Stuart Woods - Quick & Dirty

Masi took the offered chair, and he seemed to have read Stone’s mind. “In addition to being a cop and commanding the art squad, I do freelance consulting work. The department feels it’s important that I know what’s going on in the art world. What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to hire you as a consultant,” Stone said, “at your usual rate.”

“A thousand dollars a day,” Masi replied coolly, “or any part of.”

“Done,” Stone replied. “I expect you recall being in the apartment of one Mark Tillman, who, at the time, was very recently deceased.”

“I do. He had a small but very fine collection, many of them very expensive pieces.”

“How long were you and your squad in his apartment?”

“The better part of two hours.”

“And what were you looking for?”

“Evidence of a crime against art.”

“Define ‘a crime against art.’”

“Theft, vandalism, forgery, possession of stolen goods.”

“Define ‘forgery.’”

“The copying of a work of art for the purpose of deceiving, or for gain during a sale or exchange.”

“Exchange?”

“You swap me your fake Modigliani for my real Picasso, sell the Picasso, and pocket the difference in value.”

“Of course. Do forgeries have an intrinsic value?”

“If you buy a picture because you like it, having been informed by the seller that it’s a copy, its intrinsic value is whatever you paid for it.”

“So it’s not a crime to sell a forgery as long as the forger identifies it as such.”

“No, then it’s just a copy or a reproduction. If a forger is in the business of selling reproductions, he will change something about his work to make it identifiable to an expert as a copy. I know of a perfect copy of Modigliani’s Reclining Nude , which sold at auction a couple of years ago for two hundred and sixty-four million. In the copy, the nude’s eyes are closed, and the picture is four inches longer than the original.”

“Who painted the copy?”

“Angelo Farina.”

“And you say it’s perfect?”

“If her eyes had been open and the copy exactly the same size as the original, the forgery could have been substituted for the original, before, during, or after the sale, and no expert would have been the wiser.”

“Farina is that good?”

“He’s that good. He has told me that more than a thousand of his forgeries are hanging in museums and private collections all over the world. Many of them have been auctioned or sold in fine galleries — some of them several times, and in so doing, authenticated by experts on each occasion.”

“So experts can be wrong?”

“They’re wrong at least half the time. Say you’re an expert, and somebody brings you a Rembrandt for authentication. It’s a new find, not in any catalog or sales record, never exhibited. You’re immediately suspicious, because Rembrandt’s oeuvre has been very well documented for centuries. In the absence of any forensic evidence that it’s a forgery, you’re going to say that, in your opinion, it’s a real Rembrandt and an important discovery.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ll make everybody happy — the owner will be happy, the gallery that’s going to auction it will be happy, and the buyer will be happy. When the buyer dies, his heirs or the museum he bequeathed it to will be happy. And you’ll always be known as the expert who recognized a real Rembrandt. Who wants to piss in everybody’s punch? You won’t get much new work that way, and if nine other experts say it’s real, you’ll be the schmuck who couldn’t tell the difference.”

Stone took the transparency of Tillman’s van Gogh from his briefcase and handed it to Art Masi. “There’s a light box right behind you.”

Masi turned and, without leaving his chair, placed the transparency on the light box and switched it on. He gazed at it for perhaps half a minute. “Do you have a loupe or a magnifying glass?” he asked.

Stone opened a desk drawer, retrieved both items, and placed them on his desk. “Take your pick,” he said.

Masi picked up the magnifying glass, wiped it with a tissue from the box on Stone’s desk, and slowly looked at the transparency from top to bottom, side to side. He placed the magnifying glass on Stone’s desk, then repeated the process with the loupe. “What are its dimensions?” he asked.

“About fourteen by sixteen,” Stone replied.

“Has it ever been thoroughly cleaned?”

“Only with mineral spirits, not with acetone.”

Masi handed the transparency back to Stone, holding it delicately by its corners. “This is the most gorgeous piece of art I have ever seen,” he said. “And I’ve seen everything. ”

“Is it a forgery?” Stone asked.

“A forgery of what? ” Masi asked. “That term would imply that an original exists. I’ve heard the story of this, and it’s entirely plausible. It could have happened exactly the way Tillman said it did.”

“If it’s not a forgery, then is it an original work by Vincent van Gogh?”

“On the basis of a photographic examination, I could not say that it is not an original. I understand that three world-class experts, one from the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, have pronounced it as the real thing. Is that the case?”

“Yes.”

“And they were allowed to perform whatever tests they wanted to?”

“Yes, except Tillman would not allow it to be cleaned with acetone, only with mineral spirits.”

“That’s a red flag, but a very small one. If I owned the painting, I wouldn’t allow it to be cleaned with acetone, either. I mean, even if it had been painted on July twenty-ninth, 1890, there would still be the possibility of damaging it. What we’re talking about here is the last thing van Gogh ever painted, and on the day he was mortally wounded.”

“Did you search the Tillman apartment for the painting?” Stone asked.

“No. I was told that it had been stolen.”

“Did it not occur to you that the report might be false, and that it might have been hidden in the apartment?”

“Yes, but I reasoned that if Mrs. Tillman had hidden it, she would not have permitted a search of the apartment without a warrant, and the process of obtaining that would have given her time to remove the painting from the apartment and hide it God-knows-where. After all, it’s not very big, it would fit in a small suitcase or a large briefcase, or even a large envelope, if it were out of the frame. I assume it was framed.”

“I assume so, too. I don’t know, but I can find out. Art, do you have any vacation time coming from the NYPD?”

“About five weeks, I think.”

“If you can take two weeks off and find the painting in that time, I’ll pay you a million dollars.”

Masi blinked. “I assume the insurance company has offered you considerably more than that.”

“You may assume anything you like. There are conditions. You may not break any laws during your search, and that includes harming anyone.”

“I’m going to need it in writing,” Masi said.

Stone took a sheet of his personal notepaper, picked up a fountain pen, and wrote, after the date: I, Stone Barrington, agree to pay Arturo Masi the sum of one million dollars if he can recover, undamaged, a lost painting, ostensibly by Vincent van Gogh, formerly the property of Mark Tillman, deceased, by noon two weeks from today, as long as Mr. Masi does not violate any law in his search or harm any person. The painting is to be authenticated by comparing it to an 8x10-inch transparency of the work, which is in my possession . He buzzed Joan.

“Yes, sir?”

“Joan, will you please come in here and bring your notary’s stamp?”