“A man of Mr. Thorne’s caliber knows the right people and …Oh my God,” Jeff broke off as he peeled the last layer of plastic to reveal the painting underneath. Even without looking at the signature, we knew we were looking at the work of a painting legend. “Marie-Thérèse,” the older man breathed. Picasso’s muse and mistress during the 1930s. I was not familiar with the name of this painting, but it could be chalked up as the long lost work of themaster.
We worked carefully to unwrap the next five paintings. Though Jeff needed to take these pieces under a magnifying glass to certify their authenticity, he told me that he was confident that three of the six were originals from the old masters. Hours passed. Tyler and I took a quick break for lunch while Jeff ate at his office. At two that afternoon, we returned to “The Vault” as Jeff liked to call it—an area separated from the main gallery by heavy curtains that dropped from the fifteen-foot ceiling—where all the paintings yet to be displayed were kept. He had the first Picasso we unwrapped under a lit table and was analyzing the brush strokes. Reproductions were usually flat, while some Giclée prints—fine art created on inkjet printers—may have some dabs of paint by the artist to pass as original work. However, there were also counterfeit paintings and it took a very experienced art dealer to validate itsauthenticity.
“Shall we uncrate the third box?” I asked. The second crate had contained twoRenoirs.
Jeff looked at me distractedly. “Yes. Yes.” He reluctantly left the Picasso. Tyler helped us pry the boards off the crates with a crow bar. The first painting from that batch was from an unknown artist. “This collector has odd taste.” I could hear the frustration in his voice. We proceeded to the next one. When Jeff lifted the polyethylene to reveal the first half of the painting, I was struck with déjà vu. A familiar landscape of impressionist art stared back atme.
“What do we have here?” Jeff wondered as he removed the plastic veil to uncover the full view of the painting. “The style reminds me of Van Gogh, but the artist has his own uniquestrokes.”
“Sergei,” Iwhispered.
“What was that, dear?” Jeff asked absent-mindedly.
I shook my head as I helped remove the T-frame and when it was done, I looked for the signature. There, in its familiar cursive, it mockedme.
SergeiKostin.
* * *
In total,there were twenty-four paintings unearthed from four crates. Half of them could be original works by the old masters and Jeff estimated their worth at more than seven-hundred-million dollars when all was said and done. Some of the priceless paintings were moved to a room secured with an electronic keypadlock.
I found three more paintings bySergei.
Jeff went out on the floor to answer questions from some customers. I overheard Sofia telling Tyler that the shop’s busiest time was between five and seven. Expecting Jeff to be occupied for the next hour and a half, I asked to use his table with the overhead light. It had a swivel arm with a magnifying glass. I was anxious to see what Sergei was hiding underneath. Mounting one of Sergei’s paintings, I studied the brush strokes. It was a different medium, not watercolor, but I could almost see what it was trying to mask under layers ofpigment.
My gut churned and I wasn’t sure if it was from hunger or excitement. Since Grant was working late, Tyler and I decided it was a good time to grabdinner.
“Bravo-niner-niner, youthere?”
I turned to look at Tyler and noticed the grin on his face. I’d never heard that call sign before, but I figured he was messing withBobby.
“Copy. Go ahead,” Bobby’s slightly amused voiceanswered.
“We have a situation,” Tyler continued speaking through his wrist comm. “Paintpixie needs to be fed or we’ll be having a crisis on our hands. Something of the high-sodium variety would beideal.”
I scowled at Tyler as he winked atme.
“Copy that. Hotdogs,chief?”
“Affirmative. Four hotdogs and twoCokes.”
“She can eat four?” Bobbychuckled.
“Two are for me, dumbass,” Tyler shotback.
I shook my head at their continued banter and turned my attention back on the piece before me. After a few minutes, I heard Bobby tell Tyler that he would meet him at theentrance.
“You’ll be okay while I secure the package?” Tyler asked,deadpan.
I waved my arm without looking at him. “Shoo! Go play your spygames.”
Tyler’s bark of laughter echoed in the Vault. Poor guys. They were so bored being my bodyguards, they were trying to liven things up however theycould.
I didn’t realize Tyler had been gone for a while until footsteps clicked behind me. It struck me as strange that no aroma of hotdogs hit me, but I was too engrossed in studying Sergei’s work to turn around. “You had to use a map to find your way back?” I teasedTyler.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” an unfamiliar voice said behindme.
I whipped around and saw a man dressed impeccably in a suit. He was tall but not quite six-feet. Thick dark hair was slicked back over his head. He had dark eyes, maybe brown, and a lean build. This man would have blended easily with the rest of Manhattan except for the jagged scar that ran across his rightcheek.