Forger of Light

by Nupur Tustin

  Her gaze shifted to Celine. “That must be why he kept showing it to you.”

  The same realization had darted through Celine’s mind a mere fraction of a second earlier. She nodded wordlessly.

  It was the perfect clue. She’d seen it the first time she and Reynolds had met.

  You’re psychic, aren’t you?

  “It was a gentler way of showing me what he knew. I was already apprehensive of him—sensing his connection to the General minutes after I’d sensed—”

  She stopped, unable to pronounce the words. It had been shortly after she’d sensed her own death. But she also understood it hadn’t been Reynolds’ decision to convey his message in such a cryptic fashion.

  Her own guardians—Sister Mary Catherine, Belle, and the countless other watchers gathered around her—had intercepted his message and presented it to her in the only way she’d find palatable. But after his death, her own preconceptions had shaped what she’d seen.

  Her lips twisted into a wry smile. “Isn’t it weird not one of us realized he had information about the etching?”

  “Not really.” Blake was quick to dismiss her misgivings. “We were all hoping he had something more substantial.”

  “Not that this isn’t a good start,” Penny hastened to reassure them. She looked wistfully at the empty frame. “I just wonder how he was so sure it was our print.” She turned back to them. “I mean this is a print we’re talking about. There are hundreds of impressions. There’s one right across the street from us at the MFA for heavens’ sake. There are two or three in the Rijksmuseum.”

  “That’s why it took him so long to come forward.” The light of perception was beginning to dawn in Celine’s mind. “He wanted to make sure it was your stolen print.”

  Her eyes sought Julia’s. The same thought must have occurred to them, for they both said, “Lines of authenticity!”

  Julia’s eyes widened. “That’s what his installation is about, isn’t it?”

  “Yup,” Celine confirmed her friend’s insight. “And it’s intentionally abstract.”

  “Wait,” Blake broke in. “You’re saying he managed to establish it was a genuine Rembrandt print that belonged to the Gardner?”

  “Yes.” Celine turned to him, mind racing. “And whoever gave it to him is—or has access to—the General.” It was all becoming clearer to her now.

  Of the thirteen works the General and his partner had stolen, only the gu, the etching, the five Degas sketches, and possibly the Manet had made their way to their intended recipients. Recovering any of these would lead them directly to the perpetrators of the biggest heist in contemporary history.

  “Blake,” she continued breathlessly, “we really need to get Sofia to persuade her friend to come forward. It’s the only way we’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Jonah called as they were leaving the Gardner. Celine allowed Julia and Blake to walk ahead, staying by the sidewalk to take the call.

  “Any news?” the reporter asked the moment she answered her phone. “I’ve been busy with my mom,” he explained before she could get around to asking him where he’d been all morning.

  Jonah’s absence had been a Godsend, but they’d all known he’d get in touch eventually and want to know more about the investigation. What she was to tell him had already been decided.

  “There was nothing in the warehouse, if that’s what you’re asking,” Celine informed him once she’d made the usual inquiries after his mother—questions Jonah brushed aside. More curtly than usual, Celine noted.

  Her eyes traced the pattern of shadows the museum threw on the gray sidewalk.

  “Nothing?” Jonah’s voice rose, reflecting his skepticism. “Absolutely nothing?”

  The shadows on the ground flickered and wavered.

  She wondered what—if anything—he’d uncovered to question her veracity. Had he spoken with Cambridge Police? He was a reporter after all, and being nosy—and resourceful—went with the territory.

  But she stayed firm.

  “Nothing of interest in the Gardner theft,” she told him, her voice emphatic. There was no way of knowing for certain that Reynolds had forged the works they’d found in his warehouse. And they’d so clearly been planted there that to now attribute them to the dead man seemed an injustice.

  Reynolds had worked hard to outlive his past as a forger. A past that Hugh Norton hadn’t allowed him to forget. Celine was damned if she was going to allow anyone—in particular a journalist with a penchant for unsavory scuttlebutt—to sully his reputation now that he was dead.

  Before Jonah could pursue the question any further she continued. “But we’ve discovered which Rembrandt he had information about. It was the etching.”

  To her surprise, Jonah didn’t ask how they’d found out—through psychic channels or more usual investigative routes. He simply accepted her word for it.

  Why, she idly wondered as her foot outlined the shadows. But she didn’t have time to pursue the question for too long.

  “The etching,” Jonah echoed. “It was a stamp-sized print as I recall.”

  “You’re right. It was tiny. Less than two inches long and across.”

  “Are we thinking someone gave it to Reynolds—a client perhaps? For safekeeping. Or that he stole it?”

  An unexpected note of alarm sounded in Celine’s head. But its significance eluded her. It couldn’t have been due to the possibilities Jonah had named. Neither one was unreasonable. How else could the etching have fallen into Reynolds’ hands? But . . .

  Uneasily she suppressed the twinge of unease that had snaked up within her. There’d be time enough to make sense of it later.

  “Gave it would be more appropriate,” she said, squelching the urge to snap. The dead man hadn’t been a thief—that much she was sure of. “Remember, he was trying to return it to the Gardner.”

  “Alright. So someone gave it to him. He recognizes it for what it is, keeps it in the hope of getting the reward.”

  “Or because it was the right thing to do,” Celine pointed out dryly. “I know you need a good story, Jonah. But you can’t embellish the facts like that. The man was rich enough not to need the paltry reward he’d get for returning a tiny, not particularly valuable Rembrandt etching.”

  “You’re right, you’re right.” He laughed, a small nervous bark of amusement. “But listen, so he has this thing. It’s tiny. If it’s not in his warehouse or apartment, isn’t it possible he concealed it somewhere? Maybe one of those miniature models he made for his clients.”

  “Someone must have thought so.” She told him about the break-in at the Mechelen. “I don’t see how they could’ve come to the conclusion it was in the one thing they stole rather than in the other items they were unable to lay their hands on.”

  “Well, if the etching was given to him for safekeeping—that’s the theory we’re working on, isn’t it?—then—”

  She swept on, ignoring Jonah’s attempt to speak. “If that’s the case, then whoever gave him the etching commissioned a specific piece to hide the print in. Wouldn’t you think?”

  Her words must have carried because Blake and Julia pivoted around instantly. It was a consideration that hadn’t occurred to either of them before, although now Celine could see the gears spinning inside their minds.

  Jonah was speaking again. She pressed her phone closer to her ear.

  “But think, Celine, if Reynolds had no intention of returning the etching, would he have carried out the commission? No, of course not. So what does he do instead? He gives it to you—hiding it in the one piece that would carry the most significance for you.”

  Another twinge of alarm sounded, but she stifled it, considering instead the implications of what he’d just said. Had the General’s men—who else could’ve been responsible for the break-in—succeeded in recovering the stamp-sized Rembrandt print?

  It’s safe, Celine. It’s still with you.

  “It’s safe
,” she said, repeating the words she’d heard—from whom? Sister Mary Catherine or Reynolds?

  “Safe?” Jonah’s voice was like an explosion in her ear making Celine start like a nervous horse. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that wherever Reynolds hid it, it’s safe. We’ll find it, Jonah,” she said with more confidence than she felt. “Not to worry.”

  It’s still with you, Celine. It’s still with you.

  Still with her? But how? She’d never had it to begin with.

  “How?” Jonah echoed the question reverberating in her brain. “How are you going to get the etching back, Celine?”

  His skepticism chafed her. True, she still had no idea where the etching was. That didn’t mean her intuition wouldn’t lead her to it—eventually.

  “I don’t know. But—”

  An image surfaced—a figure in a mail carrier’s uniform. A large red “X” crossed it out. What did that mean? That the mailman wasn’t relevant?

  She pushed aside the image and the questions it elicited, determined to show Jonah the bigger picture. They were onto something larger than just the one, tiny, stamp-sized etching stolen thirty years ago.

  “Listen, Jonah, we’re very close to finding out who killed Reynolds. And that’ll bring us right on the General’s heels. We could end up recovering more than just the one stolen piece.”

  “B-b-ut how?”

  She’d never heard Jonah stammer like this. She was giving him the story of a lifetime.

  “We found Sofia.”

  “Sofia can lead you back to the General?”

  “Not Sofia, her friend. If we can persuade her to come forward.”

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Blake wasn’t happy about being summoned to the SAC’s office. They were in the middle of an investigation—on the brink of solving a cold case that had long eluded them. He didn’t have time for this.

  Walsh leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. A man with all the time in the world.

  Utterly oblivious to the countless pieces of the case that still littered Blake’s plate, waiting to be put together.

  Blake suppressed a sigh and resigned himself to the inevitable.

  “This inexplicable, bullheaded decision of yours to pursue Hugh Norton as a suspect,” Walsh began. “Where is it coming from?”

  Ah, so that was it. Ella had needled and prodded the old boy, and Blake was left to pick up the pieces. Goddammit!

  He was in no mood to argue, however.

  “We’re simply pursuing all avenues of investigation, sir. Looking into Reynolds’ social circle—trying to ascertain what he knew about the Gardner theft. How? From whom? That kind of thing.”

  Walsh stared at him—eyes fixed on Blake’s features, stone-faced, silent. Blake recognized the tactic, having used it on suspects himself. But this was his boss. He couldn’t afford to antagonize the old man.

  Hating himself for it, Blake caved.

  “We’re looking into Reynolds’ clients, his known associates,” he elaborated.

  Walsh rocked his chair farther back—a little more and it would be in danger of tipping over. Not that the SAC seemed to care.

  “And is Hugh Norton on Anthony Reynolds’ client list?”

  “No.”

  “No?” Walsh’s eyebrows flew up. He rocked back down, chair legs landing with a decided thud on the carpeted floor.

  “Then what is the reason for looking into him, Agent?”

  Oh, there was more than one. A psychic’s unerring instincts. Unresolved suspicions from an unsolved murder seven years ago.

  But not one of them could be offered as a solid reason for prying into the life of an otherwise upstanding citizen—not that they’d done much prying so far.

  Still, the little they’d uncovered had more than rattled the SAC’s cage, it looked like.

  “And this Wozniak business”—the man was on a roll now—“What’s that all about?”

  He frowned—the ill-tempered, annoyed frown of a man under pressure, Blake thought. Or of a stooge being paid extremely well to stall any effort to encroach upon Norton’s private affairs.

  Walsh clasped his hands and looked sternly at him. “Well?”

  “Sofia Wozniak.” Blake enunciated the name slowly. “She’s the woman who broke into Reynolds’ apartment. They used to be an item.”

  Walsh took the explanation better than Blake expected.

  “She’s being charged, I presume.” Walsh’s sanctimonious tone as he uttered the query was nauseating.

  Blake shook his head.

  “I’ve asked Cambridge PD to hold off.” Soldi hadn’t been particularly happy about this, but DA Campari had been surprisingly amenable to Blake’s plan. “Sofia Wozniak’s testimony has been remarkably helpful to us.”

  “How so?” Walsh seemed genuinely taken aback.

  “Well, for one thing, sir,”—a surge of triumph coursed through Blake’s veins as the thought flashed serendipitously into his brain—“she’s established a connection between Reynolds and your friend Hugh Norton. Seems Norton was responsible for taking Reynolds in hand and directing his talents.”

  He happily provided the details.

  “Everything she’s told us can be easily verified.” Thanks to Sofia Sr.’s propensity for keeping a detailed account book.

  The purchase of Reynolds’ forged Degas sketch and its subsequent sale to Norton had been dutifully noted. The unsigned oil paintings Reynolds had sold through Rose Antiques had been noted as well.

  Along with the fact that they’d been placed on consignment by Hugh Norton.

  “My mother kept excellent records,” Sofia had explained. “I saw no reason to toss anything out when I took over the store. Everything’s here—every note; every entry; every book.”

  Amen to that!

  “It’s pretty clear it was Norton who tried to exploit Reynolds’ skills as a forger, sir. Norton who tried to keep him in that line of business. Norton who insisted that Reynolds leave his paintings unsigned.”—That had been Celine’s insight, not Sofia’s. But why give the SAC any ammunition?—“Reynolds was determined to break free.”

  “None of this amounts to proof, Blake.”

  “But it does give rise to reasonable suspicion.”

  Walsh tapped his slender, tapering fingers on the desk—a nervous, fluttering rap. Was he on the take? Or just unwilling to believe he’d been deceived by someone he thought he knew?

  Blake couldn’t tell.

  “And the information Reynolds claimed to have about the Gardner theft,” Walsh said. “Where are we on that?”

  “Sofia and the friend she’s helping can lead us back—directly back”—Blake struck the desk with the flat of his palm for emphasis—“to the mastermind behind the theft.”

  One of whom was most likely Hugh Norton. The man had a passion for Degas sketches and drawings, was expert enough to recognize when they were forged. Moreover, of the thirteen works stolen from the Gardner, a full five had been Degas sketches.

  Coincidence? Not f—in’ likely.

  But Blake kept his suspicions to himself.

  “We’re close to solving this thing, sir. An infamous heist, unsolved for three decades. And we solve it—under your aegis. Recover the stolen art. Consider the headlines.”

  As he’d expected, Walsh preened, his mouth twitching in anticipation of the gleeful moment of reflected glory. Typical bureaucrat!

  “Okay.” The old man nodded his graying patrician head. “But Blake, I want to be in the loop every step of the way. Every step of the way, you understand.”

  Blake hesitated, then agreed.

  “Fine.” It was no different than the arrangement Soldi had insisted upon. The sole difference being that Blake trusted Soldi as a fellow lawman. Walsh, he wasn’t so sure about.

  His voice must’ve reflected his unhappiness with this covenant, his acquiescence tentative, for Walsh’s gaze bore into his, and he continued sharply.

  “Every detail,
Blake. When and where your meeting with Sofia’s friend takes place. Precautions you’ll take. Everything. From this moment on, I directly oversee this case. Capiche?”

  “Sure.” Blake pushed his chair back, eager to get out of the SAC’s claustrophobic, airless office. He was beginning to feel like a hapless quarry caught in the vicious grip of an anaconda’s embrace.

  He’d find a way out of this Faustian bargain, he told himself as he walked out the door. He’d figure something out. He had to.

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  “This isn’t good, Blake.” Ella peered anxiously at him through her large, round spectacles.

  “No shit, Sherlock,” he snapped. “I know it isn’t good.”

  “Language, Blake. There’s no need to get like that with me.”

  He looked up, instantly contrite.

  “I’m sorry. I’m just”—he rubbed his eyes; they were feeling dry again—“I’m just beat, totally exhausted.”

  They were at his desk, poring over the names Ella wanted him to consider. And he’d made the mistake of confiding in her. What else was he supposed to do?

  Call Celine? At least Ella would think no worse of him than she already did. But he was beginning to regret saying anything.

  He passed his hand over his face, feeling the light stubble covering his cheeks.

  “We’re this close”—his forefinger and thumb moved to within a fraction of an inch apart—“to solving this thing, and I worry we could mess it up. Yet again.”

  Ella crossed her arms, tilted her head, and regarded him quietly.

  “Worrying about it won’t get you anywhere, Blake,” she said matter-of-factly.

  She was right. But it didn’t solve his problem.

  “How do we ensure nothing important gets into Walsh’s hands?” he asked, looking at her despairingly.

  “We tell him the truth,” Ella said. “Some aspects of the investigation have to be on a need-to-know basis to protect the civilians involved. Tell him it would be a PR disaster if things went pear-shaped.”

  “It would.” Blake found himself breaking into a smile. “You’re right, it really would. And boy, is the old guy sensitive to negative PR.” He beamed at his personal assistant. “You’re a Godsend, Ella.”