Kate Hoffmann - Ian

“You know, it’s funny, but I was called upon to authenticate this very painting just last year. I couldn’t. I was out of the country.”

“So, you’re sure this is a forgery?” Ian asked.

Christiansen nodded. “Although I can’t tell you whoever did the painting had malicious intentions. Some collectors, especially corporations, have a copy done and they hang that in their corporate offices. The insurance is simply too high to put a valuable painting in a place that isn’t as secure as a museum. The public gets to enjoy what they believe is an original while the original is tucked away in a vault for investment purposes. I can’t say I approve of the practice, but it is done.”

“So who could do work like this?” Ian asked.

“There’s a number of artists. Do you want the artists operating on the right or the wrong side of the law?” he asked.

“Start with the wrong,” Dec said.

“No,” Ian interrupted. “I really don’t need to know. All I wanted was to learn if the painting was an original. I have my answer.”

“Ah, yes, well back to that. I’m afraid there’s more. In most cases, the insurance company will take a photo of the borders for comparison when determining provenance and authenticity.”

“The borders?” Ian asked.

“The edges. When a painting is framed, the public can’t see the border. These are also hidden from view if the painting is reproduced or photographed. However, if the forger is in the presence of the real painting or a photo of the unframed painting, then a comparison of the borders is useless. In my opinion, this forger, or copyist, if you will, was working from the real painting, which might lead one to believe this had been commissioned by the owner of the painting.”

“So how can you tell it’s a forgery?” Dec asked.

“Because I have one bit of knowledge other appraisers don’t. It’s something Emory Colter told me long ago, something he always adds to each of his paintings, so he himself can recognize an original from a copy.”

“What’s that?” Ian asked.

“I can’t tell you. If I did, I wouldn’t be the foremost expert on Emory Colter. Suffice it to say I am positive this is not an original Emory Colter. I’d stake my reputation on it.”

“What is it worth?” Ian asked.

“Maybe three or four thousand,” he said. “Whatever the commission was and a good reproduction doesn’t come cheap. However, if you do decide to sell it, you should-”

“Sell it?”

“Yes. If you plan to sell it, you must make sure the copy was authorized by the artist or his estate. If Emory Colter sold the reproduction rights to that painting, the owner can make all the copies he wants and it doesn’t break the law. If someone other than the owner makes a copy, that’s a different story.”

Ian reached out and shook the elderly man’s hand. “Thank you. I appreciate your help. I’d ask you keep this information confidential. This is an ongoing investigation.”

“Of course, of course. I’m a bit of a crime buff myself. Always fancied I’d make a good detective. You will let me know what this was all about after you’ve arrested the perps, won’t you?”

Ian held back a chuckle. “Yes, after we catch the perps, I’ll be sure to call you.”

Dec showed the appraiser out of the office and, a few moments later, returned with a grim expression on his face. “Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

“That guy watches too many cop shows. The perps? I usually just call them the suspects. Skells, perps, scumbags. Makes them sound so glamorous. They’re criminals.”

“Speaking of criminals, where did you get that painting?” Dec held up his hand. “Never mind, I can guess where you got it. Why did you bring it here?”

“I needed to know what it was,” Ian murmured. With a frustrated groan, he rubbed his eyes with his hands. “Just give me a moment or two to think this out.”

Everything that he thought he knew had suddenly been turned upside down. Marisol intended to switch the original for the forgery. But she was in possession of the forgery, so that could only mean, she was after the original. Unless, she wasn’t aware that the painting in her possession was the forgery. Perhaps, she thought it was the original.

“Did you get this from Marisol-”

Ian looked up. “Don’t. The less you know, the better. I’m already in deeper than I care to be.”

“I read the file. I know that Hector Arantes was convicted of art forgery and served ten years. He’s out of prison now, and from the looks of things, he’s up to his old tricks again. But how you got one of his forgeries, well…I figure his daughter must be mixed up in this. And you’re mixed up with his daughter.” Dec chuckled. “I saw the photo in the file. She’s beautiful, I’ll give her that.”

“I’m not mixed up with her. Do you really think I’d be stupid enough to get involved with someone I suspect is breaking the law?”

Dec considered the question, then shook his head. “No,” he finally said. “If I know one thing about you, Ian, you follow the rules, to the letter. So how did you get the painting?”

“She hid it, I borrowed it. I had to check it out for myself. I just didn’t expect it to be a copy.”

“You thought it was the original?”

Ian nodded. “She said it was. I guess either she was lying to me or she doesn’t really know.”

“You’d better find out.” Dec clapped him on the back, then walked over to a low cabinet set against the wall. He opened a door to reveal a small refrigerator, then pulled out two bottles of orange juice, tossing one in Ian’s direction. “So, why don’t you tell me about the girl,” he suggested.

Ian took a slow sip of the cold juice. “Wouldn’t that be against the rules of your little game?”

“My game? I thought it was your game.”

“No, as I recall, you were the one who suggested the celibacy pact. Three months, no women. Three months is a long time.”

“I should be the one who is worried, don’t you think? Marcus is stuck on a boat, eating organic mangoes and drinking champagne. You’re chasing after a woman who might just be a criminal. Neither one of you is getting any.”

“And you are?” Ian asked.

“No,” Dec replied. “I’m spending all my time trying to find Trevor Ross’s runaway daughter, Eden. It seems she got herself into a little mess in Europe and now her daddy is going to have to bail her out. I went out to talk to Marcus earlier this week, hoping he might have seen her hanging around Ross’s estate, but he’s completely useless when it comes to doing my legwork.”

“He’s a creative type,” Ian commented. “They think a lot differently than you and me.”

Declan gave him a skeptical look, then shook his head. “Why don’t we go out and get some lunch? I know we’re supposed to get together at your place tonight, but since you’re here, we can call Marcus and hang out here in Providence.”

Ian glanced at his watch, the took another gulp of the orange juice. “I have to get back,” he said. “But thanks for taking care of this so quickly. And let me know what I owe you for the art expert.”

“I’m sure my company can cover his fees. I’ll see you tonight,” he called as Ian walked to the door.

“Yeah, right,” Ian said. “Tonight. My place.”

When he reached the parking ramp beneath Dec’s office building, he sat in his car for a long time, trying to figure out his next move. He was usually an excellent judge of character, knowing immediately when someone was lying to him. But his radar was off when it came to Marisol. He could never really focus when he was with her. Her beauty, her sensuality, became a distraction, clouding his brain until he could barely think.