A Cruise to Die For (An Alix London Mystery)

by Elkins, Aaron

  “I don’t remember. Mostly, it’s used by vets—aldimine, cavatene, something like that. What difference does it make? The important point—”

  “Ketamine,” Alix said miserably.

  He stared at her. “That’s right. How do you know that?”

  Alix sighed. “She was using it as a sleep medicine. She told me.”

  Ted uttered a brief, appreciative laugh and sat back in his chair with a sigh of his own. “Damn. You do have your uses.”

  “I can’t believe it,” Alix said. “She was so open—I was so sure she was—” She grimaced. “Some connoisseur’s eye I have.”

  “Hey, don’t look so downcast. That’s not the way genius works. It’s usually a one-trick show. Einstein had trouble tying his shoelaces. Arthur Conan Doyle believed in fairies. You, you’re murder on sizing up paintings, but maybe people aren’t your métier. And remember, the celebrated FBI—well, me—didn’t do that well either. I never suspected her of anything.”

  “I guess,” Alix said, nodding “yes” at the waitress who had come with the coffee pitcher. “Sheesh.”

  “And now there’s something else I want to talk to you about,” Ted said with the air of someone who had the world’s most wonderful gift all wrapped up in a red ribbon under the table and ready to hand over.

  “No, wait, just a couple more questions.”

  What would happen to them all now, she wanted to know—to Gaby and Panos and Emil. This was one of those “surmise” answers, Ted said, but his best bets were these: Gaby and Emil, now in Albanian custody on customs charges, would be easily cajoled or threatened into serving as material witnesses against the mafiosi in exchange for their release, but Panos would surely see to it that they faced charges in Greece; both of them for their theft of his Manet and Monet, and Gaby for assault by hairbrush.

  “I’m guessing Emil will talk his way out of doing any serious time by blaming it all on Gaby, but Gaby’s in serious trouble. The Greeks will come up with a murder charge on Donny’s account, and if the New York District Attorney can put together a case, they’ll want to try her for Weisskopf’s murder as well.”

  “And what about Panos? What happens to him?”

  Ted shrugged. “Nothing, as far as I can see.”

  “Nothing! But how can that be? What about the Manet forgery? What about the fractional investments?”

  “Forging a painting isn’t a crime, Alix—not until you try to sell it as the real thing.”

  “Yes, I know, but he was trying to sell it. It was in the auction.”

  “But he pulled it before it came up for sale.”

  “Sure, but that was only because I spotted it as a fake and he slashed it to—”

  “The ‘because’ won’t matter. His lawyer will simply point out that he did pull it before the auction itself, and he’d pulled the Monet as well as soon as he’d gotten the news that it was a fake too. As for the slashing, no law against destroying your own property.”

  “What about knocking me silly—isn’t that a crime? And I’m more than willing to testify in court—”

  “To what?”

  “To…” She slumped. “Oh, I see what you mean. I didn’t really see him, did I?”

  “Not from under that shawl, you didn’t. And as to the fractional investments, well, Panos cleared almost fifty million dollars on the auction; Mirko alone bought eight of them—twenty-nine million bucks’ worth—for his hotels. We think Panos will use the money—plus the money he’s bound to get for the original Manet and Monet, both of which will naturally be returned to him—to make his investors whole, close the operation down, pull in his lifestyle and expenditures from filthy rich to just plain rich, and disappear into the sunset. He’s ready to call it a day.”

  “And you’re going to let him?”

  “Don’t look so shocked. Once his investors have their money back—and their profits—I don’t see them having much interest in seeing that he goes to court. Nor would we, frankly.”

  “Huh.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Well, it hardly seems fair, does it? The point of the whole operation was to go after Panos. And he winds up sailing off scot-free. It was a waste of time.”

  “That’s not the way to look at it, Alix. A lot of good things happened, and we were a big part of them. The sale of a major forgery was prevented, a murderer and a crook are now facing charges, as are a couple of mafiosi overseas, and two beautiful paintings have been kept out of the bad guys’ hands and are still in circulation, as opposed to being used for dishonest purposes and going down into some deep, dark vault where nobody ever sees them again. Not too bad for three or four days’ work. And fairness? Sorry, that doesn’t enter into it. That’s just life.”

  She was nodding along with him. “Okay, yes, you’re right, it’s just…”

  “I understand, but that’s the way it works out sometimes. Personally, I think we did great. Now, what I really wanted to talk to you about? Listen…”

  There was a new case brewing, he told her, involving a consortium of five Miami dealers who were selling fraudulent Old Master paintings to gullible buyers. These were not forgeries, but they were also not what they were supposed to be. Seventeenth-century artists like Rembrandt, Rubens, and Van Dyck, as Alix knew, ran large-scale workshops in which the apprentices were taught to paint by scrupulously copying the methods of the master, and some of them did it exceedingly well and continued doing it for decades after. As a result, there were a great many “school of” paintings floating around, some of them quite good. What this consortium was doing was selling the works of the students but charging for the works of the masters. A few hours spent erasing and replacing the artist’s signature, and, presto chango, Bearded Man with Black Velvet Cap by one Govaert Teuniszoon Flinck became The Apostle Matthias in Meditation by Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn, thereby increasing its asking price from $300,000 (at most) to $15,000,000 (at least).

  Alix had a pretty good idea where this was leading. “And you’re telling me this because…?”

  “In October I’m going to be spending a week down there getting to know them—schmoozing, I guess you could say—and looking over what they have to offer.”

  Befriend and betray, Alix thought.

  “They claim they’ll have two Van Dycks, among others. It’ll be an undercover thing, of course.”

  “The return of Rollie de Beauvais?”

  “Nope, this time around I’m Sandy Chambers, leveraged-buyout boy genius. And I will have with me my trusted personal assistant and guru in all things cultural, Valerie Swann, whose opinion I value enormously.”

  “And that’s me, Valerie Swann.”

  “That’s you.” He lowered his chin to his chest and dropped his voice a couple of registers. “If you choose to accept this mission.”

  Alix shook her head. “Ted, are you out of your mind? I’m terrible at this. Tell me, how much help have I been on this mission? I came up with no information at all—not a smidgen; I got myself knocked on the head and caused a whole lot of commotion and confusion, thanks to my wonderful connoisseur’s eye; and as to the mafia thing, exactly what was my contribution? Blithely waltzing into the middle of an international bust and almost wrecking it, meanwhile nearly getting myself killed and destroying a couple of masterpieces in the process.”

  He was laughing. “I admit there were a few bumps in the road, but, honestly, nobody in our unit has ever seen anyone like you for looking at a painting for five seconds and tossing off a snap judgment, and—this is the important part—getting it right. They’re starting to call you the Art Whisperer.”

  “That’s flattering, but—”

  “Look, there’s nothing you did wrong that a little training and practice wouldn’t fix, and the paperwork for it is already in the pipeline. You’re tentatively written in for a July first through eighth course at Quantico.”

  “No.”

  “Not a problem; there’s another session in September.”

&nb
sp; “I’m sorry, no.”

  “Look, Alix, no offense, but you really do need to be trained for this. Anybody does.”

  “I didn’t mean no, I don’t want the training; I meant no, I don’t want the job.”

  Ted wasn’t the kind of person who would let a shock show in his face, but he had no ready response and for a few seconds, the only sound was the gentle purling of the fountain. “You don’t want…? But why?”

  “I’m just not suited for it.”

  “Oh, come on—”

  “Let me finish, Ted. You know, when you said to me the other day that I was off the case, my first reaction was, well, basically, resentment, and I was in a rotten mood for the rest of the day. But after a while my little snit passed, and I realized what a relief it was to be done with spying on anyone—even a turdball like Panos—or sneaking around collecting gossip and hearsay and reporting it back to you or anyone else.”

  “You certainly don’t make the work sound very appetizing,” he said with a crooked smile.

  “It’s not a question of ‘appetizing;’ it’s a question of… do you remember where Wittman writes about how you either have the skills for undercover work, or you don’t? Well, I don’t. This ‘schmoozing’ first and then dropping a ton of trouble on them—I just can’t do that, crooks or not, and to tell the truth… well, you’re such a decent guy, I honestly don’t understand how you can do it either.” It was more than she’d meant to say, and she was immediately sorry.

  Ted didn’t seem to take offense. He looked at her soberly, even a little ruefully. “It is hard sometimes,” he said quietly. “Well, it’s your decision, of course, and I won’t bug you about it, but I’m not going to deny that we’re disappointed.” He shoved his chair back from the table. “I’m going to get my pecan pie. Can I bring you anything?”

  “Sure, I’ll have a slice of the apple pie.”

  “With ice cream?”

  “Of course.”

  She watched him walking to the buffet table, stylish and attractive in a beautifully tailored pale-blue linen sport coat. Or maybe not beautifully tailored. Ted had the kind of wide-shouldered, narrow-waisted build that would make an off-the-hanger jacket from the men’s section at Walmart look as if it had been sewn especially for him by a Savile Row tailor. Once at the buffet and facing in her direction as he sliced pie, he looked up at her and smiled: a sweet smile, appealing, and genuine—seemingly genuine, but with Ted, who knew? When it came to what he was feeling, the man was a cipher, and as far as she could see, it was habitual. I’m not going to deny that we’re disappointed. What kind of a reaction was that? Mightn’t he just as well have said I’m disappointed? But no, as usual, he’d censored himself when he was in danger of actually giving away something personal.

  Or else there was nothing personal to give, his interest in her was strictly business, but that she doubted; she’d picked up too many signals. Either way, it didn’t…

  Halfway through the thought, she realized what she was doing. She was building a case, working her way to a conclusion: However many desirable qualities he might have, however much she sensed the “buzz” between them, Ted was someone with whom it was impossible to imagine a satisfying long-term relationship, and the thing for her to do was to stop trying. It was a conclusion she’d been resisting without knowing it, but now she felt suddenly lighter, more her own person. Life moves on, chapters close (or in this case, never really open). Now what was on her mind was getting back to Seattle and resuming her real life, and she was raring to get on with it.

  He returned with the pies and set them down. His smile was as friendly as ever, and as unreadable. “Now what are you looking so happy about?”

  She returned the smile. “Must be the apple pie,” she said, digging into it. “Smells great.”

  After a couple of mouthfuls, she set down her fork. “You know, I could still see myself doing some short-term work for the art squad once in a while, if there’s a use for me. In fact, I’d like that.”

  “Such as?”

  “Oh, such as taking a look at a suspect painting when what you need is a quick, right-now opinion because there isn’t time for a lab analysis. But no going undercover.”

  “Being our art whisperer, in other words.”

  “That’s about it.”

  He chewed for a while, considering, then nodded. “I could live with that.”

  I could live with that. Now there was Ted for you, in a nutshell. Alix went back to her pie, trying not to laugh.

  27

  “My goodness,” Geoff said mildly. “And here I thought I’d lived an adventurous life.”

  “That’s it?” Alix said. “No admonitions, no caveats, no fatherly warnings for my own good?”

  “I wouldn’t think of it.”

  Alix had just told him about the cruise, and his lack of parental advice was uncharacteristic but not surprising, since she’d left out an inessential detail or two that even the Culture Guru, let alone the general media, had no way of knowing about and blabbing about: the facts that she’d been working for the FBI, that she’d gotten herself knocked out almost the minute she boarded the Artemis, that she’d sauntered into the middle of an Albanian mafia bust and damn near gotten killed, and, oh, possibly a few other trivial items of no import.

  She had been surprised, however—surprised and appreciative—when she’d gone down to the baggage area after flying in from Athens (it had been even worse than she’d feared; with her late booking, she’d been assigned a middle seat between two corpulent men, one of whom snored almost the entire way) and found Geoff waiting to welcome her and give her a lift into the city.

  Driving with her father had its own set of problems: He drove too fast, he followed too closely, he made you nervous just by the way he sat so upright and tense behind the wheel, like whichever meerkat had been assigned guard duty. And his vehicle was a tired, sad 1994 Nissan compact that looked as if it had never enjoyed a single night under a roof. The only thing that held its bumpers on, she thought, was the rust.

  Still, it was toasty inside—outside, it was damp, with a cold, pearly mist—and she was glad to be back and glad to be with Geoff. The warmth was making her sleepy, and she snuggled her shoulder comfortably into the corner, against the window.

  “I wouldn’t do that, child—lean against the door.”

  She pulled away from it. “You mean it could open up on me?”

  “Sometimes it opens by itself; sometimes it won’t open at all.”

  “Well why don’t you have it—”

  “Other times it won’t close. It’s very mysterious. Oh, my, hold on!”

  Whenever Geoff had to brake suddenly it was more exciting than when other people braked suddenly, because he almost invariably stamped on the accelerator and not the brake pedal in his excitement. She had to prop her hands against the glove box to stay upright until he found the right pedal, which always took a second or so. They screeched to a typically exciting fishtailing halt a few yards to the rear of the pickup truck that had prompted the action.

  “That was not my fault,” he said before she could say anything. “He slowed down without any warning. You saw that, didn’t you?”

  She tugged on her seat belt to make sure it was secure. “I’ll tell you what the most adventurous times of my life are, Geoff. When I’m driving with you.”

  “Now that was hurtful,” he said cheerfully, “and I think I shall change the subject. I was speaking with an old associate of mine—did you just make a face?”

  “No. I was thinking about it, but I didn’t. How would you know, anyway? You’re not looking at me.”

  “No, but I know you, so let me clarify. By ‘old associate,’ I did not mean some fellow miscreant—”

  “Geoff, I didn’t—”

  “I meant an associate from my days as a conservator, Marie-Élise Audet, who in times past was a conservation and scientific research technician at the Met and is now the head of oil painting evaluation at the Laboratoir
e Forensique Pour l’Art.”

  Her sleepiness evaporated. She sat up straight. “Oh?”

  “As you might guess, our conversation centered on Papadakis’s sham Manet and how it was that it managed to get by the laboratory’s evaluation process. And…” He turned briefly away from the wheel to flash a self-satisfied grin at her. “… I believe I have come up with the answer.” He waited for her response.

  “I’m impressed. Let’s hear it.”

  “As you know, the Laboratoire’s signature analytical method relies on drilling a core sample from the painting. Well, when Marie-Élise reread their contract with Papadakis, she found that he had put in an extremely unusual proviso: that the sample be taken not from the visible face of the painting, but from the extreme margin of the canvas, the part hidden by the frame.”

  “But why would that be unusual? I’d think no one would want a hole drilled right through the face of their painting.”

  “For several reasons. It costs the owner more, it takes more time, and, given the amazing techniques employed by the Laboratoire, it isn’t necessary. They are able to work with a core sample that is less than the breadth of a human hair—the hole is a mere pinpoint, quite undetectable.”

  “Ah. And so that made your friend suspicious?”

  “Not at the time, no. In working with art collectors, one soon learns to expect some very strange conditions, provisos, and demands. But when I heard about it, it made me suspicious. Now, the forgery itself is back in Panos’s hands and I don’t believe there’s any legal way of obtaining it to check on what I’m thinking—it’s his property, after all—so what I’m about to suggest is entirely speculative, but I believe someone with Christoph’s skills could certainly have managed it. I think he—”

  “Geoff, you don’t want to turn off here. This is the way to your place, not mine.”

  “Sh, stop interrupting. What I think he did was to cut the original painting, the one from which he’d been copying, out of its frame, leaving the canvas’s margin where it was, beneath the frame. Then he glued the fake painting in its place, first extremely carefully matching the edges. And then he glued a new lining to the back, thus covering any signs of what he’d done from that side. So… when the laboratory took its core from the part under the frame, they were drilling into the original canvas. Unfortunately, it happened to be the only part of the original canvas that was left.”