by Hailey Lind
“You think I’m crying over Michael?” I croaked.
“I—”
“It’s my Uncle Anton. He was found...” My voice wavered. “Hurt. Poisoned. He’s been hospitalized.”
“Anton Woznikowicz? I’m so sorry, Annie, I didn’t realize—”
I stood and rested my head on his chest. He smelled of soap and a subtle male musk: pure Frank. Strong arms wrapped around me, one hand stroking my back slowly, and I let myself sink into him. It felt good. Really good. Safe. What would it be like to live in Frank’s world, I wondered, a world where people you cared about never died under mysterious arsine-gas circumstances?
“I have to find out what happened,” I said, sniffling. “Someone tried to kill him, Frank. I’m sure of it.”
“This is a job for the police, Annie.” Frank’s voice was quiet and oh-so-reasonable.
“I realize that. I gave all the information I have to Inspector Crawford, remember her?”
“Then...”
“She says she’ll look into it, but she still thinks it was an accident. But I think this might have something to do with the case I mentioned—”
“The case with Odibajian?”
I nodded.
“You have got to be kidding.” His voice started to rise. “What did I tell you about him, not twenty-four hours ago? Why can’t you leave things well enough alone?”
So much for soothing my worried brow. I pulled away from him. The good news was that I no longer felt like crying. The bad news was, it didn’t look as though I would have much help in my quest.
“I’m an investigator now, remember?”
“You’re not an investigator. Investigators need to be licensed, not to mention trained.”
“That’s only if they carry guns—“
“It is not only if they carry guns. You and your buddy-the-thief are supposed to be operating a simple Internet sting operation through an anonymous website, and the whole thing is meant to be overseen by the FBI to avoid precisely this sort of insane behavior. What is wrong with the two of you?”
“You weren’t so picky when you hired me to find your stupid statue.”
“That was a simple inquiry. I expected you to talk with some of your underground friends, not to go after shady billionaires with personal armies at their disposal.”
“For your information, Michael’s on your side about this one,” I said over my shoulder as I headed for the door. “And as far as I’m concerned, you can both go to hell.”
Fuming, I hopped in my truck and took off. I exhaled anger until I felt lightheaded and was forced to inhale a little compassion lest I keel over while driving.
Get a grip, Annie. Focus.
First stop: Mayfield’s Auction House.
One of the reasons I had been a stand-out art forger while still in my early teens is because of my rare, some might say bizarre, ability to tell a faked work of art from the Real McCoy. I’m sure there must be some kind of intellectual process at work, but all I know is that when I stare at a piece of art an impression pops into my mind without conscious thought or effort. It isn’t supposed to work that way; the determination of originality usually involves scientific tests for correct dating of materials, debates over proper brushwork and artistic technique, tedious research into the work’s provenance, or paper trail, and a healthy portion of educated guesswork. I have no quarrel with scientific methods and esoteric debates, or even with educated guesses. But I don’t guess. I know. Over the years a variety of skeptical artists, dealers, and experts have tried to prove me wrong. They failed.
Which is why I knew the instant I laid eyes on it that the Gauguin painting Elijah Odibajian had brought to Mayfield’s Auction House was a fake, and that Anton was the forger. I didn’t recognize every art forger’s signature, but I had trained with the funny old Pole and knew what to look for: tell-tale brushstrokes, methods of shadowing, and an indefinable artistic “signature” that I would recognize anywhere.
Did you leave me any secrets, Anton? Holding the painting in my white-gloved hands made me feel close to him. If only a picture really were worth a thousand words, I thought, I would have a few choice questions to ask it.
The folks at Mayfield’s weren’t able to tell me any more than I already knew: Elijah Odibajian enlisted the auction house to sell the painting. The provenance papers appeared to be in order, but when they checked the Art Loss Register they found the painting listed as stolen. As required by law, Mayfield’s notified Augusta Confederated, which now owned the painting since they had reimbursed the original owner for his loss. Elijah had dropped out of sight, and the auction house was now trying to keep the incident under wraps. Great forgeries have an undeniable cachet among the general public but don’t do much for an auction house’s reputation.
I left Mayfield’s, wondering what my next step should be. I needed to tell Grandfather the news about Anton but he rarely answered his cell phone—he was convinced Interpol had tapped it—and, since he was somewhere in North Africa at the moment, e-mail was my only option. My computer was back at the office but so was Michael, and I was in no mood to deal with him. I drove to an Internet café in North Beach, ordered a double cappuccino and a chocolate croissant, and settled in at a table looking out onto Columbus Avenue.
I logged on to the free e-mail account I used on those occasions when I wanted to reach out and touch someone but didn’t want that touch to be traced back to me. I got as far as Très cher Grand-père and stalled. How did I soften the blow of his learning an old friend had been assaulted and left for dead? I felt tears well up, gritted my teeth, and kept typing. I had to tell Georges before he heard it from someone else. The art underworld is one big gossip mill, surprisingly small and intimate, where everybody who matters knows everybody else who matters.
Still, even the forgery world changes over time. In the last decade or so, since international drug dealers and gun runners had gotten into the game, art crime had become more dangerous. The older generation of forgers and thieves despised the brutality of the new players, and liked to gather in out-of-the-way places and wax nostalgic about the good old days, when forger, thief, and buyer all knew each other and hardly anyone ever got killed.
...let you know the moment I learn anything new. Please, please be careful! You are not impervious to harm, you know. Je t’aime et je t’embrasse, A.
I hit SEND. My filial duty was done, and I felt like crap. Might as well ruin the day completely, I thought, and Googled “arsenic poisoning.”
Arsenic, it turns out, is a naturally occurring mineral that converts to a gas when exposed to hydrogen. Arsine gas is colorless, though it sometimes smells like garlic or fish, and is often hard to detect because it is not immediately irritating. But it is intensely toxic. The gas is heavier than air, which means it sinks, and those lowest to the ground—children, pets, or anyone on a low bed or chair—are at greatest risk. The most common source of arsine gas is metal manufacturing, but art restorers can be exposed if they unknowingly apply solvents containing hydroxide to paints containing arsenic, such as True Emerald or Paris Green pigment. Sometimes simple mildew can be the culprit, acting upon the arsenic in paint pigments to release arsine gas.
Once released, the gas is inhaled and enters the bloodstream through the lungs. In acute cases arsine poisoning leads immediately to nausea, difficulty breathing, and abdominal cramps followed within hours by fatigue, loss of consciousness, liver damage, red blood cell damage, renal failure...and death.
I stopped reading.
The high-pitched wail of steam foaming milk for cappuccinos brought me back to reality. I hadn’t touched the croissant; chocolate relieves frustration but is powerless against grief. Even the coffee tasted sour. The only thing that would help right now was to move forward. I took a deep breath, pulled my notebook from my backpack, and started another list.
1. Get into F-U and talk to Balthazar Odibajian
2. Find “Chan” at Cameron House. Ask about fireworks?
3. Talk to Victor Yeltsin re: stolen Gauguin and Jarrah Preston
4. Forge my own damn Gauguin, sell it to the highest bidder, and sail into the sunset with Michael and/or Frank bound and stuffed into the cargo hold for my amusement
“Have you ever heard of Cameron House?” I asked the young man in a striped polyester shirt from the 1970s who was busing the table next to mine.
“Sure. It’s that big brick place in Chinatown,” he said. “I forget which street. It’s Presbyterian, I think.”
“It’s a church?”
“More like a community center or a mission or something. But there’s some sort of religious connection.”
“Thanks.”
He nodded at my untouched plate. “If you don’t like the croissant I can get you something else. Skinny thing like you needs to eat.”
“Just out of curiosity, will you marry me?”
He grinned. “Sorry. I bat for the other team.”
“Just my luck.” I returned his smile.
I picked at my croissant while I called Pedro. “Do you have a home address for Elijah Odibajian?”
“Top o’ the mornin’ to you, lassie.”
“You’re not Irish and it’s not morning.”
“Whatever.” I heard rapid-fire clicking sounds. If computer keyboards were souped-up cars, Pedro would be a NASCAR champ. “His official address was up on Pacific Heights, but it looks like he was most recently residing at the Fleming Mansion on Nob Hill.”
“That can’t be right. The F-U’s a club, not an apartment building.”
“It’s not unusual for men’s clubs. They rent rooms to members and special guests.”
“According to the newspaper, Balthazar and Elijah are at each others’ throats. Why would Elijah rent a room at his brother’s social club?”
“The ways of the wealthy are mysterious, Grasshopper. What can I say? Looks like Elijah put his Pacific Heights condo up for sale recently, and he listed the F-U on the change-of-address form he filed with the post office. You’re not planning to drop in on him, are you?”
“Nope.” I was planning to drop in on Balthazar.
“Want the rest of the info you asked about earlier?”
“I’ll call you back,” I said.
The clock behind the counter said 1 P.M. Long past my lunch hour, but just right for the beautiful people. Would the F-U’s kitchen have opened so soon after yesterday’s tragic discovery? Was the bedroom still considered a crime scene? Annette Crawford said she would let me know when I could return to work but she hadn’t mentioned anything when I saw her at Anton’s....
One way to find out.
The Fleming-Union’s parking lot was quiet. The police cruisers were gone, replaced by newly washed luxury cars. Feigning nonchalance, I marched up to the rear servants’ entrance, said hi to the blond parking lot attendant, and tried to sign in, as I had for the past several days as I worked on the attic wallpaper project. Just another day in the life of a faux finisher, no matter than I was wearing a skirt and a silk top.
Blondie snatched the clipboard from me. “You can’t go in.”
“Sure I can. Remember me? Annie Kincaid? I’m working upstairs, in the attic.”
“Not now, you’re not. Not after...” Blondie’s voice dropped and he leaned in toward me, as though we were sharing a secret. “Not after yesterday.”
“Is it still an active crime scene?”
He shrugged.
“Then why can’t I get back to work? I won’t go anywhere near...” I dropped my voice, too. It just seemed right “...where we found him.”
“Did the cops talk to you?” Blondie’s eyes darted around and he shifted his weight from foot to foot. “They were looking for you.”
“Yes, I spoke with Inspector Crawford. Several times, in fact. But now I have to finish the job. Are any of the...er...brethren around to talk to about that?”
“No,” he said, his gaze turning up to the surrounding buildings. “They’re not here.”
“There are a lot of cars in the parking lot.”
“Well, there’s some but not the ones you need to talk to.”
“Not to be rude, but how can you be so sure?”
“Thing is,” he licked his lips, “I don’t think they want you to come back.”
“They don’t want me to finish the job?”
He shook his head.
“Why not?”
“On account o’ maybe you took the paintings.”
“What paintings?” My mind flashed on the cheesy Western art and European hunting scenes that peppered the walls of the mansion. “I didn’t take any paintings.”
He shrugged. “Maybe you did, maybe you didn’t.”
“Listen, I could probably clear this up right now. Is Geoffrey McAdams here? He hired me.”
“Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t.”
Blondie was really starting to annoy me. “What about Balthazar Odibajian?”
His blue eyes flashed. “Don’t you go botherin’ Mr. Odibajian!”
“So he is here, then?”
The attendant looked aghast at being outfoxed. He stomped over to his wooden kiosk, closed and locked the door, plugged into his iPod, and tuned me out.
Now what? Searching for inspiration, I spied yesterday’s informants, Harvard and Jumpsuit, sitting on a park bench across the street.
“Hey there,” I greeted them as I approached. “How’s it going?”
“Beautiful day,” Harvard said.
“Beautiful,” echoed Jumpsuit softly.
“Either of you happen to know if the cops are gone for good across the street?”
“Dunno,” Harvard said.
“Nope,” Jumpsuit replied.
“So I don’t suppose you’d know if they’re open for business as usual?”
They both shrugged.
I sighed. It was a long shot anyway.
“Hey,” said Harvard. “ ‘Member how you was askin’ ’bout if I seen anythin’ unusual at the F-U the other day?”
I nodded.
“You see that lady over there? She walks her dog hereabouts a lot, so’s I seen her.”
“The woman with the full-sized poodle?” She was the one I saw talking with Michael yesterday. Same dog trimmed to within an inch of its life, same fuchsia scarf.
“Yup. She’s the woman I seen go in the club.”
“Okay, thanks a lot.”
I sidled up to her. The woman had pretty blue eyes that crinkled up endearingly when she smiled, which she did almost constantly. She was not tall, only reaching my shoulder, but completely outclassed me in the va-va-va-voom department, sporting a pair of torpedo-shaped breasts that had either been surgically enhanced or bore witness to her ability to defy gravity. I estimated she was in her late forties, possibly older. It was hard to tell because her face had the oddly flat quality of an expensive facelift. Her hair was beautifully colored and cut, and her makeup was subtle yet striking. Large diamond studs adorned her pierced ears, and she played with a sparkling diamond tennis bracelet on one wrist. She reeked of disposable income.
“Beautiful dog,” I said, putting my hand out to the animal to let it sniff, then stroking it under the chin.
“Isn’t she just? And so smart!”
“I’ve heard that about poodles,” I said. “What’s her name?”
“Cuddles.” She chuckled. “I didn’t name her; she’s a rescue and came prenamed. I probably would have chosen something outlandish, like Princess Napoleon Biscuit-Bottom or some such nonsense, so it’s just as well!”
“Could you tell me, do you know anything about the Fleming-Union?”
She leaned toward me and whispered, as though offering late-breaking news. “It’s a very exclusive place.”
“Is that right. Are you a member?”
She laughed. “Well... I’m not supposed to tell anyone, but yes, my husband’s a member.”
She wasn’t exactly a tough nut to crack.
“Is he on
the retreat?”
“Yes, but it was cut short unexpectedly. How do you know so much about it?”
“I’ve been working there, doing some restoration. I’m a faux finisher.”
“How exciting!”
One thing I had learned about the wealthy: they bore easily, and to keep themselves amused they renovate constantly. I had built a career on rich people’s short attention spans.
“You’re a faux finisher?” the woman asked. “This is wonderful! I’ve been meaning to have someone take a look at a project I’ve been thinking about. And here you are, out of the blue! It’s fate, isn’t it? Do you have a card?”
“I’m Annie Kincaid,” I said, handing her a business card.
“Annie, it is just lovely to meet you. I’m Catrina Yeltsin. Call me Cathy.”
“Nice to...meet you,” I said, faltering as her name filtered into my brain. Yeltsin? “And your husband is...?”
“Victor Yeltsin. You don’t happen to know him?”
“I may have seen him at the club, while I was working.”
“Such a coincidence!” she gushed.
Wasn’t it just? My mind raced. Did I dare ask her about the stolen Gauguin? I had meant to speak with the Yeltsins, but wasn’t prepared and didn’t want to blow it. Maybe it was better to follow up on her interest in hiring me as a faux finisher and figure out my next step later.
“And your husband’s well?”
“Oh yes, he’s in wonderful health! Aren’t you a dear for asking.”
Scratch Yeltsin’s name from the list of possible dead blokes in the tub.
“It’s so exciting, you working at the Fleming-Union,” Cathy continued. “It’s a beautiful place!”
“Yes, isn’t it? The thing is, I have to complete the next step in the process. Faux finishing is a tricky business, you know, timing is everything, and that silly security guard won’t let me in. I hate to impose, but can you think of any way I might get in?”
“Gosh, I wish I could help but even I can’t go in!” she said with a huge smile. “I’m just waiting for my Victor to finish up a business lunch, then we’re going home. Aren’t we, Miss Cuddle-Cakes?”
The dog gazed up at Cathy adoringly.