Forger of Light

by Nupur Tustin

  Celine conveyed the message, but there was something Tony was still holding back. She called him on it.

  He shook his head, refusing to answer.

  They’d nearly reached Sofia’s apartment when he spoke again.

  Does she remember our last Christmas together?

  “He wants you to remember your last Christmas with him,” Celine said.

  “It was shortly after then that we broke up.”

  Something had happened at the time to trigger the eventual break-up.

  “Do you remember the gift Dom gave your aunt?”

  Sofia smiled. “It was a bronze gu—like the one you were admiring in my shop. Dom had Tony make him a replica because he couldn’t afford the real thing.”

  Celine looked over at Reynolds. He was staring intently at Sofia.

  Does her aunt still have it? Ask her that?

  “Yes, she does,” Sofia replied, surprised. “Why?”

  “He wants you to look at it. To remember him by. When you turn it over, you’ll see a message from him.”

  “What message?”

  Celine turned to Reynolds. But his message this time was for her.

  Seven years ago, Celine. Do you remember what happened seven years ago?

  She did. She’d lost her job, and a museum intern had lost her life.

  It’s all connected

  Connected? How? Celine’s mind was spinning. He’d made the gu for Hugh Norton at the same time, but was there more to it than that?

  Reynolds smiled. The edges of his form flickered, like a candle about to be snuffed out. Don’t tell me you haven’t figured it out yet. He tipped his head at Sofia. Her father knew.That’s why he had to die.

  But Sofia’s father had . . .

  Reynolds interrupted before Celine could follow the thought to the half-formed conclusion that had begun to surface in her consciousness.

  I don’t have much time. Make sure it gets back.

  What? She raised her eyes. A vortex of light had opened up behind him. It was time for him to go.

  Make sure it gets back to the Gardner, Celine. He was talking about the etching now. You know where it is. He was beginning to fade away.

  No, I don’t. She leaned forward, desperate to get the answers she was seeking before his form dissolved.

  Yes, you do. It’s where you couldn’t help but see it. I made sure of that.

  He was drawn into the light before she could ask him to clarify.

  “He’s gone,” she told Sofia dully.

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  The Gardner’s memorial for Reynolds was being held in the Richard E. Floor living room.Sunlight poured in through the glass windows; the glimpse Celine caught of the pristine blue sky made her nostalgic for home.

  It was a warm day—not muggy, but dry and crisp, California-style. The perfect weather to go wine-tasting if you were in Paso Robles.

  She scanned the room, searching for familiar faces, but there were few people she knew in Boston.

  “Wonder if Hugh Norton is here,” she whispered to Julia as they walked toward the refreshment table where large silver urns of coffee and plates of cookies and assorted cupcakes tempted visitors.

  Julia, pouring herself a cup of coffee, tilted the urn up long enough to look. “I’d be surprised if he was.”

  Jonah’s article—published with Julia and Blake’s blessing—hadn’t gone so far as to accuse Hugh Norton of being the mastermind behind Standish’s crimes, but the headline had linked the two men.

  Renowned Art Collector & Insurer’s Accountant Implicated in Double Murder.

  A few other of Standish’s high-profile clients had been named as well; the fingerprint and ballistic evidence linking him to the two murders had been cited; and Jonah had laid out the FBI’s working theory that one of Standish’s clients was behind the Gardner theft.

  Standish is believed to have been working on behalf of an unknown client when he passed the Gardner’s Rembrandt—an etched self-portrait dating back to 1634, stolen during the infamous heist in 1990—to the sculptor. Reynolds was attempting to return the work to the Gardner when he was murdered.

  Judging by the snatches of conversation they’d caught as they navigated a course through the teeming room, it was Jonah’s article, not the dead sculptor in whose memory they were gathered, that was the reigning topic of conversation.

  “Wonder which of his clients was behind the heist,” a woman whispered conspiratorially to her friend as she filled her paper plate with cookies. “If the story’s even true.” She looked up and smiled across the table at Celine.

  “It must be.” Her companion stretched out a well-manicured hand and selected a cupcake. “Why else would an organization as tightlipped as the FBI be willing to talk to the media about it?”

  “I’m telling you, they know far more than they’re letting on.” A blazer-clad, middle-aged man joined the conversation.

  “I only wish that were true,” Julia muttered when the group had left. She caught sight of Penny and waved a greeting across the room at her.

  Celine took a sip of her coffee and looked around. Jonah was holding court in one corner, surrounded by a group of avid listeners.

  “What was the point of running that story?” That she’d been mentioned as someone consulting with the FBI to locate the missing etching had irritated the heck out of her.

  She couldn’t think of a single good reason to include that tidbit.

  “To give Norton and whoever else is involved the heebie-jeebies,” Julia replied. “See if we can shake something loose. There’s a key piece of information—a small detail not sexy enough to catch anyone’s attention but our target’s.”

  “Special Agent Markham?”

  “Yes?” Blake had recognized the voice but was damned if he was going to say so. Forcing the caller to identify themselves was a deliberate strategy. It was the kind of thing that threw individuals off-balance.

  From the orange-lit button on his phone, he could tell Ella was on the line, listening in—just as he’d instructed her to.

  “This is Assistant District Attorney Mariah Campari speaking.” She sounded annoyed at having to identify herself.

  Blake thrust himself back against his leather chair; it flexed, reclining a little from his weight.

  “ADA Campari—yes.” He sounded as though it had taken an effort to recall who she was. “What can I do for you?”

  “These papers of Pete Standish that the FBI is threatening to take charge of—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on! The FBI hasn’t made any threats that I’m aware of.” Blake injected as much incredulity as he could into his voice. “Where are you getting this?”

  “It’s in the article by that idiot reporter you’ve made a pet of, Agent. Or don’t you read the papers anymore? The FBI has subpoenaed documents from Standish’s accounting firm, hasn’t it?”

  Blake frowned, struck by Campari’s choice of words. As far as he knew Jonah hadn’t made specific mention of a subpoena in his article. He scanned the open newspaper on his desk.

  The FBI is confident a perusal of Standish’s private documents and those from his accounting firm will yield further clues.

  He was still puzzling over Campari’s words when Ella opened the door, making a rotating motion with her forefinger. Keep her talking.

  Blake immediately complied, confirming the ADA’s assumption. “Yes, it has—”

  He was going to add that he didn’t see how the subpoena could be construed as a threat when she interjected.

  “May I remind you that those documents are material to Cambridge PD and our case against Standish in the Reynolds case? As such, they—and anything the FBI has recovered—needs to be turned over to us.”

  “No can do, ma’am.” Blake smiled. He’d known she’d bite. And if he was lucky, she’d lead him straight back to Norton.

  Ella left the room, satisfied he was doing his bit.

  “Standish’s clients,” he continued, “his r
elations with them, aren’t germane to your case. But they are pertinent to the Gardner heist.”

  “Yes, but you’re saying one of his clients hired him to kill Reynolds.” Her voice had lost its earlier calm, sounding constricted and tense with fury.

  “It’s a theory, gives him motive, and we’re looking into it. But you don’t need that to prosecute Standish for murder.” What prosecution, though? The man was dead.

  Blake leaned back a little more, propping his legs on his desk.

  “Two murders as a matter of fact. Should be an easy case to wrap up. You have everything you need—fingerprints, ballistics, and that parking ticket Soldi’s guys found really seals the deal.”

  Standish had an outstanding ticket from the evening of Reynolds’ murder. He’d parked—in violation of the rules—in the alley on the side of Reynolds’ apartment building. One of Soldi’s detectives had discovered that fact while filing routine paperwork on the accountant as the perp. in Reynolds’ murder.

  “You don’t even have to worry about going head-to-head against a devious defense lawyers. Dead men don’t need to be tried.”

  “You’re being unnecessarily obdurate, Agent,” she snapped. “I doubt that’ll bode well for your career.”

  “What’re you gonna do? Complain to your pal Norton and have him get the SAC to fire me?”

  Her labored breathing was the only reply he received.

  “You are working for Norton, aren’t you? And you were one of Standish’s clients.”

  “As were several others.”

  “True.” He glanced at his watch. About time now. “But you’re the only one whose fingerprints are all over the murder victim’s apartment.”

  He heard the pounding on her door.

  “You should get that. It’ll be Soldi. Trust me, when Norton finds out you were dumb enough to leave evidence of your illicit presence at a crime scene”—he mentally thanked Ella for confirming that—“you’ll be a lot safer with Soldi than on your own.”

  He waited until he heard the door crashing open and the sound of Soldi’s voice barking at Campari to put her hands up before he disconnected.

  With any luck the woman’s cell phone records would yield the evidence they needed to put Norton away for good.

  Penny had brought everyone to the Hostetter Gallery to view Tony’s sculptures. And for a special announcement. One that Celine and Julia had reluctantly agreed she could make.

  With Standish dead and Campari under arrest—Blake had called with the news—there didn’t seem much harm in revealing the truth. Although Celine had her doubts, nevertheless.

  “As we gather here to remember Anthony Reynolds, sculptor extraordinaire, I’d like to thank law enforcement for bringing his killer to justice. It was a joint effort by the FBI and Cambridge and Boston police.”

  Cheers greeted the director’s statement as the attendees raised their champagne glasses.

  Celine stood in the first row, at the edge of the crowd, lightly gripping her nearly untouched champagne flute. Earlier, waiters in red jackets had circulated through the room, passing out champagne for the toast with which Penny had commenced her address.

  So far nothing out of the ordinary had been said, but Penny had just gotten started.

  “Tony, as you know,” Penny continued once the applause died down, “died trying to return one of the Gardner’s stolen treasures. A stamp-sized etching, a self-portrait of Rembrandt, that we lost nearly thirty years ago. Once Tony realized what he had in his hands, he made sure to keep it safe. He was killed before he could divulge its secret location to us.

  “But he did leave us clues.”

  Penny paused to survey the room. Then her face broke into an excited smile. Celine closed her eyes, knowing what was to come next. She wished she was anywhere else but here.

  “Today, I’m delighted to announce that we’ve finally managed to decipher the clues he left us”—she gestured toward Celine and Julia—“thanks to our friends here, Celine Skye and Julia Hood.”

  The crowd turned toward them and burst into loud applause again.

  “Open your eyes and smile,” Julia muttered with a sharp nudge in her ribs. Celine complied. Her eyes met Jonah’s, who glared unsmilingly at her. It was the one detail his report hadn’t included. Julia fortunately hadn’t considered revealing it a wise move.

  Not before the story had run and Norton and his informant had taken the bait. But the story was out now, its goal accomplished.

  And Penny—being Penny—had overridden their objections. Julia’s about the wisdom of sharing their discovery, and Celine’s about the validity of their interpretation. Penny, in fact, had scoffed at Celine’s concerns.

  “Where you couldn’t help but see it,” the director had repeated Reynolds’ final words to Celine. “What else could he have been referring to? The implications are obvious.” She’d turned to Julia, who’d bolstered her stance.

  “I have to agree. I can’t think of any other interpretation that makes sense.”

  Now Penny beamed down at her audience as she spoke.

  “You could say Tony smuggled our property back to us.” The director spread her hands wide, indicating the sculptures that had been moved to an area behind the crowd. “The etching”—her voice rose—“is in one of the pieces he created for us.”

  “Are you suggesting we shatter them all to find out which one it is?” a white-haired gentleman joked.

  Penny grinned. “No, we have a better plan. Massachusetts Imaging Center has offered to do a CT scan of each piece to see which one is contaminated”—her smile grew wider—“with a Rembrandt.”

  Jonah’s gaze shifted from Celine to Penny.

  “When are the pieces being transported?” he called.

  Celine tried to catch Penny’s eyes, wanting to shake her head, no. It was a sensitive piece of information. She still thought they were on the wrong track. But on the off-chance they weren’t, Celine didn’t think it was wise to give out specifics of their itinerary. But Penny was too euphoric to be contained.

  “Tomorrow,” she proclaimed jubilantly. “Early tomorrow morning.”

  Damn. Celine sighed and lowered her head to Julia’s ear. “I don’t think those sculptures should go to their destination unescorted.”

  “Me neither.”

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  Celine had never been drawn to abstract art. But as she and Julia walked around the Hostetter Gallery with Mitch Finlay, the sculptor who’d once shared studio space with Reynolds, and Sonia Braeburn, associate curator in charge of prints at the MFA, she found her appreciation for Tony’s work growing.

  The tools she’d initially mistaken for sculptor’s chisels were burins used in the art of engraving.

  “You’re working directly on the copper plate,” Mitch explained.

  He was a few years older than Reynolds, with thick brown-gray hair and an easygoing manner—the perfect person to complete the works Celine had commissioned. She’d taken a liking to him from the moment Penny had introduced them.

  Mitch raised his eyes, smiling as he went on: “It’s not an easy process.”

  He pointed to a needle protruding from an elongated wooden handle. “Etching provides a more fluid line. You draw on the wax coating laid on the copper plate, then use acid to cut into the metal.”

  Sonia Braeburn, a petite blond with a stylish bob, followed Mitch around the table, her hands behind her back as she examined the artists’ implements on display.

  “Many of Rembrandt’s prints are a combination of etching enhanced with drypoint—working directly on the etched plate with a drypoint needle.” She looked across the table at Celine and Julia. “That combination of techniques is what makes Rembrandt so unusual.”

  “Tony was showcasing Rembrandt’s tools!” Celine was ashamed of her earlier dismissal of the piece. Lazy art, she’d called it. When in reality, it was a key to the exhibition’s theme—Rembrandt’s etching.

  A clue she’d been too dumb to
read. The same thought must’ve been going through Julia’s mind.

  She threw back her head and laughed. “Damn, the clues were all here.” She gave Celine a wry grin. “If only we’d recognized them. We’d have realized Reynolds was pointing us to the stolen etching.”

  “How were you to know?” Sonia gave them a kindly smile. “Only someone familiar with printmaking would’ve recognized the tools. And you were probably hoping it was one of the paintings. After all, those are rare, one-of-a-kind works of art.”

  And the etchings were not? The bubble of happiness that had encapsulated Celine’s spirit deflated. Sonia’s characterization of the stolen print made Reynolds’ murder and their efforts to recover the work he’d died for so futile.

  Julia wasn’t ready to accept the associate curator’s assessment. “The etchings aren’t exactly dime-a-dozen works, are they? There’s more than one impression of each print, but . . .”

  “A Rembrandt print—an impression pulled by the artist himself—is certainly valuable. The rarer a print, the more valuable it is. But as I told Tony when he first called about a month ago, there must be about fifteen to twenty impressions of B2, the Gardner’s etching. And those are just the ones in known hands.”

  Celine stared at the associate curator. “Tony called you?” Had he revealed anything about the etching’s location? She still found it hard to believe he’d hidden it in one of his sculptures. “What did he say?”

  “Something about a friend having bought a Rembrandt etching that he—Tony—thought might have been stolen. Obviously a fabrication, now that we know the truth.”

  “Obviously,” Celine murmured.

  “What made him suspect it was the Gardner’s print?” Mitch asked as they walked over to the next installation. “It’s not easy to tell, is it?”

  “Not to the untrained eye,” Sonia agreed. “Tony was going by Wilson’s catalog—an old, inaccurate catalogue raisonné—that lists only two impressions of B2. He figured since the MFA had one, the other—his friend’s—had to belong to the Gardner.”

  Julia stopped to look at the stacked plaster of Paris globes. Celine followed her gaze. The piece still looked like nothing. But given what they’d discovered, she was sure it held some significance.