Wanted: A Leopold Blake Thriller (2 page)

While this was no ordinary job, all the preparations had been made, payment had been received as usual, and the escape route was all mapped out. The only thing left to do was wait and keep watch. In just a few short hours, Dieter Reiniger would be well on the way to getting his hands on the last paycheck he would ever need.
 

Chapter 2
 
 

JULIET RENO HAD waited in line at the Louvre for more than an hour. After standing outside in the baking lunchtime heat, the cool blast of the air conditioning inside the Renaissance Gallery was a welcome reprieve. As a third year Art History major, Juliet knew her Michelangelos from her Raphaels, but something about the sprawling museum always brought her back for more. As the crowds began to wane during the lunchtime rush, the young student found herself enjoying the rare luxury of an undisturbed stroll down the impressive hallways. 

Without the usual hordes of tourists spoiling her view, Juliet allowed herself more time than usual to walk through the giant corridors, pausing several times along the way to soak up the finer details of some of the world’s most famous masterpieces. As she reached a particularly impressive Mantegna, a young man with scruffy hair sidled up next to her, clearly as engrossed in the painting as she was. The stranger glanced over at her and smiled.

“Do you know this oil painting?” he asked in an American accent.

“Yes, of course,” she replied, her English accented but otherwise flawless. “Da Vinci’s ‘The Virgin and Child with Saint Anne’.”

“Anyone can read the plaque,” the stranger said. “What’s more interesting to me is whether you have any opinions of your own. What does this painting say to you?”

Juliet took a step back. “What makes you think I want to answer your questions?”

“You’re an art student, right?”

“Yes? How did you know?”

“I watched you examine nearly every painting in this hall before you settled on this one. Nobody your age takes so long wandering the hallways leading up to the Mona Lisa. Most just charge straight on through. So, tell me about this painting. Tell me what it means to you.”

Juliet folded her arms. “Okay, so you have a good eye. We know that Da Vinci painted this in the early sixteenth century, and it depicts the infant Christ grappling with a sacrificial lamb while his mother tries to restrain him.”

“Yes, yes – these are the figures in the painting, but what does it
mean
to you?”

“The Virgin Mary appears to be sitting on Saint Anne’s lap,” Juliet continued, “which I suppose suggests some kind of strong bond between the two women. Perhaps a maternal relationship, much like the relationship between Mary and Jesus. To me, this is a scene of love and family – but with the foreshadowing of Christ’s eventual death symbolized by the lamb. It is at once comforting and very disturbing.”

“Good, very good. You’re aware of the Freudian interpretation?”

“Of course. Freud theorized that the Virgin’s cloak painted here,” she traced the outline with her finger, just a few inches from the frame, “was designed to represent the shape of a bird of prey that Leonardo Da Vinci had dreamed of. A dream, Freud argued, that suggested latent homosexual tendencies in the young painter. Of course, for Freud, everything is about the penis, isn’t it?”

He grinned. “Sometimes he has a point. And like many Da Vinci paintings, you’ll notice the horizons are at different levels on each side of the main figure’s head.”

“Yes, like the Mona Lisa, it’s the first thing most people notice. The technique is used to draw the eye to certain parts of the painting. In this case it pulls us in to focus on the face of Mary, so that we almost don’t notice Saint Anne holding her up. Here, Da Vinci portrays a very strong figure, but one that keeps very much to the background. He had tremendous respect for her, I think.”

“And you are aware of the more recent controversies?”

Juliet shook her head, wondering where this conversation was going.
Is he going to ask me out or something?
she thought, wondering what she would say if he did.

“In 2011 the painting was removed from the display to be cleaned and restored,” he continued. “However, the work carried out on the oil paints caused the work to become brighter and more vibrant than before. Many argued this was not the artist’s original intention. There was quite an uproar. I’m surprised you didn’t read about it.”

“It was a little before my time,” she replied, pushing back a strand of hair. “But why are you so interested?”

“It’s my job to pay attention.”

“And what job is that?”

“I get paid to notice things. I get paid even more to keep them to myself. Sometimes, I’m faced with a situation where I’m compelled to tell the secrets that I know. Today is one of those situations.”

“Very mysterious,” Juliet said. “And just what secrets do you have today?”

“I suppose I can best illustrate with this,” he replied, pointing to the Da Vinci. “You can see where the artist has used such a muted palette?” he waited for her to nod. “Good, then you’ll also see where the dust and other atmospheric particulates have accumulated over the years the whites and grays have become slightly inconsistent across the scene. They are brighter in some places than in others. A product of natural aging.”

“Yes, very common.”

“So, if the painting was cleaned and restored in 2011, why does this painting look like it hasn’t been touched in hundreds of years?”

Juliet opened her mouth to reply, but couldn’t find the right words. For the first time she could remember, the young student found herself speechless.

“The secret, you see,” the scruffy man stepped forward until he was just a few inches from the elaborate golden frame, “is that any good restorer will leave in certain details of the painting that the artist intended to preserve. The color palette, for example. With this painting, however,” he reached out gently and touched the wood of the frame, “the restoration team screwed up and brightened everything too much. Meaning whatever’s hanging here today…”

Too late to stop him, Juliet lunged forward as the stranger wrenched the priceless masterpiece off the wall, setting off the security systems and filling the cavernous hall with a piercing klaxon alarm. The other visitors still meandering through the corridors froze as a security guard burst through the doors at the far end of the hallway and sprinted toward the cause of the disturbance.

“Meaning whatever’s hanging here today,” the stranger continued as though nothing unusual had happened, “is a fake. A very good one, but definitely a fake – one that was based on how the painting looked
before
the restoration messed with all the colors. In short, this doesn’t belong here.” He hoisted the frame up over his head and began to walk away. “Thank you for the conversation, but I need to be going. The art director is going to have a few questions. I’m sure this gentleman will be kind enough to escort me,” he nodded toward the security officer running in their direction.

“Who are you?” said Juliet, stepping away.

“Of course, where are my manners?” he held out his hand. “Leopold Blake. Nice to meet you.”

Eyes wide, Juliet shook the young man’s hand and watched dumbstruck as he carried the painting toward the exit.

Chapter 3
 
 

THE PIERCING NOISE woke Mary Jordan at seven A.M. with a jolt, interrupting a particularly violent dream. Fumbling in the dark, the NYPD police sergeant felt across her nightstand for the alarm clock and succeeded in knocking over her lamp. Still half asleep, she located the offending device and slammed her palm down on the snooze button.

For the fourth morning in a row Mary had fallen asleep fully dressed and, after two full weeks of working nights, the seasoned cop had reached her limit. New York’s finest had trained her to deal with violent criminals, perverts, and street gangs, but nothing had prepared her for fourteen days with no sleep. Resisting the urge to groan, Mary swung her feet out over the side of the bed and stumbled into the bathroom, pulling off her crumpled clothes and tossing them onto the floor. She turned on the shower and waited for the pipes to stop rattling before stepping into the cubicle, letting the hot water do its work.

Thoroughly scrubbed, she wrapped a towel around herself and stepped out of the shower to inspect herself in the mirror. Wiping the condensation away with her palm, she forced her eyes open. The results were not good. Swearing under her breath, she rummaged through her bathroom cupboards and eventually located her makeup bag behind a stack of Xanax bottles. She fished out the bag of lotions and powders and dumped the whole thing on the edge of the sink.

After a cursory layer of foundation had covered up the worst of the damage, Mary headed back to the bedroom. She threw on something warm and comfortable – a nice change from her usual duty uniform – and fished out the airline tickets and passport from her underwear drawer. In less than two hours her flight would be boarding, which didn’t leave much time for packing.

Mary’s cell phone let out a muffled chirp from the corner of the room. Digging out the handset from underneath a pile of old case reports, she saw the caller ID flash up and sighed.

“Mom, this isn’t a good time,” she said, pulling her suitcase out of her closet with one hand and opening it on the bed.

“I know sweetheart, it’s just always so difficult to catch you at a good one. Are you in the middle of something?” Her mother’s voice was a little more strained than usual.

“What’s wrong, mom? You never call me unless it’s bad news.”

“That’s not true. I called you last month. You know, before you were called away on that case. What was that all about again?”

“Never mind. It doesn’t matter. It’s good to hear from you.”

“It’s nice to hear your voice too. But you know we need to have that talk.”

“I can’t right now,” said Mary, throwing clothes into the empty case. “I’ve got a flight to catch.”

“Oh, that sounds exciting. For work?”

“No, vacation. I’ve got five days saved up that I need to use.”

“Vacation? It’s about time they gave you some time off. Not that you can afford to go anywhere nice on your salary. You know, Annie’s son Marcus still has connections at his firm. Maybe –”

Mary cut her off. “Forget it, mom. I don’t work homicide for the money.”

“I should hope not.”

“Besides, I deserve a vacation. I’ve got a little cash saved up, there’s no reason I shouldn’t use it.”

“Going anywhere nice?”

“Paris,” said Mary. “The one in France. I’ll be eating baguettes and croissants for a whole week, and I won’t have to worry about anyone trying to shoot at me. I’m looking forward to it.”

“France, huh? Very romantic. And who are you going with? Not by yourself, I assume?”

“I’m flying out alone. I’ll be meeting up with a… um, friend, when I arrive. An old friend.”

“Mary, honey, not this guy you’re always talking about? You know he’s nothing but trouble.”

“I’ll be fine, mom,” Mary rolled her eyes. “I’m a big girl. I can look after myself. Listen, I’m already running late and I need to find a cab.”

“All right sweetie, I’ll let you get on with packing. But we still need to have that talk. It’s very important.”

“I know, mom. I promise we’ll talk soon, okay?”

“Sure, honey. Fly safe and I’ll call you in a couple of days.”

Mary heard a soft click as her mother hung up the phone, leaving her alone to finish a hurried search for clean clothes and suitable footwear.

After ten frenetic minutes, Mary emerged from her apartment building onto the New York streets and flagged down a cab. At seven thirty A.M. the sun was rising and Mary could already feel the hints of a scorching day ahead as she climbed into the taxi and buckled her seatbelt. The driver nodded as she gave him her destination and the cab made its way along Broadway, which was already busy enough with commuters to make progress painfully slow.

Holding up the boarding pass she’d printed the night before, she forced herself to relax. Ignoring the mounting crescendo of city noise outside, she imagined herself sat in a small Parisian café enjoying the sunshine with a plate of French pastries and a chilled glass of white wine. She could almost taste the hot, flaky
pain au chocolat
. With a satisfied smile, Mary folded the boarding pass and slipped it into her pocket. A grumble from her stomach reminded her to find some breakfast once she had checked in and wondered whether Newark airport served
mille-feuille
. She quickly dismissed the thought and resigned herself to the possibility of a stale bagel instead.