“This picture was taken a long time ago,” Gabriel said, handing the photo back. “People can change.”
Lia made a funny sound.
“Who is this?” Gabriel picked up a photo of an officer in an old German uniform.
“I have no idea. There was nothing written on the back.” She winced. “I think…” She trailed off, her hands twisting in front of her.
“You think what?” Gabriel prompted.
“I think my grandmother was a Nazi collaborator during the war.”
Given what he still held in his hands, Gabriel wasn’t completely surprised by her words. “Because of this?”
“Partially. There were also pro-Nazi magazines. Receipts from the bars at the Paris Ritz Hotel. A postcard signed by Göring himself.”
He set the photo down. “I’m not sure you should jump to conclusions just yet,” he ventured. “There could be other explanations.”
“That’s kind of you to say, and it’s what I tried to tell myself. But experience has taught me that when one hears hooves, one does not generally look for zebras.” She tried to smile and failed. “The evidence is pretty convincing. And I think that this was why she kept this—this apartment, and everything in it—all hidden. Who in their right mind would want to admit to being a collaborator?”
A silence fell.
“And there’s more.” Lia sounded distinctly uncomfortable. “Art, that is.”
“Why don’t you show me?”
She nodded and led him deeper into the apartment, stopping in a formal dining room. She gestured wordlessly at the long wall covered in framed canvases.
Gabriel maneuvered himself past her to examine this collection. The portraits were extensive, an assortment of nineteenth- and twentieth-century compositions peppered by a handful that were far older. John Singer Sargent was represented for certain, along with at least two works that appeared to be the product of Henry Fuseli’s artistic brilliance. Gabriel didn’t even want to dare guess at the rest without proper examination.
“If these were stolen, would you be able to determine from where? And from whom?” Lia asked.
Gabriel glanced at her, trying to think of something reassuring to say. He settled on the truth. “If they were stolen—and that’s a big if—I can’t guarantee I’d be completely successful. Entire families perished during those years. Establishing rightful ownership in the cases where there is no next of kin can often prove impossible. But I would certainly try.”
“Good.” It was barely audible.
“If it makes you feel better, I haven’t yet seen anything on these walls that I recognize from lists of missing or stolen works. I’m not an authority but I’m familiar with the art world’s Most Wanted.”
Lia offered a weak smile. “I suppose that is something.”
“Are there any more paintings?” Gabriel prompted. He still hadn’t seen the nude.
“One more. It’s different from the rest.”
Gabriel tried to keep his expression neutral. “Is it here?”
Lia nodded and led him to a set of French doors, pulling them wide. Sheer, gauzy curtains let in a dreamy, diffuse light through two long windows. Gabriel had a vague impression of a wide bed and a large wardrobe opposite. But what made him freeze where he stood was the canvas that had brought him here.
And the only thing that ran through Gabriel’s mind was that, like Indiana Jones, he had found the Holy Grail.
Chapter
5
Lia
Paris, France
28 June 2017
Lia didn’t have to be an art expert to feel the emotion that had gone into each bold brushstroke. Every time she looked at this painting, she saw something new—an elusive nuance or a subtle detail previously missed. And she had spent a great deal of time looking at this painting and wondering what the woman who glared back at her might have seen in this apartment.
For now, Lia simply leaned against the wall, studying the expert who was, in turn, studying the painting. Gabriel Seymour had gone eerily still just inside the bedroom door as he had caught sight of the canvas, and Lia wasn’t even sure he was still breathing.
He was not what she had been expecting when she had sent her original message. Given the long list of degrees and scholarly accomplishments documented on his website and the impeccable, enthusiastic references she’d gotten from places like Christie’s and Sotheby’s, she’d been expecting someone older. Someone who looked more…academic. Buttoned-up. Maybe even garnished with a bow tie. The man who was currently getting down on his hands and knees in front of the evocative painting looked more like the drummer of an indie band.
“Holy shit,” he said from the floor before he seemed to catch himself. “I beg your pardon.”
“Don’t apologize,” Lia said. “Just agree to work for me. Help me identify these paintings.”
“Yes,” he breathed. “God, yes. At the risk of sounding like a serial killer, you’d require an armed tactical team to drag me out of here now.” His eyes swept the length of the painting. “I think this is a Munch.”
“I agree. His initials appear in the lower left. Though I haven’t been able to find any provenance or records for it. Or any of them, for that matter,” she muttered.
His head snapped up. “What did you say you did for a living?”
“I didn’t.” She tipped her head. “But since you asked, I’m a chemical engineer.”
“Who is well versed in art history?”
“Hardly. I’m much better at math than modernism. But the internet can be helpful from time to time,” she said. “Still, my Googling abilities certainly do not make me an expert on anything. Which is why I really contacted you. And why, I suspect, you got here as quickly as you did.”
Grey eyes pinned her where she stood. “You put this painting in the background of the picture you sent me on purpose.”
“Of course I did.”
“That was positively diabolical.”
“I’ve been accused of worse. It worked, didn’t it?”
“It did.”
“I need to know if this painting, like the rest, could be stolen.”
“I understand.” Gabriel remained crouched in front of the painting. “If you are agreeable, I’d like to make arrangements to take the entire collection back to my studio in London,” he said.
“But there are so many.”
“That’s no problem. I’ve arranged for transport of much larger collections before. I’ll be able to establish authenticity there and get second opinions, if need be. I’d prefer to have them stored securely until they’ve been processed and identified. At the very least, they should be insured.”
“Of course.” Lia hadn’t thought of that.
“I’d like for you to visit my studio once the paintings are there. So that we can go over exactly what I’ll be doing with each piece. There will be significant paperwork involved, and if possible, I’d like to cover that with you in person. Will you have time to come to London?”
“Yes,” Lia said. “I just finished out my last contracted position, and there is a new posting in Seville that I intend to chase but interviews don’t start for a few weeks yet. With the death of my grandmother, I didn’t try to find work in between. Which, it seems, was just as well.”