated the thought of being able to tell him “I told you so.”
“Georges LeFleur will be found, and he will be charged. For a man his age, it might well be a death sentence. But perhaps you can save him, eh?”
Chapter 10
The artist must try to raise the level of taste of the masses, not debase himself to the level of the unformed and impoverished taste.
—Diego Rivera (1886-1957), Mexican painter
True art expresses the soul of its creator, nothing more. It need only be sincere.
—Georges LeFleur
I had paid off my credit card bill in full last month, for the first time in five years. I ran it right back up again making my escape from L.A.
After fleeing the sinister Donato Sandino, I took a wildly expensive cab ride to the airport, where I hopped a South-west flight to Oakland. From there I took the shuttle to BART, BART to the City, another taxi to my studio, picked up my truck, drove back to Oakland, holed
up in my apartment, turned off the phone, and opened a bottle of wine.
I didn’t want to deal with Frank. I didn’t know if he was working with Sandino, the FBI, or both. All I knew was that Grandfather was in trouble, Donato Sandino had given me an ultimatum, and I was no closer to finding La Fornarina than I had been a few days ago. In brief, I was clueless, frustrated,and scared. I comforted myself with Chinese takeout and Merlot, watched a mindless reality TV show, and drifted off to sleep.
Saturday morning I sat at the kitchen table and paged halfheartedly through the Oakland Tribune. I never used to subscribe to the newspaper, but I’d grown weary of friends nagging me to keep up to date. I now had half-read newspapers stacked in piles throughout the apartment, creating a mazelike atmosphere reminiscent of library archives before the advent of microfiche. The mess was annoying, though my biggest worry was that if I choked to death on a chicken wing one night the authorities would think I was one of those sad, lonely hoarders.
I glanced at the headlines, decided to read the articles later—chaos, politics, and destruction were too much to deal with first thing in the morning—and turned to the local section, where I spied a follow-up story on Cindy Tanaka. I sat up straight and read:
Brianna Nguyen, a chemistry graduate student who shared the apartment with Ms. Tanaka, said she was shocked to realize how despondent her friend was. “She was always so driven. Maybe she just couldn’t cope.” The medical examiner has ruled the death a suicide.
I dropped the paper, dug through my backpack, and found Detective Hucles’ business card and phone number.
“Hucles,” he answered on the first ring.
“Detective, this is Annie Kincaid. I found Cindy Tanaka’s body, remember?”
“Yes, Ms. Kincaid. How can I help you?”
“I read in the paper this morning that her death has been declared a suicide.”