Collection (9 page)

At that moment, Laurel looked like she never worshipped any heroes. Her midnight black hair was pulled back severely, and
although it was late her makeup was perfect. She wore a serious black Chanel suit that let the observer know she would not be trifled with, nor should one try. Even at the end of the day, Laurel looked as if she was ready to wrestle a tiger.

“None of your crap, Cicero! He's overdue and you know something, don't tell me you don't. I'm sure you think he's fine, but we have a way of doing things in this house that you may not be used to. We are held accountable and we are responsible. I need to know if he's coming back soon; we have a full week ahead. If you'll be handling the details, I need to make sure you're up to speed so you don't screw up anything.”

“I don't know when he'll be back, Laurel, but I can assure you I'm up to speed on everything. I've just spent the whole day familiarizing myself with open acquisitions. I am moving at maximum speed. If he's not here, I can fill in for him.” Cicero opened the takeout box of sesame chicken and proceeded to inhale the contents.

Laurel raised her eyebrow in obvious suspicion.

“You'll be able to take the New York meetings on Monday, and deal with the monstrous Mr. Alvarado, and meet with the curator of The Met regarding the Davies landscape?”

Cicero talked with his mouth full, “Yes. I can do that.”

Laurel narrowed her eyes and continued.

“We need Mr. Alvarado to transfer the funds required to procure his latest request. The Davies is something we simply must have access to. Jenny is almost done, but she needs the exemplar to make sure it's perfect. You're not really a people person, Cicero. You steal things. It would be better to have Lucien available to speak to Mr. Alvarado and the curator. He is far more convincing and we don't need unnecessary suspicion thrown our way due to your ham-handed acting skills.”

“Laurel, I am wounded. I had no idea you considered my sparkling personality anything other than intoxicating.” He frowned as he finished the last of the chicken and rummaged on the counter for something else to eat. “I'm still not talking about where Lucien is, or when he'll come back.”

Laurel stepped a little closer to see what he was doing. “You confuse my interest with the personal concern Dani has for Lucien. I
know Lucien will be fine. He'll be fine no matter what happens to him. That's the problem, isn't it? You feel free to play your games while the rest of us deal with the consequences. Whatever happens, you need to do your job on Monday. Meet with these people, get what we need, then let me do my job.”

“Laurel, we have been doing this for a long time. It is our lives, not a game. Lucien would never neglect his responsibilities and you know it. If he's taking some time, I'm sure it's for a compelling reason. He can't take a piss without serving the greater good. Some time alone will be good for him. You need him in the right mindset, or he'll be no good to you, right? Besides, I can be a very convincing guy if I need to be.”

“Truly? Maybe you can convince the unjust world to return my leftover Chinese food to me. But then, you'd probably have to admit that you were the one who ate it.”

Cicero handed her the almost empty carton; there were a few morsels of rice and chicken left. She picked at them with his chopsticks and then threw it away. Cicero could tell that she was over it. For all of Laurel's bluster, this was her home, her family. She was just acting to protect it. So was Cicero, and she knew it. On her way out, she spoke to Cicero over her shoulder, “Wear a suit next week. Lucien would.”

In his haste, Cicero hadn't packed a suit. He never intended to stand in for the more banal requirements of their business. All that had changed.

“Well, he does owe me a leather jacket.” Cicero left the dirty dishes in the sink and headed up to Lucien's closet.

11

ONCE THE PAINTING WAS OUT,
Jane instantly recognized the artist as Vermeer. At least, it was supposed to be Vermeer. It may have been a flawless copy, but Jane knew it was a copy. She looked over at Lucien. This would be easy. The painting was a fake! All he had to do was point this out to Raleigh, and they would be out of there.

“You'll recognize this, I think. We searched high and low for it, didn't we? It was one of the happiest days of my life when I brought it home, Lucky.” Despite his suspicions, Raleigh was doting on the painting.

Lucien nodded. “Of course, Raleigh. You shouldn't let the offer of a fake painting ruin the enjoyment of a real one.”

Jane groaned silently. This wasn't the new painting, but the old one. Lucien had sold Raleigh a fake. They were screwed. Stupid Lucien seemed as unflappable as before. He was sitting next to her as they waited for the action to start. The other painting was due to arrive at any moment. She looked at him to try to get an idea of why he was so calm. Whatever angle he had on the situation, he wasn't giving up on it yet. Jane hoped his confidence wasn't unfounded. She also hoped her confidence in Lucien wasn't a terrible idea. There was only one way of finding out, and that was to wait on the tacky pink couch and see.

Raleigh directed his men to set up the painting on one of two easels in the middle of the room and continued to speak to Lucien. “The other dealer will be here momentarily. It's coming from Havana, but travel can be difficult in Cuba. The authenticator will
look at them both, and give me the final word. I consider myself an expert on Vermeer, as you know, so I didn't bother with outside corroboration that the painting you sold me was genuine. That may have been a mistake. Hubris afflicts modern men as well as dead Greeks. I am not too proud now.” Raleigh fixed his gaze on Lucien as if to gauge his reaction. There was no panic there. Lucien showed only relaxed detachment as if he were humoring a child's invented story.

One of Raleigh's servants brought out a tray of glasses filled with ice water. Jane accepted her glass gratefully. The heat and humidity in the room made the air seem liquid. Lucien sipped his water slowly and tried to casually converse with Raleigh.

“Is the authenticator anyone I would know?”

“I think not. She's a lovely girl I found while in Paris last summer. Excellent credentials, and a taste for luxury instead of academia.” Even though he was sweating like the rest of them, Raleigh didn't take one of the glasses. He kept a subtle distance from both Jane and Lucien as if to remind them that they weren't here for a social visit. Raleigh liked to feel in control, and he liked to demonstrate his control.

Lucien thought about who Raleigh's authenticator could be. Many reputable academics could make the determination of authenticity for the Vermeer, but not all of them would allow themselves to be clandestinely transported to Cuba. Being caught up in an international criminal syndicate could wreak havoc on one's chance at tenure. Apparently Raleigh had found someone who fit the expert bill, but didn't care so much about academic stature.

She had to be respected enough to draw Raleigh's attention. Authenticators had to build up a reputation. Just because you went to college for a few years didn't mean you could tell an original from a fake. You had to have experience with the artist, an unassailable knowledge base, and a proven track record. Lucien knew most of the experts on the big-ticket artists. Money could sway such a person, but black market art dealing was a hard life, and suspicion would constantly fall on someone with an unknown source of income and dubious travel schedule. Just as Lucien was going to try to get more information from Raleigh, the woman in question walked through
the door.

Jane thought she was seeing things. There was now a Vogue model walking towards them. She was tall and lithe. Her white pantsuit was no doubt a designer name and her makeup was pristine. Her long and smooth chestnut brown hair swirled around her in a perfect arc as she walked. Jane could feel her hair randomly curling and poofing out in the humidity. This woman would not have that problem. She was beautiful and looked vaguely Italian. Jane saw her brown eyes flit across the occupants of the room and settle on Lucien. She knew that look. Jane was pretty sure she had looked the same way when she first saw him.

“Raleigh! Your house is beautiful. My room is gorgeous and the veranda offers the most delicious breezes. I see you have more guests?” She had an accent that Jane couldn't place. The whole time she spoke, the woman's lively brown eyes never left Lucien. Jane felt like a sticky, sweaty, hostage; and more out of place by the minute.

“Portia, I asked you to stay in your room until you were needed.” Raleigh directed his threatening tone somewhere else for once and it felt good to be out of the line of fire.

Portia was apparently not fazed. “How could I when you haven't shown me around? I saw so little of the estate on the ride from your airstrip. Was that a sugar cane plantation to the south? A bit of rum would be wonderful.”

“You can drink when you're done with your job. Go back to your room.”

Portia was piqued, apparently insulted by the insinuation of unprofessionalism. “Everything has been programmed, Raleigh. It's unlikely you'll need me to adjust anything. It's just a matter of point and shoot.”

“Shut up and go back to your room or Gerald and Steven will escort you there.” She looked over to where the men in question were standing and a look of distaste crossed her face. Portia finally relented and went back the way she came. Perfect hair or not, she was as much a hostage as Jane and Lucien.

Raleigh smiled painfully. “I hope you don't take this the wrong way, but you two smell awful. There's some time until the other seller will be here. Gerald will take you to a guest room where you
can shower. I'll arrange for some new clothes. Don't try to leave, that would spoil the fun. My hospitality will improve considerably if this matter is resolved in your favor.”

Was that an apology? Jane wasn't sure. Whatever it was, she would love to get cleaned up. She jumped off the couch and looked toward Gerald. Lucien languidly rose and Gerald led them to the door that Portia had whirled through moments earlier. They went down the hall and passed an indoor swimming pool with gaudy tile. Just past the pool were the guest quarters. Gerald opened the first door and let them walk through. The room was opulent and missing a veranda or any other means of escape. Iron bars decorated the windows, letting breezes in but also keeping people from getting out. Gerald felt no need to enter the room; perhaps they had acquired a certain odor. “I'll be just outside when you're finished. Don't take too long, or I'll have to come in there to get you.”

Lucien shrugged and grinned. “That won't be a problem. I wouldn't want to delay the authenticator. Besides, Jane and I might want to take a swim in the pool once this is all figured out.”

“One way or another, I'm sure you'll go swimming. Your arms just may not be attached when you do.” Gerald grinned ominously and closed the door.

Lucien immediately put his finger up to his lips to let Jane know not to talk. He went into the attached bathroom and turned on the shower. “Don't talk too loudly, Gerald is here to make sure we don't escape and to listen in on us.”

Jane stifled her urge to yell at him, and struggled to lower her voice. “What are you doing? That painting out there is not real! We have to get out of here. I like my arms, and they work better attached to my body!”

“It's going to be okay. The other painting is fake too, I know it. They're using a digital authentication program, and we have nothing to worry about.”

“What are you talking about? If they're both fake that Raleigh guy is still going to kill us and the other dealer!”

“My fake is better than the other guy's fake. The authenticator, Portia, said that all they had to do was ‘point and shoot.' She's not really an authenticator; she's a computer programmer. I know what
they're going to do. They need to take digital photos of the paintings to make the comparison with Vermeer's known and authenticated works. The computer will scan the photos and break it down into basic numbers. The comparison will find inconsistencies between the contrasts, brushstrokes, and other numerically represented characteristics of the canvases. My painting can beat a computer program any day. My fakes are the best. They're indistinguishable from the original artist's work.” Lucien finished triumphantly. He had been glad to learn that the only authenticator they had to convince was electronic. People were more easily manipulated, either for or against your cause.

“What? How many fakes have you made?” Sudden and excruciating understanding flooded Jane's face. “The museum. That's why you were there before. The Barye bronze was one of yours, wasn't it? That's the only reason you'd go there.” Jane realized that her life for the past few weeks was based on the illusion that a really cute guy she met by chance in a museum may end up being someone exceptional. In truth, he was there to admire his crappy counterfeit lion. Fate had nothing to do with it, and for the umpteenth time that day, she felt stupid.

Lucien realized that he had said too much about how he earned his living. She just seemed to know so much, he had to remember that she didn't know everything. Far from it.

“The Barye bronze you saw at the museum was on loan from a private collector in anticipation of an auction. It sold for several million dollars a week ago.”

“But it wasn't real.” Like her current and future love life…

“You are one of a handful of people who know that. I don't know how, but you do. So, I'd appreciate it if you keep your mouth shut about
alleged
fake paintings while we're here.”

Jane held her hands up in mock self-defense. “Hey, don't look at me. I won't say a word. It was all I could do not to swoon when we walked into the Scarface summer mansion out there, but I didn't say a thing.”

“Scarface summer mansion? It's not that bad.”

Jane raised an eyebrow.

“Since when are mirrored neon lights and pink dolphin tile classy?”

There was a knock at the door. Lucien went to answer it, leaving Jane alone in the bathroom. Her dress clung to her in the added humidity of the steam, and she realized that the activities of the previous few hours had given her a distinctive and unpleasant odor. She decided not to let hot water streaming out of the showerhead go to waste, and closed the bathroom door. Of course, the bathroom was horrendous. Who buys a bright yellow toilet, bidet, and sink? She quickly undressed, grabbed the little guest shampoo and soap off of the counter, and jumped into the shower. Jane's mother used to sing show tunes from musicals and “I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Outta My Hair” seemed extremely appropriate. Jane wasn't much of a singer but she could hum. It took her mind off Gerald for a moment at least. Threats of pre-swim arm removal were forgotten.