Shadows from the Past

by Terry Ambrose

  Richards led us into a small combination kitchen and dining area. Four chairs bordered an old wooden table, its surface worn with age.

  “Please,” he said. “Sit. How about some tea?”

  “Do you have hot chocolate?” Lily asked.

  “I am afraid not. Unfortunately, I have only the occasional guest.”

  Lily shrugged and leaned her elbows on the table. “Tea’s cool.”

  Suddenly, all those empty street corners seemed a little too convenient. There had been ample time for Richards to double-cross us. Bad guys could be hiding in the house…just waiting… So why bother with tea? I dismissed the thought as Richards shuffled to a cabinet and pulled down three mugs. He was probably nothing more than a lonely old man who lured us here so he’d have some company. He’d admitted as much just moments ago.

  He started a kettle of water and added tea bags to the mugs while he waited patiently for the water to boil. When steam whistled through the spout’s opening, he poured water into the mugs, and shuffled forward with the first one cradled in both hands. I stood when he set the mug down.

  “You take that one. I’ll get the others.”

  He nodded, apparently grateful, and sat. When I returned to the table with the other two mugs, he was still holding his between his hands.

  “My fingers are always cold these days,” he said.

  “Do they hurt?” Lily asked.

  He pursed his lips and gazed at her. “Only when my heart is heavy.” A moment later, he looked at me. “You know, I never expected to get away with it.”

  “Get away with what?” I asked.

  “The forgery.”

  Lily’s eyes widened, and she peered intently at him. Obviously, he had her attention.

  “Of The Last Warhol?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “Mr. Richards, in the coffee shop, you said there was another copy. It would have to be an exact copy. I mean perfect to the last detail.”

  He gazed into his mug and sighed. “Miss Tanner, I assure you, what you will soon see is precisely that.”

  “If this becomes public knowledge, The Last Warhol will be devalued.” I said.

  “That goes without saying.” Richards closed his eyes and shrugged. “You are aware of who purchased The Last Warhol from Bruno Panaman, are you not?”

  “Abraham Cardoza.”

  “And you know of Mr. Cardoza’s reputation?”

  “He’s a killer,” Lily said.

  “What exactly are you suggesting, Mr. Richards? Even if you came forward and told the world you created The Last Warhol, nobody would believe you. It’s been authenticated several times.”

  “Yes, by people who wanted it to be authentic.”

  I stopped and watched his face. Deep down, my respect for this man was growing. He, in his own way, had learned to be one of the best in his field. “They are only human,” I said with a smile. “Mr. Richards, you do understand people well, don’t you?”

  “Miss Tanner, authentication itself is an art.” Richards gave me a sly smile and scratched his chin. “Who can ever say with absolute certainty that the original artist created a particular piece?”

  Lily gawped at the two of us, her mouth once again wide open. “So you can like fool the experts?”

  “Under certain conditions,” Richards said.

  “That’s super awesome.”

  “Don’t even think about it,” I said quickly. “And close your mouth, you look like you’re trying to catch flies.”

  Lily pouted at me, but there was an unmistakable light in her eyes as she watched Richards closely.

  “No,” I snapped. “Lily, you are going to college. You’re going to be a law-abiding citizen. You will not become an art forger.”

  Richards reached out and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Look at where it landed me. I’ve spent years in prison, lost most of my friends, and am merely waiting out my days.” He shook his head. “This is no life for a pretty young lady.”

  He held Lily’s gaze until she nodded, then turned to me. I smiled at him and mouthed a silent ‘thank you.’

  “Miss Tanner, we have not yet answered the question at hand. What would happen if the authenticity of The Last Warhol were thrown into question?”

  I cleared my throat and swallowed. “Bruno sold the piece to Cardoza on the premise that it was an authentic Warhol. If the world discovered that piece was a fake, it would probably get Bruno killed.”

  Richards nodded thoughtfully and sighed. “Please, let us finish our tea. After, I will show you what you came to see.”

  As much as I yearned to believe he was telling us the truth, it seemed impossible to believe our ordeal could be so easily resolved. “Mr. Richards, why do you keep it here? In this house?”

  “I am not sure I understand your question.”

  “Bruno Panaman paid millions for the painting.”

  “When he thought it was an undiscovered one-of-a-kind by Andy Warhol.”

  “If you have a perfect duplicate, why didn’t you ever sell it?”

  “I could not,” he whispered. “I never created either piece for money.”

  I gulped, afraid to ask the next question. “But you’ve told us about it. Are you saying you’re willing to sell it now? How much, Mr. Richards?”

  He glanced at Lily and smiled, then looked directly at me. “We will discuss that after you see it.”

  My heart pounded in my chest. Is this what I had done to people my entire life? Given them hope with no proof whatsoever? I couldn’t stop myself. Though I knew the game, the tricks, the nuances of every word, I found myself desperate to believe Richards was on the level and not pulling a cruel hoax.

  “I am sorry, Miss Tanner. I’m doing it again. I will make you wait no longer. This way, please.”

  We left our mugs on the table and scooted back our chairs. The sound of the legs scraping on the wooden floor set my nerves on edge. Richards shuffled out the kitchen and into the living room. We followed, but Lily stopped to eye a painting of a nude woman lying prone. I immediately recognized the signature on the painting as that of Van Gogh.

  Lily hurried to catch up with Richards. When she did, she asked, “Did you paint the copy of the Van Gogh?”

  “One of my last pieces,” he said as he turned and continued on.

  I didn’t know if I was more surprised by his nonchalant response or the fact that Lily knew who Van Gogh was. There were so many names I recognized—most of the old masters, new talent, and everything in between. I was in shock, but Lily looked like she was in heaven. Her head swiveled in all directions, and I had to keep pushing her along. We passed another room in which there were more paintings—some on easels, others stacked against the walls, leaning like tired soldiers after a difficult battle.

  Richards stood in an open doorway at the end of the hall. “Please, this way.”

  I followed Lily into the room and looked around. An unmade bed occupied one side of the room and the air felt close. The only other piece of furniture was a small nightstand with a table lamp. My breath caught as I stared at the wall directly in front of me. It was what we’d come to see, and for the longest moment, I could not move.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Skip

  SKIP READ THE message on Rudy Neri’s phone, then handed it back. “How’s that got anything to do with Roxy?”

  Rudy stroked his chin as he again gazed at the screen. “Because P.T. told her all about this piece he created years ago. He never mentioned it to me, but I gather it’s got something to do with Bruno Panaman and P.T.’s goddaughter. She died years ago, but P.T. never really got closure. Something must have happened for him to send me a message like this.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  Rudy sat back in his chair and shook his head. “I don’t think I should really give that to you without his permission. I’ll text him and if he says he’ll meet with you, I’ll give you his address.”

  “I can live with that.”

&n
bsp; While Rudy composed his message, Skip sent one of his own to Baldorf. Need to find a man named P.T. Richards. Lives here in Oceanside.

  “Done,” Rudy said. “It takes P.T. a little while to respond. It’s hard for him to work the keyboard these days.”

  Skip’s phone pinged to notify him of a message. There were two. The first was no surprise. It was Baldorf telling him he’d get to work on finding Richards, but the second was from Roxy. All it gave was an address.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Roxy

  THE PAINTING ON the wall was four-feet wide by three-feet tall. Done in black-and-white with only an accent of red on the model’s dress at the low-cut neckline. No matter how I tried, I could not remove my attention from the red accent.

  “How did you get this?” I croaked.

  “So you do recognize it.”

  “Of course, it’s The Last Warhol. But that’s impossible.”

  Lily stepped forward and let her eyes flit over the piece. She stared, open-mouthed, and whispered, “It’s awesome.”

  Richards nodded politely and said a quiet thank you. “Marilyn Monroe fascinated Warhol. He did a number of pieces in different mediums. The experts claim he never painted Madonna, and that was the beauty of this piece. As you can see, it is a full portrait. While it is unique in that respect, it mimics perfectly Warhol’s earlier painting style. Have this authenticated by any art expert in the world, and they will deem it to be an original, Miss Tanner. They will find no flaws.”

  “How could you have possibly created two identical copies and nobody ever knew? There has to be something wrong with it.”

  “Miss Tanner, are you not, yourself, a perfectionist?” Richards turned slowly and gazed at the painting. “The piece has no flaws. It is identical to the one Bruno Panaman sold to Anthony Cardoza. You see, when we spoke the first time I was not entirely truthful with you. I told you I created The Last Warhol. That is very true. But I was so enamored with the way my creation came out that I painted a second—a twin, if you will. I painted it immediately after the original using the same paints and brushes.”

  Lily touched my arm and said, “I don’t get how this is going to help us.”

  I looked into her eyes. At her age, I’d been running cons for five years. With any luck, this would be my last…and best. “Bruno had a reputation as an astute and ruthless businessman when he was young. He battled with Anthony Cardoza for years, then I helped put Sonny in prison. That one event forced Bruno to seek an alliance with Cardoza, but I doubt they ever trusted each other. So with the right spin on the story, Cardoza would believe Bruno discovered the second copy, realized he’d bought a forgery, and sold his copy to Cardoza deliberately. That kind of story would most likely get Bruno killed.”

  “Whoa. Serious?” Lily swallowed hard as she held my gaze.

  “Serious,” I said.

  “I would agree, Miss Tanner. Bruno sold that piece to a very dangerous man—a man who would not take kindly to being swindled. The question for you is quite straightforward. What would you like to do with it?”

  My breaths came fast and short. I turned and inspected the painting more closely. I was no art expert, and I’d only seen the ‘original’ once in passing. I faced Richards again. “Why? Why are you doing this now? And you never told me how much you want for it.”

  “Miss Tanner, the latter question is easy. I did not create The Last Warhol for money. It is now yours.” He sighed. “As to your first question, it is what Remedios would have wanted. You may think she was a vindictive woman because of her plot to ruin Bruno, but she was very caring. She would not want a young girl to be killed over money, nor would she want her to live a life of fear. Perhaps you would like some time to plan your next move.”

  I shook my head. “I already know what I need to do, Mr. Richards. Thank you for your generosity.” I walked to where he stood and wrapped my arms around him. “From the bottom of my heart, thank you.”

  “I could not live with myself if I did nothing, Miss Tanner. I hope this will assist you in securing your safety, and that of this fine young lady.” He pointed at Lily, who stood next to The Last Warhol.

  When she swung around, her eyes glistened with tears. “It’s beautiful,” she said, then went to Richards and hugged him. Her shoulders shook and tears streamed down her cheeks when she turned to face me.

  “What’s wrong, Lily?”

  She sniffled as she looked at me. “How can you be so sure a painting’s gonna help us?”

  I brushed at her cheeks with my fingertips. “Because, sweetheart, Bruno Panaman is no match for us together.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  Skip

  SKIP PARKED IN front of the address in Roxy’s message. The landscaping in the yard was sparse, yet maintained. This appeared to be a nondescript middle-class home in a middle-class neighborhood. It didn’t seem like the kind of home where the owner could do anything to help stop a man like Bruno Panaman.

  As Skip was getting out of the car, his phone buzzed. He checked the display—Lorena, again. And he still hadn’t listened to her message. If she was following up, this had to be important. He tapped the button to answer.

  “Hey, Lorena. What’s up?”

  “Did you get my message?” she snapped.

  “I did…but it’s a busy morning. Sorry I couldn’t get back to you.”

  “Skip, listen to me.” The hard edge in her voice softened. “I’ve heard about your little trip to see Bruno Panaman. Are you deliberately trying to make yourself look guilty? Stay away from him.”

  “I went to Bruno’s to offer my condolences. He’s the one who went ballistic. He was drunk and pulled a gun on me. I resisted the urge to take it away from him and walked out. That’s all that happened.”

  There was a long silence. “The problem you’ve got is it’s your word against his. And you’re a person of interest in his son’s death. You are looking very much like a vigilante who’s out for blood. Back off, Skip. Whatever you’re doing, knock it off. Don’t go see Bruno Panaman or anyone else related to the kidnapping.”

  Skip gazed at the house. The instructions had said to go to a side door. The driveway on the left side led to an old standalone garage in the back corner of the property. The door he needed was probably off that driveway.

  “Skip? Are you listening?”

  “Yes, Lorena. Just thinking. I hear you. Message received.”

  “Good. I’ve got work to do. I’m afraid the DA might move to have Bruno become a witness for the prosecution, and I have to squash that idea before it gets traction. I’ll be in touch.”

  Skip put away his phone and sighed. “Sorry, Lorena.” He walked down the driveway to the open back door. He reached behind his back for his Sig, but stopped when he spotted the old man from Blues and Brews just inside the door. The lines around the man’s green eyes crinkled as he smiled.

  “Please follow me, Mr. Cosgrove.”

  Richards turned away, but Skip didn’t move. A few steps later, Richards appeared to realize he was alone and retraced his steps. His gaze locked onto Skip’s and he grimaced. “You are reluctant to come in?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Richards, but I’m looking for a woman and a girl—she’s fourteen and has been through quite an ordeal over the last couple of days. I received a message telling me to come to this address.”

  “Ah, Miss Tanner is thorough. Please, come with me.”

  “Mr. Richards, if you know something, just tell me what it is.”

  “Those in your generation are in such a hurry. Mr. Cosgrove, I am fully aware of your time constraints. Now stop dawdling and come along. I assure you, they have come to no harm—nor will you.”

  He turned and shuffled away. After a short hesitation, Skip followed through the kitchen, then into a living room. It was like walking through a maze of old paintings, most complete, some still unfinished. At a hallway, Richards stopped again and turned to Skip.

  “Go to the last door, please.”

>   Skip’s back stiffened and he peered at Richards. “What kind of game is this, Mr. Richards?”

  “It is not a game, Mr. Cosgrove. I simply do not wish to be in your way. It is a small room.”

  From the end of the hall, a woman’s voice called out. “Skip?”

  He shot a quick glance at Richards, then rushed forward. Roxy met him halfway. He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her close, and bent over to kiss her. Her lips were soft, and when they parted, he let his tongue flick over hers. During their embrace, an arm wrapped around his waist and Skip looked down. He bent over and hugged Lily. When he straightened up, he said, “You’re both okay?”

  Roxy nodded, then took his hand. “Come with me. There’s something you need to see.”

  Skip followed and listened as Roxy described The Last Warhol and how she and Lily had gotten here. When she was done, he eyed Richards, who was standing in the doorway.

  “Why didn’t you tell me they were here?”

  “I think Mr. Richards likes to play games,” Roxy said.

  Richards raised one hand and put his thumb and index finger about an inch apart. “Perhaps a small amount, Miss Tanner. But you must remember I have spent thirty years concealing this secret from others. It was not an easy one to tell.”

  Skip got it. He’d seen the same behavior in Roxy since almost the moment they’d met. Secrets bred secrets, lies begat lies. “I understand,” he said. “The question is, what do we do with this?” He looked at Roxy. “I assume you have a plan?”

  “I do, but I need your help.”

  Skip’s hand came to rest on his phone. Lorena’s words rang loud in his head. It was too bad he couldn’t follow her advice. “I’m in,” he said. “What do you want me to do?”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Roxy

  I’D SPENT MOST of my life believing I was the only person tormented by their past. Meeting Lily forced me to realize there were others like me. But when Richards said he’d spent thirty years living with the secret of The Last Warhol, I got it. We, the broken ones, were everywhere. And maybe we weren’t actually ‘broken.’