The Gilded Seal (23 page)

all the same.”

“Meaning what?”

“If you’re looking to forge something, one of the hardest

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things to fake is canvas age,” he explained. “But with access

to paintings like this, you wouldn’t have to. All you need to

do is clean them off, paint whatever you want in its place and

nobody would be any the wiser.”

“And that’s what you think he was doing?”

“Apart from the period broadly matching, his buying is

pretty indiscriminate. It certainly looks to me like he was

just in it for the canvases,” Tom confirmed. “I’d be amazed if

the sellers didn’t know exactly what he was up to.”

“Even if they thought he was using them to make forg-

eries?”

“He was doing them a favor by taking them off their hands.

Ask around. The clue will be when everyone tells you what a

great guy he is,” Tom said with a rueful sigh.

“That’s exactly what happened!” she exclaimed, thinking

back to her unpleasant meetings with Wilson and the other

members of the Upper East Side art-dealing fraternity.

“You’ve got to be pretty brave to finger someone for fraud.

Especially in the States with its trigger-happy approach to

litigation. That’s why Razi focused on the mid-market. No

one was going to risk calling his bluff, or the cops, over a

couple of hundred thousand bucks. He flew right under the

radar.”

“And like you said before, the certificates of authenticity

helped convince the Japanese buyers that they were getting

the real thing.”

“The Japanese don’t have ready access to the types of ex-

perts we have over here who can spot a fake at fifty feet. And

they’re not going to bother flying one over for a half a million

dollar painting. The certificate is all they’ve got to go on. In

fact, often they’re more interested in that than the painting

itself. You know what the Japanese are like with labels.”

“I know they don’t like to talk when they discover that

they’ve been ripped off,” she said, thinking of her ongoing

and so far fruitless struggle to get someone at Takano Hold-

ings to talk to her.

“They probably don’t want to lose face,” Tom guessed.

“That’s the clever thing about this scam. Razi turned the

frailties of the art market to his own advantage. The Japanese

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t w i n i n g

thirst for certificates and their shame complex. The Ameri-

can fear of lawsuits from a misplaced accusation and their

willingness to back a perceived winner, however bad the

smell.” He slid the printout back across the table. “It’s im-

pressive.”

A waiter appeared at their table and took their order. Tom,

refusing his offer to deposit his briefcase in the cloakroom,

placed it instead between his feet. Jennifer smiled. Even

thieves, it seemed, worried about theft.

“By the way, you never did say what you were doing at the

Louvre?” she asked, pouring him some wine and then help-

ing herself.

“Killing time.” He shrugged. “You?”

“I had an appointment there to see someone. They had to

cancel.”

“About your case?”

“Sort of.” She wasn’t about to share details of Hammon’s

murder and what she had found there without clearing it with

Green and the NYPD first. “How’s Archie?”

“Bored.” Tom smiled. “Sometimes I worry it’s all he can

do not to jump off the wagon straight back into his old life.”

“He’s not with you then?”

“No, he’s in London. Hates traveling.”

They paused as the waiter served the fi rst course.

“What about you?” Jennifer asked between mouthfuls.

“Have you been tempted to jump back in? Do another job?”

“Would you care?”

“Of course.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” She frowned. “Because you said you

wouldn’t. Because it’s wrong.”

“Jennifer Browne.” Tom laughed. “The voice of my con-

science. Anyway, what would you do? Rat me out?”

“If I knew you’d done a job?”

“Or thought I was going to.”

“Maybe. It would depend.”

“What on, the weather?”

“Lots of things.”

“Well, luckily I can save you that dilemma,” Tom placed a

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reassuring hand on hers. She left it there, not wanting to

break his flow now that he finally seemed to be talking. “I’ve

been a good boy.”

“Not a single job?”

“You almost sound disappointed.”

“I’m just surprised you’ve never been tempted.”

“I never said I hadn’t been tempted.” He grinned.

“Were you ever tempted to reply to my emails?” She tried

to sound indifferent, but from the way Tom immediately

drew his hand away and flicked his eyes to his plate, she knew

she’d failed.

“I didn’t want things to get complicated.”

“It was just an email, Tom. ‘Hello. How are you?’ The

usual thing. Even if you don’t like me, you don’t have to ig-

nore me.”

“Of course I like you,” he shot back.

“Then what was it?”

There was a long pause and Tom seemed to be searching

for the right thing to say.

“Look, I’m not very good at . . . I didn’t mean to upset you

or anything. I just thought . . . I just thought it was easier that

way.”

“For you?”

“For both of us. We live on different sides of the world. We

have totally different lives. And in case you’d forgotten,

you’re a cop and I’m a thief.”

“Reformed thief,” she reminded him.

“You know what I mean,” he said with a shake of the head.

“What did you think was going to happen between us?”

She gazed at him for a few moments and then gave a re-

signed shrug, his words dousing the final few embers that

remained from her memories of their time together the previ-

ous summer.

“Nothing.” She sighed. “You’re right.”

“I mean, life’s complicated enough, right, without, you

know . . .” He gave a short laugh.

“I think we make it more complicated than it needs to be.”

She summoned up a smile, the arrival of the waiter to collect

their plates providing a welcome break in the conversation

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t w i n i n g

for both of them. She didn’t really agree or even necessarily

follow his reasoning, but it seemed pointless to dwell on it.

That was then. Maybe he was right and her expectations

were unrealistic. Maybe they both just needed to put it all

behind them.

The eve ning wore on, Tom loosening up as they drifted

through slightly calmer water over the main course, dessert

and coffee. Jennifer’s family and what they were up to. Some

of Tom’s cases and the people he’d dealt with. A trip he’d

taken to St. Petersburg. Byron Bailey, a young FBI agent

they’d both come across over the last few months.

During the course of this she was struck by how little she

really knew him, or indeed had ever really got to know him

the last time they had been together. Then again, she won-

dered if Tom ever let anyone get close enough to know any

more than he wanted them to.

“So, how long are you staying?” Tom helped her on with

her coat as they stepped out on to the street, the night warm

and still.

“Another day, two at the most. You?”

“The same.”

There was an awkward pause and then Tom went to kiss

her on the cheek while she held out her hand. They both

laughed. Then she leaned forward and pressed her cheek to

his lips.

“Just hold that!” A voice rang out, accompanied by the

flash of a camera. “Beautiful!”

Jennifer snatched herself away from Tom and looked over

to where the voice had come from.

“Lewis,” she gasped in a strangled voice.

“
Bonsoir,
Agent Browne,” Lewis smirked, a cigarette

dangling from his bloodless lips, his tape recorder appearing

from inside a faded jeans jacket. “Or do you mind if I call

you Jennifer? I feel like we’re really getting to know each

other now.”

“How the hell . . . ?”

“Didn’t you hear? You’re big news back home.” He limped

toward them, the loose skin under his chin swaying gently.

“Our circulation was up fifteen percent for my ‘Black Widow’

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piece. Did you like the photo, by the way?” He winked.

“Anyway, my editor wants me to run with it. Get to know the

woman behind the badge. The girl behind the gun. Good

thing for me your concierge is saving for dental work or I’d

never have found you.”

“Who is this idiot?” Tom stepped between Lewis and her,

shielding her from the photographer who was still clicking

away.

“No one,” she breathed, too surprised to be angry.

“Leigh Lewis,
American Voice
,” Lewis introduced him-

self, tobacco-stained fingers snaking over Tom’s shoulder

bearing a dog-eared business card. “I don’t believe we’ve

met, Mr.—?”

“Leave her alone,” Tom ordered him.

“The American people have a right to know why they’re

paying for a federal agent to take her boyfriend out to din-

ner,” Lewis proclaimed grandly, his eyes bulging hungrily.

“As a matter of fact, I paid,” Tom said tersely. “And I’m not

her boyfriend.”

“Of course not.” Lewis winked. “Just be careful if you’re

screwing her, okay, buddy? Her bite’s pretty deadly.”

“Why don’t you just fuck off?” Tom took a step toward

Lewis, who stood his ground defiantly. A small group of cu-

rious onlookers had gathered at a safe distance.

“Don’t, Tom,” she warned him. “You’ll only make it worse.

This is my problem, not yours.”

“You want to watch out for her temper,” Lewis cautioned

him. “She’s killed one man already and attacked me just a

few days back. I’m thinking of suing.”

“If you want to sue someone, sue me.”

Tom’s fist caught Lewis on the side of his chin and threw

him on to the hood of the car behind him, his lit cigarette

tracing a fiery circle as it was sent spinning out of his mouth.

A woman behind them screamed. Someone else mumbled

something about calling the police. With a low moan, Lewis

slid down on to the ground in a rubbery heap. The photogra-

pher cursed and sprinted off down the street.

“Shit,” Jennifer swore. After the trouble she’d just had

with Green, this was the last thing she needed.

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t w i n i n g

“Shit,” Tom agreed, as if he’d realized that he’d made a

mistake the second his fi st had connected with Lewis’s face.

“I didn’t mean . . .”

“You have any idea how bad this will look?” she said with

a despairing shake of her head.

“I’m sorry,” he said, looking chastened. “He just really . . .

I guess I wasn’t thinking. I just wanted to make him shut

up.”

She gazed at him silently for a few seconds. It was diffi cult

to be angry with him, when all he’d been doing was standing

up for her.

“It’s okay,” she sighed. “He had it coming. I’m sure we can

explain . . .”

“No,” Tom insisted quickly, glancing nervously back up

the street. “I’m not explaining anything to anyone.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t risk the police pulling me in on this, Jen.”

“Why? What’s wrong?” She frowned, his suddenly furtive

manner fueling her suspicions.

“Nothing,” he insisted.

“It can’t be nothing.”

“No,” he admitted, looking somewhat sheepish. “It’s just

that I had some trouble with the law here a few years back.

Nothing serious, but if they finger me for this . . .”

His voice petered out. She looked at him blankly, hoping

that her expression made it clear he was going to have to vol-

unteer a bit more detail.

“You want me to spell it out, fine,” he said, running his

hand through his hair impatiently. “I broke some guy’s arm

in a fight. If they pick me up on another assault charge,

they’ll make me do six months for the first guy and another

six for Lewis.”

“You got a suspended prison sentence?” She didn’t know

how the French legal system worked, but that sounded harsh

for a fi rst-time offense.

“I broke it in three places.” His face broke into a grin at the

memory. “And his nose. And three ribs.”

“Jesus, Tom,” she remonstrated. “What had he done?”

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“I can’t even remember. And right now, it doesn’t matter. I

just want to get out of here before the police show up.”

“Then go,” she conceded with a weary shake of her head.

“I’ll deal with it.”

“I need you to hold on to this for me—” He held out his

briefcase with a pleading look. “Just in case the cops get

lucky and pick me up.”

“Why, what’s in it?” she asked with a curious frown.

“Paperwork. Details of cases I’m working and people I

know. People who are happy to help me, but who wouldn’t

want the cops knowing about them or what they do.”

“Fine,” she said, taking the briefcase from him. Tom was

rapidly using up all the goodwill that standing up for her just

now had earned him.

“Thanks. I appreciate it.” Smiling, he leaned forward to