Treacherous

by Sara Rosett

  “It’s the first thing that comes to mind, isn’t it? All that chat about lawlessness and his connection to the police. I never saw anything to indicate that was what was going on, but…”

  “It’s a logical assumption,” Jack said. “I’m glad you got out of there, even if you did have to buy the thing sort of on spec.”

  “Anyway, I had a feeling that LeBlanc wanted to get rid of it. He wanted to get as much for it as he could, but it obviously wasn’t something that he valued highly, or it wouldn’t have been wrapped in a plastic grocery bag.”

  “Don’t keep me in suspense any longer,” Jack said. “How much did you pay for this butterfly in its luxurious plastic grocery bag wrapper that might be ours by default?”

  “I talked him down to five thousand.”

  “Not bad, considering the starting point.”

  “Of course LeBlanc said it was worth much more than that. He claimed it would bring closer to a hundred thousand at auction.”

  “But he wasn’t at an auction,” Jack said.

  “Right,” Zoe said. “Turns out, there is occasionally some bargain basement pricing at The Coast is Clear. A quick trip to the car for the cash, and I was a proud owner of the five-winged blue morpho butterfly. It’s on its way back to you right now. Until I heard from Thacker, I figured I should hang on to it. It should arrive Monday.”

  “You shipped it?”

  “Well, it didn’t seem like a good idea to take it with me in my luggage to Europe. LeBlanc assured me that it’s not on the list of forbidden insects that require a permit to ship—I checked that myself—and it’s not, but I’d rather not tote it around Madrid.”

  “Okay, I’m back on Monday, so that should work out, but I’ll have the neighbors watch for it just in case.”

  “That’s right,” Zoe said. “I forgot you’re going to London today. Too bad we’re not flying to Europe together.”

  “Well, Maybe you’ll get the painting authenticated, and we can fly back together,” Jack said.

  “I’d love that, but I’m not getting ahead of myself. I have to actually get my hands on it first. I still can’t believe LeBlanc let me go all the way to Grand Isle when he’d already sold it.”

  “As he told you, he’s a businessman. He made a sale. You took a rare butterfly off his hands.”

  “That still annoys me.” The gate agent scanned Zoe’s boarding pass. “I’m boarding now. I’ll call you after I land.”

  Tuck05: Nothing on the newsfeeds here. I’ve been refreshing all day. Problem?

  Rbn: Yeah, there’s a problem. I went in to work today to get in a little “extra work” and I heard about a new super-secret project. Scary stuff. We’re talking being able to crack the protocols we’re using.

  Tuck05: Not possible. And even if it’s real, it sounds unicorny.

  Rbn: We specialize in making the impossible possible. It works. It’s real. They’re using it now. I’ve seen it in action. I can’t risk going digital—not now. With the tech they have, they’d be able to track it back to me.

  Tuck05: What will you do? You’re not going to drop it, are you?

  Rbn: Can’t. Not now.

  Tuck05: Then get out of town and release it once you’re out.

  Rbn: Still have my watcher. I went to the airport to pick up a friend yesterday. The guy on my tail closed in. He backed off when he saw I was going to baggage claim, but I’m not sure I can get out of the city—if they’d let me leave.

  Tuck05: Then send it to me.

  Rbn: I told you, digital is not an option.

  Tuck05: Mail it.

  Rbn: Ok, I’ve picked myself up off the floor and wiped the tears out of my eyes. I can’t mail what I have. Way too valuable. Too many chances for it to go astray. Too many different hands on it.

  Tuck05: I’m glad I’m not on your project team—you’re hard to work with.

  Rbn: Realistic! I’m realistic.

  Tuck05: Easy, buddy. You’re not about to go ALL CAPS on me, are you? I have an idea. Let me check something, and I’ll get back to you.

  Rbn: Check what? What’s your idea?

  ….

  ….

  Rbn: ?? Where are you?

  Tuck05: You’re a control freak, you know that, right? I’m *checking* stuff. I’ll let you know.

  Rbn: Make it fast. I think we should go dark soon. Too risky to keep this conversation going with the tech they have now.

  Tuck05: Give me a day. I’ll let you know. You could always walk. Take a train or something. Start over in some other place.

  Rbn: That’s sounding better and better. I’ve always wanted to see South America.

  Tuck05: Good place to get lost.

  17

  Sunday

  Tuck05: You still there, or are you sitting on a beach getting sunburnt?

  Rbn: Still here. And I’m going hiking, not to the beach when this is over. What have you got?

  Tuck05: A solution. You’ll love it. It’s old-school.

  Rbn: Make it quick. I want to sign off.

  Tuck05: Your nerves are shot.

  Rbn: Yours would be too if you’d seen what I did at work. Not good, man. Not good.

  Tuck05: Sending the details now. Follow them to the letter, and it will work.

  …

  …

  Rbn: I don’t know. I don’t like it.

  Tuck05: Got a better plan?

  Rbn: No.

  Tuck05: Then do what I listed, and get out of town.

  ….

  Tuck05: Still there?

  Rbn: Yeah. I’m thinking.

  Tuck05: Don’t think. I’m offering you a way out. Take it. It’s too important not to.

  Rbn: You’re right. I can’t go this far and not finish.

  Tuck05: Ok. I’d say keep in touch, but—not a good idea.

  Rbn: Right. Thanks for your help.

  Tuck05: You did the hard part. I’m just running the ball across the goal line.

  Rbn: ??

  Tuck05: Sorry. Football analogy. You’d say scoring a goal or something like that, I guess.

  Rbn: This hasn’t worked out like I planned. I’ll be off-grid for a while. Probably a long time.

  Tuck05: You better be. I expect at least a postcard from Brazil.

  Rbn: You got it.

  Monday

  Zoe strode across the marble floor of the Hotel Premier lobby. She circled around the burbling central fountain, gave a nod to the doorman, and stepped into the bright Madrid sunshine. She set off at a brisk pace toward the Puerta del Sol, where she was meeting Gloria Espino, the authenticator who was going to look at the painting with her today.

  She had arrived in Madrid in the wee hours of Sunday morning, exhausted, but glad that Kaz had overseen all of her travel arrangements, especially when she saw the hotel. It took some coordination with Kaz on Friday, but within a few hours she had a meeting set up at the gallery along with airline tickets and a hotel reservation in Madrid. Kaz had also put her in touch with Gloria Espino, the person Thacker preferred to work with in Europe when he had paintings to authenticate. Fortunately, Gloria was based in Madrid, and had just returned from Rome. Gloria had to rearrange her schedule, and she hadn’t sounded thrilled about it. But she said, “Since it’s for Thacker, I’ll do it,” with barely a trace of an accent coming through in her husky voice.

  The luxurious lobby and gilt of Hotel Premier had surprised Zoe, but when she called to let Kaz know she had arrived and subtly double check that the reservation had been made at the correct hotel, Kaz said, “Mr. Thacker always stays in a Premier when he travels. He says his employees and business associates should stay in the same accommodations he does.”

  The hotel was only a short distance away from the Puerta del Sol, which was at the heart of Madrid. It didn’t take Zoe long to walk to the huge square lined with tall buildings. Restaurants, shops, and hotels ringed the square at ground level. On this bright day, the open plaza was packed with people, some of them striding along while other
s paused to watch street performers. Zoe spotted the bronze sculpture of a bear with its front paws on the trunk of a tree, where Gloria suggested they meet.

  Several people were gathered around the base of the sculpture, but she didn’t think any of them were Gloria, who had been extremely abrupt during their phone conversation. None of the people gave off the buttoned-down businesslike vibe that Gloria had when they’d spoken.

  A woman with a mass of chestnut hair in a formfitting blue shirt tucked into skinny jeans stepped forward. “Zoe?”

  “Yes,” Zoe said, wondering if this was some sort of psychic street performer who told people their names.

  “I’m Gloria.” A narrow gold belt with a rhinestone clasp encircled her small waist and purple stilettos increased her already impressive height. The top of Zoe’s head only came to the woman’s chin. “So nice to meet you,” Gloria said with warmth that had been missing on the phone.

  “Thanks for rearranging your schedule,” Zoe said, still trying to figure out if it was really the same person she’d spoken to earlier. Mental pictures that form on the phone can sometimes be far off the mark. Zoe had expected a dried-up, pinched-mouth, impatient woman in a boxy suit. The stylish woman in her thirties in front of her was nothing like she’d imagined Gloria would be, but the trace of an accent was there in her words, and her voice with its husky quality matched.

  “It was easier than I thought it would be to shift my schedule.”

  “That’s good. Do you know where the gallery is?” Zoe pulled out her phone to bring up the address.

  “Yes, it’s not too far. We can walk, if you’d like.”

  “Sure, as long as you’re okay with that.” Zoe glanced at Gloria’s heels.

  Gloria led the way across the square, deftly threading through the crowd to a side street. “It’s fine. I wore my low heels today.” Once they were on a quieter street lined with more tall buildings with iron balconies and storefronts on ground level, it was less crowded and easier to talk. As they walked side-by-side, Gloria asked, “Have you been to Madrid before?”

  “No, it’s my first visit.”

  “What have you seen so far?”

  “Only the Prado.” Zoe had been surprised to discover that the museum was open on Sunday afternoon. She’d spent a happy couple of hours prowling around, looking at paintings by El Greco, Velazquez, and Goya. “And I had dinner last night at one of the restaurants in the Puerta del Sol. That’s all I’ve had time to do.”

  “You have to get out of the Puerta del Sol. I love it—it’s so vibrant—but there’s so much more to see. I can show you later, if you like.” Gloria paused at an ornately trimmed door on the ground floor of a salmon-toned building with wrought-iron balconies on the four stories above the rusticated ground floor. A small gold plaque engraved with the words Cabello Gallery served as the only sign for the business. “Here we are.”

  18

  Zoe followed Gloria into the expensive hush of the gallery as the door closed behind them, shutting out the sound of traffic.

  In contrast to the classic exterior of the building, the design of the gallery interior was bare and modern. A golden hardwood floor stretched across the open room. Pure white walls partitioned the narrow space into several smaller areas. Each wall or partition showcased a single piece of art, which were an interesting mix, ranging from Abstract to Impressionist to a few Old Masters.

  Footsteps sounded on the hardwood and a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair and a Van Dyke beard came around a partition. He wore a gray business suit, a silver tie, and a yellow pocket square. Arms outstretched, he said, “Gloria.” A string of Spanish followed, but Zoe’s high school Spanish didn’t help her much. She picked out a word here and there, but the ratio was about twenty unknown words to one that she caught. Gloria gripped his hands, and they exchanged air kisses on each cheek along with a few more sentences at a staccato pace.

  Gloria looked Zoe’s way and switched back to English. “Luis, this is Zoe Andrews.”

  Luis transitioned to an American greeting, a handshake, but also leaned forward slightly in a bow. “Forgive me. I’m being rude. Gloria has just returned from Italy. I had to hear how Rome was. I always want all the news.”

  “All the scandal, you mean,” Gloria said.

  “The best news is scandalous.” Luis cut a look toward Gloria. “And if you’d bothered to reply to my emails I wouldn’t have to ask.”

  Gloria threw up a hand. “Guilty. I’ve been overwhelmed, but you know I would have gotten back to you…eventually.”

  “Yes, eventually. I’m not on quite the same level as Mr. Thacker,” he said.

  “Not many people are,” Gloria said.

  He placed a hand over the yellow pocket square. “You wound me.” He turned to Zoe, and his manner became more serious. “Speaking of Mr. Thacker, I know you are more interested in seeing the painting than talking about rumors and email. It arrived this morning, right on time, and I have everything set up in the workroom.”

  Luis gestured toward the rear of the gallery, and Gloria led the way, the crack of her spiky heels ringing out as she crossed the hardwood floor. They were about halfway through the gallery, when an unusual piece of art caught Zoe’s eye, and she slowed to study a small sketch of a horse and rider done in ink with letters incorporated into the drawing. The plaque to the right of the artwork stated that it was by Salvador Dalí. Zoe looked back at the sketch and realized the letters in the drawing spelled the name Dalí.

  Gloria noticed that Zoe had stopped and came back to look over Zoe’s shoulder. Gloria asked Luis, “One of his checks?”

  “Yes, just a little something that came in the other day.” Zoe thought he sounded slightly embarrassed.

  Zoe said, “It looks more like a caricature than the other work of Dalí’s that I’ve seen.”

  “It is,” Luis said. “He was a bit of a…um…I think the word is cheapskate. He would invite a large party out to dinner and pay for the meal with a check, but before giving it to the waiter, he would flip it over and sketch a drawing on the back, knowing it would make the check too valuable for the owner to cash.”

  “He was a scoundrel.” Gloria shook her head, but the corners of her lips were turned up.

  “Clever,” Luis acknowledged, “yet slightly underhanded.”

  “And he repeated the little trick often, according to the stories.” Gloria tilted her head toward the drawing. “Every once in a while one of these comes on the market. Has it been authenticated?” Gloria asked, her eyes narrowing as she studied the sketch. A blue mat that matched the color of the ink surrounded the sketch. A wooden frame several inches wide enclosed the artwork.

  “Yes. Pietro.”

  “Ah, well, then there’s no doubt,” Gloria said. “It’s a Dalí.” She looked at me. “Pietro specializes in Dalí. There are so many Dalí lithographs floating around that Pietro will never run out of work.” Gloria returned her gaze to the check. “I think this is more interesting than one of the ubiquitous lithographs.”

  “It is a diverting novelty, but it will sell,” Luis said, his tone defensive.

  “You are in business,” Gloria said. “It makes sense to show what sells. Thacker would like it,” she added in an aside to Zoe.

  Luis missed her quiet comment. “I would be a fool not to offer it for sale. Now, let us look at the painting.”

  At the back of the gallery, Luis guided them by a long white waist-high counter that hid a computer, phone, and other business paraphernalia, then opened a door set into the wall. The lines of the doorframe were flush with the wall and so faint that the opening was hardly noticeable. Luis touched a sliver of a metal plate with the toe of his dress shoe, and the door popped open.

  The minimal aesthetic of the gallery didn’t extend to the workroom. Shelves covered one wall with a hodgepodge of files and boxes. A scarred rococo desk filled one wall, while a utilitarian plastic-topped table stood in the center of the room. A painting was positioned on the table.
>
  The three of them walked to it and peered down. Zoe caught her breath. The painting was beautiful. The iridescent wings of the butterfly glowed. Unlike the butterfly painting Zoe had seen in Vail, this butterfly was in full sunlight, so both wings seemed to radiate with a brilliant shine. A hummingbird hovered, its wings a blur. The detail on both the butterfly and hummingbird was exquisite, yet the painting didn’t look academic. The artist had captured the sense of motion. Both creatures looked as if they might flitter away in a moment. The background was densely tropical and full of plants.

  “It’s stunning.” Gloria plunked down her large bag onto the table, then removed a pair of gloves. She took a deep breath, blew it out, then picked up the painting. Tilting it this way and that, she studied it from all angles. “Looks promising.”

  She replaced it on the table then took a contraption from her bag and fit it over her head. It mashed her full hair down, molding it to her scalp. She positioned the strap on her forehead, then slid a pair of magnifying lenses into place over her eyes, giving her a bug-like look. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

  She clicked on a light on the frame of the lenses then re-examined every inch of the painting in silence. She turned it over and gave the same careful study to the back. She murmured, “Good color,” then tapped the back of the canvas, and gave a nod of satisfaction. She peered at a small label affixed to the bottom left-hand corner then glanced up at Zoe. “The label states it’s from the collection of S. Carter. There’s a date, 1866.”

  Excitement bubbled up in Zoe, but she wasn’t going to celebrate until Gloria finished the examination.

  Luis motioned to a tissue thin piece of yellowed paper with faded writing. “This was tucked into the back of the painting between the stretcher and the canvas.”

  Zoe had been so focused on the painting that she hadn’t even noticed the paper. She leaned closer to read it. The old-fashioned cursive was a bill of sale, recording that Silvanus Carter had bought “one hummingbird and butterfly oil painting” from the artist in 1866.