Forty-seven

Instead of accepting Mike’s offer of a ride or taking the T, I walk home from the courthouse. I need some time and space, not to mention cold air, to process everything that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours. Markel G is closed down, my show canceled. Bath II has been declared a forgery. I glance at my watch. It was just about this time yesterday that I stood on the sidewalk in front of the gallery ogling Nighttime T. Six hours after that, I was sitting in a jail cell, and now, I’m walking free. Sort of.

Talk about highs and lows. I look up at the cloudless cobalt sky, breathe in the painfully sharp air, smile at the people coming toward me. An admittedly odd occurrence in reserved Boston. The judge—Mike said she must have started taking Zoloft—was nice enough to let us leave the courthouse through a back door, duping the media, who are probably still lined up on the entrance steps. I laugh out loud at the image as I cross the wide, brick eyesore that spreads out in front of Government Center.

As I head toward Downtown Crossing, I plan my next steps. Go see Aiden, find out what he knows. Call Rik, find out what he knows. Call Sandra Stoneham, find out if she knows Virgil Rendell’s middle name so I can track down his mother’s family. Somehow get into the Gardner basement to assess their progress and find out if Aiden’s got a chance.

I hand a dollar to a woman crouched on the stoop of an empty storefront shaking a Dunkin’ Donuts cup. I wave at a toddler who’s chirping, “Hi! Hi! Hi!” from her stroller, and I scratch the head of a tail-wagging cocker spaniel straining against its leash to get closer to me. I’m no fool. Things are bad, but not as bad as they could have been, and I’ll be damned if I’m not going to enjoy this admittedly minor victory. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that things can change in a nanosecond, and I don’t want to regret not having savored the moment.

As if to prove my point, my phone rings. It’s Agent Lyons, and he wants to come by and talk to me.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “On the advice of my attorney, I will not say anything unless he is present.”

“It’s really not necessary.” Lyons’s voice is warm and friendly. “I’ve no reason to arrest you. Frankly, I think the Boston police, prodded by your friend Alana Ward, jumped the gun a bit. I just wanted to give you an update on the case and pick your brain about Virgil Rendell’s sketchbook and the whole painting-in-the-basement thing.”

I hesitate. This sounds innocent enough, but I remember how angry Mike was when I spoke to that reporter on the courthouse steps. “On the advice of my attorney, I will not say anything unless he is present.”

“Ah,” he says. “Lawyered up, are you?”

“I’m not an idiot.”

Lyons chuckles. “No, you’re not, but you are an extremely talented artist.” When I don’t respond, he continues. “I walked past Markel G this morning. I’m no art connoisseur, but your painting in the front window touched me. So powerful. Amazing colors.”

I warm to the compliment, and to the news that Nighttime T is still in the bay, but I say in as cool a tone as I can, “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

Again, the chuckle. “How about you give me your lawyer’s name and phone number, and I’ll call and set up an appointment. Would later this afternoon work for you?”

MIKE’S OFFICE IS on the thirty-fourth floor and looks out over the harbor. When I walk in and see the view, I realize Mike and I haven’t discussed his fee, but it’s clear there’s no way I can afford him. Especially without my show. But Lyons follows on my heels, and this isn’t a topic to talk about in front of an FBI agent.

After a few minutes of coffee and chatter, Mike clears his throat. “Just so we understand each other, Agent Lyons, as I told you on the phone, at Ms. Roth’s arraignment this morning, the judge warned the prosecutor he didn’t have enough evidence to present to the grand jury and implied there wasn’t even enough evidence for an arrest.”

Lyons holds up his hands. “Our interest is in finding the missing paintings and putting the people who stole them behind bars.” He smiles at me. “Not to hassle a young woman trying to make a living. I’m here because I need her help, not because she’s a suspect.”

Mike’s face is unreadable. “And how exactly can she help you?”

Lyons opens his briefcase and pulls out my copy of Edgar Degas: Sketches and Drawings, 1875–1900 and Virgil Rendell’s sketchbook. He puts them on the table between our chairs, taps the sketchbook’s cover. “I just need some clarification on what the drawings in here actually show us. But first, if you like, I’ll tell you where this particular piece of the investigation stands as of now.”

He doesn’t bother to hear if we like or not, he just continues. “There’s definitely some kind of closet or room behind the wall in the sub-basement. And the ultrasound confirms there’s something inside it. But that could be anything, including hundred-year-old construction debris.”

“Or a painting,” I say.

“It’s certainly possible, but until we’re able to get in there, it’s anyone’s guess. And, unfortunately, because the area is so cramped, we may be at it for a considerable time.”

“More than a few days?” I ask, thinking about Kristi’s text: Markel said 2 tell u 1 week left. And that was five days ago.

“Why so long?” Mike asks.

“The wall’s thick, and we’ve got to use hand equipment. There’s load-bearing considerations, dealing with a historical building, old construction methods. And to make matters worse, the damn space is full of junk and a curator has to check out every item before it can be moved. Could be tomorrow, could be a week.”

“Do you allow visitors?” I ask.

Lyons looks confused. “At the museum?”

“I promise I’ll stay out of the way.”

“It’s a real mess. Lots of dust and too many people already.”

“I’d be happy just to watch from the basement level, and if you have any questions, I’d be there to answer them for you.”

The agent thinks on this. “I suppose that might be helpful.”

“Tomorrow?” I ask.

Lyons looks amused as he hands me his card. “Just call before you want to come to make sure it’s okay.”

“Great,” I say, taking the card. “Thanks. I’ll do that.”

“Agent Lyons,” Mike says, “I’m not clear how finding this particular painting is going to help you find the stolen paintings.”

“It’s a lead,” he says. “Could be something. Could be nothing.”

Mike gives him a searing look. “Sounds like a lot of energy to expend for a minor lead.”

Lyons grins. “Welcome to my world.”

Again, Mike appraises the agent, again with suspicion. “May I see the sketchbook, please?” he finally asks.

Lyons hands it to him, but says to me, “We’ve ordered Markel’s lawyers to turn over the painting he brought you to make your copy from.” He watches me closely for a reaction. “It should be in our hands within the week.”

“And what will that show you?” Mike asks, before I can figure out whether the fact that the FBI will soon have Virgil Rendell’s painting is a plus or a minus.

“The first thing we’ll do is test it for authenticity,” Lyons says, then turns to me. “And that’s one of the things I need your help with, Ms. Roth. I’d like to go through this step by step. Can you take me through the process you used to determine you weren’t copying the original?”

I look at Mike. We discussed on the phone that I can only repeat what I’ve told Lyons or Alana already and that I have to use as close to the same words as possible. Mike nods at me, and I try to remember exactly what I said.

As soon as I begin to explain about Aiden bringing me a copy, Lyons interrupts. “You said before that you never thought it might be the stolen painting, but something must have crossed your mind.” He taps the sketchbook on Mike’s desk. “Otherwise, why would you have started your investigation into possible forgers?”

I struggle to sound offhand. “As I worked on my copy, getting into the nitty-gritty of every detail, I started to wonder why the compositional elements weren’t consistent with Degas’ other work. Which led me to Degas’ sketchbooks and, ultimately, to Virgil Rendell’s. It didn’t have anything to do with whether it was the Gardner painting or not. That was irrelevant.”

“So,” Lyons asks, “although the painting you had was identical in every way to the one you’d seen many times at the Gardner, it never occurred to you that it might actually be that exact one? It’s hard for me to believe that with all your investigative skills that this wouldn’t have at least crossed your mind.”

“I want to remind you, Agent Lyons,” Mike interjects smoothly, “that my client is helping you, on your request, and that she isn’t obligated to answer any of your questions.”

“Of course,” Lyons says, in a similarly smooth voice. “And I appreciate her cooperation very much.” He smiles at me again, then looks at Mike. “Can she tell me the specifics of what she did to answer her question?”

Mike nods to me.

“First, I tried to find Degas’ compositional sketches for After the Bath.” I point to the book on Mike’s desk. “In there, for one, but there weren’t any that looked like the painting I had.”

“Which was a copy, not actually the painting.”

“Yes, a copy. Right. But it was a copy based on a painting that I was starting to believe Degas didn’t paint.” My voice rises despite my efforts to keep calm.

“And none of the thousands, maybe millions, of people who have seen it over the years ever thought this?” Lyons points out.

“It’s like I told you before: People see what they want to see. Even experts.”

“But not you.”

“That’s enough,” Mike snaps, standing up. “My client isn’t accused of anything, hasn’t done anything, and I won’t have you badgering her. We’re done here.”

“So what are you saying?” I glare at Lyons. “That it was the real Degas? That I’m just making this up? Why would I do—”

Mike’s hand clamps down hard on my shoulder.

“It just seems strange,” Lyons says, “that you could make that kind of determination from a copy of a painting. No matter how good it was.”

Mike presses a button on his phone. “My assistant will show you out,” he says.

The agent takes both books from Mike’s desk, thanks us for our time, and leaves.

When the door closes behind him, I steel myself for Mike’s anger. But when I look up, he’s standing at the window, gazing out at the harbor.

“What was all that about?” I ask. “Does he have something on us?”

“I don’t know that he actually ‘has something.’ ” He turns from the window. “But it sounds like he’s thinking Markel never brought you a copy, that you painted your copy from the original. Ergo, the two of you know where the original is—and who Markel got it from.”