The Chase

by Vanessa Fewings

  Danny gave a nod. “Three thefts per city. There’s a total of seventeen so far.”

  “He’s methodical,” I mused.

  “Order works for him,” said Abby. “So far.”

  Shane threw his pen down. “Shit, we’re against the clock.”

  Danny turned on the wall-sized projector screen. “There’s the mother lode of a payout for our man. If we find him it’ll land Huntly Pierre a ten-million Euro reward.” He waved his hands with excitement. “We’re all looking for the same man.”

  Abby spoke up. “As Danny says, with two homes already hit he’s plotting another theft, if he’s following the same pattern. We need to confirm the London thefts are related to those in Europe.”

  “Study the patterns,” said Adley. “Collate the specifics of the other thefts. Research every detail of every painting. Are the Met willing to share?”

  “Yep,” said Danny. “It’s a team effort.”

  “Maybe the thief works for a private collector?” suggested Adley. “We could work backward.”

  “I can gather a list of all the paintings involved,” I offered. “And confirm their provenance over at the Witt.”

  I was excited at the thought of returning to my old alma mater, The Courtauld Institute, more specifically its library. The Witt’s vast database contained information on millions of paintings from over seventy thousand artists, and with my privileged access I could be a real asset to the investigation.

  “Love the idea,” said Abby. “You’ll need help.”

  “I’ll go,” said Danny.

  I threw him a smile. “That would be great.”

  Danny blushed a little and turned sharply away, flicking a switch to bring up a photo on the screen of a large rotunda, the lighting drenched in gold. The round walls covered in wall-to-wall paintings by the Old Masters. An abandoned wire hung from the center.

  “What are we looking at?” asked Adley.

  Danny pointed to the screen. “That’s how he got into the Burells’ family home in Amboise in France, three weeks ago. Their security is state-of-the-art. No way in unless you descend through the glass ceiling. He cut his way through using a power tool and left a big hole in their million-dollar stained glass window. He stole a Titian.”

  I wondered why he changed his MO, and then realized saying, “No other way in.”

  Danny picked up a clear plastic bag containing what looked like feathers. “Guess what happens when you make a hole in a ceiling?”

  “Are those crow feathers?” asked Abby.

  “Raven, a littler larger than a crow,” he said. “Interpol gave me a few feathers for us to examine. During the heist the thief also had to tackle a bird that flew in.”

  “Did he kill it?” asked Abby.

  Danny shook his head. “No, the police found it alive and perched on a painting inside the rotunda.”

  “Can I take a closer look at the file?” I asked.

  “Sure.” Danny slid the bird feathers over to me. “I’ll copy the file for you.”

  “I appreciate that.” I raised the bag and marveled that our man had the guts to see the job through. “Did the bird set off any of the alarms?”

  “Didn’t trigger motion detectors or the floor panels,” said Danny.

  “Most people would have panicked and abandoned the heist,” I said. “I mean, he was against the clock.”

  Abby agreed with a nod. “Son of a bitch is unflappable.”

  “He’s going to be a challenge to catch,” said Shane. “This guy’s professional.”

  “We need to think like him,” I said. “Get into his head.”

  “He’s achieved more art thefts than any one man in history.” Danny tapped the screen.

  Abby let out a sigh of frustration. “Who the hell is he?”

  Danny’s face lit up with a mixture of intrigue and awe. “Icon.” A chill descended on the room.

  Taking a moment to read our reactions, Danny’s gaze lingered on each one of us as though giving us a moment to consider this. “That’s what they’re calling him.”

  13

  Clutching my notepad and leather satchel to my chest, I waited just inside the door.

  Two analysts were holding up a stereomicroscope to a Monet, focusing on keeping it still and at the same time protecting the masterpiece. I recognized Andrew Chan from the website, and I held back a little when I saw he was deep in conversation with a male colleague.

  I’d never had the privilege of visiting Christie’s lab until now. The cold, stark room was situated in the basement and here and there were paintings on countertops awaiting their turn for authentication. The owners of each piece having to endure the long wait to see if their family heirloom was worth anything. If so, Christie’s would handle the auction right here in this celebrated house.

  My father had brought me to Christie’s auction room as soon as I’d learned to walk, and I couldn’t remember a time when this place hadn’t been part of my life.

  The heritage of Christie’s was exceptional and the founder himself, James Christie, had been painted by Thomas Gainsborough in 1778—an oil on canvas that now hung at the Getty Museum.

  The fondest memories washed over me. I’d raised my first gavel here and won my father a Giovanni Francesco Barbieri. What six-year-old could have resisted an angel with wide sweeping wings? Luckily, Dad only had to pay out a few thousand pounds for my mistake.

  That one had been taken in the fire too.

  I refused to slip into melancholy, right when things were getting good.

  Just this afternoon I’d had the most mind-blowing sex of my life with the most incredible man I’d ever met. Even if Tobias was mysterious and off-the-charts bossy, my calling was to get to the center of each mystery and shine a light on it.

  On him.

  It wasn’t only that Latin tattoo that had me intrigued, I yearned to know more about his entire world of business and innovation. What else had he invented? And where did he spend his days tinkering? The thought of visiting his LA gallery filled me with the anticipation of discovering even more life-changing delights surrounding him.

  Why was I continuing to give him free rein within my thoughts? He’d already admitted he was leaving for LA.

  Before I’d met Tobias nothing had felt so right and after him...

  I shouldn’t give him a second thought and no way should I pursue a relationship. No matter how incredible he made me feel and no matter how deliciously forbidden it felt with the way he touched me.

  My core tightened with the thought of how easily he’d flung me around and controlled me like he had a right to my body. There came a cruel comfort knowing my days would predictably return to normal and I’d be saved from being drawn into a man hotter than the sun.

  That tattoo was so damn sexy I’d almost buried my teeth in it like a wanton hussy.

  Bloody hell.

  Get a grip, Zara.

  Your mind is meant to be on Icon, I chastised myself.

  Being part of the team involved in one of the world’s greatest spate of robberies was exhilarating. My dad would have been so proud of me.

  I pulled out my iPhone, cringing at the cracked glass, and shot off an email to Logan, asking her to advise Mr. Wilder I was running late. It didn’t seem fair I had to go through her to contact him. Perhaps if I’d been thinking straight I’d have remembered to have asked him for his number.

  I couldn’t wait to see him again; my mood lifted with the thought.

  Andrew threw me a wave.

  He was tall and dashingly cute, those dimples setting off his Asian dark eyes that lit up with his smile. I put him at thirty, though his colleague was much older.

  From their enthusiasm they both looked to be in their element, tucked away down here where n
o one bothered them.

  “Hey.” I headed on over. “Didn’t want to break your concentration.” Andrew placed the scanner down and gestured for me to come closer. “I’m Zara, from Huntly Pierre.”

  “Hey, Zara,” he said. “We had a last-minute cancellation. Usually you’re looking at a two-week wait.”

  “Lucky me, then,” I said, unable to take my eyes off the Monet. “Gorgeous.”

  “This is Sam, our tech.”

  I shook Andrew’s hand and then Sam’s. “What’s your conclusion?”

  “Let me know what you think first,” said Andrew with a glint of delight as he stepped back to give me room.

  “I’d be honored.” I neared the painting.

  Claude Monet, one of France’s most talented impressionists, was famed for painting the same scene again and again, though each time offering a different perspective on light and seasons. I’d always found his work soothing.

  “Signature’s reassuring,” I said.

  “Isn’t it,” agreed Andrew.

  “Monet was good friends with Renoir,” I said. “They often painted the same landscapes at the same time. Even swapped them at the end of the day sometimes.”

  “The birth of impressionism.” Andrew smiled at me. “You know your history. Royal College?”

  “Courtauld. Studied under Professor Liana Belmont.”

  “Impressive,” said Sam.

  “May I?” I picked up the magnifier and used it to view the colors. “Water lilies, so dreamlike.” Then I saw that one single cracked lily. “‘The truth will out.’”

  “Shakespeare,” said Andrew, recognizing my quote.

  “How can you see that without this?” Sam pointed to the stereomicroscope.

  “It’s the intricacy of the white.” I set the magnifier down. “Monet had a gentle touch.” I turned the painting over. “The forger used antique nails to secure the canvas. Clever. He also aged the backing. There’s an official gallery sticker but it’s stained with tea to make it appear aged. I’m going with Typhoo tea.”

  “Okay, wow,” said Andrew.

  I let out a laugh. “If only I was that good.” They both swapped amused smiles.

  I gave a shrug. “Still, it’s more likely to be tea than coffee from the lighter stain.”

  “You’re hired,” said Andrew.

  “I applied to work here,” I admitted. “Not enough experience, apparently.”

  “That’s because the higher-ups don’t know talent,” he said. “Don’t quote me.”

  “The art world is competitive,” I said. “A clique of experts that’s difficult to break into.”

  “How did you know?” Andrew stared at the Monet.

  “Couple of things, the forger used a hair dryer to mimic the minute spiderweb effect of an aging canvas, but he was too heavy-handed with the heat.” I beamed at them. “To be honest you both looked excited right up until you read the results on the scanner. Let me take a guess, the machine picked up titanium white?”

  “Didn’t exist back in Monet’s day,” agreed Sam.

  “Do the criminals really think you won’t check?” I said.

  “They’re duping the buyer,” said Sam. “Newbies to art have no idea that the pallets today weren’t around in Monet’s day.”

  “It’s like any con, isn’t it?” Andrew scrunched up his nose and mimicked with a sly tone, “We have to move fast. I have another buyer interested. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to own a painting that will change your life.”

  “Cruel.” I ran my fingers over the Monet. “Making people part with their savings for a fake.”

  “So what do you have for me?” Andrew gestured to my satchel.

  “The Jaeger case.”

  “Great, let’s take a look.”

  Andrew and I headed to his corner office, and I removed the paperwork the Jaeger family had provided to prove they’d owned the Edvard Munch for generations. Together, we examined each piece of evidence, which included a sales receipt and a letter of authentication stamped with Christie’s name and address. Mr. Jaeger had even provided a black-and-white photo taken in 1920 of his grandfather sitting at a kitchen table with the painting hanging behind him.

  Time dissolved as I took detailed notes and cross-referenced what I had.

  Half an hour later, Andrew led me through the auction house and we settled at a large oak table in the center on the library. Shelf after shelf of ancient-looking books surrounded us, filling the air with a musky scent.

  Andrew ran his fingers over the line of Christie’s sale ledgers, until he found the one for our year.

  There, clearly in black ink was written proof that the painting had been purchased by the Jaeger family. Copies were made and the rest of the paperwork compiled. After an hour I had what I needed to proceed.

  With a glance at my phone I was disappointed to see no reply from Logan. At least I could show this as evidence to Tobias that I’d tried to contact him.

  I respected Tobias’s time and he needed to respect mine. No matter how sexy that dominating tone of his was, I wasn’t dropping my plans on a whim to please him. I’d already compromised my usual high standards for him at the palace and proven I was flexible—

  I pushed aside these reckless thoughts of him.

  And signed Christie’s visitor’s ledger, scribbling a side note referencing the reason for my visit. I slid the book back to Andrew and smiled at the charm of still using a ledger.

  “Old traditions die hard,” he said knowingly. “I’ll enter this into the database.” His frown deepened. “You’re not Bertram Leighton’s daughter, are you?” He sounded incredulous.

  “Yes, did you know him?”

  “No.”

  “He passed away.”

  “I read his obituary in The Times. Online. Not the newspaper.” He cringed. “Not sure why I said that.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Me too. He was a good man.”

  “His collection?”

  “Most of it gone.”

  “A house fire?”

  “You read about that too?” I lowered my voice. “It’s heartbreaking to be honest.”

  “Zara, I’m so sorry. It must be hard trying to earn your reputation back.”

  I swallowed hard. “Are you referring to those dreadful rumors?” He looked apologetic. “You know my dad was vindicated, right? Those lies were disproven?”

  “No one told you?”

  My back stiffened. “About what?”

  “Walter William Ouless’s St. Joan of Arc.”

  “That went, too, I’m afraid.”

  “Your dad reported it destroyed?”

  “Yes. He was devastated.” Then I remembered that awful conversation with Nigel at The Otillie and a shudder ran up my spine.

  Andrew steadied his gaze on me. “We are talking about the St. Joan of Arc? Painted by Walter William Ouless?”

  I shook my head. “Horrible rumor that it’s still out there somewhere.”

  Andrew visibly paled.

  I rested my hand on his arm. “Are you all right?”

  “Zara, your Joan of Arc is here. The painting arrived at Christie’s last night.”

  My mouth felt so dry my tongue wedged to the roof of my mouth.

  14

  My head spun with the revelation. My reputation would be compromised, my fledging career dashed on the rocks of the art world before I’d even had the chance to make my mark in the only vocation I’d ever known.

  My father was a good man. A kind man. A man of principle and ethics. So why was this happening to me? How could a painting that my father had told me had been destroyed, be here?

  “We’ve yet
to authenticate it.” Andrew’s voice sounded far off.

  “I’m sorry?” My focus returned to his hand resting on the doorknob.

  “St. Joan hasn’t undergone any forensic tests yet. Just a visual by one of our analysts.”

  I swallowed past this lump in my throat. “Their conclusion?”

  “Rudimentary.”

  His expression revealed they believed it was real.

  He also looked regretful for even mentioning the painting was here. Andrew hadn’t accounted for dealing with a woman whose life was about to fall apart.

  “Sure you want to do this?”

  I gave a wary nod. It was too late to take a step back and think this through.

  Andrew turned the handle—

  St. Joan wasn’t alone.

  She hung at the far end of the room with a small tag hanging from her frame. I vaguely noticed the Renoir to the left of her. To the right, Jan Gossaert’s Portrait of a Merchant, the subject’s condemning eyes watching me...

  I began the journey toward her.

  As a child I’d never truly comprehended Walter William Ouless’s work. I’d been too young, too naive to respect its true greatness. I’d always been more interested in my dad’s other paintings, like that Raphael in his office, or the Renoir in our living room, or my beloved Vermeer that welcomed guests, though few, into the foyer.

  Walter William Ouless’s St. Joan had always intimidated with the revelation no one could live up to her.

  Ironic how this painting now had my full attention.

  “She shouldn’t be in here,” came a woman’s whisper from behind me.

  Drawn into the canvas, recognizing each stroke of the brush, each minute crack of wood, the strength in her left hand as she raised the hilt of her sword before her...

  Real.

  No scientific test would discount the profoundness of her authenticity. My heritage had been hidden behind a veil of lies. A sob escaped and I cupped my palm against my mouth to prevent another.

  Ouless had immortalized this now martyr, bestowing her with a strong and beautiful face, lush brunette locks, and had clothed her in armor, that red sash over her left shoulder a flash of color to represent the blood she’d sacrificed for her cause—that sword held up proudly before her, proving her commitment to serve.