“The second piece of information has to do with the di Bernardi Foundation. If my sources are correct, and I have no reason to doubt them, Anthony Bataglia is the sole beneficiary of a foundation that was started in the Middle Ages, is headquartered in Lucca, Italy, and is worth upwards of a billion dollars. Most of the wealth of that foundation is based in its extensive art collection, which it loans out to museums around the world and reaps millions of dollars in tax breaks. It also owns the luxury apartment he currently lives in, which is estimated to be worth about $15 million. It was bought in 1929, the year the building opened, with cash.” He wrote, DI BERNARDI FOUNDATION to the right of his first entry and circled it.
“I think that what you just told me about his restorations is significant as well. I’m not really interested in how prolific he is, but I am intrigued about the limited focus of his restorations, especially when we consider what we know about the signatures.” He wrote FOCUSED RESTORATIONS to the right of his previous entry. “What were the names of the artists you mentioned?” Mackenzie relayed the names of the eight artists that Anthony focused on while her father wrote them down under his heading.
“Now, for the final piece of information, which as far as I’m concerned, is the most significant.” He wrote, SIGNATURE MATCHES on the top right hand side of the board, and circled it. He then drew lines from that circle to the names of Berlinghiero Berlinghieri, Bernardo Daddi, and Fra. Lippi.
“Do you think you could get samples of signatures from these other artists? I could have them run it against what we already have,” he asked.
“Sure,” she responded. “I can try at least. Some of them may not have signed their work but I know for a fact that Giotto and Filippino Lippi signed most of theirs.”
“Good, the digital photos you took last time seemed to work.” He paused, setting down his marker and returned to his seat while they both stared at the board.
“Dad, you have any thoughts about how all of this connects together?”
“I’ve got an idea, but I’d like to hear your thoughts. I’m pretty sure you’re thinking the same thing I am, although you might not feel comfortable with it.”
He was right about that, she thought. She didn’t want to think anything negative about Anthony; in fact, she was actually attracted to him, which made it that much worse. But her dad had always taught her to let the facts speak for themselves and at the moment they were singing a pretty grim funeral dirge.
“Well,” she started, “I don’t know how all of these things interrelate, but I’m willing to bet that the Anthony Bataglia currently working at the Cloisters is not who we think he is. In addition, it would seem that we might have a very successful forger on our hands. I don’t know how the whole di Bernardi Foundation plays into this, but it could be just a front for getting these forgeries placed in galleries around the world. These pieces are extremely valuable and there aren’t many people who would know a good fake from the original. But is that all there is to it? He’s an art forger with a very focused repertoire.”
“From what you’ve told me, that might be enough. After all, millions of dollars in tax breaks, as well as potential sales of forged artwork is a great way to not only make a lot of money, but also to launder a lot of profits, all couched nicely in an obscure private trust that has operated below the radar for several centuries and keeps most of its money in Swiss bank accounts. It has all the makings of a very sophisticated operation, something that goes far beyond Mr. Bataglia. What if some of the money that flows through the di Bernardi Foundation isn’t particularly ‘clean,’ if you know what I mean. People doing bad things need a way to make their money seem legitimate. Running it through a five-hundred-year-old trust that donates millions in charitable loans of priceless artwork isn’t a bad cover.”
Mackenzie sat back in her chair, thinking. She looked over at Octavius, who had finished his cleaning routine and was curled up, deep into a late afternoon nap. How could this be? she wondered. Anthony seems so genuine, so real. Was it all just an act? Is he really a master forger impersonating the real Anthony Bataglia? If that was the case, what happened to the real Anthony Bataglia? Had he been murdered and replaced with a counterfeit who knew how to paint well and carry on the act? It was hard for her to take in all at once. After several moments of silence, she spoke.
“Dad, I need to find out more about Anthony. I’m having a hard time coming to grips with this.”
“I agree. We don’t have anything that would hold up in a court of law, and we don’t know of any laws that have been broken. But before you go digging too deep, just remember that if this Mr. Bataglia you’re working with is a forger, he’s not going to respond positively to you poking your nose around. And if he is part of a larger operation, those people may take it upon themselves to make sure that their investments are secured, whether that requires violence or not.” He paused and looked directly at Mackenzie. “I guess what I’m saying is be careful.”
“I will. Don’t worry. I’ve been taught by the best.” She forced a smile, because at this point she was scared.
“Famous last words,” grunted her father. Quickly changing the subject, he stood up and started towards the kitchen. “I don’t know about you, but I’m getting hungry. I was going to grill up some Italian sausages with peppers and onions. Sound good?”
“Yeah, Dad, it sounds great.” One thing she learned from her father over the years was that no matter how hard a case got, it was important to eat and, if possible, eat well.
Chapter 26
Mackenzie sat in the cab on her way to meet Anthony, trying to calm her nerves. Earlier that afternoon he had asked her if she would like to join him for drinks and some music at his favorite bar later that evening. It caught her by surprise but was certainly not an unwelcome invitation. This would be a great opportunity to try to get a bit more out of him, hopefully when his guard was down. There were a lot of unanswered questions that she and her father had unearthed. Most of what they knew didn’t paint a particularly rosy portrait of the man going by the name of Anthony Bataglia.
She wondered why he had reached out to her. They had been working on a number of restorations together over the past several months, so maybe he thought it would be a nice idea to get together outside of work and just relax. That seemed innocent enough. But she couldn’t help but wonder if there was something behind this seemingly harmless offer? She had told her father about the invitation and he said that she should go, but be on guard. He was convinced that this man, Anthony Bataglia, or whoever he was, was connected to something much bigger and probably criminal in nature. While she wasn’t sure what Anthony was all about, she couldn’t help but be attracted to the man. In other circumstances this would have been an ideal first date. But she would have to temper her excitement at this point and instead focus on learning as much as she could. She hoped she could do it without raising any suspicions on his part.
Her taxi pulled up in front of the Carlyle Hotel on 76th street and Madison Avenue, one block east of Central Park. Anthony was standing outside the hotel casually talking to the doorman. He had left work early and changed from jeans into a light summer weight tan suit with a blue crew neck silk tee-shirt underneath and dark brown loafers.
“Sorry I’m late,” said Mackenzie as she met him.
“Not a problem. You are not late at all,” replied Anthony.
They made their way into the hotel and walked through the lobby to Bemelmans Bar in the back. Even though it was the early evening and it was still very bright outside, the bar was almost two thirds of the way full and dark inside. According to Anthony it was always dark in Bemelmans. That was part of the charm. They found a table in the corner. Chris Gillespie was well into his first set. His warm baritone and rich piano playing had just started into Billie Holiday’s melancholy classic “But Beautiful.”
“Love is funny or it’s sad… or it’s quiet or it’s mad…”
“This is great!” said Mackenzie as she settle
d back against the leather booth and looked around the bar.
“Yes, this is one of my favorite places to come. I love listening to Chris sing the old standards. His piano playing is probably even better than his voice, but he has a great voice,” Anthony said.
A waiter in a crisp white dinner jacket and black tie came to their small table and set down a plate of potato chips and mixed nuts and looked at Anthony.
“Good evening, Mr. Bataglia. It’s good to see you.”
“Same here, Kevin.”
“Can I get you something to drink?” asked Kevin.
Mackenzie looked at the drink menu and ordered a pomegranate cosmopolitan. Anthony ordered a sixteen-year-old Lagavulin on the rocks.
Mackenzie leaned towards Anthony and said, “I’ve been in New York for a while and I’ve never even heard of this place.”
“What makes great cities special are these types of places,” replied Anthony. “This place actually is not that much of a hole in the wall. The Café Carlyle on the second floor is one of the premiere venues for great music. Woody Allen performs here almost every week with his New Orleans jazz band. Bobby Short played there for more than twenty years.”
Mackenzie looked at him and smiled. “You mean the director, Woody Allen? I didn’t know he played in a jazz band. I have to admit that I have no idea who Bobby Short is.”
“Was, actually. He passed away a few years ago. He was married to Gloria Vanderbilt, but the reason he was famous was that he was a phenomenal singer and piano player, much like Chris Gillespie. I used to come here and listen to him sing Cole Porter and Gershwin classics. It was wonderful. He brought a gentle energy to songs that could make you laugh and cry at the same time.”
Their drinks arrived and Mackenzie took a sip of hers.
“This place seems pretty old.”
“Well, I guess it is. It really depends what you mean by old, but this is one of the classic hotels of New York. It was one of the most famous hotels after World War II. JFK used to have a couple of suites here and rumor has it that he knew of some underground tunnels that connected to the subway that he used to bring in some ‘acquaintances,’ including Marilyn Monroe.” He gave her a knowing smile.
“It certainly has the feel of a bar from the thirties or forties.”
“I thought you would like it,” nodded Anthony as he took a slow sip of his scotch.
Chris Gillespie started into “How About You?”
“I like New York in June, how about you? I like a Gershwin tune, how about you?”
They both sat back and just listened to the lyrics and piano playing emanate through the bar. Mackenzie looked around at the wallpaper, which were paintings from the Madeline series of children’s books, written and illustrated by Ludwig Bemelmans, who used to be a resident of the Carlyle Hotel. She thought that they looked like a mix between Dr. Seuss and Winnie the Pooh.
“It seems like you come here a lot,” said Mackenzie.
“I guess I do. I live relatively close, so it is convenient for me. I find it a good way to relax after a day of looking at paintings,” responded Anthony.
“Must be nice! Central Park East isn’t the shabbiest of neighborhoods, you know. I didn’t know that painting restoration was such a lucrative profession.” She played dumb, knowing full well where he lived.
Anthony looked at his scotch for a moment and then calmly responded, looking at her with soft but penetrating eyes.
“I have been fortunate with money. I have not had to think about it for a long time. But I actually live on the west side. Still, it is a nice walk across the park. Even in the winter it takes me less than twenty minutes, door-to-door. It is actually just a five minute cab ride depending on traffic, but if the weather is agreeable, I prefer to walk.”
Mackenzie noticed his shyness in talking about money, and made a mental note of it. She had met a lot of kids from old rich families while she was in undergrad at Bryn Mawr. Most of them dressed like Bohemians in tattered jeans and smoked clove cigarettes. You’d never know that they came from families who had been rich for generations. Some were definitely snobby elitists but she found most of the really rich kids never talked about money or dressed any differently than anyone else. It was as if their money in some way alienated them from everyone else and they were trying to fit in. If your family is worth $50 million, you don’t have to tell people that you’re rich. But she suspected there was more to his reticence than just being raised with wealth. If what her father learned about the di Bernardi Foundation was true, then Anthony was worth close to a billion. That seemed hard to even imagine looking at him here.
“Now that you know where I live, what about you?” asked Anthony with a smile that broke the momentary silence.
“Me? I used to live in the East Village, near Washington Square,” replied Mackenzie. “But after grad school I moved in with my dad in the Bronx to save some money.”
“What does your father do?” asked Anthony innocently.
“Well,” paused Mackenzie, not sure whether she should make something up, but in the end decided against it. “He used to be a detective but he retired about a year ago. So now he pretty much just paces around the house, looking for things to keep him busy.”
Anthony nodded without showing any reaction one way or another. “And what about your mother, if I might ask?”
“My mom was a pharmacist, but she passed away three years ago.”
“I am sorry to hear that. It must have been very difficult for you and your father,” replied Anthony, his eyes gentle with concern.
“Yeah, it caught us all by surprise. My dad took it especially hard, although he’s one of those tough old guys who has a hard time showing his feelings.”
“I apologize if I brought up bad memories. I should not ask such personal questions. Please forgive me.”
“You don’t have to apologize at all.” She smiled and changed the subject, “Anyhow, I’m really glad that you asked me here.”
“I am glad you were able to join me,” he replied with a warm smile. “It gets lonely coming to places like this on your own, even if the music is great.” He nibbled on one of the potato chips from the tray on the table that always seemed to refill itself when it got close to empty. “Besides, you can help me stop eating so many of these potato chips. On my own I go through about four refills and call it a dinner. Not the most balanced of meals.” He laughed, looking into her eyes.
“Well, they have mixed nuts as well, you know,” she said, smiling playfully. “That should help balance out your diet.” She nodded at him. “You certainly don’t look like someone who has to worry about his weight, or, for that matter, someone who spends his time eating potato chips all night.”
He nodded. “I did not say that I eat potato chips for dinner every night.” They both laughed and listened to the music.
When the song finished, he continued their conversation. “Did you enjoy living in the East Village while you were in school? It is very artsy, is it not?”
“I know, it’s sort of a cliché, right? Art major living in the Village. But when I first came to New York, I thought that Greenwich Village was the place to live. It was all I ever thought about New York. You know, struggling artists and musicians sitting around in coffee shops, smoking cigarettes and talking about the gallery show of some up and coming artist, or going to a hole-in-the-wall club to listen to a new band. It’s a pretty funky place. I really liked it.”
“So it was everything you thought it would be?”
“Probably not, but in hindsight that’s not such a bad thing. It turned out to be a lot better than I imagined,” continued Mackenzie as she finished her drink. “There are definitely a lot of artsy people, but mostly it’s just interesting people who aren’t necessarily artsy, or Bohemians or anything that out of the norm. Most of them are just cool. They aren’t stuffy and they’re very open-minded and intelligent. They like art, but they’re not caught up in the latest show or the ‘it’ artist of the mome
nt. I’ve met some of the most interesting people in my life just hanging out on the outside patio of a tiny little restaurant, sipping a glass of white wine on a hot summer day and just watching people go by.”
“Sounds like you found exactly what you were looking for. Would you care for another drink?”
“I’d love one. This was the best Cosmo I ever had, seriously.”
“Tommy Rowles has been the bartender here for almost fifty years and is pretty famous for his cocktails. Are you the adventurous type?” he asked playfully.
“Well, that depends. I once had a hot chili infused martini and I thought I would die. So I guess you could say that I’m cautiously adventurous,” she said, laughing.
“Cautiously adventurous. A pretty good approach to life in general, really.”
Anthony made eye contact with Kevin, who was near the bar and came right over to the table.
“Yes, Mr. Bataglia. Can I get you and your guest something?”
“Kevin, my friend, Mackenzie, here is cautiously adventurous. She enjoyed the pomegranate Cosmo and would like to branch out and put herself in Tommy’s hands. I myself will have another Lagavulin.”
Kevin picked up their empty glasses and smiled at Mackenzie.
“Miss, I am glad that at least one of you is cautiously adventurous,” he said leaning closer to Mackenzie. “We have to stock extra bottles of Lagavulin because Mr. Bataglia here never ventures beyond its cozy confines. Gracious and generous, yes. Adventurous, no.”
“When you have tasted perfection, Kevin, everything else is a mere imitation,” laughed Anthony.
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