by Shawna Seed
“I have to quit,” Genevieve said. “There’s something not right about this.”
“Hang on now,” D said. “Let’s think about this. What motive would these guys have for stalking you?”
Genevieve considered D’s question. “I don’t know,” she said.
“Maybe it just feels that way because you’re really sensitive after everything with Pete,” D said. “Maybe it’s just a coincidence.”
“A coincidence? You really think that?”
“I’m just suggesting you should think long and hard about quitting a job over this,” D said.
Genevieve weighed D’s point. “Well, it’s true that I can’t really afford to,” she said.
“You can always quit later, right? So why don’t you talk again with Jay or Julien or whatever the hell his name is,” D said. “See what kind of vibe you get.”
Genevieve was going to be late for her meeting with Julien Brooks.
She called when she got home, apologizing for the abrupt end to their earlier conversation. He suggested that they meet the next day for coffee, which might have been funny if she hadn’t been so rattled.
When she walked into the coffee shop, 15 minutes late, she immediately spotted him at a corner table. A woman in running clothes – younger than Genevieve and in much better shape – was leaning on the chair opposite him, chatting. The angle of the lean seemed designed to show off her breasts.
The woman said something funny, and Julien laughed. Genevieve remembered that laugh.
He caught Genevieve’s eye and glanced at his watch, a silent rebuke that put her on edge. He said something to the runner, who sauntered off, tossing a wave over her shoulder. Genevieve instantly disliked her.
Because she was wary about this meeting, Genevieve had prepared for it carefully. She was determined to be professional, to ask smart questions. She would volunteer no information and was ready to resign on the spot if anything seemed amiss.
She’d spent the previous evening reading everything she could find about Théodore Lazare. Her background file was tucked into her shoulder bag, the good leather one her father had bought for her 30th birthday. She was dressed in a gray turtleneck and black pants; her hair was gathered into a chignon. She walked purposefully to the table and offered Julien Brooks a firm handshake. “Sorry to make you wait,” she said. “I ran into traffic.”
He half-rose from the table to shake hands. He did not favor her with one of his megawatt smiles.
“Do you want coffee before we get started?”
Genevieve shook her head and took a seat.
Julien handed her a manila folder. “Paperwork from Henry,” he said. “You’re supposed to sign that and fax it to him, and then he’ll give you a countersigned copy.”
“Thanks.” Genevieve put the folder in her bag unopened and retrieved her notepad and pen. “So, let’s get started,” she said. “Study for Tristan and Iseult. Tell me why your cousin believes it was looted.”
Irritation flashed across his face, and Genevieve realized she’d struck exactly the wrong tone.
“We don’t believe it was looted, it was looted,” Julien said. “You worked for the Hilliard; where do they say it came from? That’s the real question you should be asking.”
Genevieve instinctively covered her notepad with her hand. She had a whole list of questions written out in advance; Julien had apparently spotted them. The direct opening had seemed a good idea when she’d scripted it the night before.
“I don’t have any inside information for you. Unfortunately, I left the museum in the middle of a reorganization and review of the provenance files, and I was only up to the letter I,” she said. “The museum’s website, which I checked last night, lists it as an acquisition from a private collection in 1979. Lazare drew it sometime in the 1840s. So we’ve got a 130-year gap to account for.”
“Whose private collection did the drawing come from? Maybe they’ve got the painting, too,” Julien said. “You know that disappeared, right?”
“I have no idea who had the drawing,” Genevieve said, a little more primly than she intended.
“What do you know?” He crossed his arms over his chest.
“This is the first I’ve heard that there’s any question of it’s being looted,” Genevieve said. “Have you approached the museum?”
“Henry thought we should have our facts together first.”
The easy charm he’d displayed in Vegas was nowhere in evidence, which Genevieve found a relief. If nothing else, it made it easier for her to concentrate.
“If I’m going to help you, I need to know the basis of your claim.”
Julien exhaled and uncrossed his arms. “You sure you don’t want coffee? It’s a long story.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Just to warn you up front: A lot of this is hazy. My mother didn’t talk about this for the longest time,” Julien said, “as hard as that is to believe.”
Genevieve didn’t find that hard to believe. Her family never talked about its most traumatic events, either.
“I knew she had a brother who died in the war, but I thought it was like my dad’s brother who died in the war – his brother James killed in Holland and her brother David... well, I never asked. It seemed like I wasn’t supposed to.”
He broke off eye contact, staring out the coffee shop window.
“My mom died of cancer three years ago. A lot of this story, I got at the very end, sitting up nights with her. She’d drift in and out.”
“I understand,” Genevieve said. “Tell me what you know, and then we can try to fill in the blanks.”
He took a deep breath and let it out.
“This started when I took her to an exhibit at the Hilliard. She was having one of her good days, and I thought we’d get out of the house and... Well, anyway. We saw the drawing, and she just about collapsed.”
Genevieve nodded, encouraging him to go on.
“She said it used to hang in her family’s apartment and she hadn’t seen it since 1939,” he said. “See, my mom was born in Paris, and her family...”
He paused, thought for a moment.
“This gets kind of complicated. Can I have your pen? And a piece of paper?”
Genevieve passed them across the table.
At the top of one sheet he wrote: “Théodore and Henri Lazare”
“OK, Théodore, the artist, died fairly young. Whatever work he didn’t sell – and that was most of it, especially the early Romantic period stuff – ended up with his brother, Henri. My cousin and I are descended from Henri. With me so far?”
Genevieve nodded.
He wrote “World War II” and underscored it.
“So, fast-forward a hundred years. You’ve got three Henri Lazare descendants. My mom, Regine, was the youngest. Her brother David was something like 14 years older than her, and he was running a gallery that the original Henri started 100 years earlier, Galerie de l’Étoile.”
“Galerie de l’Étoile?”
“You know it?” Julien seemed surprised.
“I’ve heard of it,” Genevieve said. She had the 1939 catalog sent to her at the museum; the connection to Théodore Lazare hadn’t come up in her research. She encouraged Julien to go on. She didn’t need to put all her cards on the table right away.
Julien wrote:
“Regine (my mother)
David (my uncle, Henry’s great-uncle)
Georges (my uncle, Henry’s grandfather)
“Still with me?”
Genevieve nodded again.
“So, this is the way my mother explained it to me. David was running the gallery, and he and my mom lived in an apartment above it. The family had owned the building a long time. Théodore Lazare’s original studio was in the attic, actually.”
“So David was raising your mom?”
“Yeah, their parents were dead,” Julien said. “She was his half-sister, really. I think it was more like David was generally responsible for her, but a nanny or
whatever was in charge of the day-to-day. They had servants and stuff.”
“And the oldest brother, who was Henry’s... grandfather?”
“Georges. He married some industrialist’s daughter and went to work in her family’s business,” Julien said. “There was some kind of falling out between the brothers; I’m not really sure what that was about.”
Genevieve was regretting that she’d handed over her notebook. She was going to have to get all of this background down quickly when Julien gave it back.
“They had a pretty extensive art collection in the apartment,” Julien said. “Study for Tristan and Iseult, the painting itself, plus other stuff. My mom said they had a Picasso, but I don’t know – that part might be drug-induced.
“OK, so everyone’s getting nervous about Hitler. I think this was 1939. You’re some kind of expert on looted art, you’re probably better on the timeline than me.”
“Some kind of expert” sounded dismissive to Genevieve, but she let it go. “Right. Keep going,” she said.
“They knew about Kristallnacht, obviously. But even people who thought there would be a war didn’t envision the Nazi occupation of France. And the Lazares were not religious. From what my mom said, they didn’t especially think of themselves as Jews.”
“I guess a lot of people didn’t grasp the danger,” Genevieve said.
“But David was very worried, according to my mom,” Julien said. “He arranged for her to visit friends in England, had her travel with an American friend who was leaving France. Then Germany invaded Poland, and David refused to let her come back to France. And that’s how my mother spent the war.”
He took a sip of his coffee.
“France fell really fast. There was a huge panic to get out of Paris. You know all of this, right?”
“Yes.”
“Georges went with his wife and son to her parents’ place out in the countryside, in Unoccupied France. The son was my cousin Henry’s father.
“I don’t know exactly what happened to David. My mom said he died in Paris, probably in ’41, but I don’t know what that’s based on.”
Genevieve wasn’t sure what to say, so she just sat quietly.
“When Georges made it back to Paris, he found that the Nazis had cleaned out the apartment and the gallery. All of the artwork was gone. Not just the artwork. They took everything: jewelry that had been in the family for years, furniture, even dishes. They stripped the place.”
“I’m so sorry,” Genevieve said. “There are so many horrible stories like that.”
“And worse,” Julien said. “We lost only one person. But my mother never really recovered from it. David was the one who’d always looked out for her.”
Genevieve picked up her pen from where he’d left it on the table. He slid the notepad across, and she turned to a fresh page.
“And was anything ever recovered?”
“I don’t think so,” Julien said. “Although my mom dropped hints that she thought Georges might have screwed her out of some things. He was like that, apparently.”
“And you didn’t notify the Hilliard after your mother saw the drawing, but you want to pursue a claim now?”
Julien sighed. “Life got very complicated. Mom died and I was dealing with her estate. I took a buyout from the LA Times and started my own graphic design business. And... well, there was just a lot going on. Henry wasn’t very interested. Then he read about some family getting a painting that was worth millions.”
Now Genevieve knew why Henry was willing to pay her so well. “You should be aware that this drawing isn’t worth anywhere near that much. Théodore Lazare’s works aren’t valued that highly, and this is only a study.”
“Oh, I know that,” Julien said. “Henry knows that, too. It’s not really about the money. Henry mostly hates the idea that someone is getting the better of him.”
Genevieve, reassured that the job hadn’t evaporated before it really started, shifted back into art historian mode.
“Well, there are several ways to prove ownership. Is there anyone alive who would recall the drawing in the family’s possession? What about your father?”
“He’s dead, too. And he met my mother after the war.”
“OK, so no contemporary eyewitnesses that we know of,” Genevieve said, tapping the pen on the table. “It’s possible the drawing was listed in someone’s will or maybe they had their possessions inventoried for insurance at some point,” she said. “Are there any old family photos? I know of one case where the family had a photo of their grandmother’s apartment that showed their Pissarro hanging on the wall.”
“I never saw any, but that doesn’t mean anything,” Julien said. “I’ve got some old stuff of my mom’s in my garage. I could look.”
“Do you have any idea who, specifically, did the looting?”
“What, like the names of the people?” His expression was incredulous.
“No, I meant which organization. The Nazis had several different groups involved,” Genevieve said. “People took things for a museum Hitler wanted to build. Goering was building a collection as a tribute to his wife. The ERR, the Einsatzstab Reichsleiter Rosenberg, confiscated Jewish property in France. There was a lot of competition among them to get the best stuff, actually.”
Julien drained his coffee. “So the Nazis had turf battles. Who knew?”
Genevieve began making a list – an action plan, as D would call it. “Here are a few ways we can proceed. It’s worth going through your mother’s papers, because you never know where clues are going to surface. I’ll track down scholarly research on Théodore Lazare and see if there are any leads there. I’ll investigate what kind of probate records exist. It would be good to get a family tree with as many names and dates as possible.”
“Henry’s first wife is a genealogy buff. I’ll call her.”
Genevieve checked the time. Her hour of free parking was just about up.
Julien Brooks had done nothing during the meeting to alarm her, and now she was intrigued by the Lazare family’s story.
She would sign Henry Lazare’s paperwork and fax it back.
Genevieve was home, studying the Galerie de l’Étoile catalog, when Thomas called.
She brought him up to speed quickly on the developments – Henry Lazare’s offer and her meetings with Jay-who-turned-out-to-be-Julien.
“So, I’m working for them, but obviously, I have misgivings,” she concluded.
“Well, I wouldn’t worry about the Hilliard,” Thomas harrumphed. “If the drawing is looted, the museum is in the wrong. Is there something else bothering you?”
“Don’t you think it’s weird that I met this guy twice in Vegas?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Thomas said. “I ran into a college classmate in a cafe in Madrid once. Hadn’t seen the man in 15 years. Coincidences happen. Is there anything else about him that makes you uncomfortable?”
“Other than he’s devastatingly handsome?”
“You didn’t mention that,” Thomas said. “Do tell.”
Genevieve pulled her feet up under her and coaxed Mona to the sofa. She described for Thomas her first meeting with Julien Brooks at the coffee shop in Vegas.
He whistled when she was done. “Oh, Gen. I have to say, he doesn’t sound like your type.”
“Well, I’m working for him, so it doesn’t matter now,” Genevieve said. “But why is he not my type?”
“Don’t get huffy. I’ve just never seen you date someone outgoing.”
“You’ve barely seen me date anyone,” Genevieve said.
“True. But the computer guy – what was his name? – I could hardly get two words out of him. In fact, Philip worried he was too boring for you.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Ohhhhh,” Thomas said. “Well. OK, then. Does this Julien Brooks seem devastatingly handsome in a dangerous kind of way?”
“Define dangerous.”
“Genevieve, you know what I mean.”
> “I know,” she said. “And the answer is, I can’t tell.”
Bright, white light. A man’s hand grasps her arm.
Her fist is clenched. He tries to force it open.
Then, with a muttered curse, he relinquishes his grip. She hears something clatter and looks down.
Lying on the floor, glinting in the bright light, is a small gold heart.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Genevieve was going to be late to a meeting with Julien Brooks. Again.
He’d called to say he’d borrowed a conference room for the afternoon and wanted Genevieve to help him sort through his mother’s papers. “I don’t know what I’m looking for,” he said. “You do.”
Genevieve wouldn’t be able to blame traffic; she’d used that excuse the day before. He was unlikely to believe she’d been lost, because he’d given her very explicit directions.
She was late because she’d slept poorly, hit “snooze” too many times and then dithered over what to wear, even calling D for advice. She’d settled on a black pencil skirt and a vintage twin set embroidered with seed pearls. D argued against the twin set, saying it sounded “schoolmarmish,” but Genevieve thought its shade of lavender was one of her best colors.
She pulled up to the address Julien had given her, a cinder-block midcentury office building a few blocks from Culver City’s downtown. Leaving her Camry in the visitor parking, she pushed through a glass door marked “Cohen and Associates.”
She had no idea what Cohen and Associates did, or what Julien’s relationship to the business was – he hadn’t said.
The reception area was dark, illuminated only by the daylight slanting in the windows. A tiny woman with a mass of eggplant-colored curls turned from a filing cabinet to greet Genevieve. She wore an oversized white linen shirt, black leggings and black ballerina flats. A woman after Genevieve’s heart.
“Are you here to see Jay? Come with me.”
Genevieve followed the woman down a short hall to the conference room.
The room was done up in modernist style – polished concrete floor, metal table, chairs that looked vaguely uncomfortable. Cardboard boxes littered the table. A wall of windows looked out on a courtyard ringed with benches, a popular spot for coffee and smoke breaks, it appeared. The windows were cranked open; it was about time for the sea breeze to kick up.