The Art Forger (23 page)

Aiden and I comb every source we can find, reading snippets out loud to each other. But the bottom line is that nothing additional has been released since yesterday’s announcement. No mention of Patel or an arrest. The authorities are keeping whatever they know very close.

“Do you think they’re doing that thing where they withhold evidence that only the killer could know?” I ask Aiden.

Aiden rolls his eyes. “Claire, there is no killer. And there very well could be no evidence. Which is probably why they aren’t sharing it.”

“You know what I mean.”

He stands and massages my neck, another thing he’s really good at. “Unfortunately, I know exactly what you mean.”

I lean back into his expert hands and groan. I’m in my paint clothes, and
Pink Medium
has been cooking for over an hour. I drop my head forward so he can get at the sore muscles above my shoulder blades.

“Are you scared?” I ask.

His fingers keep working, but he doesn’t answer.

His silence jolts me, and I turn to look at him. “Could we go to jail?”

“Don’t be a child, Claire,” he snaps.

I take a step away from him. He’s never raised his voice to me before.

“Sorry,” he says, drawing me back. “Sorry. As you might have guessed, I’m a little stressed.”

My eyes scour his.

He sighs. “Anything’s possible, and this is not an insignificant crime. But no, I don’t think we’ll go to jail. Or at least you won’t.”

I hold onto him. I don’t think I could bear to lose another man due to a situation for which I’m partially to blame.

“Don’t worry so much,” he says. “I’m checking into a number of options. Things to keep us safe.”

While this is hopeful, there’s evasiveness in his voice that makes me uneasy. “What kinds of things?”

Aiden gently untangles himself. “I have to get going,” he says. “Should be at the gallery most of the day. I’ll call you if I learn anything.”

When he leaves, I go right back to work. The zone is the only safe place for me now.

T
WO DAYS LATER,
it’s confirmed that a man named Ashok Patel, an Indian national from Bangalore, has been arrested for transportation of stolen goods. It’s also reported that the canvas was on its stretchers, not rolled up as Patel had been instructed. Nor was he carrying it with him. Instead, it was concealed inside a large container of blue jeans destined for a New Delhi department store.

Over the next few days, there’s talk of extraditing Patel to Massachusetts, about charging him in the heist, about sightings of the other stolen paintings all over India. But a week after the arrest, there’s no additional hard news on Patel or the authentication of
Bath II,
just speculation by television anchors who don’t have a clue what they’re talking about. If it weren’t for my windows, I’d be a madwoman by now.

Taking refuge in painting has worked double duty: Not only am I ahead of schedule but also I’m either too engrossed or too exhausted to obsess about Patel. Only part of this is due to my current workaholism; the other piece is the sheer number of hours I’ve put into this window project over the past two years. I’ve made hundreds of drawings and taken thousands of photographs, so my difficulty wasn’t what to paint but which ideas to choose.

I’ve made all thirteen canvases, applied the sizing, sketched all the underdrawings, and covered them with a coat of underpaint.
Pink Medium
should be finished today and
Tremont
tonight. I’ll start polychrome painting on
Corridor
and
Bay
tomorrow. Aiden is very impressed with the quality of the work. I’m pretty pleased myself.

I check the calendar. I’m working at almost twice the speed I estimated, finishing two paintings in a little over a week instead of just one. At this rate, with ten weeks and eleven paintings to go, I should be on pace to stage a December show. With a couple of weeks to spare. I recalculate to make sure. The numbers stay the same. I can do this.

I’ve felt this conclusion coming for the past few days, but now I’m ready to make it a decision. Instead of calling Aiden to tell him the news, I take a long shower and spend more time drying my hair than usual. I put on a touch of makeup, something I haven’t done in ages, and my lace underwear. Unfortunately, my closet is pretty sparse, but as the weather’s unseasonably warm, a sexy tank top and the cute little jacket I bought at Filene’s Basement years ago will work just fine.

When I get to Markel G, I stand inside the door and watch Aiden at his desk at the rear of the gallery. The current show is about line, and it’s very impressive, particularly curatorially. There are anthropomorphic sculptures created by thin lines of thread. Drawings of what at first appear to be sheets of graph paper but are in actuality a delicate webbing in ink. A twenty-foot spiral created by miles of wire. White circles upon circles upon circles etched into a black canvas. And most impressive, a single-line drawing, maybe twenty-five feet long and covering two walls, depicting life in a Kenyan village. A very smart show.

Aiden’s unaware of me, speaking into the phone with a warm smile. No one would ever guess that he’s worried about anything greater than the installation of his next show. It strikes me that if Aiden’s that calm, then I should be, too.

When he sees me, a wide grin stretches across his face. He hangs up and comes toward me but checks himself before giving me a hug. I’m nervous that if our relationship is known, people will think that’s how I got the show—which I suppose is better than how I actually got it.

Although Aiden thought it was silly, he’s humored me and agreed to be discreet in public. “You look fabulous. An occasion I don’t know about?”

I bat my eyelashes from an appropriate distance. “Just a visit to my dealer to discuss my upcoming December show.”

“You’re sure?”

“Sure.”

We decide on the second week of the month, with the show to stay up through the new year.

“It’s good timing,” Aiden assures me. “Really good. We’ll have the opening on the sixth, well before Christmas, and the show will hang through the holiday season when the street’s always full. You’d be surprised how much business gets done the week after Christmas.”

I listen to all this, watch the owner of Markel G put my name in his calendar, glance at the walls, and mentally replace the artwork with my own, but it’s not real. It’s not happening to me, Claire Roth, the pariah of the Boston art world. The Great Pretender. It can’t be. Or can it? Unaware that I’m not listening, that I’m pretty much incapable of doing so, Aiden talks on about placement and promotion, wooing curators and collectors, price points.

“Oh,” I cry as a pulse of happiness surges from the center of my being. I actually clasp my hands together with a clap of pure joy. It
is
happening to me.

Aiden bursts out laughing and introduces me to his two assistants, Chantal and Kristi, who together must have at least twenty piercings and less than a yard of fabric below their waists. Very high boots, though.

He tells them about my December show and goes to my website. Chantal and Kristi ooh and ah over the paintings while Aiden gushes to them about the unique combination of classical techniques and contemporary subject matter. For a moment, I feel left out of the conversation, an outsider looking in. An interloper. I have to remind myself that I’m not. Right now, right this very moment, the dream I never believed would come true is happening. My entire body buzzes with the improbability of it all.

Two middle-aged women wearing high-style haircuts and designer jeans come through the door, and Kristi immediately goes to greet them. I show Chantal the early windows I plan to include in the show and tell her a bit about the new ones. She seems sincerely excited. I try to act cool and unimpressed, as if I do this every day, but I can tell from the heat in my face and the wild waving of my hands that I’m not doing a very good job.

When Chantal is called away by another customer, Aiden says, “So how do you want to celebrate?”

I put a forefinger to the corner of my mouth. “I heard there’s a place just a block or so from here that has the most wonderful etchings . . .”

When we get to Aiden’s, we head straight to his bedroom. But I’m so excited, I can’t settle down. I babble on about
Pink Medium
, whether to include
Tower
in the show or paint another new one now that I’ve got some extra time, where I should buy an outfit for the opening. I’m completely unable to focus. But Aiden’s sexual prowess and patience finally win me over. In the end, my orgasm is so wide and rolling and intense that I gasp, “Best ever,” as I hold him inside me, pushing him to go even deeper.

His laugh is a growl, and he does what I want.

Afterward, satiated and sweaty, we lay curled like nested question marks, Aiden’s heart beating into my back.

I
FINISH
TREMONT
that evening and spend the next day working on the medium-range tones in
Corridor
and
Bay.
Three layers painted and baked on each, which meets the pace I need to keep. I think about doing another round through the oven but decide to call it quits. Aiden will be starting his promotion in a couple of weeks, and I have to tell the crew at Jake’s what’s going on before they hear about the show from someone else.

I waltz into Jake’s as if I’d been doing it every night. It’s been well over a month. The longest time I’ve been away since I started hanging here after Isaac.

Maureen sees me first. “Look who’s risen from the dead,” she says. “Or is it the canvas?”

Mike, Small, and Danielle are on me in a flash.

“Are you okay?”

“How’s the painting going?”

“Where have you been? We missed you.”

“Are you too cool for us now that you’re on a creative tear?”

“I missed you all, too,” I say, and mean every word of it. “But I’m probably not going to be able to come around much for the next six weeks either.”

Small grabs my hands. “Something’s happening? Something good with your career?”

My throat closes up, and my eyes fill with tears. I can’t speak.

Small steps closer. “It’s not good?”

I shake my head.

“Oh, honey,” she says. “Whatever it is, we’re here for you.”

I try to blink back the tears, but one rolls down my face. They all look at me with a mixture of concern and compassion in their eyes. I swipe at the tear. “No, no,” I finally manage. “It’s good.”

They all visibly relax, and Maureen pushes a Sam toward me. “Drink up,” she says.

I quaff down half the bottle. “You’re not going to believe this.” I look around at their expectant faces, but I can’t form the words.

Danielle crosses her arms over her chest. “If Rik were around he’d say, ‘I’m getting old here.’ ”

Might as well get it over with. “I’m going to have a show at Markel G.”

For a moment, there’s dead silence, then the bar erupts.

“That’s fabulous.”

“Unbelievable.”

“Markel G. What a coup.”

“How’d you do it?”

Mike grasps my shoulder. “Well deserved. Well deserved.”

“I already comped Claire a beer,” Maureen grumbles. “And now it looks like I’m going to have to comp a whole round.”

Everyone cheers. When the bottles are opened, Small raises hers and says, “To the success of one of our own.”

We all raise ours, drink, and return the bottles to the bar with loud clunks. “Amen,” says the chorus.

Twenty-eight

THREE YEARS EARLIER

Six weeks is a long time. It’s long enough to develop headaches, insomnia, digestive issues, fear of success, fear of failure, fear of fear itself, and a host of other psychological problems. I managed to acquire every one, and a few others, while I waited for the verdict from Karen Sinsheimer. Self-diagnosed, of course. By the time she called, I was a complete wreck.

“I’m sorry,” Karen said, after introducing herself.

I bit my lip. “About what?”

“The committee has determined that
4D
is the work of Isaac Cullion.”

Twenty-nine

You fooled the best of the best,” Aiden says. It’s after closing, and we’re in the understated comfort of the small alcove of Markel G in which deals are done.

“I mean, it’s one thing for your authenticator to believe it’s real, but this . . . It was well executed and all . . . I’m not taking anything away, but still,” I stammer.

He’d just told me the authenticators hired by the Gardner had pronounced
Bath II
an original Degas, the very
After the Bath
stolen from the museum during the 1990 heist. After
4D,
I suppose I shouldn’t be so surprised. But I am.