Page 5

FIVE

Amaretto Sour

Vivianne

Bailey cancels the remaining examinations. The rest of my afternoon passes in a blur.

Dr. Phillips and I pore over the painting with the concerned Director of Acquisitions by our side. Dr. Phillips practically presses his eye to the magnifying glass.

We wear white cotton gloves, and the guards, Mike and Jerry, maintain their vigilance, clearing their throats when Dr. Phillips leans too close.

Bailey reaches out, his fingers drifting over the canvas like he wants to caress it. My stomach tightens. The painting… Has he forgotten about the oil on his hands? I wave my cotton-gloved fingers at him; maybe security won’t notice.

“Gloves,” both guards shout at once.

“Yes, of course.” Bailey shoves his hands in his pants pockets. He clears his throat. “Um, I’ll just get a team to transport this…” He backs away and then leaves the room.

Hair-width samples of a few of the spots I found will be cut from the canvas and tested further. The entire technical analysis is now suspect, all because of the outline of a bird in flight.

I glance at Jerry, who monitors Dr. Phillips’s close perusal of the painting.

“Do you know the history of this painting?”

Jerry shakes his head. Mike pipes in, “Wasn’t it one of the ones the Nazis stole?”

“Yes,” I say. “This painting was stolen during their plunder. We didn’t know the piece had ever been painted. The only record of it is a sketch Van Gogh sent to his brother.”

“Really?” Jerry asks.

“The whole history of that time is interesting,” I continue. “Fortunately, the Nazis were meticulous record keepers. They forced female Jewish prisoners to draft ledgers of the stolen art, even to the point of penning duplicates. That’s the only reason we knew about this painting at all. Someone saw a ledger with the entry ‘ The Lovers by Van Gogh’ on it. Until then, we didn’t know he finished the painting.”

“Bastards,” Jerry says with a snort.

“Yeah, but thank goodness they made those records. The ledgers detailed the who, where, and what of the thefts.” I take a step back, watching Dr. Phillips continue his exam. “Did you ever see The Monuments Men ?”

Mike grins. “That movie was cool.”

“Did you know it’s based on real events?” I still can’t believe how accurate the painting is to the original. How did the counterfeiter copy a painting he couldn’t have seen?

Jerry’s eyes widen. “You’re kidding.”

“The Monuments Men were a real group of U.S. soldiers whose mission was to follow the trail left by the painstaking record keeping of the Nazis. They recovered thousands of items—paintings, writing, and sculptures—hidden in European storage depots.”

“Why didn’t they find this one then?” Jerry points to the canvas.

“Because some of the Germans and even the French, who knew about the caches, sequestered the art before it could be discovered. Works such as The Lovers found their way into private hoards where they disappeared.”

Dr. Phillips rubs his jaw where a five o’clock shadow is forming. He glances at me, then cuts his gaze back to the Plexiglas.

“I can’t believe it’s a Starling. Although, I shouldn’t be surprised.”

It can be nothing else.

Bailey returns. “We’ll have a team here in a moment.” He regards me with a hint of awe. “I’m still unsure how you saw that, Miss Faulks.”

Because I cheated.

Family legend states that my grandfather was a French sympathizer. He had access to the ledgers and sequestered the stolen art into his private collection. I grew up with the magnificent pieces.

He stole them.

Jerry steps away from the painting and leans against one of the desks. “It’s an unusual choice. If I were going to pick a bird as my calling card, it wouldn’t be that.”

Mike laughs. “Yeah, I’d pick an eagle—or a hawk. Something powerful.”

I smile. “True, but you’d be surprised how much the Starling’s name instills fear within the art world.”

“I don’t get it,” Jerry says with a shrug.

“Well, both male and female starlings mimic not only human speech but the songs of other birds. What better name for the most successful art thief and counterfeiter of the century? He’s a master of mimicry.”

They glance at each other, clearly not convinced.

I sigh and try to explain, “It’s not about power. That’s why it’s not an eagle or a hawk. It’s about hiding in plain sight by mimicking the real thing.”

And there’s more to the Starling’s story—a history spanning generations and ending, or beginning, depending on one’s point of view, with Merlin, the most successful art thief in modern history.

The great Merlin has been quiet for decades. He has to be well into his seventies now, but rumors say he trained a successor—the Starling.

“So, what happened next?” Jerry hitches a hip on the desk.

“Excuse me?”

“With the Monuments Men? You said they didn’t find everything. People hid stuff, right?”

“Unfortunately, which is why reclamation efforts continue.”

“She’s right,” Bailey interjects. “The goal is to return stolen art to its lawful owners or their descendants. Many families didn’t survive the war; atrocities wiped out entire lines. All that unclaimed art is ripe for plunder. It’s why there was so much red tape associated with the acquisition of this piece.”

That’s no longer a concern now that I’ve revealed it to be fake.

“There can’t be much of a market for stolen art.” Jerry shifts on the table, propping his elbows on his legs.

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Dr. Phillips joins the conversation. He tugs off his gloves and packs his magnifying glass away.

Governments have become involved in restoration efforts, and foundations have been created to locate the owners. Dr. Phillips recognized de Gaulle as being linked with one of the more prominent organizations, but other entities are determined to acquire those lost treasures.

“The black-market art industry amounts to nearly ten billion a year,” Dr. Phillips continues. “It’s a thriving industry. Organizations with ties to the criminal underworld routinely buy and sell precious art as an instrument to launder cash.”

“That’s true,” I say. “The legitimate art community struggles to keep criminals away from the world’s artistic treasures.”

Unfortunately, the tide of organized crime makes that nearly impossible. But there’s another group, a shadow organization.

A single man rumored to have a hand in both sides of the game, Merlin steals from those who plundered others, replacing the pieces with forgeries of impeccable talent.

It’s claimed his fakes are so authentic that some thefts have yet to be discovered. Their owners still believe they have the originals in their possession.

“Do you think the Starling got to The Lovers first and swapped it with this?” Bailey scratches at his chin.

My high heels pinch my toes, and my feet ache. I lean against the nearest table, let a shoe drop from my heel, and stretch my foot. The scenario is plausible and fits how the Starling operates.

Dr. Phillips turns to Bailey. “I guess it depends on how this piece got into the Met’s hands. What do you think?”

Bailey shrugs. “It passed the initial verification process. We had no reason to think it wasn’t the real thing, but since it came into our hands, it’s been under constant guard. The theft of the original had to have happened before we received it.”

My discovery of a starling embedded within The Lovers implies much for the Met. I just saved the museum public embarrassment, considering the great deal of hype that would have built up prior to the reveal.

Two men enter the room, pushing a cart between them. They roll the cart beside the painting and don white gloves. With a nod from Bailey, they lift and lower the painting onto the cart.

“Would you like to watch?” Bailey drapes a cover over The Lovers to hide the piece from view.

The thought of traipsing through the monolithic back corridors of the Met in stilettos has me cringing, but Dr. Phillips jumps at the chance.

“We’d love to. Thank you.”

I gather my purse. Mike and Jerry flank the cart. Jerry scans the hall, his gaze cutting left and right. We head down the hallway, deserted, except for an elderly gentleman with a shuffling gait and confused expression. Silver hair sticks out in every direction.

“Excuse me, sir?” Mike says.

The older man stops and turns halfway around.

“I’m looking for the restroom, but I got lost.”

Bailey asks one of the men pushing the cart to go ahead while he assists the old man back to the museum’s public areas. He meets us later at the X-ray machine in the bowels of the Met.

Two hours later, we stare at a screen. The machine isn’t large enough to shoot the painting in one shot. We have to image it piecemeal and then stitch the pictures together, but from the few images we’ve acquired, the outline of a bird in flight is clear.

A shiver of unease runs down my spine. I reach into my purse and text my father.

The Garden is overrun with starlings.

I don’t expect a response and tuck my phone away.

Bailey thanks the group for our time. Despite his disappointment, he appears grateful that the forgery is revealed for what it is.

After Dr. Phillips and I finish with Bailey, another cab picks us up at the steps of the Met and drives us to our hotel. Dr. Phillips wanted to lug our suitcases around town, but I’m accustomed to having other people do the heavy lifting. I arranged to have our luggage delivered the night before.

After checking in, we agree to meet downstairs and enjoy a low-key dinner in the hotel restaurant. I slip off my heels and massage my toes. After a quick shower, I change into black slacks and a white silk blouse for dinner. The heels go in the closet, and I slip on ballet flats for the evening.

In the restaurant, I pull up short, surprised to see Dr. Phillips speaking with two large men in dark suits at the bar. Dr. Phillips catches sight of me and waves me over. The men turn, and I falter, recognizing Mike and Jerry from the Met.

Mike greets me first with an outstretched hand, “Good evening, Miss Faulks.” His firm grip engulfs my much smaller hand, but he doesn’t overpower me with his strength.

I glance at Jerry. Why have they tracked Dr. Phillips and me to our hotel?

Jerry clears his throat. “We should move to a booth where we can speak privately.”

“Yes, of course. But first, I need a drink.” The bartender wipes at the ring left by Jerry’s glass. “What can I get you?”

“Amaretto sour, please.”

“Got it,” he says with a wink. “I’ll bring it to your table.”

Dr. Phillips moves to the back of the bar and waits beside a semicircular booth. Mike and Jerry unbutton their jackets and slide in. The men lean in close, discussing something.

Wondering about the guards’ odd behavior and Dr. Phillips’s even stranger actions, I join them.

“Gentlemen,” I begin, “what brings you here?”

Jerry pulls a packet out of his breast pocket. “We were wondering if you might help us.”

Mike points to the packet. “Show her.”

Jerry opens the manila envelope and lifts out a small stack of papers. He thumbs through the contents and pulls out a photo, which he passes across the table.

“Do you recognize this?”

I glance at the picture of Van Gogh’s The Portrait of Doctor Gachet . “I’m familiar with all of Van Gogh’s works.”

The bartender brings my drink and sets it before me. The guy is a lovely flirt and has my mind drifting to more pleasurable activities after dinner. Except, instead of the bartender, my thoughts turn to de Gaulle.

Jerry drags the photo back across the table and holds it up for examination. “Then, you know where this particular piece is held?”

“In the Musée d’Orsay.” I lift a brow. “Why?”

Jerry digs through the packet and brings forth another photo. He slides it over to me, facedown, his eyes darting to the nearby tables.

I pick it up and turn it over. It’s an X-ray image of Portrait of Dr. Gachet . The famous portrait is of a man leaning against a table, hat covering his head, a look of fatigue dusting his features, and a pot planted with foxglove in the foreground.

Revered as one of Van Gogh’s most famous paintings, I can’t help but stare at the black-and-white image.

Tucked within the stems of the foxglove, a flock of starlings swirls in flight. I lift the picture closer, peering at the intricate details of the murmuration hidden within the masterpiece.

“A most impressive forgery.” I slide the picture back to Jerry. “When was this discovered?”

Mike answers, “Last night.”

“What prompted the analysis? This painting has been at the Musée d’Orsay for quite some time. Why image it now?”

There’s more to this story, given their stony looks. Mike’s jaw juts forward.

“The thief set off the alarms during the switch.” He exchanges a glance with Jerry. “A guard was murdered.”

“The Starling doesn’t kill. What little is known about him suggests he’s a pacifist.” I shake my head, not believing what Mike said.

Mike’s lips form into a line. “The guard was strangled.”

“But…” I lean forward, grabbing the photo to take another look. “The Starling forges famous paintings. To date, there are no murders linked to his work.”

Neither Mike nor Jerry say anything. I tap the photo on the table and reach for my drink.

“Who do you work for? Because you’re sure as hell not museum guards.”