Thief (Boston Underworld #5)(21)
There are a variety of reasons I might receive a request for a forgery. Sometimes, collectors want to lay claim to history’s lost or stolen artworks. But more often than not, it’s a black-market dealer who makes the request. In turn, he will pawn the work off on some unsuspecting fool with too much money to burn and not enough sense to know the difference. When they want to up the ante, I am tasked with acquiring valuable works from authentic sources. Whether it is by brushstroke or by force, there are no two ways about it. I am a thief at heart.
While I may not have affection for all the works I replicate, the Degas piece has commanded my attention. The original Five Dancing Women was stolen from a Jewish-Hungarian collector during World War II. While the other works from this collection are pending return to the heirs of the original owner, this piece remains lost. Looking at my replica, it is easy to understand why.
“She’s really something special to look at, isn’t she?”
I turn to greet the expert Mr. Buchanan sent, and as fate would have it, he is a familiar face.
“Christophe?”
He tosses his hands up. “Guilty as charged. How are you, old… I’m not sure how to address you. Is it friend or foe?”
Sergei, who is standing beside him, watches us indignantly, his eyes bouncing back and forth as he tries to interpret our connection.
“I studied under Christophe at Brandeis before he abandoned us for the real Ivy Leagues.”
“Ah, yes,” Christophe answers. “And as I recall you were one of the worst students I ever had. Lazy. Smart mouthed. Utterly unappreciative of the masters.”
“We can’t all be Picasso.” I shrug.
Christophe turns to Sergei. “Truth be told, he has more talent in his little finger than most of us could ever dream to possess.”
“Not a fair comparison,” I argue. “Considering I don’t have a photographic memory.”
“An artist doesn’t need it,” he says. “He uses his imagination. Which is why I am no artist myself.”
Sergei doesn’t add to the conversation, and there’s a pause of awkward silence before he checks his watch. “I’ll wait downstairs.”
I am relieved when he leaves, and Christophe seems to be of a like mind. “Pleasant fellow.”
“Indeed,” I answer. “Just be grateful you don’t have to call him father.”
Christophe laughs, and I gesture him into the room.
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance this isn’t going to take all day, is there?”
“Five or six hours ought to do it,” he jests.
Ice broken, he sets about the task of removing his instruments from the bag he carries. Magnifying glass, black light, time dated materials, and beetle-infested wood being just a few of the items at his disposal.
He gets down to business, examining the piece from every angle. While he seeks out imperfections, I bide my time with the ten-thousand-dollar bottle of whiskey I swiped from a collector at an art show in Zurich. The guy was a prick, but he had fine taste in whiskey.
At one point, Christophe takes a break and gestures for the bottle before thinking better of it.
“I suppose I shouldn’t drink on the job.”
I make it a point to savor the next drink while he watches. “When did you take up your time with freelancing? The golden campus not pan out for you?”
“I’m still a scholar,” he answers. “My credentials are quite impressive, really. Mum and Dad are pleased as punch and seem determined to throw every half eligible English lass my way in a wickedly devised ruse to tempt me back home permanently.”
“I don’t think English women would put up with your shit.”
“You’re quite right about that.” He chuckles. “Try telling that to Mum, though.”
Christophe returns to his work, talking while he examines the pastel. “Honestly, the pay for freelance work is better, particularly in this business. It was all very romantic to be a starving artist when I was younger, but I’ve decided I’d like to retire early. Buy a yacht. Sail around the world and sleep with exotic women in every port.”
“Don’t tell your mother that,” I advise.
“Dear god no.” He snorts. “The old bird would have a heart attack.”
He pauses on one piece of the dancer’s shoe. A ballet shoe, to be exact. After several moments of tense scrutiny, he shakes his head.
“I don’t know how you do it,” he says. “Magnificent. You are a wasted talent.”
“So you say. For all you know, I could be the real Banksy.”
“No, no, definitely not. Haven’t you heard? There’s a different name in the papers every other week. Last one was some sort of famous singing duo.”
“Keep the people guessing,” I answer.
“What about you?” He trades the magnifying glass for his black light. “How’s the Russian bakery business treating you?”
We both have a good laugh at the ridiculous notion. During my time at the university, I told him I would run my father’s Russian bakery business when I left school. It was a flimsily crafted cover I invented when I was too bored or drunk to come up with something more creative.
“It does well enough.” I gesture to the house. “As you can see for yourself.”