The Art Forger (38 page)

Maybe Rik hasn’t called because they’re breaking through the wall right now. Maybe they’ve already opened the room, found the painting. Maybe Aiden will be freed, his fingers intact. And not just on bail, but for good. Maybe it will all happen in time for my show. Maybe the show will be a stunning success, and Aiden and I will celebrate with a very expensive trip to Paris. Maybe I’m out of my fucking mind.

R
IK DOESN’T CALL
until close to nine, and by then I’ve given up on Rendell’s family for the night—even the Mormon website doesn’t have anything—and fallen asleep on the couch. I grope for the phone.

“I got nothing for you, Bear,” he says. “The FBI wouldn’t let any of the Gardner guards down there with them.”

“No one has any idea what’s happening?”

“The ones who know ain’t talking. But I’m sure there’ll be some leaks by tomorrow. I’ll let you know as soon as I catch wind of one. Not to worry.”

I flop onto my bed and stare at the black, uncurtained windows in search of solace, but all I see is my own muddled reflection.

After another night with little sleep, I’m pleased to see the white, watery light of a December morning pressing at the edges of the panes. Unfortunately, it’s way too early to go to Markel G, so I roam around the studio drinking too many cups of coffee. I try but can’t focus on the news, e-mail, the Rendell search, or a
Seinfeld
rerun. I can’t paint. I can’t call anyone. Aiden’s absence aches.

When I finally climb the stairs to Markel G, I see that the previous show has been taken down; the walls are empty, blank vessels waiting to be refilled. Although the door’s unlocked, for all intents and purposes, the gallery will be closed today and tomorrow so we can replenish it with my windows.

Both Chantal and Kristi are already there, leaning paintings against the walls. The two women are wearing more comfortable but still outrageous versions of their usual attire. Kristi is in downscale UGGs, but she’s attached an oversized, costume brooch to the top of the left one and is wearing a pair of bright yellow short shorts and matching tights. Chantal’s in a more upscale pair of UGG-like boots paired with diamond-patterned red fishnet stockings and a hugely asymmetrical, off-the-shoulder, wool, poncholike, dresslike thing. I’m in paint-splattered overalls. But, of course, I’m the talent.

They greet me warmly, and, once all the paintings are lined up, we stand in the middle of the gallery space and examine them.

“We’re all in agreement that
Nighttime T
goes in the bay, yes?” Kristi asks.

I’m thrown back to the first time Aiden saw the painting. How taken he was with it, how he declared that it belonged in the front window. I also remember how sweet he was that afternoon, how handsome. I think about his warm arms surrounding me at night. I want him out of there. I want him here.

I assume Kristi and Chantal do, too, but the unspoken pretend-Aiden’s-down-the-block accord still holds, so instead of mentioning that this was Aiden’s first reaction, all I say is, “That’s good with me.”

“Me, too,” Chantal agrees.

“One down.” Kristi picks up the painting and leans it against the half wall facing the sidewalk.

We turn back to the other nineteen, and I surprise myself by asking, “Can we hang it now?”

They look at me with bemused expressions.

“I mean,
Nighttime T.
Like, I don’t know, I think I’d just like to see it there,” I say, embarrassed. “You know, to see how it looks. Maybe it’s not the right choice.”

Although they’re at least five years younger than I am, they smile at me as one would at an eager child. “Sure,” Kristi says, grabbing a hammer and stepladder. “Good idea.”

When we finish hanging
Nighttime T
in the front bay, I stare at it, stunned. Kristi walks over to the door to see how it hits an entering visitor. Chantal goes to the corner closest to the bay to check out the view from there.

I go outside to see it from the sidewalk, wrapping my arms around myself, cold and hot at the same time. The truth is,
Nighttime T
looks even better at this distance. I did this, and people are going to recognize that I have a body of work of my own. I won’t be known as the woman who pretended to paint
4D
or even, if all goes well, the one who copied Degas’ final
After the Bath.
I’ll be Claire Roth, myself, artist, painter in her own right.

Chantal comes down the steps and hands me my coat, which I gratefully put on. She studies the painting. “It’s haunting,” she says. “So striking.” She gives me a hug. “I know this isn’t the way you wanted it to be, Claire,” she adds, breaking the accord, “but the work stands on its own. And it’s wonderful work. You should be very proud. Markel would be. He is.”

Tears run down my cheeks, and I brush them away with the sleeve of my coat. “Sorry,” I say. “I’m just so happy. And so sad.” It seems as if I’m crying at least twice a day.

“Come on, crybaby,” Chantal throws an arm over my shoulder. “No wimping out. We girls got a whole show to hang.”

For the next couple of hours, the three of us are completely immersed in our collective vision of the show. We organize clusters of paintings. Move them around on the floor. Hang them. Remove them. Rearrange. Some higher than others? Same height all around? Organize by subject or theme or color? Shift the lighting. Shift the paintings. Climb ladders and crouch on the floor. Stand at a distance. Close up. It’s physically, emotionally, and intellectually draining. For the first time in a long time, I don’t think of anything else.

When my cell rings, I put it to my ear, unaware that I’m doing it.

“News is both good and bad,” Rik says. “Ultrasound found a room just like the one in the blueprints. And it looks like there might be something inside it.”

“But?”

“But because the space’s so small and full of junk, there’s no way to get big equipment down there, so it’s going to take a while to get the wall down.”

“What’s a while?” I demand.

“It’s unclear. Could be days. Could be weeks.”

Of course, Aiden doesn’t have that kind of time.

Forty-five

Although it’s barely three when I leave the gallery, the shadows are deep, and the first significant snowfall of the winter appears to be upon us. They’re forecasting up to six inches, which this early in December doesn’t bode well for the rest of the season. My ski parka is stuffed somewhere in the back of my closet, but I’ve been in denial and have refused to look for it. As tiny pieces of icy snow lacerate my cheeks, I’m thinking it might be time to face up to the reality of winter. But maybe it’ll be warmer tomorrow and I won’t have to.

Despite the weather, I pause before I turn the corner from East Berkeley to Harrison. Although it isn’t clear what spurred the activity in the sub-basement, between Alana’s gasp and the ultrasound equipment, it’s more than possible that Agent Lyons’s “official capacity” visit is in the offing. I pray to the god I know isn’t listening that it’s not, steel myself, and step onto Harrison Avenue. Lyons is nowhere to be seen, but a Boston police cruiser is parked in front of my building. Maybe god is listening. And she’s got a sense of humor.

I walk slowly down the block, my heart booming in my ears. It feels as if my stomach is literally in my throat, and I try to console myself with the fact that there aren’t any flashing blue lights, no one posted at the front door with a gun. When I’m a few steps away from the cruiser, two officers, a man and a woman, climb casually out. Again, no threatening stance, no weapons, no paramilitary garb. They just watch me impassively as I approach.

The woman steps forward. “Claire Roth?” she asks.

I find I can’t speak, so I just nod.

“I’m Detective Farrell, Boston Police Department,” she says, as if we’re meeting at a cocktail party. “And this is Officer Rodriguez.”

I look from one to the other, still unable to say anything, and now I find I can’t even nod. It’s as if my body parts aren’t connected to me anymore. I have the vague feeling I’m not breathing.

The detective reaches out and touches my arm. “Let’s keep this as simple as possible. With as little stress as possible.”

I try to stand straighter, but I’m not sure I’ve moved.

“Claire Roth,” Officer Rodriguez says, “of 173 Harrison Avenue, fourth floor, Boston, Massachusetts, we have a warrant for your arrest.” He waves a sheaf of papers at me, then pulls out a pair of handcuffs.

I begin to tremble.

Farrell shakes her head. “Not necessary, Rod. She’s not going anywhere.” She turns to me. “You’re not, right?”

“No,” I manage to whisper, the first word I’ve spoken.

P
OLICE HEADQUARTERS IS
a few miles away in a different section of the city, but I barely remember the ride over, just that Officer Rodriguez drove, Detective Farrell sat next to him, and I sat alone in the back. There were no door handles.

The detective and I are in a small cubicle, one of many lined up along one wall of the large cinder-block room. According to the sign on the door, I’m in the Processing Room. Being processed. For committing a crime. A felony.

My body’s still shaking, but not nearly as much as before, and although I feel as if I can’t get any air into my lungs, I appear to be breathing. I’m even able to give my name and address. Then Detective Farrell reads me my rights.

“I want to call my lawyer,” I tell her immediately, having watched enough cop shows to know this is the right thing to do. “May I please call my lawyer?” I add. Being polite can only help. Of course, I’ve got no lawyer. The only criminal lawyer I know is my friend Mike Dannow from Jake’s, the lawyer/artist. I’ve no idea if he’s any good, but I’m the beggar here.

Farrell hands me a cell phone and leaves me alone in the cubicle, which is open to the room.

“Claire?” Mike demands, when his assistant gets him on the phone. “What’s going on?”

“I’ve, I’ve been arrested,” I say, keeping my voice low. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

“For what?”

“All kinds of things,” I hesitate, not wanting to put it into words. “Forgery, conspiracy to commit fraud, and transportation and sale of, of stolen goods. I think, I think maybe a few other things. Trespassing.”

“Okay,” Mike says. “You need to remain calm. Take a deep breath. It’s important not to lose it, to stay in control.”

I try to take a breath, but it gets caught on a sob.

“What station are you at?”

“Headquarters,” I manage to say. “I think they’re going to lock me up. I—”

“Listen to me, Claire,” he says, in a voice so crisp and professional I’m not sure I’m talking to the same man I drink with at Jake’s. “First thing: Say nothing. Nothing to anyone. Just your name and address. Nothing else. No matter what they tell you, they’re not being nice, they’re not trying to help you, and they aren’t your friends. You will not speak to anyone, that means anyone, without your lawyer. Say it.”

“I, ah, I won’t speak without you.”

“Now say: ‘On the advice of my attorney, I will not say anything unless he’s present.’ ”

I repeat it twice before he’s satisfied I have it down.

“I’ll be there within the hour.”

“Please come as soon as you can,” I beg. But he’s already gone.

Detective Farrell fills up the hour with processing: mug shots, fingerprints, a computer scan of my criminal record, confiscation of my backpack, and a body search, which thankfully doesn’t involve cavities. The whole time, she peppers me with questions that I refuse to answer. Her good cop façade fades a bit more each time I speak my line. Then finally, horribly, she puts me in a cell. This can’t be happening. I can’t be locked up. I have to find the painting for Aiden.

It’s a holding cell, she informs me, but all I care about are the bars, metal poles from floor to ceiling, separating me from the processing room, from freedom. A single, molded-plastic unit takes up most of the cell, forming the base of a cot along one wall before elbowing into a sink/toilet along another. No sharp edges. If I sit at the bottom of the cot and face the toilet, I can avoid seeing the bars. And avoid seeing what isn’t there: a handle to open the door.

I remind myself that there’s no crime in copying a painting, and there’s no way copying a copy can be considered forgery. There’s also no way I’m guilty of transporting or selling stolen goods. Mike will be able to get me out of here. He’ll come and straighten the whole thing out. Then I’ll go home. If it weren’t for the conspiracy to commit fraud charge, I’d almost believe myself.

I
T TURNS OUT
that Mike’s well known and well liked at police headquarters, an uncommon situation for a criminal defense attorney. And well connected at the courthouse. Within an hour, he convinced everyone who needed to be convinced that I should be released O.R.—on my own recognizance—because I have no criminal record, I have a job, I’ve lived in Massachusetts my whole life, and my release would pose no threat to the community.

He pulls his car out of the station’s parking lot and we head to the South End. I’m so thrilled to be free, I can hardly focus on what he’s saying. “Thanks,” I keep repeating. “Thanks for everything. You saved my life.”