The Forger Read online

  This time her handshake was weaker as she seemed more intent on trying to figure him out. Could a woman be more stunning? And…those eyes. Blue. No. Tints of gold within the blue irises fashioned them two stars bursting in the center of a deep blue sky.

  “A special Interpol agent?” She pulled her hand from his as if he’d shocked her.

  “Special ops, yes. The Elite Crimes Unit. We work with all local and international police agencies.” Ethan wasn’t willing to detail his exact title and position in the hierarchy of criminal investigations. And it was completely unnecessary, according to the ECU’s rules. “I’m situated in London at the moment, so it was fortuitous for Scotland Yard that I could get here so quickly.”

  “Fortuitous? I don’t believe Scotland Yard called you. And I had things under control, Mr. Maxwell. I’m not sure what assistance you can offer—”

  “Under control? The fact that I was unable to stop you from destroying a valuable work of art should be considered extremely lacking on your part.”

  “I had no idea the thing was booby-trapped.”

  “Exactly. You should have been more careful with the investigation. Did you at least take some photographs of the painting before it blew?”

  He waited for her to work through a moment of anger that tightened her jaw, then she conceded with a nod. “I did.” She tugged her cellphone from her skirt pocket, scrolled to an image, and turned it toward him.

  Ethan leaned in, taking in her sweet scent. “As I suspected. Another hasty pudding.”

  “Hasty pudding? Another?”

  “I’ll get to that soon enough.” He pointed at her phone. “Appears it’s been hastily done with an ugly mashup of pudding-like paint. All a bit of a muck, as is the food stuff.” He looked at her, their faces inches apart. She didn’t meet his gaze. “It’s a hideous thing, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” She moved away from him, taking her gorgeous atmosphere along with her. “It appeared to have been placed over—”

  “Pinned?” Ethan noted the painting’s frayed canvas edges. But there were no pins that he could see.

  “Yes, there were pins in the corners holding the copy tightly over what I can only presume was the original. The blast must have forced all the pins out.”

  “Did you verify that what hung behind the fake was indeed the original before destroying the evidence, Miss Lawson?”

  “I don’t appreciate your condescending manner, Mr. Maxwell. I have gone through investigative procedure, as is protocol. Perhaps if you would have yelled to me sooner, I wouldn’t have touched the frame and the painting would still be intact.”

  “Forgive me.” He took a step back and hooked a thumb in the front pocket of his trousers. She was right. “I have a tendency to slip into take-charge mode when on a job. But as you’ve pointed out, you are the lead officer here. So we’re going to pin the blame on both of us, is that it?”

  “I don’t see blame a necessity.”

  “Just so. May I?” He pointed to her phone, and she handed it to him.

  The photo clearly showed the pins at each of the four corners of the canvas, which featured a haphazard madness of cheap oils attempting to imitate John Liston Byam Shaw’s exquisite work, Now Is Pilgrim Year Fair Autumn’s Charge. Bold autumn oranges, golds, and reds drew the eye to the scene of an exquisitely clothed woman leading an old harvester pilgrim toward the boat of Time. A cherub representing Love cast a disgruntled gaze over its shoulder at two women lazing on the shore. One of the women wearing vivid orange skirts represented Autumn, and was the focal point.

  A rather deceptive scene, Ethan thought. While it was supposed to symbolize the autumn harvest and abundance, he had always thought there was something malicious, even dreadful about the depiction. It was that ghostly figure rising out of the water in the foreground. Come to collect the old harvester’s soul?

  He scrolled through the images, pleased she’d taken some close-ups of the brushstrokes and paint. Cheap paints, he suspected. But without examining the evidence pre-explosion, he couldn’t be positive without further forensic testing.

  “You think the vandal pinned his forgery over the original?” he asked.

  “Most likely. I could see there was a canvas beneath, but I wasn’t able to see the painting.”

  “Unlikely the vandal would have switched paintings, eh? It’s one possibility. Though there are a few things to go on.” He stepped forward, gesturing for her to join him. The frayed canvas was burned and would surely crumble when touched. Yet a hint of crackled oil paint showed on the minutest strip of canvas. “The original that you see here is still firmly embedded behind the framework. There’s not a space between canvas and wood, as I would expect with a quick replacement. It is most definitely the original beneath. Or was, as matters are.”

  “Your constant need to point out my mistake is not appreciated, Mr. Maxwell.”

  He eyed her carefully. Scotland Yard was putting on their soft side with this one. Could that be the reason he’d been called to the vandalism last week at the Wexler gallery? Had the Arts and Antiquities Unit lost its credibility with a woman on the team?

  Ethan’s father had always insisted he never work with a woman. They were catty. And emotional. And yet, he tended to ignore such advice. Often it was to his detriment. Though his profession had changed since receiving such biased advice—and his father had been quite the womanizer—Ethan found there were occasions when he hadn’t a choice to whom he was assigned to work alongside. This could prove a challenge. Mostly because he enjoyed women. In any position but that of holding authority over him.

  He twisted a look to Miss Lawson, landing his gaze briefly on her cleavage. All that abundance was…right there. Embedded in a burst of red roses. Difficult not to notice. But he quickly adjusted and met her eyes. “Where did you study art forensics, Constable Lawson?”

  “Really? You’re more concerned about my education than with solving this crime? Where did you study, Mr. Maxwell?”

  He smirked. In all the museums of the world, actually. But according to the conditions of his work for the Elite Crimes Unit, he was not required to reveal his background.

  But he wasn’t here to pull rank. He simply wanted to solve this case, and if it connected to another, then put the two together.

  A corner of the original canvas had been blown off the stretching boards, revealing the back. Ethan pointed to the burned bit of paper stamp that clung to the frayed edge. “That’s the provenance stamp. It’s terribly smudged with soot, but…” He attempted to read the pertinent details, but most were blown away, and he didn’t want to tamper with the evidence at this stage. “With some careful dusting, forensics should be able to read what lies beneath. I’m going to call it, though. This is—or rather was—the original Byam Shaw.”

  Her gasp wasn’t surprising. The painting was valued at millions.

  Of course, the constable didn’t know what Ethan knew about the painting. And he wasn’t yet prepared to reveal that information. Not until he could be one-hundred-percent positive. And he’d need a clear view of the provenance stamp, as well as the backside of the original canvas, to confirm his suspicions.

  “It’s lost,” she said, gasping again.

  “Are you quite all right, Constable Lawson? Do you need to sit down?” He felt her waver against his arm and gripped her by the elbow, but she pulled away from him.

  “I’m perfectly fine. It’s just very sad such a masterpiece has been destroyed. But why? Who would vandalize a great work, and then rig it to blow? That’s a strange crime to commit.”

  “Vandalizing a famous art work? Indeed, it is. But that was not this vandal’s ultimate goal.”

  “Ensuring the piece was destroyed?”

  “Yes. And not by his hand, apparently. This case is similar to a vandalized artwork in the Wexler gallery a week ago.”

  “The one in SoHo. I only learned about that incident this morning. It was kept from all media and police databases. Tell me about it.”

  “Another hasty pudding pinned over an original. The gallery employee who discovered it was not so careful with that one either, and the vandal got what he desired.”

  “Destruction?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I have a request in for details and files from that incident,” she said. “Had I received them immediately, I might have known the other painting had been blown up, and would have been more careful with this one.”

  “Unfortunate, truly. But don’t blame me for the roadblocks between Interpol and Scotland Yard. Reports and databases are not my expertise.”

  She cleared her throat. Her glowering look spoke volumes. She didn’t like his curt manner? He was being too hard on her. Hadn’t had his morning tea yet.

  Ethan glanced around the room and along the right angles where the walls met the ceiling. “The security in this room is minimal, but there are a few cameras. Yet for last week’s vandalism, the cameras were taken out for a period of time. I suspected an inside job. We’ll have to check with security here at the Tate. In the meantime, we’ll being getting to know one another better, yes?”

  Her mouth dropped open in a soft sexy sigh. Briefly, her lashes fluttered; then she must have realized what she’d done and drew her lips together tightly. But too late.

  Ethan had gotten the reaction he’d been looking for. Oh, yes, this case would prove most stimulating.

  Chapter 3

  Olivia smoothed her hands down her hips, an unconscious move that a former lover had once told her was sexy. Really, she was just trying to wipe the sweat from her hands. A bomb had destroyed a valuable painting. And it was all her fault?

  She couldn’t breathe. The Byam Shaw was invaluable. She should have been more careful. But how could she have known it was wired to blow? Bollocks. She’d really screwed up.

  Why hadn’t Mr. Maxwell shown up one minute earlier? If he had known this might happen, he should have called on his way to the museum.

  But she wouldn’t blame him. She wanted to get the facts and figure this out.

  She shoved her hands into her skirt pockets to hide their shaking. It was no way for a future detective constable to act. Especially one who wanted to prove herself invaluable to the Arts and Antiquities Unit.

  This was the worst day of her life. Unless she factored in the handsome man standing beside her. He smelled faintly of Burberry cologne, a bit woodsy, and so appealing. Especially when it had been a while since she’d inhaled the scent of a sexy man.

  “A week ago,” Mr. Maxwell said, “in the Wexler gallery in Soho, I was called in to inspect a similar incident. It was another hasty pudding work, which had been pinned over an original work. Only we didn’t get photos to inspect the evidence because when a gallery employee removed the painting from the wall, he set off the bomb, which destroyed the painting beneath and left the employee with second-degree burns and possible facial damage.

  “It’s all in the hang wire,” he explained. “Unfortunately, the Soho employee who found the vandalized painting had no reason to expect a bomb, either. Did you contact the bomb squad?” he called out as Camila popped in.

  “They’re on their way. But I don’t understand why— Oh my.” The museum director’s jaw dropped at the sight of the damaged painting. She pressed a skeletal hand to her chest.

  “Excellent.” Ethan turned back to the painting, clasping his hands behind his back as he looked over the disaster.

  Rather emotionless about the incident, Olivia decided. Which could be his manner when working. She might take a page from his book and keep her feelings under wraps, especially with the director gaping over the damage.

  “What happened?” Camila’s high heels clacked as she marched to the painting. “Constable Lawson?”

  “Please don’t get too close, Miss Wright,” Ethan said. “The painting was wired to blow at the slightest movement of the frame.”

  Camila turned toward them. “Really? But I… I touched it when I found it…” Her voice trailed off, obviously considering what could have happened. “Were you able to determine if the original Byam Shaw was stolen, or….?”

  “We’re still investigating,” Olivia offered. “I’m sorry, Miss Wright, but if you could give us the room again?”

  The director exhaled heavily as she put her fingers to her throat, then nodded and left to answer another person calling her name.

  As she joined Ethan’s side, Olivia caught a glimpse of Howard, waiting for her on the bench. Her heart dropped as she realized she’d risked Howard’s life, too. Olivia took a deep breath. She couldn’t let Ethan see how upset she was.

  “What is the reason behind vandalizing a priceless work of art?” She leaned forward, inspecting the damaged frame and noting the edges of the original painting beneath in the frayed canvas. “It’s destroyed no matter what.”

  “Not exactly. Had the forgery simply been unpinned, it could have been removed without damaging the original beneath. Or so that is what I had assessed from the remains at the Wexler gallery. We might have assessed much the same here, had it not been destroyed.”

  He cleared his throat, effecting an admonishing finger in Olivia’s face. She wasn’t going to apologize to feed into his obvious male superiority.

  “As for the reasoning behind such vandalism?” he prompted. “I’m not sure. That’s why I’ll be relying on Scotland Yard for, ahem…excellent police work.”

  “That will be me you’ll be relying on. And thank you for the compliment, as accidental as it was.”

  “So many accidents today, eh?” He winced.

  Olivia turned away so he couldn’t see her roll her eyes. Men. Always trying to put a woman in her place. She felt bad enough already, having been the one to trip the bomb.

  “I’m going to wait for the bomb squad out in the hall and talk with Miss Wright again,” she told him. “She’ll need to know we suspect it was the original that was destroyed.”

  “Fine. Will you ask your forensics man to leave me alone with the painting? I’m sure he’ll need to clear out for the bomb squad anyway.”

  “Of course.” Olivia signed to Howard that the bomb squad had been called. Howard got up, put his arm through hers, and walked her out into the hallway, indicating he was going for coffee. She shook her head when he asked if she wanted any.

  Olivia found the director and explained Mr. Maxwell’s theory that the original had been underneath. “I concur,” she included. “I can see the painting beneath. It was most likely the Byam Shaw.”

  Camila looked ready to faint. She wrung her hands and shook her head miserably. “It was on loan from a private collector.”

  Yes, but the museum certainly had it insured. No matter; it was still a tragedy to have lost a one-of-a-kind piece.

  Olivia assured her they couldn’t confirm that suspicion one hundred percent until forensics had looked it over back at the lab. She left the distraught museum director as quickly as she could manage. No need to stand around and wait for more derogatory comments regarding her abilities, or lack thereof.

  The museum had opened. Patrons were streaming in through the newly refurbished vestibule, but none had seemed to notice or care about the yellow police tape cordoning off a wing of the museum. It was a Wednesday. Not so crowded with tourists.

  Seeking a few moments to recoup, Olivia wandered into the next gallery, which shouldn’t see visitors for a while as it was opposite from the entrance. She took out her notebook from the pocket in her skirt and scribbled some notes, including Ethan Maxwell’s name and Interpol. She texted Denise, her go-to girl in dispatch who also did case research, and asked her to pull up all the information she could find on Mr. Maxwell. Denise promised to get right on it.

  Olivia tucked away the phone and notebook and sighed, settling her shoulders and releasing the tension in her muscles. She couldn’t get the sound of his accusation out of her head: You’ve destroyed a valuable work of art.

  Wanker. The man had no polish whatsoever.

  And yet, he was a fine bit of all right. Tall and handsome, yet he held himself with a stiffness that made him appear stand-offish. Or maybe that had been his need to repeatedly admonish her. Yet he also exuded an intensity that she couldn’t disregard. Stubble shadowed his jaw, and his short dark brown hair framed a narrow face with a long nose. His eyes—well, she hadn’t dared look him directly in the eye too long. Olivia had trouble with eye contact. Yes, she knew it was a useful skill when reading lies and assessing a person, but it made her uncomfortable. And much as she’d tried to overcome it, she couldn’t manage more than a few seconds eye contact.

  Despite that foible, she was quite skilled at reading people. And Ethan Maxwell was smart, astute, and knowledgeable, and perhaps would make a good partner on this job.

  On the other hand, the man was bloody handsome, with a tricky half-smile that threatened to burst into full-on sexy. And that disturbed her. Because lately she was on the hunt. For a lover. Some satisfaction. No strings. Just sex. And Ethan Maxwell would certainly fill that bill.

  Interpol had sent an agent, or rather, special agent to assist her. She didn’t need help, thank you very much. But the waning Arts and Antiquities Unit was on its last legs. And it needed all the help it could get. And if working with Interpol would give Superintendent Wellbrute reassurance that she was working with a capable expert, then so be it.

  She knew her stuff. But she’d always been handed the lesser cases, such as doing the paperwork and online research for an artwork’s provenance. Need someone to shuffle through dirty, dry warehouses amongst assorted stacks of pottery and broken statues? Just call Olivia. Who should spend hours bent over art catalogs and provenance stamps to assess their legitimacy? She was the first to get those tedious assignments.

  Now, with Nigel out sick, she had an opportunity to prove that she was a valuable asset to the department. And no matter how she looked or dressed, she did not belong on the beat writing up traffic violations. Could the men at Scotland Yard be any more condescending?