A Perfect Eye

by Stephanie Kane

  When she got out of the shower and went into the bedroom, the robe was on the neatly turned-down bed along with a fancy chocolate. Where is he?

  The door to the outer suite was closed. She put her ear to it.

  Gone again.

  She left her clothes on the bathroom floor and crawled into bed.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Paul was furious at her and even angrier at himself. Why did I get her into this?

  While she slept it off, he gave her clothes to the concierge and spent the night on the couch. Not wanting to wake her, he’d foregone his own shower and a clean suit. Her going off the deep end about Kurtz’s killer being a forger risked screwing up his investigation. But in her current state, she was no threat to anyone—for once, not even to herself. He hoped she had one helluva hangover.

  Johnson offered him another cup of coffee. The same slop at cop shops everywhere.

  “Rough night?” Did his rumpled suit make Johnson an expert in that, too? He didn’t know the half of it.

  “Yeah.” Lily was right. He’d been climbing the FBI ladder, but not so long or fast that he’d forgotten his job. Sure as hell wasn’t turning a blind eye to a murderer to close out a case so his mentor wasn’t embarrassed…. Focus. “Can we get into Nick Lang’s garage? There’s a reason he padlocks it and covers the window. He has a gas delivery system somewhere.”

  Johnson looked doubtful. “Why would Kurtz let him in?”

  “I don’t know.” He was in no mood to be cross-examined. “Maybe he brought beer.”

  “Beer?”

  “Never mind.”

  He shouldn’t have called her father a liar. It was a cheap shot, but he knew more about Harry Sparks than she did; he’d made it his business to know. He’d pleaded with Gina to save her job, but it was like squeezing honey from a stone. Why did she have to poke a sharp stick in Gina’s eye? How could someone so smart be so emotionally blind? But it was his own fault. He’d put her at risk in the first place and everything he’d done since had made it worse. Johnson seemed amused.

  “Here’s how it works, Paul. You bring me probable cause—”

  “Have you interviewed Angela Kurtz? That feud with Lang wasn’t just a lawsuit. She’ll tell you how bitter—”

  “—and I ask a judge for a warrant. It can’t be that different in D.C.”

  Johnson was right. He needed more.

  “Have you thought of flowers?” Johnson said.

  “Flowers?”

  “For the little blonde. And it wouldn’t kill you to shower.”

  ―

  She awoke alone in his bed. A peek through the crack in the door to the outer room assured her he was gone, if he’d been there at all. Staggering to the bathroom, she hoped he put out the Do Not Disturb sign. The last people she needed to answer to were the Ritz’s housekeeping staff. She turned on the faucet in the sink, then looked in the mirror.

  Is that me?

  It was like glancing at a store window and realizing the stranger looking back was you. Not so much the grey strands at her temple as her haggardness. Her eyes were hollow. The red stain on her lips accentuated fine lines around her mouth. Like cracks in a painting; once you noticed them, they were everywhere. She touched her cheek, trying to superimpose the unsmiling blonde stranger standing at the bungalow door with the suitcase.

  I’m older than mom ever was.

  She turned the water on in the sink until it ran cold. She drank some and rinsed her mouth. Paul’s shaving gear was set out neatly on the marble counter. He used to line it up exactly that way in her bathroom at the condo, but the Remington single-blade and drugstore shaving cream were now a silver-handled razor and a badger hair brush. Did she really think he’d protect her by believing in her, and keep doing it for ten years and from 2000 miles away? That was as crazy as hoping to catch a glimpse of her mom by snapping her compact open fast enough. Or that if she looked hard enough at the swirling galaxy and crystal stars on the lid she’d see her there. Only in a fairy tale, and certainly not after last night.

  Last night.

  She had a dim memory of Paul throwing her in the shower and her falling through the ice in that lake when she was a kid—that old monster. Muzzy as she’d been, she remembered every word he said. Deluded and pathetic, so incompetent you deserved to lose your job—oh, and her dad was a liar. You’re a lawyer, Lily. If you think a forger killed Kurtz, prove it. She didn’t know what to believe anymore. And what did it matter now? After yesterday she had no job, no future as a conservator, not even her dignity. Whoever killed Kurtz and destroyed the ballerina had won.

  The marble counter had a dizzying array of luxury products. With a pre-moistened towelette meant to spare the hotel’s linen the ravages of lipstick and mascara, she scoured the red from her lips. The towelette emitted the faint but familiar chemical scent of the Baby Wipes she used on Jack while he convalesced. They were soft and emollient, gentler than the solvent for the poor ballerina, and kinder than she herself deserved. But she couldn’t stand here all day feeling sorry for herself.

  Get your shit together and go before he comes back.

  Someone—a maid?—had brought in her makeup bag. Lily dumped its contents onto the counter. Compact, lipstick, lipliner… The Ritz had a fancy magnifying mirror with a high-powered bulb. She began putting on her lipstick and stopped. In the unforgiving light the pomegranate looked garish, like the ballerina’s high-gloss varnish. She rubbed it off with the towelette. It was time to consider a softer shade, a matte pigment, maybe a deep rose? Not the all-day kind that dried out, but a rich creamier one.

  You survived that monster in the lake.

  Could she find a job, make a new life? A small museum somewhere might be hiring, or a private collector. She scrubbed off the last of the pomegranate. Her face was naked without it, but the eyes that stared back weren’t quite so hollow as before. The woman in the mirror was starting to look familiar. You must believe in something bigger than yourself, Lily. She’d been wrong about Paul, and Amy—so much for her eye being perfect. What made her so sure about the connection betweenSeven and Kurtz?

  Go back to the painting.

  If Kurtz was murdered by a forger, as Sjostrom suggested, and he modeled the murder on Seven, did that mean the painting was forged? If Seven was forged, the forger was good enough to fool Sully and Michel. He was sitting pretty because there were so few Caillebottes to compare it to. But if she wasn’t perfect, he wasn’t either. Somewhere he slipped up. She still had a brain and an eye—not perfect, but good enough.

  You don’t have to be perfect to solve Kurtz’s murder.

  She looked in the mirror again. Her eyes were already brighter, her face not so sallow. She ran her fingers through her hair, brushing it from her forehead. The white scar gleamed. Something inside her stirred. Did it matter what Paul or anyone else thought? The stirring grew insistent, like a wisdom tooth working its way through a calcified gum. What did she believe?

  The bastard who forged Seven and killed Kurtz somehow destroyed the Degas.

  She couldn’t explain it yet, much less prove it. But if that was true, and he did it to get her fired, she was partly responsible for the ballerina’s death. If not for her, the little dancer would have been reborn. Stepping onto the stage and taking her bow before the world. Innocent, unsullied, pure. She shook her head.

  No. This is on him.

  Who would stop him, who would make him pay? Not the FBI. But the woman in the mirror knew the answer. The force within her erupted, catapulting up and smashing through gum and ice and bone.

  I’ll get him myself.

  ―

  Her clothes were laundered and neatly folded on the credenza in the suite’s outer room. Even the Rockies cap was clean and pressed. She threw it in the waste basket. Paul had left no note. Too hung over to be tempted by the orange juice and croissants on the sideboard, she grabbed her backpack and took the elevator to the lobby. Sherri and Tammy were off duty, but she avoided the rec
eption desk and concierge stand. Outside she tried to remember where she’d parked. If the Prius hadn’t been towed, she’d run up a fortune in tickets.

  “Taxi, miss?” the valet said.

  “No, thanks. I have a car.”

  He took a key from the stand. “I’ll have your Prius pulled around.”

  “But I didn’t—”

  “The gentleman took care of it.”

  His last gallant act.

  ―

  At her condo she apologized to Jack. Louise had been taking him out onto the balcony in the afternoon, and his coat was glossy and thick again. She opened the sliding door and watched him warily circle the tomato plants until he found his patch. What was it about the killer, that made him destroy what she loved? And if he went after Jack and the Degas, why stop there?

  Hands shaking, she rummaged in the pantry for cat treats. There were the Baby Wipes for Jack’s other eight lives. Remembering the Ritz’s towelette, she read the label. The only limit to their use seemed to be the imagination, but she’d never apply those chemicals to an infant. Formaldehyde—did she really wipe that on Jack? Hydroquinone—benzene, wasn’t that a carcinogen? And phthalates, an industrial solvent. The packaging was as deceptive as the name. Maybe Margo was right and she could go back to law. Shuddering, she threw the wipes in the trash.

  She changed into a silk T-shirt and fresh jeans and hung the clothes she’d been wearing at the very back of her closet. Feeling better, she washed her face properly and applied a little lip gloss. She had no job, and her career was probably over. At the close of business on Friday, her resignation would be on Michel’s desk. Paul was right. If she believed Seven was forged and the forger killed Kurtz, she had to prove it herself.

  She brought Jack in and bolted the balcony door. She kissed his head and whispered in his ear. “I won’t let him hurt you again.” Or me.

  She had no more time to look. Now she had to see.

  Chapter Thirty

  Fanning herself with her boarding pass, Lily tipped the cabbie who dropped her at the Kimbell Art Museum in Fort Worth. She grabbed her backpack and approached the vaulted entryway. The real gem in this sky-lit jewel box of Asian and European art was Caillebotte’s Gennevilliers Plain, No. Three. And having gone to graduate school with the Kimbell’s director of conservation, she had an entrée. When she’d called Sean and said she was coming, he didn’t ask why. Now she went directly to his studio.

  “Lily!” They embraced.

  Sean’s atelier was flooded with natural light from a glass wall facing north, prized for the soft, cool glow which bathed a room throughout the day. An open floor with tables and tall easels and wheeled stands for tools and paints added to the airiness and transparency. The glass wall overlooked an interior courtyard with potted trees. The Kimbell’s conservators were surrounded by nature and visitors could see in. Maybe someday…

  “You made out like a pirate, Sean.”

  With his blond goatee and gold earring, Sean looked like his ancestors must have been buccaneers. But blood had thinned, and the image was undercut by his gentle North Carolina drawl. They spent a few minutes catching up on friends and reminiscing about conservation school’s holy trinity: art history, studio and chemistry. Unlike her, he’d aced chem.

  “You really run this place?” she said.

  “With an assistant. The beauty of a small shop.”

  How liberating not to share a lab with other conservators! Each specialty had its idiosyncrasies. Paper was anal, Textiles worse. Objects was the division of pots and pans; she hid her good brushes from them because they were messy and careless with tools. The Kimbell evidently understood painting was the highest form of art, but she wasn’t here for a job.

  “How’s Denver?” he asked.

  “Not great.”

  He squinted. “Ready to jump ship?”

  “You mean walk the plank.”

  Lily gave him an abbreviated version of the Degas fiasco. He knew better than to ask why she took the hit for Amy.

  “Did you like private practice?” she asked.

  “A burnout.” Before the Kimbell, he’d handled a San Francisco newspaper tycoon’s collection. “Worse, you can’t control what happens to the art. At a museum you’re custodian of a collection….” He looked at her quizzically. “But that’s not why you came.”

  “I want to see Caillebotte’s No. Three.”

  “Anything to do with the Degas?” He took her silence for his answer. “Funny you should ask. I was just about to take Three down to inspect the lining…”

  Sean brought Three to the studio and set up lamps. It was the same size as Seven, but less dramatic: plowed golden fields, a smattering of wildflowers, an off-center vanishing point where field met sky. No little man with a hat. Sean was quick on the uptake; she didn’t need to tell him she suspected Seven was forged.

  “No painting’s a hero to its conservator,” he said. “Like butlers, we have our doubts. But I’ve seen your Caillebotte.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing leaped out. What bothers you?”

  Kurtz was murdered because of it and the killer may be coming after me.

  “The provenance doesn’t add up, Sean. It’s based on a nonexistent study in Caillebotte’s sketchbook and a letter to Monet.”

  His eyes narrowed. “The two artists did correspond.”

  “The only person who claims he saw the letter is dead.”

  “So your forger—if it is forged—was clever.” He chuckled. “But no museum will disavow a Caillebotte because of a lost letter and a mistake about a sketchbook.”

  “How do you know yours is real?” she countered.

  “Aside from an unbroken chain of title going back to the Franco-Prussian War?”

  Which they both knew ended before 1884, but why spoil the mood? If Sean said Three was real, he’d done his homework. She turned to the painting. What am I looking for? Something, anything that differentiated the two landscapes from each other. She pulled out her loupe and began examining Three.

  Parallel lines with Filbert brush or palette knife—same as Seven’s. Strong horizontal compositional line, wet-on-wet, multiple applications of paint. Was Seven’s impasto this thick? Cross-hatching, scoring, dredging with stick. Poking brush against surface, laying tip on canvas and twisting. From Caillebotte’s tache—his touch to the canvas—she could tell the size and shape of every brush he used. Sean was watching her intently.

  “Think I’ll go out for a smoke,” he said casually, “if you don’t mind being alone.” He didn’t smoke. “I’ll be back in—” —he made a show of looking at his watch—“—say, eight minutes.”

  Touch all you want. He closed the door behind him.

  Lily shut her eyes and ran her hands lightly over the canvas. A current ran from her fingertips to the soles of her feet.

  Three was pliable and thickly textured, rough as a man’s beard, with ridges like alpine peaks and twists and whorls and swales. One pinnacle was so sharp she drew back for fear of breaking it off. She recalibrated her touch, fluttering her fingers and flying over the painting’s surface like a bird. Caillebotte did this, this is real. His tache told her precisely where in the painting she was: The clouds were nubby, the plow marks deeply scored, the grass moved. At the vanishing point she drew in her breath. He marked it. She felt each stroke, touched his soul on the canvas. Could a forger fake an artist’s soul? If only Paul were here …. At the sound of a gentle cough, her eyes flew open.

  “I’ll have whatever you’re having,” Sean said.

  She blushed.

  “You can almost smell the sewage field from the Seine,” he continued. “A truly underappreciated fertilizer, despite the methane.”

  She looked up. “Methane?”

  “The main component of sewer gas.”

  Seven didn’t just inspire Kurtz’s murder. The killer replicated it.

  “If you wanted to poison someone with methane, Sean, how would you do it?”

&n
bsp; He stroked his goatee. “Victims usually die in their sleep. I’d use a canister and hose and wear a protective mask. Or rig something to explode. Why do you—”

  “You said Three is lined.”

  He turned the painting over. A liner was a second canvas bonded to the reverse side of the original one to stabilize it. Three’s canvas was a fine linen—Caillebotte could afford the best—but it had started to fray. On the verso, the reverse side, Lily’s trained eye easily picked up where the liner met the frayed edge. Like ironing on a Levi’s patch, bonding one canvas to another required heat. Above 200 degrees, oil paint became malleable and the canvas could be flattened or acquire a new texture. Three hadn’t met that fate.

  “Who lined it?” she said.

  “Dunno, but thank God he was careful.”

  He stroked the verso, inviting her to do so. Her fingers roamed it, memorizing the two weaves. Like the original canvas, this liner was linen, but significantly newer and more tightly woven. The difference in age between it and Caillebotte’s canvas supported Three’s authenticity; lining or relining with materials of the same vintage as the original was a tip-off that a forger had tried to make it look old. But even big museums like hers didn’t ordinarily examine liners. Not on Michel’s watch.

  She was dying to examine Seven. Unless she wanted to raise eyebrows by scanning her badge at the loading dock after the museum closed, she had to catch her plane. Sean looked disappointed.

  “Surely you have time for Pont de l’Europe…”

  She’d forgotten the Kimbell’s more celebrated Caillebotte, but it was in Nick’s catalog: The man in the top hat and lady with the parasol, strolling Paris’s newly-built steel bridge over the Gare Saint-Lazare. If Kurtz’s killer chose Caillebotte, maybe this wasn’t about just one painting.

  In the North Gallery, they waited for the crowd at Pont to disperse. Nearly twice the size of the canvases in the Gennevilliers Plain series, this Caillebotte was rendered in the cool blues and greys of the artist’s cityscapes. She remembered the steel bridge over the train tracks. But here two men leaned against the railing while a third exited the frame.