by Nupur Tustin
Celine took the hint. “We’re looking for someone willing to work from Reynolds’ blueprints,” she explained. “Someone familiar enough with his work—his process—to carry on in his spirit, as it were.”
It was a roundabout way of asking whether Reynolds had been close to any of his fellow artists. Too subtle for Julia’s taste obviously. The former fed went straight to the point.
“Was there anyone here he was close to?”
Trina flicked back the silken strands of hair that swept over her right eyebrow and gave them a hard stare, every sign of accommodation gone.
“Okay”—she waved her hands in an emphatic gesture—“I can give you someone willing to work with the guy’s blueprints. Anyone here would be able to emulate his style. But if it has to be someone close to the guy, I can’t help you.”
She sat back down, a belligerent expression on her face. Celine sighed. They’d been relegated to ignorant rube category again. She’d have to resurrect the conversation somehow.
You need to establish a rapport with her, Celine, Sister Mary Catherine advised.
It took a second to understand what she needed to do.
“I guess I’m not surprised,” she responded. “I did get the sense he was an intensely private man.”
Trina frowned. “Well, no, I wouldn’t say that exactly. He was friendly enough. Generous with his time. Ran a couple of workshops here for the neighborhood kids—clay modeling and oil painting—”
“Oil painting?” Julia erupted, interrupting the conversation again.
But this time Celine didn’t fault her. Reynolds had been an excellent draftsman. That had been evident in the blueprints he’d left with her and in the sketches they’d seen in his apartment.
But a painter—in oil?
Trina smiled—a sly, smug grin of pleasure at the effect her information was having on them.
“Most people find that hard to believe,” she said. “But he was pretty good, actually. Well versed in the techniques of just about every artist from Rembrandt to Degas. The kids loved his workshops.”
Chapter Fifty-Five
“Well, what d’ya think?” Soldi pressed after a while.
The question made Blake feel like an antiques appraiser at a road show. Aware of Soldi’s expectant gaze on him, he kept his eyes on the canvases propped against the wall.
He’d been allowed several minutes to soak in the stash. Now he was expected to deliver an opinion.
Fake—or fortune?
He was inclined to think fake, although he would’ve been hard put to explain why. The draftsmanship was excellent. The canvases were the right size, lined with the expected craquelure—a fine pattern of hairline cracks that covered the paintings.
Anyone with a glancing familiarity with the works stolen from the Gardner would’ve assumed they were looking at the three Dutch works still outstanding: Lady and Gentleman in Black; Christ in the Storm on the Sea of Galilee; and Flinck’s Landscape with an Obelisk.
But would that assumption be correct?
Blake was inclined to think not. “This may not be quite the find you think it is, Soldi.”
“Oh yeah?” Soldi’s voice was dripping with skepticism. “How do you figure that?”
That was a much harder question to answer.
Despite poring over the Gardner files from the time he’d been assigned to the case, Blake didn’t recall all the minute details that could help identify the stolen works should they show up. But one fact stood out in his memory.
Not every stolen work had been an oil on canvas. Flinck’s landscape was an oil on panel.
He pointed to it. “That’s supposed to be on oak panel. Not canvas.”
“You mean it’s a copy—like a forgery!” One of Soldi’s men emitted a low whistle of awe. “And you think Reynolds did that? Hey, not bad for a sculptor! Guy must’ve been talented.”
Blake shook his head. Detecting 101: don’t make assumptions; ask questions. Sure, he’d made a colossal one himself: if the Flinck was a copy, then so were the other two. But he was confident he was right.
“There’s no evidence this is Reynolds’ handiwork. But if it is, I want to know why it was created. And for whom?”
Hugh Norton, SAC Walsh’s golfing partner? Or the General?
“And if it isn’t,” he continued aloud, “I’d want to know how he came across these and why he had them stashed away here.”
Had the forged stash been one of Fussy Phil’s motives for killing Reynolds?
“Well, Markham.” Soldi rubbed his hands together. “Sounds like you have your work cut out for you.” He jabbed a finger in the direction of the officers behind them. “Want I should have one of the boys carry these to your car? ADA Campari insisted we call you guys the minute she saw this.
“Cambridge PD isn’t qualified to deal with art crime and forgery. The murder obviously is our case. But this . . .” Soldi spread his hands wide, lifting his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug.
That drew Blake’s gaze toward the man. So that was it. The FBI could shove off as far as Reynolds’ murder was concerned. And they could do what they would with this cache of forged works.
Well, that wasn’t going to wash.
“Sorry, Soldi. Whether you like it or not, the FBI’s involved. Reynolds was murdered for something he knew or something he had.” He pointed to the paintings. “How this figures into it, I don’t know. But it obviously does. As such the FBI is involved.” He gestured with his hand at his throat. “Right up to here.”
Soldi’s features twisted into a scrunched-up, sour expression, as though he’d inadvertently sunk his teeth into a large lemon.
“ADA Campari isn’t going to like that,” he mumbled.
“One other thing,” Blake added, ignoring the Deputy Superintendent’s grumbling. “There’s a security camera over the entrance. You guys check it out yet?”
The sour look on Soldi’s face deepened. “Yup.”
“Find anything interesting?”
Chapter Fifty-Six
Forger.
The word floated unbidden into Celine’s mind as she stood before Trina Kolev’s desk at the Cambridge Sculptors’ Association. It was accompanied by an image—a hoard of gold-framed paintings stacked against a wall.
They’ve been found, Celine. Sister Mary Catherine’s voice sounded in her ear. But that’s not important. It’s over. Long over.
Before she had time to react, Julia’s voice asking a question and Trina’s response intruded into her consciousness.
“I don’t think anyone outside of this place knew. He was so talented. I don’t know why he didn’t do more with it.”
“Did anyone try to find out why?” Julia probed.
Trina shook her head. “It wasn’t a subject you could broach with him. Not without having him bite your head off. That’s when you realized you couldn’t really get close to him. He didn’t allow anyone inside. There was a clear line drawn, and you couldn’t step beyond.
“He didn’t think he was original enough—not in oil, not on canvas.” The words spilled out of Celine’s mouth before she could stop herself. She stopped short, gasping.
A momentary sense of panic filled her as Trina turned toward her, her dark eyes hard, questioning.
“That’s usually the case with artists, she means.” Julia rushed to fill in the void of silence that had engulfed them. “The fear that they aren’t good enough or original enough to succeed.”
“You could say it’s almost a cliché,” Trina replied with a quick roll of her eyes. “I don’t think that was Reynolds’ problem, though.”
“Well”—Celine was desperate to change the subject—“any suggestions about whom we might approach?”
Trina shrugged. “We have a couple of guys, I guess.” She pulled out two cards from the brass holder on her desk. “Try these folks. But the guy you want is Mitch Finlay.” She looked up at them. “Can’t give you his contact details. He’s not a member. But I’m sure he’ll b
e at the memorial—”
“What memorial?” Julia demanded. Not the one Penny had planned, surely, Celine thought. The museum director had barely begun organizing the event.
“For Tony Reynolds—at the Gardner Museum,” Trina said. “They’re having it over the weekend. Talk about short notice. The program was emailed to us just this morning. I don’t know if there’ll be much happening tomorrow. But they’re setting aside time for personal tributes on Sunday. I’d be surprised if Mitch hadn’t been invited to say something.”
That piqued Celine’s interest. “Because they were close?”
“Because they shared studio space—years ago when they were both starting out.”
“Yes, we reuse the tapes,” Bill, Reynolds’ bespectacled, middle-aged landlord, informed Blake. “No reason not to, right?”
He looked eagerly at Blake, seeking approval of this idiotic decision.
Blake refused to give it to him, and Bill’s eyes shuffled away.
The reason for Vince Soldi’s gloom was becoming apparent with every passing minute.
The security camera, and any footage it might have captured, was utterly useless for their investigation. Each week’s tape was recycled and written over the next week.
Bill had already conveyed this information over the phone to Soldi, but the Deputy Superintendent had summoned him to the warehouse when Blake started asking to see tapes from the weeks and months leading up to the murder.
He’d wanted to know when the three canvases had been transported to the warehouse. In the days prior to Reynolds’ murder? Or several weeks or months before? By whom? Reynolds himself or somebody else?
The answers would help Blake figure out the significance of the stash and whether it bore any relevance to Reynolds’ murder.
“You see, if there’s nothing suspicious on the tape. . .” Bill scratched his ear sheepishly, his voice trailing off.
“Tell Special Agent Markham about the footage from the other night,” Soldi commanded, his face flushed and red from the heat.
They were gathered outside the warehouse now, the sun beating down on them. The corrugated entrance to the warehouse had been rolled down and locked, Soldi taking charge of the master key. All but a couple of his men had left—after hefting the forged cache into the trunk of Blake’s sedan.
The other night? Soldi meant the night before last—the night of Reynolds’ murder.
Bill scratched his ear some more; it was beginning to turn red.
“There’s no footage, I’m afraid.”
“Why not?” Blake’s eyes bore into Bill’s face, pinning him like a squirming butterfly.
“I—uh—don’t know. Glitch in the camera, perhaps.”
“Looks like it was erased,” Soldi informed him. “Deliberately. There’s a noticeable jump in the video.”
“Erased?” Blake turned to face him. “By whom?”
“The dame who was poking around here last night would be my best guess,” Soldi replied. “She’s the only person recorded approaching the warehouse door this week.”
“A woman—you recognize her?”
Soldi shrugged. “The footage is too grainy to make anything out. See for yourself.” He waved the two remaining officers over and directed them to play the security camera tape for Blake on their portable player.
Blake crouched down to peer at the screen. Soldi was right, the footage was grainy. And the tiny screen on the player made it hard to see very much.
But the woman’s figure and the way she moved were quite distinctive—memorable even.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
“You sensed something in there, didn’t you?” Julia said when they were back on the street.
Celine turned to look at the building they’d just left. The image she’d seen was vivid in her mind—gold-framed canvases stacked against a wall.
“I’m not sure it had anything to do with Reynolds’ murder.” She turned to meet her friend’s piercing gaze. “Or what he knew about the Gardner heist.”
“But what did you see?”
Julia had planted herself on the sidewalk, oblivious to the stream of approaching shoppers parting to circumnavigate her.
Celine tugged on her elbow. “Let’s walk a little, and I’ll tell you.” She described the image she’d seen and the word that had accompanied it as they headed east toward Exeter Street.
“I think Reynolds was a forger before he turned to sculpting.”
It was the only surmise that made sense based on what they’d learned about the sculptor. A talented oil painter who preferred to keep his gifts under wraps.
She felt Julia’s eyes on her as she shared it.
“And that’s what Sofia found out about him?”
Celine nodded. “That’s why she broke up with him. But he’d long given it up by then. I heard him tell her that. Back in his apartment, I mean.”
“There must have been far more to it for her to react the way she did.” Julia stopped, squinting up at the sun. “Scandalized, disgusted to the point of breaking off her engagement?”
“Sister Mary Catherine told me they’d been found.”
“The works Reynolds forged?” Julia turned to her, blue eyes narrowed, suspicious. “Where?”
“I have no idea. Maybe in the warehouse Cambridge PD was supposed to be searching. The point is, it’s not relevant. It’s a distraction.”
“Then why do you keep seeing it?” Julia demanded.
Celine shook her head. “I wish I knew.” But there’d been no mistaking her guardian angel’s message. The forged paintings were a distraction. “All I can tell you is that they were planted to lead us astray.”
“Planted?” Julia’s eyebrows rose.
I’m not sure why I phrased it that way. I just meant . . .” She stopped, unable to answer Julia’s questions. “I don't think Reynolds’ past had any bearing on what he discovered about the Gardner heist.”
No direct bearing, Sister Mary Catherine corrected her.
What was that supposed to mean?
Before Celine could ponder the question, an invisible force pushed her head back, forcing her to look up. They’d been about to pass under a wine-colored sign that projected out from the brownstone at the corner of Newbury and Exeter.
Rose Antiques.
She turned toward the brownstone. The name was painted in gold letters on the glass pane of the slate-colored door as well.
“Can we go in there?”
Celine started up the short flight of stairs without waiting for an answer.
Why she felt so drawn to the place she didn’t know. There were art galleries and antiques stores aplenty on Newbury. But something within her was tugging her toward this antiques store.
As though the answers they needed were stored right here, waiting to be unlocked.
“That’s your woman, Soldi.” Blake jabbed a finger at the screen of the portable player as he rose, relieved to stretch out his cramped knees. “The woman who slipped a sleeping potion to your guy yesterday.”
It took Soldi some effort to recall the name. Blake could see the gears churning in his brain as he processed the information.
“So-ofia . . .?” He stared at Blake.
“Yup, Sofia Wozniak.” Blake uttered the last name without thinking about it, and regretted his indiscretion instantly when he saw the stunned look on Soldi’s face.
“You found out her last name? Already?”
“That is Sofia,” Bill confirmed, studying the screen. “I remember her.”
He turned to them, a goofy smile on his round, soft features.
Jesus F-in’ Christ! Blake cursed himself. He’d carelessly dropped sensitive information within earshot of a civilian. What had he been thinking? This was how leaks happened. Not because someone had been bribed. But because someone—Blake himself in this case—had been stupid.
But Bill seemed oblivious to the look of consternation on Blake’s face.
“She was Tony’s girlfriend. He never br
ought her here. But he carried a photo of her. He was so taken with her. Pity it didn’t last. He was never the same after they broke up.”
“Photo?” Soldi demanded. “My men didn’t find any photo.”
“She must’ve taken it back when they broke up,” Blake said, wanting to deflect from this.
“Or when she broke into his apartment,” Soldi pointed out.
“Could be why she broke in,” Blake suggested, although he wasn’t sure he believed it himself. Not after seeing the footage from the security camera.
“Wonder why she came here,” Bill mused.
Blake silently cursed the man for putting that question on Soldi’s radar.
“Must’ve been looking for that photo of herself,” Bill went on. “Tony never returned it, you know. Kept it in his wallet for a long time after she dumped him, poor guy.” He shook his head.
“She was in search of something, no doubt,” Soldi said, his eyes on the video footage replaying on the screen. “She sure didn’t bring anything in.”
And she hadn’t taken the stack of paintings out, Blake added to himself. So what had she been interested in?
The same thing that Reynolds’ killer was searching for? Some hint about where the Rembrandt the sculptor had information on was located?
They needed to find Sofia. Pronto.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
A bell chimed as Celine twisted the brass door handle of Rose Antiques.
The place was disconcertingly empty of people, but a woman’s vibrant voice called out, “I’ll be with you in a second. Make yourself comfortable. Look around.”
“Why are we here?” Julia muttered, her footsteps muted on the blue carpeted floor.
“I don’t know. Something to do with Reynolds, I think.” Out on the street, his presence had been palpable—his hand forcing her head back so she could see the store sign. But why had Reynolds wanted her to come in here? What was she supposed to see?
Celine’s eyes swept the store, searching for some kind of clue that could explain why she’d been drawn to this place.
The store had wall-to-wall carpeting, scuffed and somewhat worse for wear. Furniture filled the room they stood in, and she could see more in the room adjoining it. Glass cases were crammed with jewelry. Table lamps and bric-a-brac jostled for space on floating wooden shelves and every inch of wall space was covered in paintings.