The Art Forger (39 page)

“Claire, you’re not listening to me. The arraignment’s first thing in the morning, and we have to go through this.”

I’ve known Mike for years, but it’s clear I’ve never really known him. Because he’s insecure about the quality of his art and because he’s so short, I have to admit, I assumed he was unsure of himself in all aspects of his life. But now I see he’s confident, and clearly more than competent, in his lawyer role. I suppose I should have figured this out as he lives in one of the high-end buildings around the corner from me.

“—and after the arraignment there’ll be a probable cause hearing, which isn’t about whether you’re guilty or not guilty, but an assessment of whether the evidence is strong enough to take to the grand jury.” Mike shoots me a look. “Claire,” he says sharply. “I’m not going to be able to help you if you’re not a willing participant.”

“Probable cause hearing,” I say, to prove I’m participating. “Not about guilt.”

“And what’s going to happen at the arraignment?”

I shrug and smile sheepishly.

“Tomorrow,” he says, in an overly patient tone, “nine o’clock, Boston Municipal Court. The judge reads the charges, you plead not guilty, the judge confirms your O.R. and sets a date for probable cause.”

“We should be out in less than an hour.” I finally remember something he said before.

Mike laughs.

“This is bogus, right?” I ask. “It’s not a crime to copy a painting, right?”

“Copying a painting isn’t a crime, in and of itself. It’s what you do with the copy afterward that matters. Or what you and someone else plan to do with it afterward. Knowledge. Intent.”

“Aiden hired me to copy a copy. I painted it on an old canvas he gave me, based on a high-quality copy of
After the Bath
that belonged to a friend of his, that he also gave me. When I finished, he paid me and took both canvases away.”

Mike lifts one hand off the wheel. “That’s all I need to know for now.”

“But you’ve got to understand that—”

“I’ll decide what’s important for me to understand,” Mike interrupts.

This, too, I remember from cop shows. Lawyers like to presume their clients are innocent.

“I
am
innocent,” I tell him. “I didn’t have anything to do with what happened after the painting was gone. I had no idea what—”

“We’ll talk about the details after the arraignment,” Mike says, as he pulls up to my building. “I won’t be making any arguments against the charges tomorrow, so we’ll have a few days to go over everything after that. The probable cause hearing is where we can call the evidence into question, try to convince the judge that the prosecutor’s case isn’t strong enough. So that’s what we’ll gear up for.”

“You mean there’s not enough evidence?” I grasp for any good news. “That they’ll drop the charges before anything even starts?”

He throws the car into park and turns to look at me. “I didn’t say that.” His voice is stern. “What I said is that we won’t know anything until probable cause.”

“Oh,” I say, deflated.

“But you never know,” he adds. “Every case is different, and frankly, from what I’ve seen so far, their evidence is weak.” He holds up a hand as my face lights up. “But that doesn’t mean there isn’t more evidence. We just need to see how it all comes down. Give it a few days. Now go—”

“A few days?” I interrupt. “We don’t have a few days.”

“—get a good night’s sleep and try not to worry,” he continues, as if I haven’t spoken. “I’ll meet you at eight-thirty in the lobby of the courthouse. Outside the metal detectors.”

“I don’t know how to thank you.” I reach over and touch his shoulder. “You’re, you’re, well, you’re just the best.”

“Boston Municipal Court. Government Center. Twenty-four New Chardon Street.”

“Got it.” I start to climb out of the car, then turn back. “You think the media’s got wind of this already?”

“Arrests and arraignments are public information,” Mike says. “Anything involving the Gardner heist is likely to get picked up.”

W
HEN
I
WAKE
up in the morning, I don’t turn on the television or check the Internet, as I usually do.
Arrests and arraignments are public information.
I’m just not ready to go there. I’ve always been the type of person who needs to know all, who would want to know if I had the bad gene, even the date of my death, if it were possible. But here I sit, in a virtual news blackout of my own making, pretending that if I don’t know about it, it isn’t happening.

I pour myself a cup of coffee and check to make sure my phone is charged in case Mike needs to reach me. I’m on my second cup when it rings. At barely seven o’clock, this can’t be good. When I see it’s Kristi, I know it isn’t.

“They closed down Markel G,” she says, without preamble.

I don’t have to ask who “they” is.

“Claire? Are you there?”

“On, on,” I croak. “On what grounds?”

“The door’s padlocked. FBI. Something about misuse of funds.”

I close my eyes against the pain.

“Are you okay?” She pauses. “After what, ah, after what happened yesterday?”

So it’s out. Everyone knows. I’m not surprised, just horrified. “As good as can be expected.”

“If there’s anything I, we, can do, just let us know. Chantal and I just feel terrible. It’s, well, you know, it’s just not fair.”

“Thanks, Kristi. I appreciate that.” Tears roll down my cheeks. “I’ll be in touch.”

As soon as I put down the phone, it rings again. Mike. He’s already at his office. “Hey,” I say with all the false cheer I can muster.

“I’m coming to pick you up,” he says. “I’ll be in front of your place at eight.”

“You don’t need to do that,” I say, thinking what a nice guy he is. “Thanks, but l can take the T. It’s not a problem.”

“It’s the media. I don’t want you walking in there on your own.”

I take a moment to process this.

“Claire?”

“I’ll be on the sidewalk.”

As I dress, I remind myself that I’m not in jail, not locked up in a cell, and Aiden has at least a few more days. Mike said we should be out in an hour. I’ll still have the whole day.

When I reach the sidewalk, I blink at the brightness; about four inches of snow covers the ground. It doesn’t seem possible that my walk through the gray and stinging snow was only yesterday. Now the sky’s a fierce, clear blue, and the sun shoots sparks of light from every surface. It’s quieter, prettier, less gritty than yesterday. But it’s also terrifically cold. So short a time. Such great changes. I close my eyes against the glare and pull my collar up against the wind. I think about the joy I felt at the sight of
Nighttime T
in the window of Markel G. That, too, was only yesterday.

The honk of a horn breaks my reverie. It’s Mike, of course, and his face is grim.

“What do they know?” I ask, as soon as I’m inside.

He doesn’t ask why I’m not up-to-date on the events, just looks at me with an expression of knowing sympathy. “Well, obviously, about your arrest and arraignment. At about the time we were down at headquarters, the Gardner announced their
After the Bath
is a forgery. And later in the evening, all the major media outlets were reporting that Markel G had been closed down by the feds.”

An official forgery. More reason for the Gardner to push to find the painting. A ray of hope. But more reason for Lyons to be suspicious of me.

“Is it true?” Mike asks. “About the gallery?”

I can only nod.

“I’m sorry, Claire.” He touches my knee. “Tough break.”

I look down at my hands.

“And there’s one more thing . . .”

I close my eyes. “What?”

“It’s not major, just the judge. We got Zwerdling. In public, she’s referred to as the witch. In private, as something that rhymes with it.”

“Does that really matter? I thought you said the arraignment was pretty straightforward?”

“It is. As long as the prosecutor doesn’t ask to revisit your O.R. status.”

My stomach takes a nosedive. “They could send me back to jail?”

“Hardly ever happens,” he assures me.

I search his face. I want to believe him, desperately want to believe him, but I can’t be sure if he’s telling me the truth or telling me the truth he thinks I need to hear.

“The main issue now is getting into the courthouse,” Mike says, moving on. “It’s not going to be pretty, which is why I want to be with you. We have to walk up the main stairs, but there’ll be cops there to clear the way for us. Still, reporters are going to be yelling questions at us, thrusting microphones in our faces, taking pictures. Do you think you can handle that?”

“I’ve been through this before, remember?” I say, with much more bravado than I feel.

He takes his eyes off the road. “Not even close.”

I raise my chin. “I can handle it.”

He gives me a searching look, decides to let it go, and says, “One of my associates is meeting us there. Emma. Emma Yales. She’ll be on one side of you, I’ll be on the other. Stare straight ahead, don’t make eye contact, and keep walking. Don’t say a word to anyone. No one. No matter what they say to you. And no matter how pissed off you get. Okay?”

“Okay.” Shit.

“Emma and I will take care of anything that might come up. But it’s unlikely.”

“Why are they making this into such a big deal?” I ask, hoping he’ll tell me it’s not. “It seems like a bit of media overkill, doesn’t it?”

“December’s a slow news month” is his answer. “And fortunately or unfortunately, you’re a beautiful woman with a past.”

Forty-six

We sit in Mike’s car in the parking lot behind the courthouse with the heat blasting. We’re early, waiting for Emma to show so she can protect my left flank as I walk the media gauntlet.

“So it’s like I said before,” Mike explains. “The arraignment’s totally procedural. A preliminary step. More like setting up a doctor’s appointment rather than actually being examined.”

“So I don’t have to take my clothes off until probable cause?” I ask.

Mike laughs. “Pretty much exactly right. Never heard it put quite like that before, but, yeah.” He grins at me. “Glad your sense of humor’s still intact. It’s a good thing to have around.”

A knock on the window.

Mike climbs from the car. “Emma,” he says, smiling and shaking her hand with both of his.

I follow, and he introduces us. Emma is buff and black, with a do-not-tread-on-me aura emanating from every pore. I’m glad she’s on my side.

In silence, we walk along the side of the building. When we turn the corner, I come to a complete stop. Mike and Emma each grab one of my arms and try to propel me forward. I don’t budge.

“It’s better to get it over with,” Mike says. “Faster the better.”

“We’ve got your back.” Emma gives my arm a squeeze.

But my feet are cemented to the sidewalk. Dozens of reporters, photographers, videographers, and hangers-on line both sides of the steps, held back by yellow police tape and strategically placed cops. Vans with bold graphics and satellite dishes clutter the street.
Not even close,
Mike said when I told him I’d been through this before. He wasn’t kidding.

“Take three deep breaths,” Mike says. “Then we’re going in.”

I do as he says, and before I know it, I’m at the bottom of the stairs and climbing; Mike and Emma have their elbows out, clearly not afraid to use them. Despite the bright sunlight, camera flashes spark at the edges of my vision. A sea of voices call out.

“Where are the rest of the paintings?”

“Who’s behind the heist?”

“Are the paintings safe? Have any of them been destroyed?”

“How does it feel to have painted something good enough to dupe the Gardner?”

“Does this mean you’re not a pretender?”

I stumble on a step, but Mike and Emma hold on tight. “Keep moving, Claire,” Mike murmurs. “Almost there.”

But we’re not almost there. We’re barely a quarter of the way up.

“Where’s the original? Does Aiden Markel have it?”

“What about Whitey Bulger? Have you spoken with him since his arrest?”

I’d laugh at this last question if I weren’t so freaked out. How connected do these people think I am?

“Claire,” a woman calls in a friendly voice. “What do you think they’re going to find in the basement of the Gardner?”

I turn to her. “Degas’ original.”

She shoves a microphone at me. “Who put it there?”

Mike yanks me away before I can answer. “I told you not to say anything,” he growls under his breath.

“But that’s what’s going to help us,” I argue. “Finding the original’s the way out of this mess.”

“What’s going to help us is for you to shut the fuck up.”