The Art Forger (30 page)

“Through distortion?”

“Couldn’t say that.”

“Are they derivative?”

“Of whom?”

“That’s what Myers claims. She and her two monkeys.”

Now Rik scrutinized me. “And you’re thinking this is because of Isaac?”

“What else?”

“Maybe she’s testing you, pushing you to new creative heights.”

“Except that she loved the idea when I first presented it. Told me to get right to work after she saw the initial sketches.”

“You’ve got to let this go, Bear. Not everything that happens to you is about Isaac.”

Yet everything else seemed to be about Isaac. Despite hurricanes and blistering heat, international unrest and a presidential election, the media wouldn’t let the story go, quoting Isaac’s friends and colleagues about his great talent and all that the world had lost. I finally gave the
Globe
an interview, explaining how everything happened, how
4D
was mine, and that I’d gone to MoMA to set the record straight. But it seemed that no one, except my family and a few friends, was willing to believe me. Martha’s story had much more appeal.

So when I finally emerged from the barn, reworked “nonexpressionist” paintings and a newly minted MFA in hand, I wasn’t surprised to step into a world that pretended not to see the Great Pretender. But when the freeze flowed into the responses I received to the slides I submitted to galleries and competitions, to the lack of responses I received to my résumé, I realized that Rik was wrong. Everything was about Isaac. And in contradiction to conventional wisdom, I was fast discovering that there was, indeed, such a thing as bad publicity.

Thirty-seven

The Nashua Street Jail looks more like a high-end hotel or classy office building than a house of correction. Facing an open expanse of the Charles River, its angled windows and imposing entrance façade rival most courthouses. But inside, the disrespect of the defiant guards mingling with the odor of sweat, Lysol, and hopelessness is all too reminiscent of Beverly Arms.

While the whole rigmarole at juvy is demoralizing, Nashua Street brings this to a new level. And not just because Beverly is a juvenile facility and Nashua maximum security. It’s that now I’m a visitor rather than a teacher, supplicant rather than volunteer. Still, being white, English-speaking, neither hostile nor whimpering, and more-or-less appropriately dressed works in my favor.

The guards turn away a boy wearing oversized jogging pants, a girl in a shirt deemed too tight, and a man with only a photocopy of his birth certificate for identification. An elderly woman, who tries to explain in halting English that she spent over two hours getting here, is told she can’t see her grandson because he’s already had three visitors this week. Begging, tears, offers of favors, and children crying for Daddy make no difference here. Yelling and swearing, not to mention punching the wall, do even less.

By the time I’m questioned, searched, scanned, stamped, and ordered into a room the size of a bathroom stall, I don’t know whether to be relieved or distressed. The tiny room is overheated and claustrophobic. A small metal stool is attached to the wall, and I sit, facing an empty glass panel with a circle of small holes at the bottom.

A similar metal stool and a closed door face me from the other side. My nose fills with the stench of dirty socks, and acid bile burns up into my throat. But I’m aching for Aiden. The thought of him locked up in here crushes my ribs. I haven’t been able to speak to him since his arrest.

Apparently, Patel knew more than Aiden thought or the FBI was better at working its way through the levels that Aiden believed would protect him. According to the paper, he’s charged with sale of stolen goods, transportation of stolen goods, and conspiracy to commit fraud. The FBI spokeswoman said that charges of grand theft are pending.

I focus on the murmur of voices on either side of me, although I can’t make out what anyone’s saying. Guards shout names and numbers. I listen for his name, close my eyes, try to breathe normally. It feels as if I’ve been waiting for hours, but I’ve no idea how long it’s actually been. The clock on the wall reads 6:15, and the hands haven’t moved since I entered. My watch is in the locker room. Only wedding bands and medical-alert jewelry allowed inside.

Finally, the door across from me opens, and Aiden walks in. At first glance, he doesn’t look all that bad: dressed in a too-large faded jumpsuit, a bit rumpled, yet clean-shaven and standing tall. But when he sits down across from me, I see his face is deathly pale. Lines etch his bloodshot eyes, and blue-black smudges circle beneath them.

I try to smile. “Hi,” I say, and it comes out high and reedy.

He leans down to the holes, “You’ve got to go, babe. Now.”

I press my hand to the glass. “How are you? Have they told you anything? When are you getting out of—”

“I mean it,” he says. “Out of town. Away. And don’t come here again. It’s too dangerous.”

“Aiden, I want you to know that you can count on me. That we’re in this together. As soon as you get out we can start to fight—”

“I’m not getting out. They’ve told me that much. Flight risk.” His mouth squeezes into a grimace. “The Gardner heist.”

“But these things can change, right? What does your lawyer say? Are they filing motions or whatever they do? I can check with another lawyer for you if you want.”

“You’ve got to stay out of it. You haven’t done anything wrong, and you’ve got to keep it that way. The less contact you have with me and this mess the better.”

“But if I haven’t done anything wrong, I’m not in any danger, so I’m going to do whatever I can to get you freed as soon as possible.”

“You’re not listening to me: I’m not getting out. No chance of bail.”

“But—”

He holds up his hands as if this will stop my words. “But nothing. They think—”

“What happened?” I demand. His right forefinger is in a metal brace wrapped in adhesive tape.

“Nothing.” He lowers his hand.

“It doesn’t look like nothing.”

“Please, Claire. Believe me, some things are better off left alone.”

“Somebody hurt you,” I say.

“It’s nothing,” he repeats.

“Tell me.”

“I warned you.” He hesitates, sighs, and says, “I never got a chance to pay the sellers.”

“What sellers? What pay?” But as soon as the questions are out of my mouth, I know the answers. “Patel’s money? The men who gave you
Bath
?”

“They want it now.”

“But what does your finger have to do with that?”

“It’s a threat.”

“What kind of threat?”

The circles under his eyes appear to grow even darker. “It’s what’s going to happen to my finger if I don’t get them their money.”

“They’re going to break it?”

“It’s already broken.”

“I don’t understand.”

He raises his right forefinger and makes a slashing motion at the finger’s base with his left hand. “They’re going to cut it off.”

My stomach rolls, and for a moment I think I might be sick. “That’s insane,” I protest. “No one would do that.”

He just looks at me, his eyes steely, his jaws clamped together.

“But you’re in jail. How could anyone get to you to, to . . . ?”

“The same way they got this to me.” He shows me his finger again.

“Where’s the money?” I cry. “Tell me and I’ll bring it to them.”

“No.”

“I’m not a child you need to protect. It’s you who needs help and I want to give it. Are you actually saying you’re willing to lose your, your . . .” I can’t say the word.

“It’s already gone.”

I look at his two hands resting on the small ledge and my cramped cubicle starts to spin. “What are you talking about?” My voice rises with each word.

“Claire,” he says sharply. “Don’t do this.”

My eyes fill with tears. “I’m just so scared for you.”

His face softens. “If you promise to leave right after I finish and not freak out, I’ll explain.”

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, not sure I actually want to hear the explanation. “Okay.”

“The only way to get into the gallery’s vault is with the print of my right forefinger.”

It takes a moment for this register, and when it does, I’m certain I’m going to be sick. I choke back the bile rising in my throat.

“You promised,” Aiden says. “No freak out. Now go.”

“But, but,” I stutter, not wanting to leave him alone with this. “What about your rich friends? Clients? Someone you could go to for a loan?”

“Already tried,” he says. “I’m kind of persona non grata at the moment.”

“Your paintings? You could sell—”

He shakes his head, and I understand that he’d rather lose a finger than part with any of his artwork. “Then bail,” I say. “If you could get out, even for a day, an hour, then, then . . .” My mind grasps around for any solution, but all I find are blank spaces.

“Please,” he says, with such sadness that I feel it inside of me. “Go.”

Then I realize what I can do: I’ll find the original painting. It would prove Aiden’s
Bath
was a forgery. And then, at least for a short time, none of the charges against him would apply: no transportation or sale of anything stolen, no fraud, no initial connection to the heist. His lawyer could get him out on bail then. Even a short time will be long enough to save his finger.

“Aiden, Aiden.” My voice fractures. “I’m so sorry, really sorry. I never told you this before, I should have but I didn’t, but the painting you brought me isn’t what you thought it was. I knew—”

“To your mother’s, a friend’s, wherever,” he interrupts, too concerned for my safety to hear me. “I can’t have you go down for this, too.” He presses his left hand flat to the window that separates us, just as he did the first night we made love. “I love you.”

A full sob escapes my lips. “I love you, too,” I manage to whisper, and as I say it, I know it’s true.

“Kristi and Chantal can handle the details of your show.”

“It’s not about the show. You know that. It’s you. In here. It’s about what they might do—”

“My beautiful Claire.” Aiden stands and opens his door, turns back and gives me a crooked smile. “Don’t you know I’m going to need all the money from the sale of your fabulous paintings for my defense fund?”

W
HEN
S
ANDRA
S
TONEHAM
ushers me into her apartment, I take a moment in the entryway to examine
Amelia.
There’s no doubt Virgil Rendell had the technical skills to pull off a high-quality forgery of Degas’
After the Bath,
but why would he? Could he have stolen the original and replaced it with his own? Could he have blackmailed Belle, forcing her to turn over the real one and replacing it with a forgery? Could the original have been lost or destroyed and Belle hired him to paint a replacement? But the whys and hows are inconsequential in light of Aiden’s current situation.

“Did your aunt know Virgil Rendell?” I ask, as I try to determine the direction of his brushstrokes.

She furrows her brow. “I thought you were looking for famous painters?”

“I am. Yes, I am, but this Rendell is quite good. I guess, I’m just kind of more curious, seeing the painting here, than actually considering him for my book.”

Sandra looks at me strangely. “Not that I know of.”

I throw a pointed glance at the closed mahogany doors leading to the parlor, hoping she’ll give me a peek at her more traditional artwork. But if she notices my curiosity, she chooses to ignore it and motions me to follow her down the opposite hallway.

“I found a few boxes in the attic,” she says, when we reach the living room, “I’ve only just started going through them, but I’ve been having a great time. I found all sorts of lovely things I forgot were there. I’ve decided that, while I still have my faculties, I’m going to do a thorough catalog of each and every one.” She points to items scattered on the coffee table: a pillbox with a tiny ballerina carved on its broken lid, a porcelain doll, a handful of old coins, a sheaf of photos, yellowed newspaper clippings. “These are important pieces of history.”

“Seems like a worthwhile project,” I say, although at first glance, I don’t see anything that looks important to history. Or to me.

“But, unfortunately,” she continues, “I haven’t found a single item of Aunt Belle’s.” She purses her lips. “The museum has a stranglehold on everything that belonged to her. Every painting, every art object, even her clothes and the few letters that remain.”

“Because of the conditions of her will?” I ask.

“Because of the museum’s
interpretation
of the conditions of her will,” Sandra corrects.

“So unfair to the family,” I sympathize.

I’m rewarded by a smile. “As the kids say, ‘You got that right.’ ”