Page 72 of Forging Caine

After she left, my first test was obvious. The infrared of the forged Ter Borch painting showed a sketch which shouldn’t have been there. When I ran the same test onThe Concert, I’d found a sketch of the right painting, at least.

But a little voice chirped at me from the back of my brain. I was certain Vermeer sketched with paint, not with charcoal. And the latter was what I’d found. I could have researched it further, but Samantha was faster at that, and stopping to sit at the computer would just let my brain remind me of the photo of Sofia and Nico.

Another voice told me to call Cristian. But what could he do? All the arguments I gave Samantha would still stand. How long could he keep them safe? And how many people were in line right behind them needing protection?

I stared more intently through the microscope on my lab bench, studying a minute sample of paint. The painting and its case remained on the worktable at the other end of the room, far enough away I could almost convince myself I was working on a personal project like I’d told my father.

“Hey, honey,” called Samantha in a singsong voice.

Jason climbed the stairs behind her. “Done yet?”

I straightened, rolling my neck. “This project will more likely take days than hours.”

“How’s it coming?” Samantha walked around to my back and dug her fingers into my shoulders.

“I’m still doing preliminary tests in case I can find something quickly.” I gestured to the microscope and she leaned in to look. “Charcoal black shows up as opaque, with splintery or fibrous particles. Imagine it’s a piece of wood you took out of a fire. You can almost recognize that structure.”

“Yeah, I see it.” She resumed kneading my shoulders. “Jason, did you want to see what it looks like?”

He shook his head, moving over to the worktable. “So long as you’re making progress.”

“Sometimes artists used bone black, but its particles are rounder, with a brown cast and sometimes transparent. I need to get my hands on some chemical analysis of Vermeer’s works to find out which he used.” It was all true, but part of my goal was to bore Jason with technical discussions, so I could ask Samantha about the sketches. “I have a friend who works with the National Gallery of Art. They recently did a survey of four Vermeers, so they may be able to help.”

Jason grunted. “You can call this friend, so long as I’m present and you aren’t revealing your reason.”

I patted one of Samantha’s hands, grateful for the work she’d done with my stress knots.

Instead of releasing my shoulders, as I’d expected her to do, she said, “Didn’t you tell me about some study on Vermeer’s paints by a German guy in the ‘60s or something, honey?”

There it was again. The codeword. She knew exactly the data I needed but didn’t want to give herself away. “Sì, I’m surprised you remember that. And you’re right, that might have the information I need.”

“I can help. I’d like to feel useful.” She sat at the computer desk and woke my laptop. “What should I search for?”

Good question. “Try the keywords German… Vermeer…”

As I rattled off various names and terms she could use, she typed her own search: Hermann Kühn pigments study Vermeer 1968.

When the results came back, she asked, “Do any of these look right?”

I could have kissed her. The first article looked like exactly what she’d been pointing me to. “Sì, try the first one.”

With a few more clicks of her mouse, she had a copy of the document available for us. “Isn’t that interesting? They studied thirty of his paintings. Is that statistically significant?”

“Depending on who you ask, only thirty-four of his paintings survive.”

“Very significant, then.”

“Stop.” Jason strolled in our direction, rounding the desk to look at the monitor. “Let me see what you’re doing.”

Samantha scrolled to the top of the document, showing the title matched what we’d said we were looking at.

“It looks alright.” He paused, pointing at the earpiece—signaling someone had ordered him to check? With a nod, he headed for the stairs. “I’ll be back in thirty minutes.”

The moment we heard him sit on the sofa across the great room, Samantha and I both exhaled.

I cupped the back of her neck. “Marone, but you’re brilliant.”

“No, just have some experience with Vermeer.” She placed her hand over mine. “It’s been several years since I read this, but I think there are some elements that will help. If that fails, tell Jason you need to call that friend at the National Gallery of Art.”

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