Murder at the National Gallery (17 page)

“I need to get away.”

“Of course.” Whitney wedged the phone between his ear and shoulder and kept reading.

“I thought I’d visit my mother in Indiana. Maybe go on to Italy.”

“Odd itinerary. Any reason to go there?” Whitney asked, thinking budget.

“There are always loose ends to tie up. Maybe drop in on Alberto Betti, the minister of culture. He’s a loose end himself, capable of undoing everything.”

“Frankly, Luther, you’d be better served going to a spa. If you’re in as bad shape as you say you are—and I don’t doubt you for a moment—solid rest in one place would do you more good than globe-trotting.”

“Maybe I’ll do just that, Court. Can you spare me for a week?”

Whitney had spent much of the day being questioned by law-enforcement officials about Giliberti’s murder. The list of
press people to call back had grown taller. His wife, Sue, was angry that their plans for a weekend away had to be scrapped because of what had happened. And WJLA, a local television station, was putting together a three-part investigative series on the physical condition of the National Gallery’s West Building, based upon a report compiled earlier in the year by a group of consultants Whitney had hired. The report, which had been leaked—no surprise in a town of leaks, wet and dry—concluded that many masterpieces on the gallery’s walls were at risk of serious damage due to faulty skylights, malfunctioning humidifiers, and an antiquated climate-control system. Some problems did exist, Whitney knew, but he was on top of it. Congress had already authorized funds to modernize the skylights and to install a monitoring system for the building’s climate-control protocols.

“I think we can spare you for a week, Luther,” Whitney said. The edge in his voice had nothing to do with Mason. The writer of the
Times
piece had ended by questioning the authenticity of
Grottesca
. Whitney scribbled a note to prod Don Fechter to complete his scientific evaluations ASAP.

“Court? Are you still there?” Mason asked.

“Yes. Go rest, Luther. Feel better. Call in once or twice.” Not having to ride Mason’s emotional roller coaster for a week would be a welcome respite.

“Of course. You know I always do.”

Mason was poised to make another call from his apartment when the phone rang.

“Luther, it’s Annabel Reed-Smith. I just wanted to say how sorry I am about your friend Carlo. I didn’t know him well, of course, but I liked him very much.”

“He was a dear friend, Annabel. He’ll be missed.”

“How are you holding up?”

“All right. Well, perhaps not. I just got off the phone with Court. I’m getting away for a few days.”

“Sounds like a good idea. I heard there was talk of delaying or canceling the exhibition.”

“I want to but Court won’t hear of it. You do understand my feelings on it, don’t you?”

“Of course. But I think—”

“I’ll talk to him again when I get back. Maybe you could put in a word of reason. Yes. Of course. He might listen to you, speaking for the White House as you do.”

“I—when are you leaving?”

“Soon.”

“A pleasant destination I hope.”

“Yes. Not quite sure where.” He injected a single laugh. “Play it by ear.”

“The best way. Well, Luther, again my condolences at losing your Mend. We’ll speak when you get back.”

“Yes. Thank you, Annabel.”

As Annabel left a message with Carole Aprile’s office—she wanted to brief her about her conversation with Luther and the fact that he’d be away at some unknown destination for a week—Mason dialed a number in San Francisco.

“Who’s calling?” a man asked.

“Luther Mason. From Washington, D.C.”

It seemed to take an inordinate amount of time for del Brasco to come to the phone. “Yes,” he said. “What’s going on?”

Franco del Brasco’s loud, gruff voice caused Mason to hold the phone away from his ear. “Mr. del Brasco, I’m sorry to disturb you.”

“Is there a problem?”

“As a matter of fact, there is. It’s important that we talk.”

“Go ahead.”

“Not on the phone. I’m flying to San Francisco tonight. Can we meet?”

Mason heard a series of grunts. The sound of thinking? “Tomorrow. Noon. At my house.”

Del Brasco wasn’t suggesting a time and place. It was a command.

“That will be fine,” Luther said. “Noon. Your house.”

The phone rang almost immediately after Mason had concluded his conversation. He hoped it wasn’t the police again. They’d been at his apartment to interview him only a few minutes after he’d returned home from work. The plainclothes
officers were pleasant enough, and Mason was confident his case of nerves had not been too obvious.

He let the phone ring six times before picking it up.

“Luther. Scott here.”

“I can’t talk now, Scott.”

“I called you at the Gallery. They said you’d gone home sick. The flu? I hear it’s going around. A rare Asian strain. Like Imelda Marcos.”

“Scott, please, I’m very busy. I’m leaving tonight for—”

“Another trip to Italy?”

“I’m going to California.”

Scott laughed. “Disneyland?”

“I’ll call you later.”

“Need a ride to the airport?”

“No.”

“What time shall I pick you up?”

Mason sighed, “Sometime after dinner. I’ll call you.”

“Why don’t we have dinner together?”

“Scott—”

“No arguments. My treat. Talk to me later this afternoon.”

Luther pulled a suitcase from the closet and opened it on his bed. He’d packed the plaid boxer shorts he was fond of wearing when the phone rang again. It was his son.

“What is it, Julian?” he asked.

“I’m in jail.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d heard that from his only child.

“Did you hear me?” Julian asked, his voice surly. “I’m in goddamn jail.”

“Why?”

“Because I was arrested. I got into a fight at a bar.”

“Good Lord,” Luther muttered.

“I need bail money.”

“Where are you?”

Julian told him. Bail was five hundred dollars. Luther said he would be there as soon as possible.

He realized he’d forgotten to check flight availability that night to San Francisco. He considered calling SATO, the travel group servicing many federal institutions, including the
National Gallery of Art, but thought better of it. He dialed an airline directly and was told there was a flight to San Francisco, via Dallas, leaving National Airport at nine. He booked a first-class seat using his American Express card, then reserved a room at his favorite hotel, the Westin St. Francis on Union Square.

He didn’t return home from bailing out Julian until almost five. Pims was waiting in the lobby of his apartment building. “You don’t get rid of me that easily,” Pims said, pushing his bulk up from the chair.

“I forgot to call,” Luther said. “Julian was in trouble. I had to get him out of jail.”

Pims’s laugh was loose and gutteral. “More like Caravaggio every day.”

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

“All packed for your trip?”

“Yes.”

“Get your bag and let us proceed to dinner. I’m famished. You can hear my stomach growl. Sounds like the zoo.”

They went upstairs, where a flickering light on Luther’s answering machine indicated three messages. The first was from Lynn Marshall, a young assistant curator on his staff. “They told me you’d gone home because you were sick,” she said through the speaker. “You must be feeling better because you’re not there. I’m calling to say I’m sorry about what happened between us the other night. I shouldn’t have said what I did, and I can understand why you become so upset. I think we should talk.”

Mason looked over his shoulder at Pims; the expression on the rotund critic’s round, pink face said he’d found the message interesting.

The second message played: “Luther, it’s Annabel Reed-Smith. It occurred to me and Mrs. Aprile that something could come up while you’re away that might necessitate speaking with you. If you get a moment, please give me a call and let me know how to reach you. Leave it on my machine if I’m not here. Not trying to intrude on your much-needed R-and-R. Just
being compulsively pragmatic. Have a wonderful trip.” She left her number.

The third call was from a man introducing himself as an attorney for Luther’s second former wife, Cynthia. He asked in a bored voice for Luther to call him concerning certain works of art in Luther’s possession and left his number.

“Sounds like the vultures are circling lower,” Pims said.

Mason didn’t respond. He watered a few plants, prompting Pims to question how long he would be gone.

“Just a week,” Mason said, adjusting blinds in the living room and bedroom, turning on a radio so there would be sound in the apartment in his absence, and taking a final look around. He never traveled without consulting a printed list of things to do, and to take. Satisfied everything had been crossed off, he picked up his bag and asked, “Where are we eating?”

“Since you’ll be dining on that dreadful California cuisine of sprouts and skinless chicken, I’ve made reservations at La Colline. I’ve been thinking about breasts all day—duck breasts with cassis, that is.”

The virtually empty first-class cabin of Luther’s flight to Dallas provided welcome solitude. There was much to think about. He settled back and mentally rewound the video that was his life up until a year ago, when this dramatic new leaf in it had sprouted and begun to take shape.

The audacious adventure started as nothing more than a
whimsical notion. A flight of fancy. Mason and his colleagues at the National Gallery often reflected over coffee in the Refectory, the employee dining room, how it was to lead a modest life economically, with all the priceless art surrounding them. And how one could profit from the proximity. Playful conversations, plotting murder mysteries set against the scrim of the esteemed National Gallery of Art.

What if this, what if that …?

What if, Luther sometimes pondered, he were to learn of the availability of a rare painting that had been stolen—find a wealthy collector who would advance the money to purchase it—have a perfect copy made to pawn off on the collector—and wing off to a faraway land, the original masterpiece clutched to his bosom like a shield?

It remained only that, of course, a what-if exercise.

Until the day Carlo Giliberti told him that a newly uncovered painting was for sale in Italy. When Giliberti said it was the
Grottesca
, Mason couldn’t believe his ears—and fantasy began to blend with harder thoughts.

What if?

What if he could come up with a wealthy, unscrupulous collector—not a rare breed—to advance the money to purchase
Grottesca
from Giliberti’s source in Italy?

Luther had kept his daydream to himself until one night, when drunk, he shared it with his good friend, gadfly and television commentator M. Scott Pims. Pims found the whole exercise to be “high fun” and encouraged Mason to continue his conjuring.

When Luther brought up the question of how a perfect copy might be made, Pims said without hesitation, “Jacques Saison, of course.”

Mason was dimly aware of the Frenchman’s reputation as a master forger of fine art. “How much does Saison charge?” he asked Pims.

“Depends upon the work in question,” Pims replied. “Of course, you might be better off with two copies.”

“Two? Why?”

“Well, let’s be logical. This wealthy collector, whoever he
may be, will want solid verification of the authenticity of his ‘purchase.’ And who could blame him?”

“Still, why two copies?” Mason repeated.

“What better way to authenticate a lost masterpiece than to have your beloved National Gallery do it?”

“Give the original
Grottesca
to the Gallery? Ridiculous! If this were possible, if this fantasy were to become reality, I would want to end up with the original.”

“Of course. And you would. I love this! What fun. Listen carefully to me, Luther. I’ll make it simple for you. One, you arrange with someone, this mythical collector, to advance you the money to purchase
Grottesca
. Do you have anyone in mind?”

“I was thinking of someone in California. San Francisco.”

“Franco del Brasco.”

“Yes. You know him?”

“I know only two things about the man. One, he is wealthy and has been looking for an original Caravaggio for years. Two, his is not ‘old’ money in the traditional sense. His ‘family’ has a long Italian name. Broken kneecaps rather than textiles or steel. All right, Luther, let us say it is Mr. Franco del Brasco who advances you money to go through with your tantalizing little scheme. In return for your delivering
Grottesca
to him, he pays you a handsome ‘finder’s fee.’ Say, a million dollars.”

“I wouldn’t want the money.”

“Quiet, Luther. Don’t interrupt my flow of thought. You purchase the original from Carlo’s source in Italy, using del Brasco’s front money. You take it to Jacques Saison—there are other forgers, but Saison is the best—and have him make
two
copies.”

Luther started to say something, but Pims held up a fat hand. “You then announce to the world that you, Luther C. Mason, the world’s leading Caravaggio expert, have ‘found’
Grottesca
in Italy. With me so far?”

Luther nodded.

“You arrange for the original to come to Washington to anchor the Caravaggio exhibition. You’ll be a hero with your
employer and all of America. Maybe even parades, Luther. Twenty-one-gun salutes.”

Mason couldn’t help but laugh.

“The original will be authenticated for del Brasco’s sake by none other than America’s Museum. Unassailable. Beyond debate.”

“Yes. I see.”

“Then, my friend, one of the copies is returned to Italy, the other goes to del Brasco. Del Brasco pays you your fee. You, the money, and the original
Grottesca
wing off to find the meaning of life. Brilliant?”

“Inventive.”

“The key is the National Gallery’s connoisseurship. God, Luther, sometimes I even amaze myself.”

They were sitting in Pims’s living room. Pims leaned close to Mason and fixed him in a serious stare. “So, Luther, this coinage of your fertile brain
has
gone beyond wishful thinking.”