The FBI Thrillers Collection (12 page)

“You know all about the illegal market, then.”

Her voice was flat, no real accusation in it, but he knew to his toes that she was very wary of him. Why? Ah, yes, her paintings, that was it. She didn’t trust him because she was afraid for her paintings. Okay, he could deal with that.

He sat down on the sofa across from her, picked up the afghan, and held it out to her.

Lily said, “Thanks, I am a bit cold. No, no, just toss it to me.”

But he didn’t. He spread it over her, aware that she didn’t want him near her, frowned, then sat down again and said, “Of course I know about the illegal market. I know all of the main players involved, from the thieves to the most immoral dealers, to the best forgers and the collectors who, many of them, are totally obsessed if there is a piece of art they badly want. ‘Obsession’ is many times the operative word in the business. Is there anything you want to know about it, Mrs. Frasier?”

“You know the crooks who acquire the paintings for the collectors.”

“Yes, some of them, but I’m not one of them. I’m strictly on the up-and-up. You can believe that because your brother trusts me. No one’s tougher than Savich when it comes to trust.”

“You’ve known each other for a very long time. Maybe trust just starts between kids and doesn’t end, particularly if you rarely see each other.”

“Whatever that means,” Simon said. “Look, Mrs. Frasier, I’ve been in the business for nearly fifteen years. I’m sorry if you’ve had some bad experiences with people in the art world, but I’m honest, and I don’t dance over the line. You can take that to the bank. Of course I know about the underside of the business or I wouldn’t be very successful, now would I?”

“How many of my grandmother’s paintings have you dealt with?”

“Over the years, probably a good dozen, maybe more. Some of my clients are museums themselves. If the painting is owned by a collector—legally, of course—and a museum wants to acquire it, then I try to buy it from the collector. Since I know what all the main collectors own and accumulate, I will try to barter with them. It cuts both ways, Mrs. Frasier.”

“I’m divorcing him, Mr. Russo. Please don’t call me that again.”

“All right. ‘Frasier’ is a rather common sort of name anyway, doesn’t have much interest. What would you like to be called, ma’am?”

“I think I’ll go back to my maiden name. You can call me Ms. Savich. Yes, I’ll be Lily Savich again.”

Her brother said from the doorway, “I like it, sweetheart. Let’s wipe out all reminders of Tennyson.”

“Tennyson? What sort of name is that?”

Lily actually smiled. If it wasn’t exactly at him, it was still in his vicinity. “His father told me that Lord or Alfred just wouldn’t do, so he had to go with Tennyson. He was my father-in-law’s favorite poet. Odd, but my mother-in-law hates the poet.”

“Perhaps Tennyson, the poet—not your nearly ex-husband—is a bit on the ‘pedantic’ side.”

“You’ve never read Tennyson in your life,” Lily said.

He gave her the most charming smile and nodded. “You’re right. I guess ‘pedantic’ isn’t quite right?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t read him either.”

“Here’s coffee and apple pie,” Savich said, then cocked his head, looking upward. He said, “I hear Sherlock singing to Sean. He loves a good, rousing Christmas carol in the bathtub. I think she’s singing ‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.’ You guys try to get along while I join the sing-along. You can trust him, Lily.”

When they were alone again, Lily heard the light slap of rain on the windows for the first time. Not a hard, drenching rain, just an introduction, maybe, to the winter rains that were coming. It had been overcast when they’d landed in Washington, and there was a stiff wind.

Simon sipped Savich’s rich black coffee, sighed deeply, and sat back, closing his eyes. “Savich makes the best coffee in the known world. And he rarely drinks it.”

“His body is a temple,” she said. “I guess his brain is, too.”

“Nah, no way. Your brother is a good man, sharp, steady, but he ain’t no temple. I bet Savich would fall over in shock if he heard you say that about him.”

“Probably so, but it’s true nonetheless. Our dad taught all of us kids how to make the very best coffee. He said if he was ever in an old-age home, at least he’d know he could count on us for that. Our mom taught Dillon how to cook before he moved to Boston to go to MIT.”

“Did she teach all of you?”

“No, just Dillon.” She stopped, listening to the two voices singing upstairs. “They’ve moved on to ‘Silent Night.’ It’s my favorite.”

“They do the harmony well. However, what Savich does best is country and western. Have you ever heard him at the Bonhomie Club?”

She shook her head, drank a bit of coffee, and knew her stomach would rebel if she had any more.

“Maybe if you’re feeling recovered enough, we could all go hear him sing at the club.”

She didn’t say anything.

“Why do you distrust me, Ms. Savich? Or dislike me? Whatever it is.”

She looked at him for a good, long time, took a small bit of apple pie, and said finally, “You really don’t want to know, Mr. Russo. And I’ve decided that if Dillon trusts you, why, then, I can, too.”

Raleigh Beezler, co-owner of the
Beezler-Wexler Gallery of Georgetown, New York City, and Rome, gave Lily the most sorrowful look she’d seen in a very long time, at least as hangdog as Mr. Monk’s at the Eureka museum.

He kissed his fingers toward the paintings. “Ah, Mrs. Frasier, they are so incredible, so unique. No, no, don’t say it. Your brother already told me that they cannot remain here. Yes, I know that and I weep. They must make their way to a museum so the great unwashed masses can stand in their wrinkled walking shorts and gawk at them. But it brings tears to my eyes, clogs my throat, you understand.”

“I understand, Mr. Beezler,” Lily said and patted his arm. “But I truly believe they belong in a museum.”

Savich heard a familiar voice speaking to Dyrlana, the gorgeous twenty-two-year-old gallery facilitator, hired, Raleigh admitted readily, to make the gentlemen customers looser with their wallets. Savich turned and called out, “Hey, Simon, come on back here.”

Lily looked through the open doorway of the vault and watched Simon Russo run the distance to the large gallery vault in under two seconds. He skidded to a stop, sucked in his breath at the display of the eight Sarah Elliott paintings, each lovingly positioned against soft black velvet on eight easels, and said, “My God,” and nothing else.

He walked slowly from painting to painting, pausing to look closely at many of them, and said finally, “You remember, Savich, that your grandmother gave me
The Last Rites
for my graduation present. It was my favorite then and I believe it still is. But this one
—The Maiden Voyage—
it’s incredible. This is the first time I’ve seen it. Would you look at the play of light on the water, the lace of shadows, like veils. Only Sarah Elliott can achieve that effect.”

“For me,” Lily said, “it’s the people’s faces. I’ve always loved to stare at the expressions, all of them so different from each other, so telling. You know which man owns the ship just by the look on his face. And his mother—that look of superior complacency at what he’s achieved, mixed with the love she holds so deeply for her son and the ship he’s built.”

“Yes, but it’s how Sarah Elliott uses light and shadow that puts her head and shoulders above any other modern artist.”

“No, I disagree with you. It’s the people, their faces, you see simply everything in their expressions. You feel like you know them, know what makes them tick.” She saw he would object again and rolled right over him. “But this one has always been my favorite.” She lightly touched her fingertips to the frame on
The Swan Song.
“I really hate to see it go to a museum.”

“Keep it with you then,” Savich said. “I’ve kept
The Soldier’s Watch.
The insurance costs a bundle as well as the alarm system, but very few people know about it, and that’s what you’ll have to do. Keep it close and keep it quiet.”

Simon looked up from his study of another painting. “I have
The Last Rites
hung in a friend’s gallery near my house. I see it nearly every day.”

“That’s an excellent idea,” Raleigh Beezler said and beamed at Lily, seeing hope. “Do you know, Mrs. Frasier, that there is an exquisite townhouse for sale not two blocks from my very safe, very beautiful, very hassle-free gallery that would accord you every amenity? What do you say I call the broker and you can have a look at it? I understand you’re a cartoonist. There is this one room that is simply filled with light, just perfect for you.”

That was well done, Lily thought. She had to admire Mr. Beezler. “And I could leave some of my paintings here, in your gallery, on permanent display?”

“An excellent idea, no?”

“I’d like to see the townhouse, sir, but the price is very important. I don’t have much money. Perhaps you and I could come to a mutually satisfying financial arrangement. My painting displayed right here for a monthly stipend, a very healthy one, given that this house sits in the middle of Georgetown and I’d have to afford to live here. What do you think?”

Raleigh Beezler was practically rubbing his hands together. There was the light of the negotiator in his dark eyes.

Simon cleared his throat. He’d continued studying the rest of the paintings, and now he turned slowly to say, “I think that’s a very good idea, Ms. Savich, Mr. Beezler. Unfortunately, there is a huge problem.”

Lily turned to frown at him. “I can’t see any problem if Mr. Beezler is willing to pay me a sufficient amount to keep up mortgage payments, at least until I can get an ongoing paycheck for
No Wrinkles Remus,
maybe even get it syndicated…”

Simon just shook his head. “I’m sorry, but it’s just not possible.”

“What’s wrong, Simon?” Because he knew Simon, knew that tone of voice, Savich automatically took Lily’s hand. “All right, the floor’s yours. You really wanted to see the paintings. You’ve seen them. I’ve watched you studying them. What’s wrong?”

“No easy way to say this,” Simon said. “Oh damn, four of them are fakes, including
The Swan Song.
Excellent fakes, but there it is.”

“No,” Lily said. “No. I would know if it weren’t real. You’re wrong, Mr. Russo, just wrong.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Savich, but I’m very sure. Like I said, the way Sarah Elliott uses light and shadows makes her unique. It’s the special blend of shades that she mixed herself and the extraordinary brush strokes she used; no one’s really managed to copy them exactly.

“Over the years I’ve become an expert on her paintings. Still, if I hadn’t also heard some rumors floating around New York that one of the big collectors had gotten a hold of some Sarah Elliott paintings in the last six months, I wouldn’t have come rushing down here.”

Savich said, “I’m sorry, Lily, but Simon is an expert. If he says they’re fake, then it’s true.”

“I’m sorry,” Simon said. “Also, there were no Sarah Elliotts for sale that I knew of. When I heard
The Swan Song
as one of the paintings acquired, I knew something was wrong. I immediately put out feelers to get more substantial information. With any luck, I’ll find out what’s going on soon. Unfortunately, I haven’t yet heard a thing about what happened to the fourth painting. Since I knew that you, Ms. Savich, owned them, and that they’d been moved from the Chicago Art Institute to the Eureka Art Museum eleven months ago, I didn’t want to believe it—there are always wild rumors floating through the art world. I couldn’t be sure until I’d actually seen them. I’m sorry, they are fakes.”

“Well,” Sherlock said, her face nearly as red as her hair, “shit.”

Savich stared at his wife and said slowly, “You really cursed, Sherlock? You didn’t even curse when you were in labor.”

“I apologize for that, but I am so mad I want to chew nails. This is very bad. I’m really ready to go over the edge here. Those bastards—those officious, murdering bastards. There, I don’t have to curse anymore. I’m sorry, Dillon, but this really is too much. This is so awful, Lily, but at least we have a good idea who’s responsible.”

Lily said, “Tennyson and his father.”

Sherlock said, “And Mr. Monk, the curator of the Eureka museum. He had to be in on it. No wonder he was near tears when you told him you were taking the paintings. He knew the jig would be up sooner or later. He had to know that in Washington, D.C., experts would be viewing the paintings and one of them would spot the fakes.”

“So did Tennyson,” Savich said.

Lily said, “Probably my father-in-law as well. Maybe the whole family was in on this. But they couldn’t have known we would find out the very day after we got here.” She turned to Simon Russo. “I’m madder than Sherlock. Thank you, Mr. Russo, for being on top of this and getting to us so quickly.”

Simon turned to Savich. “There is one positive thing here. At least Tennyson Frasier didn’t have time to have all eight of them forged. Now that I know for certain that we’ve got four forgeries, I can find out the name of the forger. It won’t be difficult. You see, it’s likely to be one of three or four people in the world—the only ones with enough technique to capture the essence of Sarah Elliott and fool everyone except an expert who’s been prepared for the possibility.”

Lily said, “Would you have known they were fakes if you hadn’t heard about them being sold to a collector?”

“Maybe not, but after the second or third viewing, I probably would have realized something was off. They really are very well done. When I find out who forged them, I’ll pay a visit to the artist.”

“Don’t forget, Simon, we need proof,” Savich said, “to nail Tennyson. And his family, and Mr. Monk at the Eureka museum.”

Sherlock said, “No wonder that guy tried to murder you on the bus, Lily. They knew they had to move quickly and they did. It’s just that you’re no wuss and you creamed the guy. I wanna lock them all up, Dillon. Maybe stomp on them first.”

Simon, who had been studying
The Maiden Voyage,
looked up. “What do you mean she creamed the guy? Someone attacked you? But you were just out of surgery.”

“Sorry, I forgot to mention that,” Savich said.

Lily said, “There was no reason to tell him. But yes, I’d been five or six days out of surgery. I was okay, thanks to a psychiatrist who…well, never mind about that. But I was feeling just fine. A young guy got on an empty bus, sat beside me, and pulled out this really scary switchblade. He was lucky to get away.” And Lily gave him a big smile, the first one he’d gotten from her. He smiled back.

“Very good. Your brother taught you?”

“Yes, after Jack…No, never mind that.”

“You have a lot of never minds, Ms. Savich.”

“You may have to get used to it.” But she saw him file Jack’s name away in that brain of his.

Simon said, “As for the fourth painting,
Effigy,
I thought it was just fine at first, but then I realized that the same forger who did the other three did that one as well. No leads yet on
Effigy,
but we’ll track it down. It probably went to the same collector.”

Mr. Beezler, shaken, wiped a beautiful linen handkerchief over his brow and said, “This would be a catastrophe to a museum, Mr. Savich, like a stick of dynamite stuck in the tailpipe of my Mercedes. You, Mr. Russo, you are, I gather, in a position to perhaps get the original paintings back?”

“Yes,” said Simon, “I am. Keep the black velvet warm, Mr. Beezler.”

Savich said, “I’ll speak to the guys in the art fraud section, see what recommendations they have. The FBI doesn’t do full-blown stolen art investigations at this time, so our best bet is Simon finding out who acquired the paintings.”

Simon said, “First thing, I’ll do some digging around, hit up my informants to get verification on who our collector is, find the artist, and squeeze him. The instant our collector hears that I’m digging—and he’d hear about it real quick—he’ll react, either go to ground, hide the paintings, or maybe something else, but it won’t matter.”

“What do you mean ‘something else’?” Lily asked.

Savich gave him a frown, and Simon said quickly, shrugging, “Nothing, really. But since I plan to stir things up, I’ll be really careful who’s at my back. Oh yeah, Savich, I’m relieved you didn’t use the shippers that Mr. Monk wanted you to use.”

Savich said, “No, I used Bryerson. I know them and trust them. There’s no way Mr. Monk or Tennyson or any of the rest of them could know, at least for a while, where the paintings ended up. However, I will call Teddy Bryerson and have him let me know if he gets any calls about the paintings. Simon, do you think anyone will realize that these four paintings are fakes if they’re out in the open for all to see?”

“Sooner or later someone would notice and ask questions.”

Lily said to Mr. Beezler, “I can’t very well let a museum hang the four fakes. What do you think about hanging all of them here for a while, Mr. Beezler, and we can see what happens?”

“Yes, I will hang them,” said Raleigh, “with great pleasure.”

Lily said to Simon, “Do you really think you can get the paintings back?”

Simon Russo rubbed his hands together. His eyes were fierce, and he looked as eager as a boy with his first train set. “Oh, yes.”

She imagined him dressed all in black, even black camouflage paint on his face, swinging down a rope to hover above an alarmed floor.

Savich said, “Just one thing, Simon. When you find out who bought the paintings, I go with you.”

Sherlock blinked at her husband. “You mean that you, an FBI special agent, unit chief, want to go steal four paintings?”

“Steal back,” Savich said, giving her a kiss on her open mouth. “Bring home. Return to their rightful owner.”

Lily said, “I’ll be working with Mr. Russo to find the person who forged them and the name of the collector who bought them. And then we’ll have proof to nail Tennyson.”

“Oh no,” Savich said. “I’m not letting you out of my sight, Lily.”

“No way,” Sherlock said. “No way am I letting you out of my sight either. Sean wants his auntie to hang out with him for a while.”

Simon Russo looked at Lily Savich and slowly nodded. He knew to his bones that when this woman made up her mind, it would take more than an offering of a dozen chocolate cakes to change it. “Okay, you can work with me. But first you need to get yourself back to one-hundred-percent healthy.”